The Lady's Ghost

by Colleen Ladd

  She finished the last of her tea and set the tray aside. Her slippers were precisely where her questing toes expected to find them. Shivering, she pulled on the wrapper Ellie had left across the foot of the bed and went to look out the window onto the glistening day.

  It had rained again during the night and the trees shimmered with it. Fog rose tentatively from the ground under the early morning sun, but it would soon burn off. It bade fair to be a lovely day.

  Portia sat quietly at the dressing table while Ellie brushed her hair vigorously enough to make her eyes start from her head. Finally, Ellie set the brush aside. “What today?”

  “The sprigged muslin, I think.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Ellie went into the dressing room to retrieve what used to be Portia’s favorite walking dress. It had been green, once, but had come from the dye pot a deep gray. Though it was no more fashionable than any of her dresses and, indeed, somewhat more worn than most, at least it wasn’t black. One inevitable conclusion Portia’d reached in the past year was that she didn’t like black any better than it suited her. It rankled that she’d been forced to sacrifice half her gowns to the memory of a man who hadn’t given her a single thought after the vicar pronounced them man and wife.

  Why hadn’t he wanted her? He’d talked a great deal of love before their marriage and shown little enough of it after. And yet, if not for love, why had he wanted to marry her? Portia may have been the granddaughter of a duke, but Roger gained neither money nor prestige by taking her to wife. If a man didn’t marry for money or a title, why did he marry, except for love or lust? Even were it that last and most low of reasons—and Portia had no illusions about that; she was no ravishing beauty to drive a man wild—Roger had certainly slaked his desires quickly, coming to her bed but a handful of times over their marriage. Had she been so lacking, so inept at pleasing her husband that he lost interest in the marriage bed as soon as he attained it? Portia shook herself from such lowering and unproductive thoughts, eyes skimming along the elaborate scrollwork of the dressing table for a distraction. Her gaze lit on a silver-backed hairbrush that had certainly not been there when she went to bed. Portia’s old serviceable wooden brush lay where Ellie’d left it, looking poor and disreputable next to the elegant silver brush. Portia picked it up and turned it in her hands, inspecting the tarnished back.

  “Where did this come from?” she asked when Ellie returned, the sprigged muslin draped over her arm.

  “My lady?”

  “This silver brush, where did it come from?” She knew, of course; she’d carried it from the dressing room into the master’s bedroom only yesterday and left it on his writing desk. The mystery was how it came to be on her dressing table. “I may be poor, Ellie, but not so poor as to need to—”

  “Begging your pardon, my lady,” Ellie said stiffly, “but it was there when I came in to wake your ladyship. I wouldn’t have—”

  “No.” Portia sighed. “No, of course you wouldn’t. I don’t know why I suggested it.” Except, of course, that the idea had occurred to Portia herself: how ridiculous it was for this beautiful brush to sit in the gloomy master bedroom, waiting for a man who would never return, while Ellie used a creaking wooden brush on her mistress’s hair.

  Ellie gasped, her eyes round as saucers. “My lady! The ghost—”

  “There is no ghost.” Portia absently rubbed at the tarnish with her thumb in slow counterpoint to her racing thoughts.

  “But—”

  “The door wasn’t locked. Neither the one to the master’s chamber nor my own. All the McFerrans need do was sneak it out of there and in here while I slept.”

  “But why?”

  “Mrs. McFerran wants to run this house as she has for ten years now, without interference. Obviously, she intends to drive me off.” Portia laid the brush gently on the dressing table. “She won’t succeed.”

  “What are you going to do, my lady?”

  “Nothing.” Portia shrugged her wrapper off into Ellie’s hands. “We’ll put the brush back where it belongs—”

  “In the master’s chamber? Oh, my lady, I don’t know if I—”

  “I’ll put it back,” Portia said, trying not to be irritated at Ellie’s foolishness. The maid couldn’t help being easily taken in by such things, her head having been thoroughly filled with ghosts and goblins and wee beasties when she was a child. “She’s expecting a reaction, and I’ll be demmed if I give her one.”

  “My lady!” Ellie exclaimed, shocked.

  Portia sighed.

  *****

  Twenty minutes later, Portia went through the dressing room into the master’s bed chamber. She could feel Ellie’s eyes on her back, could even imagine how wide and round they must be as the maid watched her nervously from the dressing room door.

  Portia had forgotten to draw the drapes the previous day and sunlight spilled into the room. It made all the difference in the gloomy chamber. She could see it in her mind’s eye—cobwebs and dust banished, furniture polished, a fire roaring in the hearth: a man’s retreat from the world.

  Portia put the brush on the shaving stand this time. She twitched her skirts aside as she slipped past the bucket by the window, glancing into it to find it no fuller than the day before, the carpet around it dry. She looked up, but still couldn’t make out where the water had come from. Unfortunate. It was a lovely room, a place she felt at home, for all its masculine flavor.

  Portia locked the hall door and the door from the master’s chamber to the dressing room. She couldn’t lock the door to her own chamber or Ellie would be unable to carry out her duties, but at least no more of Giles Ashburne’s belongings should go wandering.

  “Now,” she said to herself as she started down the hallway, leaving Ellie to finish tidying up, “to beard the dragon.”

  Mrs. McFerran was ensconced in the little room off the kitchen that would have been the terror of the undermaids had the Hall run to them. The housekeeper’s sitting room was, like the kitchen, largely untouched by the general decay of the Hall.

  “Good morning, Mrs. McFerran, no need for you to rise,” Portia said pleasantly, though the housekeeper’s only response to her entrance was to lower her darning to her lap. “This will take only a minute. My,” she went on, looking around the snug room as she settled into the chair opposite Mrs. McFerran’s, “but you’ve done wonders in here. Quite cozy, isn’t it?”

  A flush sprang up on the housekeeper’s sharp cheekbones and she clutched her sewing closer. “What can I do for you, my lady?”

  “Why, I wished to go over the week’s menus with you.” Portia looked at the other woman with as much wide-eyed expectation as she could summon, catching Mrs. McFerran flat-footed, but not for long.

  “Lord Ashburne left such matters to me.”

  “Lord Ashburne is not here.” A gross understatement no matter which Lord Ashburne one was speaking of. “I will want to go over the menus with you each week. We cannot have,” she added with pointed gentleness, “a repeat of last night’s dinner.”

  Mrs. McFerran took an audible breath.

  Portia rose. “We all have our talents, I suppose, and not everyone can cook. Perhaps a cook might be found somewhere.”

  The housekeeper let out her breath with a hiss, her mouth working, though nothing came out. Once again, she recovered herself quickly. “If my lady feels the need, I’m certain one can be hired in the village,” she said with such apparent calm that Portia knew she believed there to be no hope of success. Either there were no suitable cooks in these parts or, more likely, the housekeeper knew Portia couldn’t come up with wages for another servant.

  “Excellent. I’m certain the means for hiring a suitable cook will present itself.”

  When Mrs. McFerran’s sole response was a superior-looking smile, Portia couldn’t resist allowing her eyes to drift toward the wall the sitting room shared with the butler’s pantry. Mrs. McFerran’s whole body jerked, propelling her halfway to her feet, her mending sliding off he
r lap. She changed direction just as suddenly, plumping back down in her chair and bundling it into a tight ball against her spare frame, but not before Portia saw that it was a man’s coat. Though no expert on men’s clothing, Portia could clearly see it wasn’t Mr. McFerran’s; it was far too large to fit his bent shoulders and the fabric too good besides. How little did James pay the McFerrans that she must take in mending? A hot rush of pity and humiliation overtook Portia. It was insupportable that Roger should have thrown tens of thousands of pounds to his horses, drinking, and mistresses while the Hall and its caretakers fell to wrack and ruin.

  She remembered at the last minute that she had to set herself above Mrs. McFerran or live forever pinned under the housekeeper’s thumb, and swallowed back the conciliatory words that hovered on her tongue. “Oh, and I shall want to look at the household accounts. One can’t make proper menus, after all, without knowing what’s in the pantry.”

  *****

  “Blast and damn!”

  Ellie jumped, squeezing one of Portia’s gowns to her bosom. “My lady!” she exclaimed when she saw Portia. “I was that scared!”

  Indeed she must have been, not to scold Portia for absolutely scandalous language. Portia plumped herself down on the side of the bed with a sigh. “Roger made an absolute mess of things here.”

  “Nothing new about that, is there?” Ellie spread out the gown she’d been clutching and clucked. “Look what you’ve done, making me crush your gown. Now it’ll need ironing.”

  “Like as not, everything in my trunks needs ironing.” Portia picked at a mouse-hole in the counterpane. “Not that it would matter if I was a mass of wrinkles.”

  “Of course it would matter,” Ellie said stoutly. “There’s some kind of society even in this dismal place, I’ll be bound. Although I don’t see how your ladyship can be visiting just yet, what with the parlor unfit for man nor beast.” To visit one’s neighbors implied that one’s own house was open to visitors. Which Portia couldn’t see happening for quite some time. She might as well take up holy orders and become a nun.

  “The parlor’s the least of our worries. What we really need is a cook.”

  “Aye. You can’t feed Quality burnt bread and moldy cheese.” Ellie picked the dress up and scowled at it. “Or entertain them in wrinkled gowns.”

  Portia gave up. There was no point in expecting sense from Ellie when she was fussing about Portia’s gowns. Portia ought to be used to it by now; Ellie’d been fussing about her wardrobe the better part of five years. Were the world a fair place, Ellie Brown would have found herself in service to a woman with an endless and ever-changing wardrobe, instead of a confirmed country mouse with superb lineage and no prospects whatsoever. Portia stood and shook her skirts into place. “Well, there’s nothing for it. I’ll have to write Mr. Burnsides.”

  Ellie so far forgot herself as to drop the dress. “My lady, you can’t!”

  “I see very little alternative.”

  “But, my lady! To ask your solicitor for funds is, is—”

  “Is?” Portia prompted, reaching for her traveling desk, which Ellie’d aligned neatly with the back corner of the dressing table. “Blast and damn,” she said again, quietly this time, when she found it devoid of even a scrap of writing paper. There were her brother’s letters and the solicitor’s, but she could hardly use the back of one of those. James had packed her off so quickly she’d forgotten to replace her stationary or refill the inkwell. She closed the traveling desk and began searching the dressing table without much hope. She wasn’t surprised to find it empty except for her meager complement of toiletries.

  “It’s playing right into his hands, that it is!”

  “Whose hands?” Portia asked absently. Lord Ashburne must have engaged in correspondence from his country house on at least a few occasions. If not from the library, which was completely given over to books, then where?

  Ellie stamped her foot. “His high and mighty lordship, James Ashburne.”

  Of course, how stupid of her; the desk in his bed chamber. “Do you think it would suit his purposes any less well if we were to starve?” Actually, it might, if only because Society would frown upon his treatment of his sister-in-law if they came to hear of it. But he would hardly mourn the return of her jointure, such as it was. “No, Ellie, we must look after ourselves, and if that means I must petition Mr. Burnside for release of funds, then so be it.”

  Ellie moaned and wrung her hands as she followed Portia into the master’s bedchamber. Portia seated herself at the heavy writing desk, tugged the chair up close, for the desk was made for a much taller person, and began opening drawers. She found paper in the first she tried and an inkwell and pen in the second. A mouse ran across her hand when she reached for the ink and Ellie’s scream scared her nearly as badly as the pinprick of claws.

  Portia drew in a careful breath and suggested that Ellie had other matters to attend to. She was forced to be unusually firm when the maid proved stubborn, and it was only with some difficulty that Portia managed to shoo her off.

  When she was gone, Portia braced her elbows on the desk and said into her cupped and still shaking hands, “I have got to get a cat.”

  She took a steadying breath, looked the drawer over carefully, and retrieved the inkwell and pen without further incident. The quill had seen much use, but it wasn’t so inclined to sputter that she couldn’t write clear copy. Portia was sadly accustomed to writing such letters, and the words came easily enough. She remembered to include her new direction, as James was certain to take advantage of any monies arriving on his doorstep whether or not they were his to appropriate, made liberal use of the blotting paper, and found an unused wafer in the desk to seal the letter. Mr. Burnside would not be surprised to receive such a missive from her—he might not even be surprised at her change of address—and he was in the habit of responding quickly, thank heavens. Thank heavens, too, that it was the recipient who paid the postage, for she had only the smallest of sums left in her reticule.

  Portia recorked the inkwell and found a stained rag to wipe the pen on. She neatly replaced both pen and ink, and reached for the blotting paper. The mirror-image blottings of other writing than her own caught her eye and she turned the paper to look more closely, warm memories of idle afternoons rising in her mind. Hiding in her grandfather’s library with her brother after their parents’ death, trying desperately to keep Tony out of the trouble that dangled at his coat tails wherever he went, she’d made a game of reading the old duke’s blotting paper, trying to make sense of reversed and fragmented words and phrases, most of them entirely too dry to be of much interest aside from the challenge of puzzling them out.

  Giles Ashburne’s handwriting, for she supposed it could only be his, was distinct and spiky, only touches of the round Copperplate hand his tutor had no doubt tried to beat into him still evident. A phrase here clearly pertained to estate business, one there addressed some crony who owed him money, and this one.... She turned the blotting paper around twice, looking at it from every angle without success, and finally accepted that if she was going to snoop into a dead man’s affairs, she might as well admit it and read his letters.

  His business correspondence was filed away neatly in a drawer on the left, copies without salutation or signature and blotted originals kept for his own records. She scanned through them, discovering from the dates and the sheer volume of correspondence that Giles Ashburne had, much to her surprise, made Ashburne Hall his principle seat. He’d sent off frequent directions regarding Rosewood Close and the third Ashburne estate, both entrusted to the hands of an estate agent, but apparently spent little time at either estate. If there was a house in London, it received no mention whatever. It was the Hall that formed the center of his existence and the heart of his correspondence.

  The letters to his estate agent showed undisguised respect for the man’s opinion, as often asking the man’s advice as issuing orders. Ashburne was clearly no novice himself, the plans laid out in his l
etters both comprehensive and intelligent. Portia had learned how an informed and interested lord ran his estates from her grandfather, a great deal about how not to manage one’s interests from Roger, and had spent the better part of the last five years struggling to bring Rosewood Close up to snuff. She recognized in Giles Ashburne’s correspondence a man devoted to his home and tenants, full of brilliant plans for its future. How little the Ashburne Hall of today resembled the home of his past, less yet his vision of its future.

  “Oh my Lord Ashburne,” Portia murmured, “if you only knew the hands into which you tumbled your estates.” Perhaps he had not cared, so full of murderous rage he could not look beyond his actions to their consequences.

  She straightened the edges of the stack and put it back where she found it, then opened the drawer that had been ajar the first time she entered the room. Here were letters of a different stamp, the hand rushed and inelegant, words crossed out, rewritten, and crossed out again, whole paragraphs lined through so violently she wondered if the letters were ever recopied and sent. A man struggled on these pages, trapped in an awkwardness of love utterly alien to Portia. She’d neither experienced it herself, nor had it offered her. Certainly, Roger had never been less than polished in his pursuit, nor more than perfunctory after their marriage. To love so deeply, to be loved with such frenzy....

  Portia realized suddenly that her hands were shaking. She shoved the letters back into the drawer and closed it with a bang, in such a pelter to escape her confusion she nearly forgot to take her own letter with her.

  “I’m going to the village.” She took the pelisse Ellie had just finished folding and tugged it on.

  “One moment, my lady, while I get my bonnet.”

  “I have no need of a chaperone.”

  “But—”

  “I’m a widow of mature years, Ellie—”

  “Aye, all of five and twenty and halfway to your grave.”