The Lady's Ghost

by Colleen Ladd

  “—and I can certainly get myself to the village and back. If you’ve nothing to do, you may begin cleaning the morning room.”

  She reached the front door before realizing she didn’t know how she was going to get to the village. With a curse—one of Roger’s favorites, which would have driven Ellie into spasms—Portia stalked across the great hall and out through the kitchen to the stables behind the Hall.

  “Mr. McFerran,” she called when she reached the ramshackle building.

  Receiving no response, Portia ventured inside. Dust motes danced in the thick shafts of sunlight that fell unimpeded through the roof, and she was assailed by the odor of stale hay and horse dung. No gentle wickers greeted her entrance, the smell apparently the only thing of an equine nature the stables contained.

  At one end of the empty stalls, a carriage had pride of place, its once-elegant body sagging on the frame. Portia brushed its dusty side, paint flaking off under her fingers. How low it had been brought. Even lower than Portia herself, for she still served some purpose, though sometimes she wondered if it was any greater than simply making her way from one day to the next. Even should the carriage’s broken wheels be mended, however, there was no purpose it could now serve without even a pony to pull it.

  “Yes, m’lady?” Mr. McFerran said from behind Portia.

  She turned, her heart pounding, to see him standing in the doorway, and smiled despite herself at sight of the man, as ramshackle as the stables. What position might he have held at the Hall when it and he were young? “I’m going to the village, Mr. McFerran. Is there a trap or dog cart?” she asked in a spirit of unfounded optimism, blinking as she emerged into the sunlight.

  “Sorry, m’lady.” He belatedly remembered to sweep off his cap, sending his thin hair dancing in the light breeze. “The Hall don’t run to such conveniences. Ain’t done for nigh on four years.”

  “Surely you haven’t been living here without any means of transportation.”

  “Aye, since Maisie—that were the mule, m’lady—died. The tenants,” he added in his cracked voice, “they bring the little whatnots nec’ssry to life, and that’s all we’ve need of.”

  Portia bit back a demand to know how she was supposed to take care of the necessities of her life without a single concession from James, the McFerrans or Fate itself, and instead asked how far it was to the village.

  McFerran pulled on his cap, cocked his head to one side, and scratched a jaw blue with stubble. “Seven miles by the road, I’ll be bound.”

  Portia’s heart sank. “Seven miles?”

  He glanced at the house, then, his face softening, said, “Be ‘bout four if you go through the fields,” with a confiding air.

  “Thank you, Mr. McFerran.” Filled with a feeling of genuine warmth for the fellow, Portia patted his bony shoulder. He wheezed dreadfully, snatching his cap off, and Portia thought that if his skin had not been tanned to leather, he’d have blushed.

  *****

  Whatever McFerran said to her, his head falling into the habitual bob that reminded Giles of nothing so much as an old horse heading for the barn, caused her to look up at the house. Giles stepped back from the window, forgetting she couldn’t see him from where she stood. He moved forward again in time to see her set out determinedly for the home wood, the sun striking sparks from her hair where it peeped out from under her bonnet.

  Damned interfering female.

  He swung around to the cool darkness of his bedchamber. Sticking her hands and her inquisitive nose into all that was his, the unprincipled baggage. His house, his room, his servants, and by God, his letters!

  Two long strides took him to the desk. He yanked open the drawer that held his personal correspondence and pulled it all out, folding the pages together without looking at them. He had no desire to see his own familiar hand, much less read a single word. He knew what a cake he’d made of himself, unexpectedly in love with a slip of a girl who’d no idea she’d captured his heart, nor any idea what to do with the paltry thing. He thanked God he’d never been able to bring himself to send Amelia more than conventional fripperies and proper notes of affection. He was grateful he’d never opened his true heart to her faithless love, and yet some part of his mind asked—had asked for ten years now—if she’d have run to another man’s arms had she known how he truly felt, beyond the conventional forms of courtship. Perhaps, had he bared his heart to her, she’d yet live.

  Giles shoved the papers into his coat pocket and slammed the drawer. There was a fire in his unwanted guest’s bedchamber; he could smell the smoke.

  The maid had taken herself off, and he passed easily through the dressing room into the bedchamber that had once been his mother’s and would have been his wife’s. She had done good work here, he admitted grudgingly and with no little surprise. How different she was from the ladies he’d once known. Not only would they have fled the Hall at the first hint of its true state, but not one of them would have lifted a hand to straighten so much as a crooked picture, let alone work from dawn to dusk alongside the servants. The bed chamber had been returned to the cheerful, airy sweetness he remembered as a child, down even to the sharp clean scent of lavender. He followed his nose to the source of the scent and found that either she or her maid had spilled over a bottle of it on the dressing table and not noticed, or not cared. He set it upright and wiped up the spilled lavender oil with his handkerchief. Then he crouched by the hearth and fed every single misbegotten letter to the small, ravenous fire.

  He knelt there a long time after the last scrap of paper curled and blackened and fell to ash, warming himself over the tiny flame. He was always so cold. He ought never have returned.

  He ought never have left in the first place. At the time, with Amelia dead and the countryside in an uproar—with her guardian, the Duke of Ransley, his one-time friend, breathing fire and calling for his blood—there seemed no other choice. Ransley was powerful and respected, Giles a mere viscount, with few friends and only money to recommend him. The House of Lords did not often put one of their own on trial, but if Ransley had asked, they would have. If Ransley had demanded vengeance for his ward’s death, they’d have given it. Giles had no illusions as to the outcome of such a trial. He would be convicted, and that conviction taint his blood and that of his heirs. The title and lands would be forfeit to the crown. It was too bitter a pill to swallow. He could have borne his own execution—might even have welcomed it, so deeply had his heart sunk upon Amelia’s death—but he could not allow the House of Lords to take everything. He held his title and lands in trust, handed down from his father and his father’s father, safeguarded for his son and his son’s son. To protect it, Giles had met death with open arms.

  He couldn’t bear to lose the Hall.

  And yet, for all his sacrifices, he’d lost it anyway.

  Giles closed his eyes, held his hands out to the warmth, and tried to lose himself in memories of the Hall as it was. Tried not to notice the odor of mildew, the water that dripped fitfully somewhere, the faint sounds of movement that never quite stilled in the walls. It was easier here, where she’d been at work.

  How could Roger have failed so utterly to protect the estate Giles left in his trust? Roger had never been as fond of Ashburne Hall as Giles, but that was no excuse. He could remember every second of the night he left, his young cousin—no, not so very young, even then; as old as Giles had been when the title came to him—eyes shining as he took Giles’ hand and swore to protect all that Giles was forced to flee. He couldn’t have known how very soon word would come that Giles had perished at sea, how quickly the title, estates, and money would fall to him. And yet he had pledged to protect all that belonged to the Ashburnes with what little he owned and everything he was.

  He had failed miserably, even after he had all the money and power of the title behind him.

  Giles opened his eyes and stood. The past was past. It could not be altered, only regretted. The present, though, was mutable. Her arrival in
a hired coach with a single maid and a small collection of dowdy dresses had been unforeseen. She had to be got rid of before she settled in more determinedly than she already had. Whatever it was she thought she was escaping—some perceived insult or plan of her brother-in-law’s she found unpleasing—was nothing to what Giles had in store for her.

  She’d been stubborn so far, but Giles was more stubborn still. Portia Ashburne would be out of his house before the rest of her baggage could arrive.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Portia was used to walking. Rosewood Close ran to slightly better equipage than Ashburne Hall (not a difficult feat), but the cattle were so often in demand by the estate agent or the tenants that it was generally less hassle to go by foot. That was especially the case this last year, with James and his wife gathering everything of value about them like magpies.

  The home wood was dark and overgrown—she wouldn’t want to attempt passage at night—but soon gave way to areas thinned by tenants seeking firewood and then to neatly cultivated fields. The tenants’ apparent disinclination to approach the Hall was mirrored in their reaction to Portia. She saw quite a few men out in their fields, but none so much as waved. The boy herding sheep gave her a wide margin, as did the little goose girl whose path crossed hers. Not even Rosewood’s resident madwoman, eking out her living selling cures and salves to the tenants and generally thought to be a witch, was given such a wide berth. Obviously word had spread that Lady Ashburne was at the Hall. It was equally obvious the locals were not enamored of the idea.

  Well, they would simply have to get used to her.

  Thank heavens the innkeeper Foxkin appeared free of the local suspicion. He ushered her into the inn with the proud deference of the best butler, and installed her in the parlor with a genial comment about the cloudless skies—no need to worry about leaks on such a fine day. When he brought her tea and some of the most delicious-smelling scones she’d ever been offered, she didn’t have the heart to send the food away, though the cost would eat up her last remaining funds. At least Mr. Burnsides could be relied upon to act quickly upon her request; she need not be penniless more than a sennight.

  Like the taproom, the parlor was low-ceilinged and a bit dark, but there the similarities ended. Clearly, not only did Foxkin know from his years in service what the Quality desired in a private parlor, but business was profitable enough to allow him to provide it. Though not of the first stare, the furniture was good, of sturdy construction and lovingly polished. A small fire burned in the grate to keep off the chill, and the painting over the hearth was pleasing to the eye. Even the tapping of someone working on the slate roof was pleasant to hear, indicating as it did that the parlor would be habitable come the next rain.

  When the innkeeper came to remove the tray, Portia asked him how much farther it was to the village and learned she was right on the outskirts; a few hundred yards by the road would find her in the village proper. In addition, Foxkin gave her to understand that, while it bore little resemblance to London or Bath or Brighton, the village did boast several eating and drinking establishments, a butcher’s, a baker’s, and a modiste who might not have been all the rage in London, but was much in demand locally.

  “Is there somewhere I might post a letter?”

  “Right here, my lady. The mail coach stops at the Duck and Drake for passengers and I can get a letter on it right enough.”

  She handed over her letter and watched him tuck it into his apron. “Thank you, Mr. Foxkin. Would you have a free moment?”

  “Of course, my lady.” He settled more solidly on his feet, giving the appearance of being rooted until the Last Trumpet. She wished she could ask him to sit, but it wasn’t done, and while she wouldn’t have minded, she had the impression he would.

  “Can you tell me about the area?” It would take her ages to get a feel for it herself if she were limited to walking. If she set out in the wrong direction from the Hall, she might walk all day without leaving Ashburne’s park.

  “I’d be most happy to oblige, my lady. Can I freshen your tea?” He lifted the steaming pot to refill her cup and when he’d done, cleared his throat with a sound like grumbling thunder. “There’s Tynesfield, the Duke of Ransley’s estate, that marches with Ashburne Hall on the east. He’s a powerful man is the duke, and known for his fairness. Folk hereabouts take their disputes to him, if it’s not a matter for the law. He’s got a ward you might encounter.” The innkeeper cleared his throat again, a smile twitching at his lips. “Lady Clarissa Seabrooke, she is, and a right handful too.”

  “Sister to the lady who—?”

  “No, my lady,” he said, looking shocked.

  “I do have ears, Mr. Foxkin. I could hardly remain ignorant of the tragedy at Ashburne Hall.” Especially when her own housekeeper was quick to acquaint her with the tale, and with such relish that Portia could only assume the woman had little liking for her late master.

  “Yes, my lady.” His hand slid the length of his apron, large fingers alternately pleating and smoothing the corner. “Terrible, it was.”

  “I have no doubt.” Portia sipped tea and gently turned the conversation. “And to the west of the Hall?”

  “T’other side lies Lord Courtland’s estate.”

  “Courtland?” Portia frowned. The name was vaguely familiar. Something to do with Roger.

  “Yes, my lady, Lord Simon Courtland.”

  “Ah yes.” Portia had never met Courtland—she’d been introduced to few of Roger’s set before they wed and none after she found herself packed off to Rosewood Close—but his name was ever on Roger’s lips on those occasions he deigned to visit her. “He and my husband were friends of long standing, I believe.”

  “Yes, my lady, though Lord Courtland was no more often at home than Mr. Roger Ashburne was at the Hall.”

  “No doubt the same state of affairs persists.” Lord Courtland was doubtless no less fond of Town now than when he had cavorted about it in company with Roger.

  Foxkin’s lips twitched. “I’ve a mind that’s true, my lady.” He did not need to say that Courtland was only at his country home when he had reason not to be in Town, which was to say, when the money ran out and the duns got too importunate.

  There were few other families of note in the area, and Foxkin quickly gave her to know their names and titles, whose sons were at University, whose daughters were due to come out, which were expected to make brilliant matches, which were despaired of. There was nowhere like a taproom for gossip and no one like an innkeeper for remembering it. Unless, of course, it was a society matron.

  “Tell me, Mr. Foxkin,” Portia said when she’d heard enough about the local gentry to last her a good while, especially as she could hardly mix with them socially unless she could contrive to appear less obviously without a feather to fly with.

  “Yes, my lady?” He leaned solicitously towards her and Portia was again reminded of her grandfather’s butler, though that personage had been far too conscious of his employer’s worth to bend in any but the stiffest breeze.

  “What did that fellow mean the other night, when he said that Giles Ashburne never leaves the Hall?” She’d been wondering about it ever since. At the time, it seemed completely nonsensical, if only because she’d never before heard of Giles Ashburne. Mrs. McFerran’s talk of ghosts had made it strange in an entirely different way.

  Foxkin took the corner of his apron in a tight grip. “I wouldn’t pay George any mind, my lady. He was in his cups and making as much sense as men in that state generally do.”

  “But what do you think he meant?”

  “Nothing to signify, my lady.”

  All right then, Portia would try another approach. “How long have folks hereabouts thought the Hall haunted?”

  He released his apron and smoothed it with a convulsive movement of his hand. “Haunted, my lady?”

  “Cut line, sir. I’m not so cloth-headed as that.”

  Foxkin looked, for a moment, as if he thought he ought to be shoc
ked. Then a twinkle appeared in his eye. “No, my lady, I don’t suppose you are. As for haunting, I don’t rightly know. I suppose it was inevitable, given what happened.”

  “I suppose.” Portia rose and he helped her into her pelisse. It occurred to her that the only version of events she had was from Mrs. McFerran, who was hardly the most unbiased of storytellers. Foxkin had said, when they first met, that he used to work at the Hall. “What do you think happened?”

  “I try not to think about it, my lady.” Foxkin guided her out of the Duck and Drake, every bit the polished servant. She forced herself not to inquire what position he’d had at the Hall. Ten years ago, Foxkin wouldn’t have been old enough for the exalted responsibilities of a butler, and he was much too large for a footman. Most households preferred their footmen matched in height, if nothing else, and the thought of finding two men of Foxkin’s stature boggled the mind. He’d no doubt played some far less exalted role, which it would only embarrass him to dredge up. “I do know one thing, Lady Ashburne.”

  “Yes?”

  “Lord Ashburne was innocent.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Giles seated himself at the delicate dressing table that used to be his mother’s, his tall frame fitting awkwardly into so feminine a space, and opened Portia Ashburne’s traveling desk.

  He drew the letters out and arranged them, first by sender, then in order by date. One stack was clearly business, the sender tending towards convoluted legal phrases and a dryness that turned the ink to dust on the page. They were universally responses to requests for money. How like a woman to so constantly overspend her allowance.

  The second stack were different. The hand was the same on all the letters, the references to a young man’s amusements, and the tone so familiar as to be insultingly casual. It was clearly a long-standing relationship and the letters made frequent reference to previous assignations and hopes for future ones. The writer promised on many occasions to come see her as soon as he could and signed himself by his first name only, and with love.