The Lady's Ghost

by Colleen Ladd

  “It will not be all right and I’ll thank you not to pretend it will.” Clarissa heaved a sigh that originated somewhere around her ankles and buried her face in her hands. “You see how hopeless I am?” It was not a lengthy fit of the dismals. Her head came up almost immediately and the gleam in her eye made Portia take a step back. She’d seen that look before. It invariably graced Tony’s face just before he landed himself in the suds, as often as not dragging Portia right in there with him. “You could teach me!”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You know how a lady’s supposed to act. I mean, look at you—no one would ever take you for less than a lady, even if your dress isn’t fit for a—” She clapped a hand over her mouth and stared at Portia out of wide, horrified eyes.

  Portia couldn’t help herself. She began to laugh.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Morning room’s swept and dusted.” The glow of perspiration on Ellie’s skin and the dust smudging her nose made Portia feel like her eight mile walk was nothing but an idle entertainment. It also made her feel guilty for her earlier sharpness with the maid. “Windows need washing yet, and the drapes aren’t fit for the rag bag.”

  “I expect you could say that about every curtain in the house,” Portia said ruefully. She followed Ellie into the morning room. The drapes indeed weren’t fit for hanging; what the mice hadn’t got, the sun had faded into cobwebs. However, the furniture was dusted and the grate cleared out, the lamps shone, and everything that could glow with polish did. “Very nice, Ellie. You’ve done wonders.”

  “Carpet needs to be turned,” Ellie said as dourly as possible while glowing with pride.

  “We’ll get Mr. McFerran in to help with the furniture. Yes, a very nice job.” She was laying it on a bit thick, but it was for a good cause. Ellie would never permit Portia to say a word about coming over the lady at her; compliments were the only coin she could apologize in. “You’ll never guess who I met coming back through the home wood,” Portia said as they went upstairs together. “The Duke of Ransley’s ward.”

  Ellie stopped dead halfway up the stairs. “Not she as what was murdered!”

  “Of course not!” Portia refrained from comment on either Ellie’s tortured phrasing or her gullibility. Ellie’s grasp of proper King’s English suffered when she was frightened and her superstitious nature, it seemed, deepened the longer they remained at the Hall. “Her sister. Half-sister. She wants me to teach her how to act like a lady.”

  Ellie snorted inelegantly.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” Portia swept into her bedchamber without daring to look at the maid for fear she’d break out laughing.

  She knew immediately that something was awry, though at first all she could say for certain was that the smell of lavender was a bit strong. She’d have to remind Ellie to be frugal with it; she couldn’t afford to be extravagant with her little luxuries. Ellie bustled about while Portia stood in the middle of her bed chamber and tried to put her finger on what was different.

  It took several minutes to realize the chair was pushed out from the dressing table and her traveling desk wasn’t quite as far back as it had been. She seated herself at the table and opened her desk.

  Someone had been in her letters and whoever it was had done nothing to hide the fact. Her first unreasonable thought was that it was a form of retaliation for getting into Giles Ashburne’s correspondence, as clear as if he were saying “just see how you like it.” She, Portia corrected herself. The culprit must be Mrs. McFerran, and the timing proved the housekeeper had been spying on her.

  “Ellie.” Portia was surprised to hear her voice come out mild and even. “Please go fetch Mrs. McFerran up to me.” Ellie startled her by dropping a curtsey before rushing out. Perhaps her tone hadn’t been as mild as she’d thought.

  By the time Mrs. McFerran arrived, Portia had managed to impose a surface calm over her seething irritation. Every one of her letters had been handled, not only all the correspondence with Mr. Burnsides but her precious few letters from her brother as well. It was lowering to think of a mere servant making herself privy to Portia’s financial woes and beyond insulting that she’d read Tony’s letters.

  “Ah, Mrs. McFerran,” Portia said when the housekeeper presented herself. “I don’t know how Lord Ashburne ran his house or what you’ve become used to in his absence, but I do not expect you to enter my private apartments when I am absent. I certainly do not expect you to avail yourself of my personal correspondence.” She closed the lid of her traveling desk with a bang that startled a twitch out of Mrs. McFerran.

  “I’m certain I don’t know what your ladyship is speaking of,” Mrs. McFerran said after a minute of tight-lipped silence, her jaw so stiff it was a wonder she got the words out at all.

  “I am quite certain you do. Just as I am perfectly aware you don’t want me here.” Had the situation been different, Portia would have given Mrs. McFerran to understand that one could always hire another housekeeper, but she was certain she’d never convince a respectable housekeeper to work under the conditions at the Hall, let alone at the pittance of a salary James would allow, assuming he’d let her turn the woman off in the first place. “You can be well-assured that I will not be leaving under any circumstances. Any circumstances, Mrs. McFerran. There is no point, therefore, in these shenanigans with footsteps and hair brushes, nor to your making yourself free of my personal belongings. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly, Lady Ashburne.” Far from appearing intimidated, Mrs. McFerran allowed a thin-lipped smile to flicker across her mouth. “Though I might suggest that your ladyship is speaking to the wrong person.”

  “I have no doubt you will inform Mr. McFerran how things stand.”

  “I was referring to the ghost.”

  “There is no ghost.”

  “As you say, my lady,” Mrs. McFerran said serenely. “Will that be all?”

  “No, that will not be all,” Portia snapped. She reined in her irritation and continued in a softer tone of voice, though not so soft that the ‘please’ was not an order, “You will please hand over your key to this chamber.”

  “As you wish, my lady.” Mrs. McFerran drew forth her chatelaine and selected a key from it, handing it over expressionlessly.

  “Is this the only key aside from my own?”

  “I believe Lord Ashburne had his keys with him when he left,” the housekeeper said with a disturbing little smile.

  “Ghosts don’t need keys,” Portia said to herself after Mrs. McFerran left. Nonetheless, she found herself going into the dressing room to make certain that the door into the master’s bedchamber was still locked.

  *****

  When Ellie returned some little time later, she found Portia standing in the musty dressing room, surveying her gowns with her hands on her hips.

  “They won’t get any better for being glared at.”

  “No, they won’t,” Portia said without taking her eyes off the pitiful collection of dresses. Lady Clarissa’s thoughtless words had come back to her as she passed through the dressing room and she’d ended up staring at her tiny wardrobe as if, if she only looked long enough, there might somehow be one dress, just one, she’d missed. Something less than five years old, something that wasn’t black or gray, something a lady might wear without looking down at heel. Something that did not make her look a veritable dowd, or worse.

  It had been a long time since she’d indulged in the kind of self-pity that resulted in scanning her wardrobe for a single fashionable gown, even longer since she’d had any chance of finding one. Even Ellie’s talent with a needle could no longer bring about that miracle. Already, the best parts had been clipped and saved and cobbled together, a patchwork poverty of a wardrobe.

  “Nothing left to remake,” she said, mostly to herself. And nothing left to wear. Lady Clarissa had put her callused, hoydenish finger directly on it. Portia’s gowns weren’t fit for a scullery maid.

  Country society around Ro
sewood Close had known her and the straits her husband had left her in. They’d accepted her. Not without pitying looks and whispers behind fans, it was true, but they had invited the penniless Viscountess Ashburne to picnics, to afternoon teas, to socials. That was before Roger died, of course, sending Portia into mourning and the best of her gowns into the dye pot. After that, she was reduced to the society of James and his wife, the vicar and one or two others who looked on her circumstances with such pity that she soon stopped entertaining altogether. But in this new place, with these people used to Ashburnes rich as Golden Ball, Portia very much feared she’d be unable to go about in society at all.

  “Unless...”

  “My lady?”

  “What is the one place in the Hall we have not yet investigated, Ellie?”

  “Oh no,” Ellie said, with what Portia considered to be an unnecessarily trepidatious expression.

  “The attics.”

  “Oh my.”

  “Oh my, indeed. Bring a candle.”

  Ellie obediently followed Portia out of her bedchamber, which Portia was careful to lock behind them—no point in having Mrs. McFerran’s key if she didn’t lock up. She gave the spare key to Ellie so there would be no difficulties about the maid getting in to take care of her duties. They went up to the second floor, through the doorway on the upper floor landing, and up a narrow enclosed staircase into the attics.

  “What are we looking for?” Ellie asked when they reached the dark and cluttered space, her voice hushed as if she feared being overhead by someone. Or something.

  “Trunks, bandboxes, wardrobes,” Portia said, louder than she’d intended. Lifting up her candle, she headed off to the left. “Clothes, Ellie. Preferably the dowager Lady Ashburne’s. Preferably free of moths and mice.”

  “Not asking for much, are you?”

  “Stubble it and start looking.”

  “Lord Ashburne was a bad influence on you, my lady.”

  “Yes, well, he could hardly have been a good one.” Portia held her candle high to shed more light on the old furniture, boxes, trunks and various odds and ends that loomed formless in the gloom. The light did nothing to give the place any semblance of cheer, so shrouded in dust, cobwebs and darkness was it. It did, however, clearly show that someone had been there, and quite recently, judging by the sharp-edged marks in the thick dust. Curious, she followed the footprints, but was unable to come to any conclusion about what whoever made them had been doing. There were neither markings in the dust where something had been removed nor anything so clean it could have recently taken up residence.

  “Over here, my lady.” Portia joined Ellie in lifting a birdcage and dressmaker’s dummy off a large, steel-banded trunk. When they opened it, however, it contained only old draperies and a large colony of mice.

  Ellie’s scream ringing in her ears, Portia closed the heavy lid and picked up her candle. The wardrobe listing awkwardly against the chimney looked promising, but contained only an old gentleman’s coats and cloaks, out of style by fifty years or more and fit now only for the cloud of moths that flew out of them. Portia closed the creaking doors with a sinking heart. She hoped whoever packed the dowager Lady Ashburne’s belongings had done a better job, or this was a fool’s errand. Assuming that lady’s clothes were even there to find.

  Ignoring Ellie’s banging and muttering, Portia ducked under a low beam and surveyed the next attic, her candle sending shadows crawling aimlessly about in the gloom. There was light somewhere off to the left, a pale and eerie glow. Portia opened her mouth to call Ellie, but nothing came out. Very nearly despite herself, she moved toward the light, each step shorter and slower than the last. A soft finger brushed her cheek. Portia clamped her jaw on a shriek. Cobweb. It was only a cobweb.

  A large trunk stood on end in the middle of the narrow aisle, surrounded by a wavering nimbus of light. Portia laid one trembling hand on the corner of the trunk and paused a moment, breathing deeply. She forced herself to step around it and nearly screamed when something flickered across the light. When she saw what it was, she took a deep breath and tugged viciously at her hair, quite out of countenance with herself. What a ninnyhammer! It was only a hole in the roof, which a sparrow had taken advantage of.

  She peered in the neat nest tucked up by the eaves, finding three small eggs, then studied the hole sourly, shielding her candle from the draft with a cupped hand. No wonder the master’s bedroom leaked. Carefully avoiding the rotting floorboards where the rain had come in, she turned and came face to face with a wavering white figure.

  Portia screamed.

  By the time Ellie thundered over, Portia had regained most of her composure and was starting to get her breath back, though her heart still beat nine to the dozen. “Careful. You’ll put a foot through the floor.”

  Ellie stopped short. “What happened? I was that scared when you—”

  “Came face to face with myself in that mirror.” Portia indicated the cloudy pier glass someone had stood against a stack of bandboxes. “I swear, Ellie, I’m getting as bad as you. I thought for a moment I’d found the ghost.”

  Ellie made a humphing noise and went back the way she’d come. Portia thought briefly of apologizing, but decided against it. Ellie might take it for encouragement, and Portia didn’t need her maid any more steeped in superstition than she already was. She surveyed the ancient furniture and acknowledged that while it might have witnessed the late dowager’s birth, it was too old to be contemporary with her death. She was clearly in the wrong part of the attics. Portia picked up the candle she’d dropped in her fright and started back the way she’d come, making her way by the wan light coming in through the hole in the roof and wishing she’d realized her candle had gone out before Ellie stomped away.

  Ellie hadn’t gotten far. When Portia inched her way around the trunk blocking the narrow aisle, she found her maid flailing around, distressed huffs coming from her clamped lips. Portia stepped under a wild swing and took the candle from Ellie before her gyrations could extinguish it.

  “Ellie! It’s just a cobweb.”

  “Aye, and who knows what’s creeping around in it.” Ellie gave a convulsive shudder and began brushing jerkily at her dress.

  “Whatever it was, it probably ran off when you started waving your arms around in its home.” Portia used Ellie’s candle to light her own and turned to survey the trunk she’d slipped around twice now, finally taking occasion to wonder what it was doing right in the middle of the path into the next section of attic.

  Portia handed Ellie’s candle back and bent to look at the catches. Though it was possible to open the trunk while it was on its end, it would perhaps not be advisable, and she got Ellie to help her push it over. It fell with an awful bang, raising an enormous cloud of dust. Coughing and waving her free hand before her face, Portia tried not to get her hopes up as she set about opening the trunk, which in addition to the usual catches had been wrapped about with rope. The knots were beastly.

  When they lifted the heavy lid, Ellie standing well back in case of mice, Portia was struck by the strong odor of camphor. She began to smile. Someone had looked after the contents of this trunk. It boded well. It boded very well indeed.

  She gave Ellie her candle and wiped her hands on her filthy skirts, then reached into the trunk. The first dress she lifted out was velvet and satin, heavy with the weight of the voluminous skirts popular before the turn of the century. It was entirely intact, untouched by mice or moths or mildew.

  “Oh, lovely,” Ellie breathed.

  “Very.” The style was hopelessly out of date—even worse than Portia’s own clothing—but that didn’t signify. It was the fabric Portia wanted. The large trunk was full of dresses and underslips and nightrails, Portia saw as she delved deeper, all in excellent condition and neatly packed. Someone had handled these with love; it was as palpable as the camphor that made her want badly to sneeze.

  “Oh, my lady,” Ellie breathed, “what I could do with these…. But how are w
e to get them down?”

  “Not the same way they came up, I’ll be bound.” They couldn’t possibly get the heavy trunk down that steep narrow staircase without the assistance of at least two strong men. They’d have to carry the contents down an armful at a time. Portia thought of the condition of her dress and winced. “Here, Ellie, give me one of those candles and go fetch the sheets off my bed.” At least they weren’t covered in dust and cobwebs.

  Ellie dashed off, leaving Portia alone in the gloomy attic, her candle throwing wavering shadows on the looming boxes and discarded furniture. Careful not to drip tallow into the trunk, she folded back one dress and then another, her throat tight as she took in the deep soft fabrics, the rich colors. How carefully someone had packed this trunk, how very much they must have cared. “She won’t miss them,” Portia whispered to the waiting attic. “She doesn’t need them anymore, but I do. More than you could ever imagine.”

  *****

  It took several trips, but eventually the entire contents of the trunk was spread out on Portia’s stripped bed, a riot of color glowing in the light of the setting sun. Lady Ashburne, it appeared, had been a woman of strong and bold tastes, unwilling to sink quietly into the aged background of life. Washed clean of cobwebs and attic dust and changed out of her filthy walking dress, Portia picked up a gown of burnished copper and held it against herself.

  “Oh yes, my lady,” Ellie breathed. “Peel away the fusses and furbelows and narrow the skirts, and you’ll be the toast of even a Town ball, let alone these country socials.”

  “Never mind the balls, Ellie. What I need are morning gowns and walking dresses.” She reluctantly put the ballgown back on the bed.

  “Oh, but my lady—”

  Portia forced a smile. “Let’s get me outfitted like a proper lady and leave the fancy dresses for another time. I believe we’ll start with this one.” She chose a walking dress of dove gray silk that would be the easiest to alter to fit both her and current fashion.