The Lady's Ghost

by Colleen Ladd

  “She’s resourceful, I’ll give you that,” Mrs. McFerran said, fugitive respect in her voice. “I had thought to scuttle her the first night. Few ladies of her stamp would do aught but run screaming at finding mice in their blankets.”

  More masculine rumbling. Portia inched closer to the door, but still could not make out Mr. McFerran’s part of the conversation.

  “Of course I knew there were mice in the bed when I put her in there. I’m not a ninnyhammer, you know. ... No, more’s the pity. She’s stubborn. You’ve as much evidence of that as I. Yes, even about the food. She wants to go over menus and the household accounts now. ... Not yet, but if she begins haunting the kitchen, she’ll tumble to it sooner rather than later. She’s not as clothheaded as we’d hoped. ... I think we’ll have to try something else. It’s difficult enough to produce separate meals; if she does begin to make time in the kitchen, it will become entirely impossible.”

  Ha! So the McFerrans had been eating better than Portia. It sounded, however, as though she would soon see a marked improvement in her meals. Portia made a mental note to haunt the kitchens if there was a future dip in quality. She shifted from one icy foot to the other and glanced longingly at the kitchen fire, glowing nicely now.

  “That’s a thought,” Mrs. McFerran said in response to some lengthy pronouncement of Mr. McFerran’s. “There’s only so much that even the most stubborn woman can take. Mark my words: one way or another, we will send her ladyship packing.” The certainty in her voice sent chill fingers up Portia’s spine. For the first time, Mrs. McFerran seemed more threat than nuisance, and Portia backed slowly away from the door.

  “I’ve a few things in hand myself,” Mr. McFerran said, the deep voice so close he might have been standing directly behind her, though still so muffled by the thick door as to be hard to recognize.

  The log Portia’d placed on the fire gave a loud pop and her heart lurched. She shoved the kettle off the stove, snatched up her candle, and raced away before anyone could reach the door and catch her out.

  It was only after she’d achieved the great hall that Portia realized she’d allowed herself to be routed by her own nerves and a noise the McFerrans could doubtless not even hear. For a moment, she hesitated. Knowing what her tormentors were planning might make all the difference to her ability to stick at the Hall. In the end, however, her childhood training held firm and she continued on her way; there was nothing more lowering than to be caught eavesdropping on the servants.

  *****

  From the shadowy depths of the Hall, Giles watched her climb the stairs, her candle glowing pale around her. She was barefoot, and he couldn’t help but notice, as she lifted the trailing hem of her nightrail, that she had a nicely turned ankle. A nicely rounded figure, as well, when her nightclothes shifted and pulled snug enough around her to show it as she climbed. It came in momentary glimpses that left him wanting more. By and large, her shapeless flannel dressing gown turned her into a midnight drab, and Giles found himself wishing James had not sent her off without her silk nightrails and satin peignoirs. He longed, with a heat that surprised him, to see her in nightclothes that clung lovingly to her curves and welcomed the revealing candlelight. Denied her body, the light of the candle glowed through the rich brown hair that hung in loose disarray down her back, and Giles was put strangely in mind of angels.

  He didn’t believe in angels any longer, if he ever had.

  He watched her all the way to the top of the stairs before he managed to wrest himself from her spell. No need to see her all the way to her bedchamber. The damage was already done. Just how much had the little minx overheard?

  He would give her an hour to fall asleep and then he’d set to work. There was much to be done.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Portia spent an unsettled night. Sleep came only fitfully, and at one point she bolted upright in bed, certain she’d heard footsteps. But no matter how she strained her ears, there were no further footfalls to be heard over the sound of the mice racing about in the walls.

  She’d lain awake a long time. She’d overheard nothing she hadn’t already suspected, but still, it was deeply unsettling to know she was indeed at daggers drawn with her housekeeper. She spent some time composing a letter to James in her head before admitting that her brother-in-law would never agree to turn the McFerrans off. They were stuck with each other, and the sooner she convinced them of that, the better.

  “Morning, my lady,” Ellie chirped, startling Portia out of an uneasy doze. She threw open the drapes, letting in a shaft of sunlight that speared through Portia’s sleep-dulled eyes with painful brilliance. “It’s that beautiful out today, it is.”

  Portia agreed wordlessly and sat sipping hot tea and eating perfectly browned toast while Ellie bustled cheerfully about the room. She tutted over Portia for sleeping in her dressing gown, scolding her for not telling Ellie to add another blanket to the bed before she retired if she was cold. When she finally took herself off to select a gown for Portia to wear, Portia was nearly as startled as Ellie herself when the door failed to yield. It took Portia a minute to remember locking it, and a further few moments to recall where she’d left the keys. Ellie did not seem to think it odd that Portia’d locked the dressing room door; in fact, she seemed relieved her mistress was taking the ghostly threat so seriously.

  The assumption irritated Portia, and she’d have taken exception to it had she been able to clearly state just why she had locked the dressing room door. Not for fear of ghosts, surely.

  She stumbled blearily out of bed and seated herself at the dressing table as Ellie returned, one of the old black gowns draped over her arm. “I’ve nearly got the new one done,” she said apologetically. “You’d be surprised how hard it is to find needle and thread around this place. You’re a slow top this morning, if I do say so. It’s what comes of being up half the night, sorting your new gowns. I’d have helped you with it, my lady, and happy to,” Ellie chattered on, making Portia wish she’d found herself a quieter maid. “What, if I may ask, did you do with the ballgowns? No need to tuck them away, my lady, you know I wouldn’t be working on them without your say-so.”

  “I did nothing with the gowns, Ellie. Make some sense, do.”

  “But you must have, miss, they’re not there.”

  The news startled Portia into fully opening her eyes for the first time that morning. The first thing they fell on was the silver hair brush.

  Portia’s entire body seized up in a moment of superstitious dread. Twice she’d returned that brush to the master’s bedchamber and twice it had reappeared on her dressing table. This time through two locked doors. She stared at it so long even Ellie noticed something amiss and fell silent.

  Finally, Portia gathered her courage and reached for the brush, unsurprised to see her fingers trembling. When her index finger made contact with the gleaming silver, she jumped despite herself. The dread broke in a spurt of anger. Portia muttered one of Roger’s favorite epithets. What a peagoose she was! Of course it was real, and of course there was a reasonable explanation for it.

  “Ellie, you didn’t by any chance—”

  “I thought you—”

  Portia shook her head stiffly and Ellie clammed up with an audible gulp. Portia reached for the brush again, forcing herself to wrap her fingers around the cool surface. It felt perfectly ordinary. It was perfectly ordinary. And perfectly untarnished. Someone had given it a good going-over with a polishing cloth since yesterday.

  “Very well, then, Ellie. If we are to keep finding this on my dressing table, we might as well make use of it.” Portia handed the silver-backed brush to Ellie, who shrank momentarily away before nerving herself to take it. “Now,” Portia said as Ellie started to brush her hair with a much more tentative hand than usual, “what was that you were saying about the dresses?”

  “All the beautiful ballgowns, my lady, they’re gone! Not a one left in the dressing room.”

  “What? You must have—”

 
“I looked and looked, and where could they go anyway? The morning dresses and walking dresses and nightrails and such are still there, but all the ballgowns, my lady!” Ellie stopped brushing abruptly, her hands shaking as she realized that Portia didn’t know a thing about it. “You didn’t move them, my lady? Only… if you didn’t move them, then, oh Lord, oh my lady, who—”

  “Not a ghost,” Portia cut in before Ellie could get even more worked up. “What need does a ghost have for ballgowns?”

  A giggle forced its way through Ellie’s lips and she began brushing again. “Then who did it, my lady?”

  “Who else is in the house?” Portia said sourly, calling herself seven kinds of fool. She’d demanded only her room key from Mrs. McFerran. But there was another door into her room, and the housekeeper had a set of keys that no doubt encompassed every door in Ashburne Hall. She could come and go as she liked, locked doors or no.

  *****

  When Portia went downstairs, she fully intended to have it out with the housekeeper then and there. But Mrs. McFerran was not to be found in the kitchen, the stillroom, her sitting room, or anywhere else Portia thought to look. Not willing to spend the morning hunting her housekeeper through the Hall, Portia retreated to the library to wait for the woman to put in an appearance.

  She paused a moment after fitting her key to the lock, anticipating the pleasure all those books gave her—the only real treasure she’d ever been vouchsafed. When she pushed the door open, the sight that greeted her stopped her heart like a blow.

  Portia stared at the empty bookcase, her breath congealing in her chest. It was nothing but bare shelves from floor to ceiling, nothing but dust and cobwebs and mouse droppings. Portia shoved the door wide and some small portion of her heart returned when she saw it was the only case so denuded. The rest settled uneasily into place when she caught sight of the chaos of books scattered over the floor.

  Portia stumbled into the library and stood staring at the books stacked in the middle of the floor, everything tumbled together without regard to subject, author, or the proper care of the valuable volumes. As she knelt next to the first pile, she was struck by the feeling that there was some kind of order to the placement of the books, but she couldn’t put her finger on quite what.

  She picked up a book that had fallen on its spine and gently closed it, stroking her fingers over its misused binding, tears starting in her eyes for the poor cracked leather. She set the book carefully atop one of the stacks and reached for the next mistreated darling, wedged between two piles, its covers sadly scuffed. Slowly, she began straightening and sorting the books into some semblance of order, mourning the harsh treatment they’d received, seething at the thought that it was done to hurt her.

  Mrs. McFerran had the gall to seek her out while she was engaged in this activity.

  “I do not know,” Portia said when she looked up to find the housekeeper in the doorway, “what you hoped to accomplish with this wanton destruction, but you have not succeeded.” She carefully smoothed a creased page. “I will have your keys.”

  “You cannot turn me off, Lady Ashburne.”

  “Perhaps not, but I can take your keys. You may keep the ones to the pantry, the stillroom and your sitting room. The rest you will give to me.”

  The housekeeper’s back stiffened. “I will then be unable to attend to my duties.”

  “The only rooms in the Hall that will be locked are those you need have no business in.” Portia looked at Mrs. McFerran until she averted her gaze. “If you believe yourself unable to fulfill your obligations, you may, of course, choose to resign.”

  There followed a moment of thick silence. Finally, Mrs. McFerran withdrew her chatelaine, took three keys, and handed the rest to Portia, who compared the ring to her own to verify that the keys the woman kept were the ones specified. “That will be all, Mrs. McFerran.”

  Portia deliberately waited until the housekeeper had turned to add, “Oh, and Mrs. McFerran? I expect to see all the dresses you took from my dressing room returned by the time I retire for the night.”

  “I don’t know to what you’re—”

  “Cut line, madam. “ Portia rose, smoothed her worn skirts, and swept the housekeeper out of the library, favoring her with one last thought before she closed the door on her. “I will have new gowns, Mrs. McFerran. If I do not have the dowager Lady Ashburne’s gowns to make over, then I will simply have to spout the silver and buy some.”

  *****

  Portia spent the morning sorting books and returning them to the shelves. Unable to discern any common ground in type or subject, she settled for putting them in order by author. Histories, farming treatises, plays and novels ended up rubbing covers and Portia promised herself she’d bring some order to the chaos when there was more time.

  She was relieved to discover that, by and large, the books had not been as badly used as she had first feared. A few had been mistreated, but most were in as good condition as if they’d never been off the shelves. She might have known. Mrs. McFerran wouldn’t irretrievably damage anything in her precious Ashburne Hall, even to get at Portia.

  The top shelf was too high for her to reach, even with the library stairs. She was perched at the very top of the steps, putting books on the next shelf down and wondering what she could do with the last stack, when a whirlwind burst into the library.

  “Lady Ashburne! I’m so glad I caught you. I saw you from outside, and— Whoa!” Lady Clarissa grabbed for the library stairs, steadying them under Portia, who pried her fingers free of their desperate grip on the shelves and quickly descended to solid earth. “I’m terribly sorry,” Lady Clarissa stammered. “I had no idea you were so close to the door.”

  “No matter,” Portia was able to say with a degree of sincerity once she was no longer in danger of falling. She dusted off her drab black skirts, vaguely wishing her new gown was finished, though she wouldn’t have been wearing it to haul dusty books around even if it were. “What can I do for you, my lady?”

  The boldness that attended Lady Clarissa fled of a sudden and she fell into concentrated study of the nearest shelf of books. “I was, I just, I—”

  The hamper Lady Clarissa had dropped when she grabbed the library stairs protested its rough treatment with an irritated mew. “I thought,” Lady Clarissa said, with the air of someone who had not just desperately latched onto the first subject that presented itself, “that you could use a cat. This place must be overrun with mice.”

  “How very thoughtful of you, my dear.” Portia knelt to unhook the lid of the basket, which was rocking with its occupant’s efforts to free itself. A black paw with white-tipped toes poked out, soon followed by the rest of the cat. He immediately sat down and began licking his ruffled fur, which sported random splotches of brown, as if he’d run under a painter’s worktable. He was in that stage of adolescence that made even the sleekest of animals awkward.

  When Portia picked him up, he blinked slowly at her over a broad white nose. “Does he have a name?”

  “Not unless you count ‘hey you’ and ‘scat.’”

  “All right.” Portia stared into the pale green eyes. “I dub thee Thomas. Go, Sir Thomas, and hunt mice.” She put him down and he dashed immediately out the library door, much to Portia’s amusement. “Thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  “And now, my dear. Your real reason for coming?”

  Lady Clarissa flushed. “I was hoping you’d made up your mind about teaching me,” she blurted.

  “I have. Shall we retire to the morning room?” It would be as comfortable as anyplace in the Hall, excepting Portia’s own bedchamber. The carpet wasn’t turned yet, true, but Ellie hadn’t said anything about mice in the furniture, so at least there was someplace to sit.

  “Oh, but—”

  Portia took pity on her. “Of course I’ll teach you.”

  “Oh, thank you!”

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” Portia said wryly, reflecting that Lady
Clarissa’s appreciation for the lessons would no doubt suffer in direct proportion to their tediousness. She ushered the young woman out of the library, securely locking it behind them, and led the way to the morning room.

  Portia went directly to the window and pushed back the threadbare drapes, letting in the late-morning sun. Though dimness would have hidden the worst of the furnishings’ faults, Portia had always believed things looked better when properly lit. Even, she thought with an inward wince, when they looked worse.

  Lady Clarissa stood with her riding boots planted firmly on the worn carpet, her fists propped on her hips, and surveyed the room. “It’s the first I’ve been back since it happened. I had no idea it’d gotten so bad, the poor old house. You wouldn’t credit, Lady Ashburne, how much I liked Ashburne Hall. Or how much,” she added, almost inaudibly, “I envied Amelia.”

  “I thought Lord Ashburne scared you.” Well done, Portia scolded herself. How is the young lady to learn proper manners from you when you perpetually demonstrate the most rag-mannered behavior yourself?

  “He did. But at least... At least if you marry someone, they have to pay attention to you. Don’t they?”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Portia muttered. “All right, Lady Clarissa—”

  “Clary, please.”

  “Lady Clarissa, if we are to practice proper Society forms. For the moment, however, let’s leave that aside and indulge in some plain dealing. You need someone to give you a little Town bronze and I, as you so accurately pointed out, am so far up River Tick I haven’t much chance of coming out again.”

  “Oh, but I didn’t—”

  “Don’t come over all missish on me now. You were absolutely right. If I want to have any chance to making the Hall livable, I shall have to earn some money somehow. So I’m going to take you up on your offer—I will endeavor to teach you the manner the beau monde expects from a duke’s niece and you will pay me for the lessons. Agreed?”

  “Oh yes!”

  “Very well then.” And thank heavens! Once she realized this was her only recourse, Portia had spent every free moment since worrying that Lady Clarissa would change her mind. It was well the girl had come to the Hall or Portia should soon have had to go looking for her.