The Lady's Ghost

by Colleen Ladd

  That morning began a new trend. Where nothing Portia’d tried since she came to the Hall had gone right, now it could not seem to go wrong. Mr. McFerran was on the mend, Mrs. McFerran cooked mostly edible meals, Portia had a surfeit of things to wear, the weather came over warm and clear, and if none of that fixed the hole in the roof, at least it didn’t get any worse.

  The next day, Ellie was working on a new morning dress and Portia attempting to make over the copper ballgown after the style of the dress she’d seen in the modiste’s window when Mrs. McFerran showed Foxkin into the morning room.

  “Presented himself at the kitchen door, my lady. Asked to see you.” And instead of telling him to remain in the kitchen and asking Portia for direction, Mrs. McFerran had brought a common tradesman into the morning room like any titled visitor. If she thought to insult Portia—which of course she did—she was sadly mistaken.

  “Thank you, Mrs. McFerran.” Portia caught the gleam of thwarted spite in the housekeeper’s eyes when she turned to go, and restrained a sigh. They were not out of the woods yet, the cordiality of the last two days but a brief respite. She gave Ellie a look and her maid rose, curtsied, and left, not without showing a flash of defiance—it doubtless offended her sense of the proprieties for Portia to see a tradesman alone. “Good morning, Mr. Foxkin. What brings you here?”

  He looked absurdly smaller without his apron and woefully ill at ease, crushing his hat in his hands as he fidgeted in the morning room. For that, more than any slight against her, Portia could cheerfully have strangled Mrs. McFerran. “Lady Ashburne.” He stopped, gulped a breath, and shifted on his feet. “Terribly sorry to intrude, my lady. Only, I’ve got, that gentleman I mentioned, he, here.” He pushed a worn leather satchel at her, looking away the moment it left his hands. It wasn’t every day a man in his walk of life brought money to a woman in hers.

  “Thank you,” Portia said, and felt it to be inadequate, but didn’t know what else to say. Her lessons in etiquette and deportment did not cover a situation such as this. She mastered the desire to look inside and poked the satchel down beside her in the chair. “You’ve been most helpful, Mr. Foxkin.”

  “A pleasure, my lady.” When he turned to her, Portia saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. While he may have glanced away to save her embarrassment, it was another impulse that kept him gazing at the moth-eaten draperies.

  “How long were you in service here?” Portia asked quietly.

  Foxkin brushed the back of his hand across his cheek. “I was the age of my oldest boy when I came here, my lady, strange as it is to remember now.” He looked around again, without any pretense at discretion. “The poor old place.”

  “It is that.”

  “You wouldn’t have credited it, my lady…” Foxkin’s eyes were focused on some distant vision only he could see. “…how grand Ashburne Hall was then. Even the Duke of Ransley envied Lord Ashburne the Hall.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes, my lady. I overheard him tell Lord Ashburne as how he’d have to marry his line to Ashburne’s to even come near such a place.” Realizing suddenly who he was talking to, Foxkin’s shoulders shot up toward his ears, his eyes flicking to Portia. “Never mind me, my lady. My mind wanders.”

  “I’m all ears, Mr. Foxkin. You said...” Portia paused, finding her way cautiously back into a conversation interrupted several days ago. No more than interesting then, now it was vital. “…you knew Lord Ashburne to be innocent of the crime he was accused of.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “How so?”

  The innkeeper blinked and glanced away. His fingers slid along his pantleg. Finding nothing to fidget with, he settled himself more solidly on her faded hearthrug and said, “I’m certain it’s nothing your ladyship would find interesting.”

  “On the contrary. I’m very interested.”

  “It’s ten years dead and gone, my lady.”

  “Of course it isn’t,” Portia said reasonably. He blinked, and blinked again when she added, “If it were, people wouldn’t be so loathe to talk about it. Now, how do you know he was innocent?”

  For a moment, it appeared Foxkin would stand mute. Then he shifted suddenly on his feet and said, “Because I knew Lord Ashburne, my lady.” He seemed not to see Portia’s disappointment. “He was reserved, unbending, and downright difficult, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, but he was a good man and a good master.”

  Insight burst in upon her and Portia blurted, “You were his valet!”

  Foxkin flushed. “Took a country boy still wet behind the ears and trained him up to be his own master and anyone’s man.” He became suddenly intense, quite in contrast to his assertion that the tragedy was ten years dead and gone. “Mark me, my lady. Lord Ashburne didn’t kill Lady Amelia. He couldn’t have.”

  Nearly breathless with excitement, Portia asked, “Were you with him at the time?”

  Foxkin shook his head. “I only wish I was. I attended Lord Ashburne early in the evening, but later he sent me to oversee the arrangements for the ball. I didn’t see him again until after... after the body was discovered. I wish to God I’d been there.”

  “Yes,” Portia murmured, much deflated. She agreed when Foxkin offered to send over a couple of fellows who could see to the roof and thanked him for bringing the money himself, which brought a fiery flush to his cheeks and set him back to wringing his hat as he bowed himself out.

  *****

  The satchel, which Portia opened once Foxkin was well gone, contained a surprisingly large sum of money for two ugly pieces of silver. The sight of it quite took her breath away.

  Her solicitor’s contribution to the coffers arrived a few hours later, less lavish but no less welcome. For the first time in her life, Portia was flush with money. Before she wed, she had only to ask for what she needed from her father and then her grandfather. Any amount greater than her pin money was a matter of the most nebulous imagination. It was only after her marriage that she handled any significant sum on her own—significant not in quantity but necessity, for funds were so short that amounts greater than her pin money were still more imagined than experienced. She thought long over where to keep the money safe until it could be used, the leather satchel hidden in the meantime under the folds of the gown she was working on, and finally took it into the library when no one was about and hid it in the second bookcase behind the books on the next shelf down from the top. It was one her “ghost” had gone through already, and he’d not so far done any backtracking, so she supposed it safe. Certainly, no one else would think to look there.

  The workmen sent by Foxkin presented themselves that afternoon and set immediately to repairing the largest hole in the attic, hauling wood in and out that day and the next and hammering away from breakfast until dinner, working with a will to finish before it came on to rain again. Portia dared any ghost to rest peacefully through that ruckus.

  Apparently, however, he did. For three days, nothing appeared, disappeared or moved of its own accord. There were no unexplained noises. Portia met no figures roaming her halls but the workmen. She was even getting used to seeing Giles Ashburne glare down at her from the portrait above her hearth.

  On the third day, she discovered he’d been at the library again. Her first intimation of it was when Thomas ran out with a meow the moment she opened the door. Her money—what was left of it—was still there, but the fifth and sixth bookcases were now empty, their contents stacked in the middle of the room. Why had he skipped the third and forth, Portia wondered? She studied them and thought they looked less dusty than the others, but that hardly seemed to signify. She found it difficult to be too angry. She was wearing a new morning dress of green sprigged muslin, delicate and fashionable, her ghost had stacked the books neatly this time and, wonder of wonders, he’d not only reshelved the books that went on the top shelves of the newest disturbed cases, but those from the first two cases, which she’d been unable to put away.

  She was engaged in sorting the b
ooks when Clary stalked in wearing a determined expression and, Portia was pleased to see, a dress.

  “To blazes with my uncle.”

  “Good afternoon, Lady Clarissa,” Portia replied, as imperturbably as possible. She picked up a book, looked at the spine, and put it in the appropriate stack for shelving. Her ghost was still leaving the books in piles, sorted by what rationale Portia could not guess. There seemed little purpose to the activity, especially when all the other “ghostly” incidents had ceased, though Portia thought she might be beginning to grasp the reason for it.

  Clary threw herself down in a chair. “He’s not the one who’ll end up spilling a glass of ratafia down the front of his dress while everyone snickers up their sleeves.”

  “True,” Portia said, trying very hard not to imagine Ransley in a ballgown.

  “I’ll risk his wrath if you will.”

  Portia needed only a moment to decide. The money from spouting the silver could only go so far to rehabilitate the Hall’s condition, and do nothing to fix its reputation. She was going to need both Lady Clarissa’s money and her good example to get anywhere. Proving Ashburne innocent might take some time. Time neither Clary nor Portia had. The Season would be upon them before they knew it and there was much to do to bring the chit up to snuff. “All right.”

  They were not fifteen minutes into their lesson—on the subject of not ripping up at a duke in public, regardless of the provocation—when a man said from the hall, “What’s that great gray beast doing pulling up weeds in the drive?”

  “He’s not a beast.” Clary scowled, heading into the hall despite Portia’s gesture for her to stay put. “He’s Gunpowder.”

  “Lady Clarissa,” Courtland exclaimed, whipping his hat off. “I hardly expected to find you here.”

  At sight of Lord Courtland, Lady Clarissa turned into a blushing mute, and it was Portia who said, “And now that you have?”

  Courtland winked broadly. “I wouldn’t dream of betraying my fellow conspirator. Why is the front door open?”

  Portia jumped at the change of subject, hoping Clary wouldn’t ask what he meant. “Because of the sparrow.”

  “The sparrow.”

  “It’s flitting about up there somewhere and we hoped if we opened some doors and windows, it would find its own way out.” Truth be told, Portia didn’t particularly want it out. It had a nest in the attic, after all, and the hole it was in the habit of using was now boarded up. But the day was fine and warm, and the bird made a good excuse to let the sun in.

  “Best be careful, Lady Ashburne. While you’re waiting for the bird to leave, other creatures might just find their way in.”

  “Yes,” Portia said, watching him put his hat and cane on the hall table without waiting to be invited, “they might.”

  “Like that gray gelding.” Courtland turned to Lady Clarissa. “How do you do it, my dear? My horse needs must be tied or hobbled to keep it where I left it, while that high-strung animal of yours wanders tame about the yard like a dog.”

  Clary muttered something about training and turned a shocking white when Courtland gallantly congratulated her on her skill as a horsewoman and kissed her fingers.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure, my lord?” Portia smoothly appropriated Clary’s hand from Courtland and led the girl into the library. Who could have guessed her outspoken, headstrong pupil would turn into a blushing schoolroom chit at a few compliments from a gentleman? Portia clearly had her work cut out for her.

  Lord Courtland sauntered after them and stood looking at the scattered books. “A never-ending task, I see. Another of your ghost’s pranks?”

  Portia shot him a quelling glare. “I am merely attempting to bring some order to the room.” She seated herself on a green couch that had seen so much use the knap was worn off the velvet and patted the cushion next to her. Clary plumped down with all the grace and refinement of a five year old and Portia surreptitiously pressed her hand to the center of the girl’s back when she began to slouch. “My sincerest apologies, Lord Courtland. I’m afraid we’re at sixes and sevens around here this afternoon, and I am unable even to offer tea.” First, because the library bellpull was broken off at the ceiling. Second, because Mrs. McFerran was sitting with her husband. And third, because Portia didn’t want Lady Clarissa and Lord Courtland to spend any more time together, even chaperoned, than absolutely necessary. Courtland was an engaging scamp; it would not be hard for Clary to develop a tendre for him. Besides, the twinkle in Courtland’s eye did not promise circumspection, and as easy as Clary appeared about her half-sister’s death, she might take it ill were she to discover Portia was attempting to clear the murderer’s name.

  “I regret to say I would be unable to accept in any case,” Courtland said gallantly, seating himself in a chair cater-corner to the couch. “I have time enough for only a short visit.”

  Good. He was treating this as an ordinary social call, though there was a gleam in his eye Portia mistrusted. “You rode here, my lord?”

  “Indeed. It’s a fair day, though the roads are all over mud. However did you get here, Lady Clarissa, without spoiling that beautiful riding habit?”

  Clary said something perfectly inaudible, and Courtland smiled as if he could hear her. He obligingly switched his attention from the blushing girl to Portia and carried on a perfectly correct, and perfectly trite, conversation for the requisite fifteen minutes before taking his leave.

  Portia closed the door behind him and returned to find Lady Clarissa striding up and down the library in a fever of irritation. “You see?” she demanded when Portia came in. “You see how hopeless it is?”

  “It’s not hopeless at all, my dear. Sit, please,” Portia said, returning to the couch, “and cease pacing about like a caged animal.” She waited until Clary plunked back down next to her. “It’s merely a matter of practice. We’ll go over the proper forms and practice polite conversation and—”

  “I shall forget every shred of it the moment a gentleman looks my way.”

  “Well certainly, if you convince yourself you will.”

  “Oh, Lady Ashburne.” Clary threw herself on Portia in an excess of emotion. “However will I manage? I can’t speak with even one gentleman without turning into a blushing widget. However will I face a whole ballroom of them?”

  “Practice, my dear.” Portia patted the girl’s heaving back. “Practice. Come now, get control of yourself, Clary.”

  “I can’t help it,” Clary snuffled. “Oh, my lady, he must think me a complete ninnyhammer!”

  Oh dear.

  *****

  Courtland knocked on the library windows not fifteen minutes after Lady Clarissa left, much easier in her mind and completely unaware Portia was near to despairing. Even if she successfully taught the girl everything she knew, if it all went out of Clary’s head the minute a man paid her the least attention, the results didn’t bear thinking on. What Clary needed was practice conducting herself under a gentleman’s eye, and that Portia could not provide. The only gentleman in the vicinity that she knew was Courtland, who barely qualified for the title, and with whom Clary was already far too taken. Portia’d be damned if she’d see the girl attached to a worthless rake, no better than Roger. And Ransley.... Ransley’d be incandescent with rage. She cursed the duke for being so little aware of his ward that he didn’t realize she was hopelessly inept in society, and blamed him in no small part for his niece’s shyness around the opposite sex. It was doubtless her guardian’s imposing demeanor that put the seal on Lady Clarissa’s nerves.

  “Have you been watching from the home wood?” Portia demanded when she opened the door to Courtland.

  “Is that any way to greet a gentleman?” He’d obviously been home, for he was no longer dressed in riding clothes and from the drive came the sound of wheels rocking over gravel as his team stamped and fidgeted.

  “Oh, do gentlemen rap for entrance on library windows?”

  “Baggage,” he said without heat. “If
you had a knocker on the door, I might not be reduced to circling the house in search of you. And what do you mean by asking if I was watching?”

  “You’ve missed Lady Clarissa by a mere quarter-hour.”

  “How unfortunate. Had I come earlier, I might have escorted her home. At which point,” he went on sardonically, “Ransley would doubtless have come after me with a whip.” He thought her jealous, which was lowering, but better that than he realize how very much he concerned her when it came to Clary.

  “What have you done to anger him so?”

  “Not one whit more than you, my lady.” Courtland laughed suddenly. “Which is to say, plenty. No, my lady, it’s you I wanted to get alone, not Lady Clarissa. I had thought we might go for a ride in my curricle, but it clearly wouldn’t have done to interrupt your lesson. I trust now is a more appropriate time.”

  “You were on horseback earlier.” Which would have made it a great deal easier for him to see Clary home. Had he really stopped at the Hall to see Portia, or had he another goal in mind? Lady Clarissa no doubt had a substantial dowry and that horse of hers was eminently recognizable. He couldn’t have seen it from the road, but the road was not the only approach to Ashburne Hall.

  “I was on my way back from the village earlier. And furthermore, I hadn’t been in your stables then.”

  “What the deuce were you doing in my stables?”

  “Not finding anything. After that, I thought it best to bring my curricle. I’d have brought a pretty little mare from my stables, but I wasn’t certain if you had a riding habit.” He looked her over with an appreciation that made her grateful for her new dress, then ruined it by saying, “I take it you found your wardrobe.”

  “It’s an excellent thing you made yourself scarce earlier. Lady Clarissa would learn nothing about manners with you around.”

  “I should say the same, but I make it a habit never to insult a lady. Come now, Lady Ashburne, will you ride with me? I would be happy to wait while you collect your bonnet.” The sun shining in through the open door turned his hair into a flame-tinted halo that gave him a less than angelic look. He leaned in until his breath stirred her hair. “I thought to share what I’ve learned in the village.”