Sandra Heath

by The Haunting of Henrietta

  “Amabel and I will leave directly, and leave you to rest properly,” Henrietta said firmly.

  “I will not hear of it. Besides, would you really leave me with Amabel?” Charlotte smiled and placed the bandage on the table beside the brooch. “You wouldn’t believe how amiable she has been the past few days. Maybe I’ve been wrong about her after all.”

  Henrietta smiled. “Yes, I think you have. I knew you and she would make up in the end.”

  Charlotte got up and went to draw the curtains back. “Anyway, I’m happy for you both to stay; indeed I wish you to.”

  The morning sun swept in dazzlingly, made more bright than ever by the crisp layer of snow that still covered the countryside because each night the clear skies brought a raw frost. The sky was a flawless blue and the high moors seemed to float against the heavens as Henrietta sat up in bed to look out. “How lovely it is out there,” she murmured.

  “Yes, it is, and so clear I can actually see the smoke from the chimneys in the hamlet where Nurse lives.” Charlotte pointed beyond Mulbridge, which was out of sight in a fold of the moor.

  Henrietta smiled. “Just how old is she? If she was Russell’s nurse ...”

  “Well, Russell is sixty, and she was about seventeen when she was hired to take care of him. So I suppose she’s in her late seventies. Something of the sort, anyway.”

  “I’d like to see her again before I leave,” Henrietta said.

  “And so you shall. We will ride over soon.”

  Henrietta was appalled. “Ride? With you barely a month from your confinement? Certainly not.”

  “Very well, we’ll drive then.” Charlotte moved to the fire, which had been tended while Henrietta still slept.

  Jane glided through the wall behind the screen. She was alone because Kit had taken Rowley for a walk along the cliffs, well out of sight of this particular room. Wondering how to proceed next with Henrietta and Marcus, the shade settled to eavesdrop.

  Henrietta chose that moment to recall her thoughts on awakening. “Charlotte, there’s a tomb in St. Tydfa’s churchyard that belongs to a Jane Courtenay. She was buried on February 14th, 1714. Do you know anything about her?”

  Jane sat forward alertly.

  Charlotte’s brows drew together pensively. “I believe there is something about her in Lady Chloe’s journal.”

  “Lady who?”

  “Chloe. She was Lady Mulborough at the turn of the eighteenth century, and very diligently kept a journal. It’s rather difficult to read, but quite interesting.”

  Jane’s lips twitched. Lady Chloe Mulborough had been a superior, interfering old busybody!

  Charlotte looked at Henrietta. “Why do you ask about Jane Courtenay?”

  “Oh, I just remembered the grave, that’s all.” On no account was Henrietta going to mention ghosts!

  But Charlotte made the association anyway. “Are you also thinking about what happened at the ball? You said the lady was called Jane and looked exactly like you.”

  “Yes.” Henrietta avoided her eyes.

  Charlotte cleared her throat a little awkwardly. “Well, I’m sure the journal mentions a Jane Courtenay. I can’t be sure, but she was rumored to be at the heart of a scandal, an elopement, I think.” Something struck her, and her lips parted on a half gasp. “Actually, now I come to think of it...”

  “Yes?”

  “You said the gentleman you saw at the ball was called Kit, and was an excellent likeness of Marcus. Well, I’ve just remembered that Lady Chloe named Jane’s lover as Lord Christopher Fitzpaine. Kit is short for Christopher, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Jane was impressed. Full marks, Charlotte.

  Charlotte shivered and then drew herself together. “A cold finger just went down my spine. Anyway, I can’t recall the details, but I know a good many feathers were ruffled by the elopement. Indeed, it may even have been the start of the infamous feud,”

  Jane sighed. How right you are, my dear, she thought.

  Henrietta was intrigued. “Could I read the journal?”

  Charlotte nodded. “Yes, of course. It’s in the library. I’ll have a maid bring it with your breakfast.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  The clock on the mantelpiece chimed half past ten, and Charlotte turned to leave. “It’s time for the midmorning rest Russell has decreed for me, but first I must discuss tonight’s dinner with the cook.”

  “I trust you will include me at table tonight?” Henrietta said quickly.

  Charlotte hesitated. “Are you sure? I mean, you may feel very strong right now, but this evening is a long way away.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Then yes, of course I will gladly include you.”

  “Don’t forget the journal.”

  “I won’t.” Charlotte went out, and closed the door softly behind her.

  Jane was still behind the screen when the breakfast tray was brought, together with the journal. The wraith regretted Henrietta’s ability to see and hear the supernatural, for it meant having to stay out of sight instead of standing at the bedside reading the journal as well.

  Unaware of the ghostly presence only a few feet away, Henrietta began to examine the journal. Lady Chloe’s writing was difficult to decipher, but at the pages concerning the beginning of 1714, she soon found mention of Jane and Kit, who were among the seasonal guests who even then gathered at Mulborough Abbey. The first reference, concerning Jane’s betrothal to the then Lord Sutherton, sent a shiver through Henrietta, whose breakfast began to go cold as she read on.

  Lady Chloe clearly thought Jane had done unexpectedly well for herself, for Sutherton was wealthy and very well connected indeed, whereas the Courtenays were parvenus who were only tolerated at the abbey because Jane’s mother was Lady Chloe’s cousin and because of the family nabob’s expected intentions. The first reference to Kit concerned his contract with a member of the royal family. The lady had only her portion of royal blood to commend her in the marriage stakes, whereas Kit was heir to a rich marquessate, but in Lady Chloe’s lofty opinion he had the better part of the deal. Oh, what hypocrisy, Henrietta thought, outraged at the insults heaped upon her unfortunate ancestor by the writer of the journal.

  Lady Chloe soon perceived that there was something reprehensible afoot between Jane and Kit. Then, on February 12, she entered: “It has happened as I feared. Foolish Kit has been quite led astray by the scheming Courtenay minx. They have run away together to America, leaving dire social consequences behind them. The merchantman Wessex sailed on this morning’s tide, and was long gone before their flight was realized. Now we must face a scandal that involves the royal family itself. My sympathies lie entirely with the Fitzpaines, for the Courtenays are no better than they should be.”

  The breakfast tray was totally forgotten as Henrietta read quickly on. She expected to find much more, but the next entry wasn’t until two days later, on February 14, St. Valentine’s Day. “I have not been able to bring myself to write more about what has happened, for it is too delicate. However, the truth is contained, and a solution found. Today, with full panoply, we laid them both to rest at St. Tydfa’s. Kit expired in a riding accident, the Courtenay coquette of influenza. May God forgive such profanity, but what else were we to do? Mulborough and I are relieved it is resolved, because we greatly feared being condemned at court if it should have been discovered that such a deplorable liaison took place here at the abbey.”

  Henrietta read the entry again. Influenza and a riding accident? How could that possibly be? Kit and Jane had run away to America on February 12, so how could they be buried at St. Tydfa’s on the fourteenth? And why use a word like profanity? She read the rest of the St. Valentine’s Day entry. “That is the end of it, never again will their names be mentioned. As for the Courtenays and Fitzpaines, each clan blames the other, and I believe that from now on they will be enemies forever.”

  So Charlotte was right, the elopement was the origin of t
he feud! Henrietta leafed through the following pages, and on February 26 found one last entry. “Shocking intelligence has just reached us in the Gentleman’s Magazine, that on St. Valentine’s Day, pursued by the dishonorable French privateer, the Basilic, the Wessex was lost upon the Goodwin Sands near Deal, within sight of Kit’s estate, Bramnells. All lives were lost. What a double irony that he and his siren should have perished on that of all days, but better empty tombs with false inscriptions than the calamity of social disgrace for all concerned.”

  Henrietta’s breakfast was quite congealed as she stared in dismay at these few uncompromising sentences. Tears shone in her eyes. On the day of the so-called burials at St. Tydfa’s, Jane and Kit had actually perished some two hundred miles away on the terrible Goodwins. The two families, as well as Lady Chloe and her husband, had colluded in lies to avoid falling from favor at court! That was what was profane.

  There was a tap at the door, and she closed the journal. “Yes?”

  “It’s Amabel. I’ve come to see how you are.”

  “Come in.”

  The door opened and Amabel slipped inside with a rustle of sage taffeta. There was a warm cashmere shawl around her shoulders, and her rich brown hair was pinned up daintily on her head. Her green eyes were sympathetic as she came to the bedside. “Charlotte says you’re feeling much better.”

  “Yes, I am. See, even my wrist has decided to get well.” Henrietta raised her right hand.

  “I’m so glad.” Amabel bent to kiss her cheek, but it was the scent of roses that drifted on the air, not sulfur.

  Jane’s lips pressed together disapprovingly. Mrs. Brimstone was the very opposite of a friend, and the shade wished that Henrietta could see it. Don’t trust her, Henrietta. I do not know what reason she has, but she means you great harm! Smell the sulfur when she draws near! She stole your ring and assaulted you with a candlestick, yet pretends concern! Heaven knows what else she has tried to do to you, so have a care. Have a care!

  As Amabel sat on the bed, she noticed the untouched tray. “You haven’t eaten. Are you feeling unwell again?”

  “Oh, no. Actually, I feel so well that I intend to go for a ride to St. Tydfa’s.” Until the words were said, Henrietta hadn’t even realized her decision.

  Amabel was taken aback. “You’re what? Oh, I don’t think Charlotte will permit that, Henrietta.”

  “That’s why Charlotte isn’t going to know. She’s resting now, and I can slip out the back way through the buttery and laundry.”

  “Why are you so intent upon riding to St. Tydfa’s?”

  “Oh, just for the ride. I’m so weary of being cooped up inside. Why don’t you join me? I know how much you enjoy riding.”

  For a split second Amabel seemed about to accept, but then shook her head. “I’m about to go to my room to lie down. I have a dreadful headache, and wish to be rid of it for dinner.”

  Jane’s sixth sense stirred. Headache? Mrs. Brimstone didn’t have any such thing. She was up to something!

  Henrietta touched Amabel’s wrist concernedly. “You go to your room immediately. I will not hear of anything else.”

  “You’re so very kind and thoughtful,” Amabel murmured, bending forward to put cool lips to the bruise on Henrietta’s forehead.

  “Promise you won’t tell Charlotte or Russell of my ride?”

  “My lips are sealed.” With another rustle of sage taffeta, Amabel left again.

  Instinct persuaded Jane to follow, and in a moment she was right behind Amabel, whose steps had quickened so that she almost ran to her own room. There the ghost watched her arrange pillows beneath the counterpane so it appeared someone was in the bed. Next Amabel took a blue woolen riding habit and thick gray cloak from the wardrobe, before unbuttoning her gown. Jane’s eyes widened with dismay. Far from taking to her bed with a headache, Mrs. Brimstone was about to go riding! And where else would she be going, but St. Tydfa’s? Henrietta was in danger! The ghost fled from the abbey to find Kit and Rowley on the cliffs.

  Chapter Twelve

  Raising the fur-trimmed hood of her crimson cloak, Henrietta slipped quietly down the back staircase, past the kitchens, and then out through the kitchen gardens. The sun was dazzling upon the snow and the air was bitterly cold as she crossed the stable yard to the empty stall where she knew the grooms and stable boys congregated at quiet moments. No one questioned her as she asked for a horse to be saddled.

  A few minutes earlier, as she finished dressing, Marcus had been reading a newspaper in the conservatory. He wore a wine-red coat and gray trousers, and his unstarched muslin neckcloth was tied in a casual morning knot. His hair was very golden in the sunlight that streamed unhindered through the surrounding windows, and the only sound was of a page being turned. He was just reading a report concerning a recent attack by the Légère upon an unescorted East Indiaman in the North Sea, when he heard the mysterious dog again. This time it whined from somewhere close to the billiard table. With a start, he jumped to his feet.

  After a very hasty consultation, Jane and Kit had decided to use the spaniel to lure him to a window from where he could see Henrietta riding out of the stable yard. Rowley was only too willing to oblige. He barked and then pattered noisily toward the door from the cloisters. Marcus flung the newspaper down in exasperation. “Devil take it, show yourself!” Nothing happened, but he could still hear the creature. It was leaving the conservatory via the ceiling, if he wasn’t mistaken! Damn it, this foolishness had to be solved once and for all! Pressing his lips determinedly together, he followed the sounds.

  Encouraged by Jane and Kit, Rowley lured him up to a second-floor bedroom that was seldom used because it faced rather uninterestingly over the kitchen garden and stables. By the window the delighted spaniel was permitted to bark to his heart’s content.

  Then he was silenced, and the sudden quiet made Marcus shiver. He glanced around, his natural cynicism insisting he had imagined it all. There was no such thing as the supernatural! Suddenly his attention was drawn out of the window to a movement of crimson in the stable yard. He recognized Henrietta in a moment. Was she completely mad? She shouldn’t be outside because she hadn’t had time to fully recover! What point was there in Charlotte sending for the doctor, worrying over her, instructing maids to sit with her, and so on, if the future Lady Sutherton was going to undo all the good by rushing out into the bitter cold? Damn it all, Henrietta Courtenay needed a lecture, and right now he was just the man to deliver it! Ghostly dogs forgotten, he turned on his heel, and strode from the room.

  Jane breathed out with relief. “We’ve succeeded, Kit. He’s going after her.”

  “To give her the wigging of her life, if I’m not mistaken,” Kit replied.

  “Better that than the forfeit of said life,” Jane pointed out sagely. “Come on, let’s see what happens.”

  Marcus paused only to don his greatcoat, gloves, and top hat, then in a minute or so he hastened to the stable yard. He and his invisible companions were just in time to hear the hooves of Henrietta’s horse echoing beneath the clock-tower entrance as she set off on her ride. He shouted her name, but to the ghosts’ frustration she didn’t hear because of the clatter of her chestnut mare upon the cleared cobbles. Then she turned onto the undisturbed snow of the open cliff top, and rode swiftly away. Marcus called a groom. “A horse, if you please! And quickly!” he instructed.

  Clutching Rowley close, Jane looked urgently at Kit. “I’ll stay with Marcus; you go after Henrietta, you’re quicker than I am. But for heaven’s sake, remember she can hear and see you. And be vigilant for a whiff of sulfur!”

  As Kit nodded and sped away in Henrietta’s wake, Marcus assisted the groom with a large bay thoroughbred. “Did Miss Courtenay say where she was going?” he asked, swinging the heavy saddle onto the horse while the groom attended to the bridle.

  “No, my lord, just that she felt like going for a ride.”

  At last the horse was ready, and Marcus mounted. “On no account are y
ou to let Miss Courtenay ride again unless Lord Mulborough expressly says so, is that clear?”

  The groom touched his hat. “It is, my lord.”

  With Jane and Rowley at his heels, Marcus urged the bay in Henrietta’s wake, following the tracks her horse had left in the snow. They led him into the woods in the Mull valley, and past the old icehouse, which resembled little more than a tree-covered mound. Its entrance was choked with brushwood and fallen branches, placed there by those who’d hidden the Treasury gold, and to all intents and purposes it was as if no one had been inside for many a year.

  The gold hardly crossed Jane’s mind, or Marcus’ as he rode on toward Mulborough. He reached the only road, which crossed the Mull on a fine stone bridge. Here he lost the tracks on the hard-packed snow. He rode on, and for a while thought he had found them again by the livery stable on the outskirts of the town, but soon he had to concede that he had lost the trail completely. There was nothing for it but to start questioning anyone he encountered, for someone would have seen a lady in a crimson cloak mounted on a chestnut mare. The first person he asked, an old fisherman returning to his cottage with a folded net over his shoulder, shook his head. A lady in crimson? No, he hadn’t seen her. And so it was to go on. No matter who Marcus asked, no one had seen Henrietta. It was as if she had vanished into thin air.

  Realizing he was on the point of giving up the chase, Jane knew she had to do something to point him toward St. Tydfa’s. She didn’t really want to resort to supernatural means out here in the open, but all she could think of was drafting Rowley into action again. The spaniel was pleased to do as he was hade, and gave another ghostly whine. Marcus turned sharply in the saddle, hoping that this time it would prove to be an only too real town dog. But there was nothing. Groaning inwardly, he prepared to follow the sounds, for by now he knew what was expected of him.

  The reason Henrietta had eluded Marcus was simply that she hadn’t ridden right into the town, but had instead taken a narrow back lane that afforded a shortcut to the church. She was only acquainted with it because the farmer who’d taken her safely home to the abbey after her fall on the church steps, had brought her that way on his sturdy cob.