Her Muse, Lord Patrick

by Jane Charles

  What lay down the corridor and behind the doors? Had the rooms remained untouched for several decades because the servants and families were afraid to come in here? Or, were they simple stories and the reason the wing was locked was because only a husband and wife resided at the Abbey?

  It didn’t matter and Laura couldn’t wait to explore. She started with the rooms opposite the garden and opened them one by one. There was nothing but bedchambers, eight to be exact, all arranged similarly to the west wing. The only difference was this bedding had been removed, the furniture covered in cloths, and curtains shut against any sun. Laura stopped at the end of the hall and looked back. No light shone from where she’d come. She paused and listened. Not a sound. She was quite alone in this wing of the house. Apparently the ghostly earl had vacated, or he was very quiet and didn’t mind her invading his wing. “If I had been locked up for nigh on a hundred years, I wouldn’t mind company either.”

  She crossed the hall and opened another door. Instead of a bedroom, a set of stone steps curved down. They probably would take her to the ground floor of this wing. Laura pulled the door closed and moved onto the next room. It was another bedchamber. And so it continued until she came to the fourth door. The room was smaller and did not have a bed. She stepped inside to investigate. The shadow of a candle fell across the desk, which she lit from her lamp. Another sat on a table by the door and soon Laura had enough light to see the room more clearly than the others. It was an office. A small one for a lady, judging by the delicacy of the desk. A shelf of books rested on the far wall and a thick layer of dust covered the entire room. Cobwebs laced between corners and from ledges to the floor. Under the window was what she assumed to be a settee, given the draping of the cloth and a small fireplace took up the center inside wall.

  Laura continued her examination of the room and ideas formed, one after the other. She pulled the chair out and settled at the desk. Both were of a perfect height, and she couldn’t stop the smile.

  Anxious to start writing a horrid novel, Laura barely slept a wink. But first, she needed to clean the room where she would write. As the sun began to lighten her chamber, she rose from bed and put on an older, gray gown then set off for the kitchen. The servants were up and about and stopped working when she stepped over the threshold. A lady shouldn’t be in the kitchens, but it wasn’t like she would expire from the experience. After her brother had sailed, Laura took to visiting Cook quite often. Usually it was simply to scandalize her former governess-turned-companion who believed Laura should behave a certain way, which did not include visits to kitchens.

  “Good morning,” she greeted the staff with a smile. “Where might I find cleaning supplies?”

  Mildred straightened, setting a cup on the table before her. “Is something amiss with your chamber? We will see to it right away.”

  Laura chuckled. “No, my rooms are perfectly fine. I wish to clean the small office in the east wing.”

  Her words were met with silence. The cook stopped stirring whatever was in the pot and a kitchen maid ceased kneading dough. Everyone stared at her as if she had lost her mind.

  “I wish to work there and need to clean the room first.”

  “Are you sure that is wise, Miss Chetwey?” The cook began stirring again. “Is it even safe in the east wing?”

  “I was there last evening. Everything is sound, just dirty.”

  “You shouldn’t be cleaning, Miss Chetwey,” Mildred insisted.

  “I don’t mind, but I could use a little help.”

  Once again her words were met with silence. A few of the maids turned deathly pale and looked away.

  “But, I know you are all busy so if you will direct me to rags, mops, buckets and anything else you think I will need, I would appreciate it.”

  “Right here, Miss Chetwey.” Mildred rushed across the room and opened the door to a closet. The maid, usually slow and unsteady, did have a tendency to hurry about whenever the east wing was a topic.

  “Thank you. I’ll take what I need and be on my way.” Laura reached forward and grabbed as many items as she could carry then left the staff to preparing breakfast.

  Two maids followed with buckets of hot water, but they stopped at the threshold to the east wing and set them on the floor. Laura supposed she could order the young women to carry them further but with the way they were trembling, most of the water would be sloshed over the edges before they ever reached her new sanctuary. She also could have ordered the servants to clean the room for her, but didn’t mind seeing to the chore herself. Thank goodness her former governess wasn’t here. The woman would have an apoplexy.

  As the morning progressed, she swept cobwebs from the corners and took the draperies down so they could be carried outside and aired. These she left at the entrance to the wing, with the buckets of water, dirty from washing surfaces, and returned to the room with the fresh water that had been left for her. Beneath the dust cloth she found a lovely settee with embroidered satin fabric of rose and deep green. This had certainly been a lady’s room long ago. Laura wiped dust from the shelves and inspected the books. It wasn’t a large collection, but she did intend to read them one day, if they didn’t fall apart in the process given their age. Lastly, she mopped the floor and while it dried, she made her way back to the kitchens to put away the supplies.

  “Whatever are you up to, dear?” her aunt questioned when Laura entered the center hallway that joined the two wings.

  “I cleaned an office in the east wing.”

  “Why ever would you do that?”

  Laura didn’t try to hide her grin. “I am going to write a horrid novel and it is the perfect location.”

  “Oh, Laura, you really need to get out of the house and meet people your own age.” Her aunt chastised with disappointment.

  She sighed and fought the urge to roll her eyes. Aunt Ivy meant gentlemen and Laura didn’t have a desire to meet any men.

  Patrick blinked and looked around the room. It was vaguely familiar but he couldn’t remember the circumstances of why he had been here before or even which home it was located in. A young woman sat at a small desk writing while a fire burned in the grate beside her. This was very strange. Had he drank too much and wandered in here to sleep? “Excuse me, but how did I get here?”

  She didn’t even raise her head.

  Patrick cleared his throat and spoke again. “Miss, where am I?”

  Still no response. Perhaps she was deaf.

  Patrick walked forward and waved a hand in front of her face. The woman kept writing. He would suspect her blind as well, but didn’t one normally need to see to write? This was a most strange circumstance.

  Who was she? He didn’t recognize the profile, a gently curved cheekbone, pert nose, pink lips. That was a face he would certainly remember. Golden hair was swept away from her face and a few curls had escaped the confines and fell haphazardly down her back. Patrick reached forward to rub a curl between his fingertips but could not feel a thing. He wiggled his fingers. They seemed to be in working order so what was wrong with his hand?

  He shifted uncomfortably. Why didn’t she acknowledge him?

  “Laura, dear, are you going to come down to supper?” Lady Torrington stepped into the room.

  Ah, someone he recognized. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Lady Torrington, but how did I come to be here?”

  She didn’t respond, or glance his way. Suspicion crept into Patrick’s consciousness, but he refused to accept the possibilities. He wandered back to the window and looked to the gardens of Torrington Abbey below. A servant was hard at work cleaning away old limbs and other winter debris.

  “There is a reasonable explanation of why they don’t hear or see me.” He glanced over his shoulder in the event someone had noticed his presence. Laura had straightened from her earlier bent position. Eyes the color of pale moss watched Lady Torrington.

  “One option tis a dream. A nightmare of sorts, in which I am powerless to contact any other li
vin’ soul.” He clasped his hands behind his back and paced a few steps.

  “I think I will have a tray in here, if you don’t mind, Aunt Ivy,” Laura responded to Lady Torrington.

  “Or, I am a ghost,” Patrick muttered. Not possible. He leaned against the window and folded his arms across his chest. “I would know if I were dead. I would remember dyin’, and I don’t.” He looked at the ladies. “I refuse to accept that I am dead.”

  “I really wish you would come to supper. You’ve been in this room all day.”

  The young woman sighed and set her quill to the side. “Very well.” Her chair scraped against the wooden floor when she stood.

  “I’ll see about having a rug delivered for you, dear. I am sure this floor can be quite cool.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Ivy, but I don’t think anyone will deliver it here.”

  “Why not?”

  The two exited the room and Patrick hastened to follow.

  “Everyone believes this wing is haunted and they are too afraid to enter it.”

  Lady Torrington laughed.

  “Haunted?” he asked. “Have I been hauntin’ the place? Why don’t I remember?”

  The two women settled at the dining room table with Lord Torrington at the head. A memory wavered, but Patrick could not grasp it long enough to hold onto it. The last thing he recalled was being on his way to Torrington Abbey. He had a message for Blake’s sister, Laura, whom he had never met. But, what was the message? Even if he recalled, how could he tell her now?

  Well, the young woman at the table was named Laura, and this was Torrington Abbey. So, she was apparently Blake’s younger sister. But how did he get here and what happened to him?

  The aroma of roast duck and potatoes wafted toward him. When had he eaten and what had been his last meal? Patrick tried to concentrate. It had been at a coaching inn. That was it! Mutton stew, horrible mutton stew with hard bread. Had he known it would have been his last meal he would have waited to find an establishment with a more pleasing fare. But he had been in too much of a hurry. Why?

  Which further begged the question, why was he here now? Could he not move on until he delivered the message to Laura? He supposed he should refer to her as Miss Chetwey, as they hadn’t been properly introduced, but since that wasn’t likely to ever happen, since he appeared to be dead, he would think of her by her Christian name. It was how Blake had always referred to her and how Patrick thought of her anyway.

  Blake. What news did he have of Blake that he needed to tell his sister?

  All this concentrating was giving him a headache. Ghosts weren’t supposed to get headaches, were they? The pounding was unmerciful and he wanted to lie down and sleep.

  Well, it wasn’t as if anyone had any evidence on what ghosts did and didn’t do, and a nap certainly couldn’t hurt. Perhaps he would have a clearer mind once he woke again.

  Laura excused herself from the table.

  “She needs to get out of half-mourning,” Lord Torrington grumbled after she had left the room.

  “I’ve tried, but she insists Blake is dead.”

  “Just because a ship is four months late does not mean it sank at sea. Any number of things could have caused the delay.” Lord Torrington set his cup on the table. “If there had been a shipwreck, we would have heard.”

  “I know, dear.”

  “Blake isn’t dead, is he?” Patrick asked out loud even though he knew he wouldn’t get a response. “Was that the news I was to bring to Laura?” He pushed his fingers through his hair and paced behind the chair she had vacated. “No. I would know if me best friend died, wouldn’t I?” He massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers. “Damn and blast, I wish I could remember.”

  The pounding in his head became worse, and Patrick chose to follow Laura. There was what looked to be a comfortable settee in the room she occupied. It would be a good place to rest until he could gather his thoughts.

  She was back at her desk by the time he reached the room. Logs had been added to the fire and it was rather cozy. For an old abbey, it was quite comfortable.

  Patrick settled onto the settee and stretched out the best he could, though his feet hung over the end, and closed his eyes. “This will all make sense when I awaken. Tis simply a dream. I might even chuckle over it when I have me mornin’ tea.”

  Patrick opened his eyes to an empty room. The same room he had fallen asleep in. He tamped down the rush of panic that he may indeed be dead. Small embers glowed behind the grate and the moonlight beaming through the windows offered the only clarity.

  “What time is it?” He rose and walked out of the room then continued down the hall until he reached the staircase. It was either very late at night or very early in the morning. What to do now? “Perhaps if I re-familiarize myself with the Abbey the memories will come back.”

  He took the stairs to the first level and stopped in the foyer. He and Blake had spent many hours in this house over the years, but the most recent visits, those after they’d left Oxford, were spent in the billiards room. Patrick made his way to the back of the east wing. All of the rooms appeared to be used on this floor. The doors were open and not a cobweb in sight. Perhaps the ghost only haunted the upper floors?

  Ghost! How odd he was a ghost now. All hopes of waking in his own bed with the vague memory of a dream vanished. Unless this was a continuation of the dream. It was the middle of the night, after all, and certainly possible.

  He tried to find hope in the thought but knew that it wasn’t the case. He was dead and he was a ghost. It could be worse. He could be in Hades right now. Patrick shuddered at the thought.

  Maybe this was limbo or purgatory. “No, purgatory doesn’t exist,” he reminded himself. “But, I always thought ghosts were a myth too. If I am in purgatory, what do I need to do to move on?” he asked into the silence. “And, is there a guarantee of an eternal reward or is something far more unpleasant waitin’?”

  Fear crept into his belly. Did he deserve to go to Hell? While his life had rarely been exemplary, he wasn’t a criminal, murderer, or any other type of miscreant either. Yet, he hadn’t set foot in a church in well over a year. He’d been on a ship, thought, which made it deuced difficult to attend services. Certainly his maker would understand the difficulty he faced with travel, if one ignored the fact that the captain had church services each Sunday morning that Patrick failed to attend.

  “That’s right. I was on a ship with Blake.” Something had happened to the ship, and to Blake, but what? “Why can’t I remember?”

  The billiard’s room was just as it had been four or five years ago. Decanters of brandy and whiskey on the back wall and clean glasses waited to be used. What he wouldn’t do to taste a bit of brandy right now.

  The table was set and ready for new players. Patrick circled it and reached for the cue. He could see his hand, but he couldn’t grasp the stick. “If I can’t pick up a bloody cue, I sure as hell can’t pour a damn glass of brandy.”

  He anchored a fist on his hip and glanced about the room. “Perhaps I should also watch my blasted language, given my current circumstances.”

  Patrick wandered back out into the corridor. “All I need is a bit more rest. I’ll return upstairs and when I wake again, this will all be over.”

  Laura sat up in bed and looked around. Any further attempt at sleep would be pointless. She had retired at ten last evening, exhausted from writing, but her mind hadn’t settled. Her horrid novel had wrapped its way through her dreams and she needed to get back to it. If she became tired later, she could rest. It wasn’t as if she had any social engagements she needed to attend. For the next year she didn’t plan on stepping foot off the grounds of Torrington Abbey, except to attend church or the occasional trip into town to shop with Aunt Ivy.

  As it was only four in the morning, she didn’t bother to dress for the day. Her nightdress and robe was perfectly comfortable, especially without the added chemise, underskirts or anything else she would need to wear late
r. Simply being in her night clothes was freeing.

  She slid her feet into a pair of old, worn slippers and picked up the lamp before making her way to the east wing. This section of the abbey was completely silent, dark, and damp. Laura built a fire in the grate. The small stack of wood was dwindling. “I’ll need to ask the maids to bring more wood and coal later.” She already knew it would be left, stacked neatly of course, a coal bucket beside it, outside the door leading to the east wing. One would think that after she had worked in here all day yesterday, into the night, and visited the night before without encountering a ghost, there wasn’t one to be found.

  With a sigh she leaned the poker against the wall and turned to her desk. She needed to address her characters. Her story outline was fairly complete, but she hadn’t given anyone a name or description. Before she could go further, she needed to be able to envision them in her mind so that she could describe them appropriately in the text.

  “Who is my heroine?” Laura asked into the silence as she dipped her quill in ink and pulled a piece of paper before her. She tapped a finger against the worn wood of the desk before writing the name Alonza Giuliani. That sounded Italian, didn’t it? Her favorite horrid novels tended to have an Italian theme. It was a shame she had never visited the country, but her uncle had books she could read if necessary.

  “So, what does Alonza look like?” If she were an Italian woman, she would have dark hair and eyes.

  Laura wrote the description after the name and then crossed it out. “Too predictable.” She glanced around the room, noting the colors. Nothing reminded her of hair coloring. Laura pushed back her chair and wandered to the window. She could no longer see the moon, it had already moved beyond the abbey, but enough light was beginning to reveal the garden. It was a shame nothing was in bloom yet. The first plants to flower were the daffodils, if she remembered correctly. But daffodil-colored hair didn’t sound all that lovely. She glanced around the room one more time. The wood of her desk was mahogany. It was a nice, rich color and much better than black. She returned to her desk and wrote the hair coloring, adding, green eyes. Yes, that was it.