by Cheryl Bolen
“That we don’t know, since none of them had the courage to stay and find out. One of them, who remained a little longer than the others, said the ghost told her she was no longer welcome and almost pushed her out of the bed.”
“How disconcerting,” Edwina said, once again stifling the urge to scoff. We must save him, had said the voice she’d heard last night. She’d thought no more about it at the time, and if it was the ghost speaking (which Edwina refused to believe) surely she merely wanted to save her murdered lover, who was long past any help.
After breakfast, the children took Edwina up to the schoolroom, where they spent the morning putting things in order and starting in on their lessons. Both children politely did their work, but John was by far the more earnest scholar—too much so, in Edwina’s opinion. After he’d finished showing her how proficient he was in Latin, he jumped up, ready to hurry off to the vicar. “We shall be able to spend twice the time on Greek, now that he needn’t help me with Latin.”
“Surely there’s no rush,” Edwina said. “You’re far ahead of most students your age, in Latin at least.”
“Oh, but there is a rush,” he said. “I don’t know how much time I may have.”
“You have plenty of time,” she said. “A lifetime for learning.”
“Not likely,” he said with an impatient shake of the head. Before she could ask what he meant, he dashed out the door.
She let him go and turned to Lizzie, who after finishing her lessons was reading a novel. “What was that all about?”
Lizzie hunched a shoulder and buried her nose in the book. “Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. Why shouldn’t he have plenty of time to learn? Is he ill?”
Again, Lizzie shrugged. “He has a morbid nature, that’s all.”
“That’s terrible in one so young. Perhaps he should talk to the vicar about it.”
Lizzie raised her eyes at last, scowling. “No, the vicar will only make things worse. No one can help.”
“Come now, Lizzie. There’s clearly a problem, and something must be done.”
“Nothing will work except getting rid of the–” She stopped on a gasp.
“Rid of what?”
Tears welled up in the corners of Lizzie’s eyes. “John doesn’t want it discussed, and Papa says we should honor that.”
“The ghost? We’ve all been discussing that.”
Lizzie shook her head, stifling a sob as tears trickled down her cheeks. Edwina found a handkerchief in her reticule and handed it to the girl. “Don’t cry, Lizzie. I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have asked you.”
“Indeed you shouldn’t,” said a harsh voice behind her. “Mrs. White, I see I have no choice but to speak with you.” He paused. “Privately. Run along, Lizzie, and see if Mrs. Cropper needs your help.”
“Papa, please don’t be vexed with Mrs. White,” Lizzie whispered, but when her father merely gave her a stern look, she hurried from the room.
“She was doing her best to obey you,” Edwina said, indignant. “Don’t blame her for my curiosity.”
“I shan’t,” he said, waiting while his daughter’s footsteps receded down the corridor. He shut the door and set his back to it. “I thought we might part ways before I was obliged to explain, but…”
Explain what? Her heart sank. She wasn’t frightened like the night before; she had the fifty pounds, after all, which would keep her from starving for a good while. But she didn’t want to leave the Grange so soon. Not so close to Christmas, in a household with children she liked, children who needed her.
Still, it was his house and his children, and she had no say in the matter. She steeled herself to be sent packing.
His eyes were on the floor, as if he was trying to decide what to say. How difficult could it be?
Mrs. White, I find that I no longer need your services.
He raised his eyes, and his lips twisted a little as he spoke. “I had forgotten your stubborn nature.”
Regretfully, she admitted, “Yes, it is one of my great failings as a governess. I simply cannot back down with parents who willfully spoil their children.” She put up a hand. “Not yours, Sir Richard. I was not trying to butter you up yesterday. What I said about John and Lizzie was…was heartfelt.” Why must her voice tremble and tears like the echoes of Lizzie’s sting behind her eyes? Just get on with it, she thought miserably. Send me away.
“I realize that my reaction was unwarranted,” he said.
She was so surprised that she couldn’t find a word to say.
“If you intend to stay at the Grange, I shall have to tell you the whole story—you will learn it from the villagers if not from me–but if you mean to leave, there is no point in my doing so. Therefore, I must ask—what are your plans?”
Her mouth dropped open. “My plans?”
“Yes, Edwina, your plans. Last night I gave you the means to leave anytime you wish, which I expected would be immediately. Do you intend to stay here as governess in spite of the, er, history between us, which seems to be a sticking point? We got off to a bad start yesterday, but I am prepared to let bygones be bygones.”
“You will let bygones be bygones? How dare you?”
“If you are prepared to do the same,” he retorted. “Must you take umbrage at everything I say? I don’t know why you’re so damned incensed with me, but nor do I care. All I want to know is whether we are prepared to put up with one another for the sake of the children. I shall do my part, but I must have some assurance that you are willing to make a commitment as well.”
“You want to know if I can make a commitment?” she cried, more furious by the second.
“I certainly know I can,” he said. “Your ability is the one in question.”
“You are the most odious, insulting person I have ever met!”
“The feeling is mutual, believe me.” Some emotion crossed his face, quickly suppressed, and she thought she knew what it was. He, like she, was remembering a day in London almost twelve years ago. He’d been released from the Fleet, since presumably one of his relatives—the previous Sir Richard, perhaps—had paid his debt. Edwina was walking in the park with her new husband, whilst Richard was on the arm of a woman she’d never met. It hadn’t taken her long to find out—an American woman, a minor heiress like Edwina, who had come to London for the season. If she’d needed proof that Richard was indeed a fortune hunter, here it was.
Their eyes had met for one long, horrid moment—her eyes and Richard’s, then hers and the woman’s. Then Richard had sneered and pointedly steered his fair companion away.
He turned away now as well and flung open the door. “Come, it’s a sunny day and almost pleasant outdoors, a rare occurrence at this time of year. I want to show you something in the garden.”
*
Richard couldn’t help but watch as Edwina gathered herself and trod down the passage to her bedchamber, nose in the air again. The memory of better times overwhelmed him with foolish nostalgia. He liked her feisty nature and had looked forward to marital tussles as the precursor to intense, satisfying lovemaking. There didn’t seem much hope of any kind of satisfaction between them now, physical or emotional.
Good God, was some idiotic part of him hoping for just that? He might blame his cock’s response as a natural phenomenon, but his heart should know better. He’d paid her hoping she would simply leave, but seemingly she didn’t intend to do so.
Perhaps, if she did indeed stay a while, they would hash the past out between them and come to some sort of truce. She might even become a friend of sorts—he could certainly use someone to talk to, to confide in—but that was probably too much to hope for. They seemed to be blaming one another for what had happened twelve years ago, which made no sense to him, but he didn’t have the energy to deal with it now. His entire being was—must be—concentrated on saving his son.
He went downstairs to reassure Lizzie, who was in the butler’s pantry polishing the silver. “I can’t promise that Mrs. White w
ill stay, but I’m not planning to dismiss her,” he said.
“Shall I talk to her, Papa? Perhaps I can convince her. She’s not fearful like the others.”
Not of ghosts, he thought. But of his unkindness, of his power to harm her—yes, she had definitely been fearful last night. He’d done what he could to dispel that. “No, she has a great deal of spirit, hasn’t she? One can’t help but like that about her.”
His daughter smiled tremulously and got on with painstakingly cleaning the tines of a fork.
He went outdoors, and soon Edwina joined him in the weed-choked mess of the knot garden. The holly hedge surrounding it was overgrown, and the stone bench and other garden ornaments could only be described as dreary. He picked a sprig of rosemary and offered it to her.
*
Startled, Edwina took the sprig and bit off one needle, savoring its sharp flavor. He strolled away, making it clear the offering meant nothing–definitely not rosemary for remembrance of the kisses with which they had mended their disputes in the past. For heaven’s sake, she didn’t want to dispute with him! And although she knew her quick temper to be a worse failing than her stubbornness, she had a right to her indignation. No, her downright hurt and…
It didn’t matter. To him the past was of no account—a nuisance to be acknowledged and then forgotten. His entire concentration was on his children, and rightly so. On that at least they could agree.
Edwina nibbled on the rosemary and wandered slowly in Richard’s wake. The four squares of the knot garden were divided by pathways. Each square had a different knot design, and at the center of each knot stood a stone fixture: in one a birdbath, in another a sundial, in a third a plinth with a flowerpot, and in the fourth—the only one with a proper path to the center–an elaborate stone bench. “The design for this garden is quite old,” she said. “Was it planted at the time the house was built?”
“Shortly afterward, I assume, as according to the old stories, it was designed by the same Lady Ballister who now haunts us. It was her pride and joy. Sir Joshua, in his rage, took an axe to the garden, but once he had calmed down a little, he regretted his hastiness and replanted much of it himself.”
“What a horrid man, to regret destroying a garden but not his cruel treatment of his wife.”
Richard shrugged. “He was a proud man, and a knot garden was a showpiece.”
How cynical. He was most likely right, but she didn’t like the hard man Richard had become—or perhaps had always been. She strode away down one of the alleys and then slowed, reminding herself once again that she was equal to anything, including letting bygones be bygones—not that Richard had anything strenuous to do in that regard.
She took a deep breath, determined to compose herself. “The garden hasn’t been neglected for long.”
“No, my predecessor lived here, and he died less than a year ago.”
“With servants to care for him? No ghost to scare them away?”
“Oh, the house has always been haunted, but country people are used to the occasional ghost. She appeared rarely under previous owners, causing little trouble–except for the Ballister Curse.”
“Curse? What curse?” She whirled away, unable to believe she was to be confronted with more folly, and turned to face him again. “For heaven’s sake, Richard! First a ghost, and now a curse?”
He went on as if she hadn’t reacted so strongly. “It’s part of the same story and the reason I brought you out here, Edwina. For John’s sake, we discuss it as little as possible.” He blew out a sigh. “Let me start at the beginning. Sir Joshua and Lady Ballister had a young son, the only bright spot in their miserable marriage. She seemed willing enough to abandon the boy when fleeing with her lover, but–”
“Because she wouldn’t have been able to take him,” Edwina retorted. How typical of a male to assume the unhappy wife didn’t care about her child. “Since her husband didn’t get on with her, he might have been willing to let her go, but not with his heir.”
“Exactly so,” Richard said agreeably, and Edwina suppressed her further annoyance. In the midst of all the nonsense about ghosts, she refused to be thought irrational—particularly since irritation at Richard for agreeing with her was irrational. Oh, if only everything he said didn’t feel like a needle digging into her flesh. She took another nibble of the biting, tonic rosemary.
“If she had not taken the necklace, all might have been well,” Richard said. “How can we know? In any event, not long after Sir Joshua imprisoned her in the tower, the boy sickened of a fever. She pleaded to be allowed to nurse him, but Sir Joshua refused, and within a few days the boy died.” He angled his chin toward the ornate stone bench in one of the squares. “That bench is a monument to him. Come, I’d like you to see it.”
Edwina sighed and followed him slowly down the narrow, curving path toward the center of the square. “Poor woman. How ghastly for her.”
“She believed he would have survived if she had been allowed to care for him, and perhaps she was right. We shall never know the answer to that either. In her grief she laid a curse upon the Ballisters—that no firstborn son would ever inherit.”
Edwina tsked. “How absurd, but one can’t blame her for lashing out.”
“There’s more to it,” Richard said. “The curse would remain in force until the necklace was returned to its rightful owner, the mistress of Ballister Grange.”
Edwina tried to summon another retort, but none came.
“Rather takes the shine of virtuous grief away from it, doesn’t it?” Richard said. “Particularly since when Sir Joshua married again, he flouted the curse by not giving the necklace to his new wife.”
Edwina huffed. “But as you explained earlier, he may have had to pretend the necklace had gone with the vanished lover. Besides that, he had no reason to fear the curse, since his first born son had already died.”
“But what of his descendants?” Richard said. “He could have bequeathed it to the current Lady Ballister, leaving instructions with his lawyer about where to find it.” He paused. “No, I think he was too proud to give in. He couldn’t let his first wife win.”
They halted in front of the bench. “I thought seeing the monument would help you believe the history of the Grange. The stone is quite worn now, but one can easily make out the cherubs—rather mawkish, I’ve always thought, and quite a contrast to the inscription.” He read aloud the words on the back of the bench: “‘Sacred to the memory of John Ballister, who died through the neglect of a faithless mother.’”
“Oh, how unfair of that horrid man. He wouldn’t even let her tend the boy!” She paused. “Another John. Is it a common name in your family?”
“No, but my wife’s father was also John, and she wished to name her son after him.”
Something inside Edwina tightened at the mention of his wife, but she quieted it. Surely she wasn’t jealous of a dead woman. “It seems that both Sir Joshua and his lady were dreadful people, but I don’t believe in curses any more than in ghosts.”
Richard’s voice was chilly. “Nevertheless, since that time, no first born son has inherited the title and estate. My uncle, the previous baronet, didn’t believe in the curse, or perhaps he thought it had at last outrun its course. He had three healthy sons until about a year ago, when his eldest son—a grown man of twenty-five–died suddenly. That spring, he, his wife, and the two remaining sons died in a yachting accident. The boat foundered in a sudden squall and sank.”
Edwina sucked in an appalled breath. So that was what Mrs. Cropper had meant when she’d said it wasn’t surprising that the eldest had died.
“Needless to say, I never expected to inherit the title. Even if the curse was real, only the firstborn of my male cousins need have died to fulfill its terms.”
“Oh, my God,” Edwina said, sinking down onto the bench. “John.”
“Precisely—now the curse is upon the life of my son.”
“But surely you don’t believe that,” Edwina said, un
able to do anything but gape at Richard, trying to read his face. “Or in the ghost.”
“I don’t know what I believe,” Richard said. “So far, the evidence points one way and rational thought the other. But that’s not the point.”
“No, the point is that you’re encouraging your children to accept all this utter nonsense as fact. If you would but tell them, and insist, that there are no such things as curses and ghosts…”
“I tried, but John has always been a sensitive boy with a powerful imagination. He’s also extremely stubborn, and once he gets hold of an idea, he doesn’t let go.” Richard shook his head. “He believes in the curse, and that’s all that matters. Lizzie believes as well and fears for her brother’s life.”
Edwina tried to think what to say, what to do.
“Belief is a significant factor in one’s thinking,” Richard said. “John doesn’t sleep as well as he used to, and he is not as robust now as when we first heard the news that I had inherited. Telling John not to be foolish, and that he has a full life ahead of him, only makes him worse. I fear that he will sicken and die merely from believing that that is what will happen.”
“But death can happen to anyone at any time.”
“Ah, but there’s more to the curse,” Richard said. “The first John Ballister died at Christmastide, and so have all the firstborn sons since then.”
Anger and disbelief swarmed up inside Edwina. This whole story was completely, utterly absurd, and she intended to tell him so and then leave this place.
Then she saw the anguish on Richard’s tired face, and her fury died away. “That’s why you’re in such a hurry to find the necklace, and why Mrs. Cropper says you must marry quickly. John fears he will die this Christmas.”
Richard nodded.
“But not every heir died as a child, so even if there were a curse, it might not take him until he was quite old!”
“And had a son of his own to fear for,” Richard said. “Believe me, we’ve been over this ad nauseam. If he dies young and I have no more sons, the curse will end by default.”