Mystified

by Renee Bernard

  “Keyvnor’s got her in a bit of a state, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know why,” Sam replied, gathering her pelisse again from the floor, having been dumped there unceremoniously during The Great Fright, as she was now apt to calling the episode. “I think it’s delightful. Full of history and intrigue. What do you think, Betsy?”

  “Oh, I’m used to haunted places, my lady. The orphanage I grew up in was filled with the spirits of the children who’d not made it.”

  That caught Sam rather by surprise, and she stopped short to stare at her maid. “How terrible,” she said quietly. “Did many not survive?”

  Betsy shrugged her slight little shoulders as she crossed the room and set to her work of preparing Sam’s gown for supper that night. “It all depended, really. Sometimes, an illness would sweep through and take half the children. ‘Twas only luck…or perhaps God, if you’re the believing kind…that saw the rest of us out alive.”

  As much as Sam was eager to meet with ghosts, she didn’t much like the topic of suffering children, so she changed the subject with very little tact. “Did you say you could show me to the turrets?”

  “I can get you to the staircase, at least,” Betsy replied, not at all fazed by the sudden shift in topic. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not go all the way up.”

  Sam narrowed her eyes on the maid, even though Betsy wasn’t looking at her. “Why not?”

  “Too many stories, my lady, of the wailing woman.”

  “The wailing woman?” Excitement coursed through Sam’s veins. A real ghost? One they could actually hear?

  “She can be heard from the turrets at night, some say it’s so loud, it’s hard to believe it’s not a living person.” Betsy must’ve caught sight of Sam’s face, which probably held a fair mix of intrigue and terror. “But not to worry. They say she only carries on in the night. Ghosts don’t usually come ‘round in the daytime, do they?”

  “You would know better than I,” Sam murmured.

  “Come on.” Betsy abandoned her work and headed for the door. “I’ll lead the way.”

  Chapter 6

  “All right, my lady,” Betsy said as they stood at the bottom of quite an ominous staircase, “this is where I leave you.”

  “Are you certain you have to go?” Samantha peered up at the stone stairway, though she couldn’t see too far up, since it curved rather tightly. “Couldn’t you see me to the top?”

  “Sorry, Lady Sam, but I’ve a great deal of work to do before supper. Your gown was terribly wrinkled from the journey.” The little maid began backing away, as if she were afraid Sam would grab her by the hair and force her up the stairs with her.

  Sam looked up at the stairs again, and clutched her book ever closer to her breast. “Fine,” she finally said on a sigh. “But if I’m not back in an hour, you’ll send someone for me, won’t you?”

  “Why wouldn’t you be back?” Poor Betsy looked as if she might soil herself. Her eyes were already the bulgy kind, but just now, Sam worried they were going to roll right out of her head.

  “I’m sure I will,” Sam insisted, “but…just in case, keep an eye on the time, will you?”

  Betsy nodded vigorously. “I promise,” she said, holding one hand to her heart and one in the air, as if she were taking a solemn oath.

  “All right then, be on your way.”

  Sam didn’t have to tell her twice. Betsy darted back the way they’d come, thoroughly spooked, it would seem, at the idea that Sam might not come back from the turrets. What a silly thought. Sam actually laughed aloud at it, as she began her ascent to the top of the castle. It grew darker the further up she went, and she nearly kicked herself with her satin booties for not bringing a candle to light her way. She hadn’t really thought of it, being daylight and all. But she traced her way along the rough, stone wall with her hand, going slowly to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  At long last, she came to a door, heavy and wooden, with a large, rusted handle. Her breaths were coming shorter now, and she wasn’t certain if it was from fear or simply from the exertion of climbing what felt like a thousand stairs. She pressed down on the handle, and the door easily gave way to the outside, flooding the staircase with sunlight and a cool breeze.

  Thank God!

  It wasn’t so frightening now, here at the top of the world, the cold air whipping around her as the sun warmed her face. Oh, how glad she was that she braved that staircase.

  She stopped and looked about. There were four turrets, one at each corner, all connected by long walkways. Sam made her way to the closest one, hoping to have a peek inside, but the door was locked.

  Oh, bother. It was likely they were all shut up, so she abandoned that hope and instead, looked over the edge to the beauty below. The castle gardens seemed to go on forever, a masterpiece of topiaries and climbing roses, pathways and gazebos, and even a rather sizeable hedge maze…it seemed a place for fairies and gnomes to play rather than the rumored ghosts.

  Beyond the gardens, forest surrounded them, but past that, the ocean, bringing with it the salty sea air on the cool breeze. Samantha had trouble believing she’d ever be happier or more content than she was in this very moment.

  “Aaaaaaaaaaah!”

  Sam whirled around, her heart racing, and scanned the lofty walkways for signs of life, for clearly someone was up here with her. That scream…good heavens! As if the person were being tortured in the worst sort of ways.

  There wasn’t anyone, though. At least, no one she could see. But surely such an ear-piercing sound couldn’t have been made by a ghost? A banshee, perhaps, but she’d not heard tales of banshees at Keyvnor.

  “Hello?” she said, but her voice came out a timid squeak that was promptly lost on the wind.

  She shook her head, the humor of it hitting her. As if a ghost would answer her back, anyhow. Or a person in such distress. Upon further thought, she was most certain it was simply the wind whistling through the turrets, or some other such practical explanation. Not that she didn’t believe in the ghosts that wandered the halls of Keyvnor, she just didn’t think they were up here with her.

  The wind died down enough for her to hear the clip-clop of horses down below. She peered over the edge again to see a shiny black carriage coming up the drive.

  “Who on earth?” she murmured to herself, wondering, indeed, who on earth it could be. Practically all her relatives, even the most distant, were here already, though she supposed there might still be a few stragglers. She watched, waiting to see if she could recognize the top of a cousin’s head.

  A moment later, the driver opened the door, and Samantha couldn’t explain why her heart was racing anew. It didn’t make sense at all.

  But then someone stepped out. Someone with golden—brown hair that sat in waves upon his head, and when he tilted his head up, shielding his eyes from the sun, he met Sam’s gaze.

  Sam gasped and then ducked behind the turret, clutching her heart, a thought so surprising it made her gasp all over again:

  Please don’t let him be related to me!

  Chapter 7

  Chad stumbled out of the carriage, overjoyed to be done with this journey. At least for now. A few days’ rest and he’d be on his way home again, but he didn’t want to think about that. He just wanted a bath and brandy and perhaps a few biscuits to settle his stomach. The three Bs, he thought amusedly.

  The wind whipped around him, tossing his too-long hair about. Castle Keyvnor stood before him, proud and imposing—and filled with all sorts of evil spirits, as the legends went.

  He tipped his head up to the turrets, shielding his eyes from the sun and—

  What the devil?

  His gaze met with another, but for the briefest of moments. In fact, it was so quick, Chad almost wondered if it had happened at all. But he couldn’t have imagined that shock of red hair that had disappeared behind the stones so very quickly, could he?

  A smile formed at the corners of his lips. He’d alwa
ys been partial to redheads. They seemed to possess something wild and exotic, even if only in his imagination. Surely there existed somewhere a dull redheaded girl, but he’d yet to meet one. No, they all reminded him of Scottish furies, ready to storm the world with their fiery personalities.

  “Kendall? Is that you?”

  Chad tore his gaze away from the top of the castle to find his old friend, Adam Vail, poking his head out of the carriage just behind his own on the drive, as a young woman made her way toward the house.

  “Vail?” he said, wondering at the man’s presence, and even more curious about the girl who’d just emerged from his carriage. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  “Indeed, I live nearby, and…” He glanced toward the castle, where the young lady had just disappeared. “Well, I’ve still the same sense of duty I had back at Eton.”

  “Though quite a bit more facial hair,” Chad teased.

  Vail nodded, his brow furrowing, his tone turning serious. “Indeed…My brother has passed away.”

  First the earl, now Adam’s brother? These things always happened in threes, which meant it was only a matter of time…

  “My deepest condolences,” Chad managed. “I remember your brother well.”

  “The funeral is tomorrow.”

  It wasn’t the funeral Chad had expected to be attending, but he ought to be there for his friend. “I will be there,” he said.

  Vail held out his hand, and Chad shook it. “Thank you, my friend.”

  As Vail disappeared back into the carriage, a diminutive older man with graying hair and a pair of spectacles upon his nose headed towards him. It didn’t take Chad long to deduce who he was.

  “Mr. Kendall!”

  “Mr. Hunt, I presume?” he said, holding out his hand as the man approached.

  “Indeed. Am I to assume you are here as your father’s proxy?”

  Chad’s heart clenched, but he did his best not to show it. “I am uncertain, actually.”

  They had begun their walk into the castle, but now the man stopped to face him, staring down his long nose at Chad, who stood a few inches below. “I’m not certain I understand.”

  “Of course not,” Chad said. “My father, he is rather…ill. I expect to receive word any day of his passing, in which case, no, I would not be merely a proxy.”

  Hunt’s face softened, clearly no stranger to grief. “My condolences.”

  “Much appreciated. But tell me…have you any idea why my father was called here?”

  Mr. Hunt shook his head. “I am not at liberty to discuss the will, Mr. Kendall.”

  “No, of course not,” he said again, disappointed that he’d not be able to conduct his business and leave as he’d hoped, without having to wait for the reading. “I do hope you will forgive me, but I think I’d like to have a rest before supper.”

  “Of course,” Hunt said, gesturing to the butler. “Morris will see to your every need, and I shall see you at the reading.”

  Chad nodded to Hunt and then greeted the butler, before being whisked away by the housekeeper to his chambers. They walked for what felt like hours down long corridors lined with ancient tapestries and dotted with busts of poets and philosophers, before finally arriving at his room. It was medium in size, not too big and not too small. A fire burned in the grate, thank God, for the rest of the castle was quite frigid. A single window on the far wall let in a bit of light from the outside, though heavy clouds were beginning to move over, eclipsing the sun.

  “This will do just fine, Mrs. Bray,” he said to the older woman. “Thank you very much.”

  “Ring if you need anything, sir. Oh…” She gave him a pointed look, her hand on the door handle, “and mind the spirits.”

  She closed the door before Chad could ask her to clarify. The spirits? Did she mean the kind one drank or the kind that haunted? Peculiar old woman. But other than her, the castle wasn’t unlike any other castle of its age. Drafty, dank, dusty. The three Ds. He laughed at himself for the second time that day. He did so appreciate alliteration. It reminded him of his earlier thoughts of the three Bs. He’d forgotten all about them, but now his stomach growled and his mouth was dry and while he could probably do with a bath, it was the bed that called to him more than anything.

  He rang for a maid, and when she arrived, he ordered his repast. While he waited on her return, he unpacked his things, wishing he had his valet to assist him. But he’d sent Benson to see his family in Kent some time ago, promising to send for him as soon as he needed him again. Sitting at his father’s bedside required very little in the way of formal clothing. He’d be forced back into society again soon, if for no other reason than to find a wife. He knew what was expected of him—he’d need an heir, and with any luck, a spare as well, but just the thought made his stomach clench. What if his wife didn’t make it through childbirth either? Would he blame himself as his father had done? God forbid he actually loved the woman—that had been the worst torture of all, it seemed. She’d been gone for nearly thirty years, and the old man still pined for her.

  Chad took some comfort in the thought that they might be reunited soon, together again, at last. But then where would that leave him? No parents. No siblings. No relations, at least none he knew of. It was possible there were aunts or cousins on his mother’s side, but they’d never made an effort to seek him out, and Father hadn’t spoken of them, either.

  By the time the brandy and biscuits arrived, Chad was feeling awfully melancholy. What a state he’d gotten himself in. But wasn’t that the normal state of someone whose parent was at death’s door?

  He shook his head as he sat down in the high-back upholstered chair and shoved a biscuit down his throat, hoping to shove his reeling emotions down with it. It was warm and flaky and made its way to his belly on a river of fine brandy. But rather than fuel his sleep, the food and drink made him feel quite a bit more awake. He knew if he laid down, his mind would only wander to his father, and he didn’t much care to dwell on that now. He’d said his goodbyes, and he couldn’t leave here until after the reading of the will. There was nothing he could do.

  With a new determination, Chad stood from his chair, brushed the crumbs from his trousers, and donned his jacket once again. Fresh air was the only cure for him now.

  Chapter 8

  Sam had had more than enough of the fresh air, and, more importantly, the odd howling sounds that encircled her up here. It was a windy day, which made it difficult to distinguish if it was the wind rushing through the turrets or something more human. Either way, she’d had enough, and Mother would be checking on her soon to make certain she was napping before the evening. Not that Sam had any intention of napping today. Her blood was pulsing through her veins, whether at the disturbing sounds up here or that man down below, she couldn’t be certain.

  Goodness, how ridiculous she was. What if he was a cousin? It seemed unlikely, really, since she was quite familiar with her family tree, and most everyone was accounted for here at the castle, but still… Why would a non-family member be here, at the reading of the will?

  Of course there were the friends of her cousin Michael that had come along as though it was a house party instead of a will reading, but something told her the man below wasn’t yet another friend.

  Whoever he was, Sam couldn’t help herself from sending a little prayer up that he not be related. Then she shook her head at her foolishness. Even if he wasn’t related, what if he was already married? Or what if he took one look at her and thought, “Eh.” Or what if he was a horrible person who was prone to beating his wife?

  Or what if he was a commoner? Not that it mattered to Samantha, but her parents had higher hopes for her and did not hold back in telling her so.

  Sam gave herself a little smack on her cheek. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you,” she scolded, and then, when yet another howl sounded from one of the turrets, she clutched her journal to her side and set off toward the stairs from whence she’d come
.

  But in spite of her self-flagellation, her heart still raced, and her legs felt as if they’d turned to aspic. She trembled as she raced down the stairs, praying her feet would not miss a step on the treacherous stone staircase. Goodness, she wasn’t usually so easy to scare—that was Cassy’s job, to be terrified for the both of them. Yet she couldn’t seem to talk herself out of feeling so very fright—

  “Oof!”

  She’d gained the bottom of the stairs and ran smack into a wall…or something. She didn’t remember walls being able to talk.

  “Good heavens, are you all right?”

  “Am I…?” She’d fallen backwards and landed with her bum on the next to last step, but other than being slightly stunned, she thought she was in tact. “Yes, I believe I am,” she said, attempting to examine her arms in the dim light.

  “Here, let me help you.” A hand appeared in her vision, and she didn’t hesitate to take it. Whoever it was, they were most likely a cousin, or—

  The whisper of a gasp crossed her lips as she came face to face with him. The man from below. The one with the wavy hair and wry smile who had caught her admiring him from the turrets.

  “So you are real,” he said, his voice almost reverent, and confusing the dickens out of Sam.

  “Was that in question?” she returned, pulling her hand away to pinch herself, just to make certain.

  “No, it’s just…” He peered at her curiously. “Are you certain you’re all right? You’re trembling.”

  Sam couldn’t stop her neck from turning her head toward the staircase. Blasted, traitorous neck. “Fine, really.”

  “What’s up there? Is someone chasing you?”

  There was something fierce in his tone all of a sudden, as if he were ready to march into battle for her. “Who are you?” she blurted out.

  This seemed to take him off guard, his eyes snapping from the staircase to her face. Their eyes locked, and Sam felt something akin to nausea settle in her belly. But not in a bad way, which was rather odd.