“My lord, we have been looking forward to your visit with much anticipation,” Miss Penrod said, glancing up from some sort of needlework. Her words were kind enough even though Christian knew she couldn’t possibly be speaking for anyone else, considering the pall that had settled over the group. The colonel actually snorted in disagreement.
Miss Penrod looked up at him over the top of her spectacles. “Now, Horace, you have to admit that something must be done.”
The colonel snorted again. “Stuff and nonsense!” he muttered, a scowl evident beneath his thick white mustaches.
Christian sent him a look of polite inquiry.
“You are wasting your time here, my lord,” the colonel boomed.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Christian said with a sidelong glance at his hostess. Her eyes widened, and he wondered what color they were. The dim light made it impossible to tell, but he felt a nagging urge to discover for himself.
“You certainly won’t find things here as you did at Belles Corners,” Emery put in, in a churlish tone.
“Ah, my reputation precedes me,” Christian said, without moving his gaze from Miss Parkinson. Unlike any other female, she did not seem at all flattered by his scrutiny. In fact, she frowned. Christian grinned.
“Ah, such an interesting case at Belles Corners! You must be commended,” Miss Penrod said. “But, what Emery means is that our specter is an authentic one. In fact, he is one of our very own, an ancestor, Sir Berold Boundefort,” she noted with apparent pride.
“And I can’t imagine him taking kindly to outside interference,” Emery said.
Was that a threat? Christian eyed the callow youth more closely. “Ah, and you are on such intimate terms with the shade that you know his very thoughts? Or perhaps he has conversed with you on the subject?”
Emery flushed and stammered a denial.
“I think what Emery is saying is that some members of the family feel the ghost has a right to haunt the premises and that we should not attempt its ouster,” Miss Parkinson said. Obviously she did not share that opinion, for her governess disapproval was evident despite her even tone.
Christian smiled slightly. “On the contrary, I imagine Sir Boundefort would enjoy a challenge. Dreary business being a specter, I should think.”
The colonel laughed, a startlingly loud sound in the quiet of the dim room. “Well, if anyone can set the business to rights, I expect it shall be you, my lord,” he said. “Though I hate to see you kick your heels here for nothing.”
“Oh, I’m sure Lord Moreland has nothing else pressing him for his time,” Miss Parkinson noted, in a rather acerbic aside, and Christian turned toward her in surprise. Really, the woman was presumptuous, especially since he was long past the days of answering to a governess’s scrutiny. Abruptly he felt the need to prove both his age and gender to her.
“Well, it was good of you to come. No matter what Abigail might think, I know you young bucks have more to do than poke into dusty corners,” the colonel said, smacking Christian on the back. He dipped his head close. “Ladies, you know. Have to humor them.”
“Dinner is served,” Miss Parkinson said with a dubious smile. Clearly she had overheard the colonel’s remark, and Christian’s lips quirked in reply. He couldn’t imagine anyone humoring his hostess. He was tempted to try, though. Just for the sake of a challenge, of course.
In keeping with the general mood of Sibel Hall, the meal was a rather dreary affair, the food plain and none too plentiful, and the conversation stultifying. The colonel appeared to eat a prodigious amount, while Emery pushed his small portions around on his plate, still apparently sulking. Christian couldn’t decide if his manner simply reflected an insecure youth’s wariness of an outsider or something more sinister.
Or maybe the colonel’s booming voice put him off his food. Somehow, the old fellow managed to do most of the talking as well as most of the eating, telling long tales of his military career that nearly set Christian to nodding off. The stories had nothing to do with Sibel Hall, its inhabitants, or the alleged specter, and Christian wondered if that was the man’s intention—to distract him from the matter at hand.
Finally, when the colonel had just taken a huge bite of some sort of fowl in a nondescript sauce, Christian cut in. It was time to get down to business. “Please, tell me about the ghost,” he urged the table in general.
From the colonel’s response, he might as well have called for high treason. The old fellow looked like he was going to choke, and Christian considered slapping him on the back. Emery made some indistinct sound of contempt, whether directed at the subject or at the colonel Christian wasn’t sure, while the colonel swallowed hastily.
“Well, that’s the thing, my lord,” he said, without spewing too much of his food. “Don’t like to discuss it. Upsets the ladies,” he added in that loud undertone of his, as though the women were deaf or absent.
Miss Parkinson was neither, and Christian prepared him self for the anticipated setdown. But before the Governess could bang the old man’s knuckles, either figuratively or literally, Miss Penrod spoke.
“Nonsense, Colonel. I, for one, am quite fascinated with our most famous ancestor.” She turned to Christian. “Sir Boundefort was a pious man who took up the cross to fight in the last Crusade and returned to establish this family. Indeed, he—”
Emery cut in, rather curtly. “Most of what we know is just hearsay. I’ve been unable to verify any details.”
“Emery is our resident scholar,” Miss Penrod explained. “He has been doing his best to research the history of the family.”
Emery scowled, as if his duty were a necessary but painful one. Or perhaps he was simply bilious from the indigestible meal.
“And have you discovered just why he has taken to haunting the place?” Christian asked.
Unfortunately, scholarly Emery chose that moment to study his food, but Miss Parkinson stepped into the breach, much to Christian’s delight. “The theory is that he is against the sale of Sibel Hall,” she said.
“Has he said as much?” Christian asked.
“Of course not. He doesn’t speak,” Miss Parkinson replied, adopting her disapproving tone.
“How do you know? Have you tried to converse with him?” Christian asked.
That appeared to fluster her. “Certainly not! I’ve never even seen him.”
“I have! And I tried to communicate with him, but he only moaned and waved his arms, as if in distress,” Miss Penrod said.
“I see,” Christian said, steepling his hands together. As Miss Penrod was hardly what he would call a reliable witness, he wondered just who else had viewed the apparition.
“Emery has seen him, too,” the colonel boomed out in answer to his silent query. Now why hadn’t he guessed that?
Christian glanced toward the young man, who stammered and sputtered. “I thought I saw him. It may only have been a trick of the light,” Emery protested.
“But you were quite sure before,” the colonel argued loudly. “Said he held up his hand in warning.”
“I saw something. I’m not certain what it was,” Emery snapped.
“Perhaps the solicitor and the two gentlemen interested in purchasing the manor can provide you with further descriptions, for they both saw the specter,” Miss Parkinson said.
“Chased them out of the place, I daresay!” the colonel exclaimed, chuckling heartily.
“I must admit that he seems to be rather selective as to when he shows himself and to whom,” Miss Parkinson noted, looking none too pleased at the observation. Perhaps, as hostess, she was feeling left out.
“And just where does he appear when he deigns to do so?” Christian asked.
“Oh, he’s choosy in that regard as well,” Miss Penrod said, with the enthusiasm she seemed to display in all matters ghostly. She dropped her voice dramatically. “I cannot say for certain, but I suspect that he is confined to his earthly domain.”
“And where might that be?” Christian a
sked. Despite his better judgment, he was becoming fascinated.
“Why, in the great hall, of course,” Miss Penrod answered. “These rooms you see around you were all added later on to the original structure, which Sir Boundefort built himself.”
Christian tried to express the appropriate awe at that announcement without revealing any of his contempt for the structure itself. Turning toward his hostess, he asked, “Might I have a look?”
“Certainly,” she said, pushing back her chair with her usual authority. Unfortunately, everyone else rose, too, even the colonel, who was still chewing. Snatching up a last date from a nearby bowl, he hurried to keep up with the rest of them, while Christian swallowed his disappointment.
Compared to the great houses of the nobility, Sibel Hall wasn’t large, but it was a decent size, and as Miss Parkinson led him through a series of rooms, Christian realized that the original core was much older than he had suspected. He reached out to touch a painted wall, faded and dusty, but in truth he was far more interested in the pair of hips ahead of him, swaying in an almost imperceptible rhythm. Almost. Luckily, he was a very perceptive sort.
Now, if only he weren’t surrounded by the cousins, a thundering herd certain to ruin a mood, as well as scare off any respectable ghost. Behind him Mercia was chattering away happily about her own encounters with the specter, while the colonel was loudly expressing his reservations, and Emery was shuffling along wearing a mutinous expression. Suddenly Christian was seized by a devilish urge to turn around and yell bloody murder. Just for his own amusement, of course, certainly not to get rid of them so he might be alone with the Governess.
The great hall was not that vast, but it was big enough to be cold and drafty and dark—the perfect spot for a haunting. “I’m told this is where he appeared to the first interested buyer and the solicitor, who refuses now to return. The second man was being shown about by Cousin Mercia,” Miss Parkinson said.
“Oh, yes, this is his place,” Mercia said, in hushed tones, just as though she were communing with the spirit as she spoke. Christian glanced about. Although the hall itself might be original, over the years someone had made improvements. The old hearth had been abandoned and a large fireplace installed along the exterior wall. A heavy wooden screen at one end probably concealed the old kitchens, which must have been turned to new use or abandoned.
As if following his gaze, Miss Parkinson said, “That’s the spot.” Christian felt unaccountably delighted that she was watching him, but tried to assume a serious pose as he perused the area. He thought the “spot” rather conveniently located near the edge of the screen and wondered if that was deliberate, so that the ghost might hide behind it when not making an appearance.
Christian stepped closer, but he saw nothing except gaping blackness behind the open-worked wood. He felt no chills beyond the drafts inherent in old stone spaces and heard nothing above the booming voice of the colonel, who was commenting volubly and loudly enough to frighten anyone, human or not.
“Yes, this old place probably housed a few knights in its day!” the former military man was saying. “Our ancestors may have fought with different weapons, but some of their tactics are still used today, I’ll warrant. Can’t say that I see any of the departed fellows here, though.”
“Perhaps Sir Boundefort doesn’t care for a crowd,” Christian remarked dryly.
“Nonsense!” the colonel blustered. “A specter that’s afraid of people? Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing!” He paused, his mustaches swaying, then swung his gaze toward Christian as if struck by doubts. “Have you?”
Christian shrugged. He wasn’t about to admit that he knew nothing whatsoever about hauntings, outside of the counterfeit one at Belles Corners.
“Still, perhaps we should leave Lord Moreland here to do, uh, whatever he has planned,” Miss Parkinson suggested.
Christian was amenable to that notion, as long as she stayed behind as well. Solely as a witness, of course. As for his plans…
Emery sniffed, apparently disgusted by the very idea that any proper ancestral shade could prefer a stranger’s company to that of one of its heirs. “I’m going to study in my room,” he announced, turning on his heel.
You do that, Christian thought. He half expected the so-called scholar to return draped in bed linen and couldn’t decide if the pleasure he would get from trouncing the boy would compensate for the abrupt end of his little adventure if he did so. Suddenly he wasn’t sure he was ready to unveil the ghost just yet and thus cut short his visit with the intriguing Miss Parkinson.
“Well, you just shout if you need any help, my lord,” the colonel said. He looked about the room rather apprehensively for someone who didn’t countenance ghosts.
“Oh, I don’t believe Sir Boundefort would actually harm anyone, do you?” Cousin Mercia asked. “I think he’s just protecting his home.”
“Or warning against interlopers,” Emery muttered over his shoulder.
A rather startled silence followed the young man’s remark, broken only by his retreating footsteps, until the colonel coughed out a nervous-sounding laugh. Christian wasn’t certain whether the ghost or Emery himself was making the old gentleman wary, but he was inclined to dismiss both.
“Well, I daresay Lord Moreland shall get to the bottom of it all, eh?” the colonel said, now obviously eager to be gone. Cousin Mercia nodded pleasantly in agreement. The Governess, Christian noted, gave no response. She was self-contained, that one. Perhaps that was what drove his curiosity. It certainly wasn’t her scintillating conversation.
“Let us go so that he can get to work, then,” the colonel said. Waving jauntily, he took Cousin Mercia with him, leaving Christian, much to his delight, alone with his hostess—and any phantoms, of course.
Christian’s pleasure was short-lived, however, as Miss Parkinson soon turned to depart as well. “I shall leave you to your task, my lord, with my thanks,” she added, a bit grudgingly, in Christian’s opinion.
His lips quirked as he thought of several witty replies. Instead he found himself saying only, “Stay,” softly, and with more feeling than he intended.
His hostess, already moving away from him, stopped to stare back at him, wide-eyed. “What?”
Christian regrouped quickly. “I thought you would want to remain here and see things for yourself,” he said, stepping toward her.
Miss Parkinson’s startled expression vanished, replaced by one of dismissal. Why did he get the impression that she disapproved of everything he said?
“Well, you could at least keep me company,” Christian complained. He wondered, with no little amazement, whether he was actually whining. And for what? The society of a governess? His brain must be addled. He took a deep breath but only felt dizzier as he inhaled the scent of lilacs. Lush and heavy and full of promise.
“I hardly see how that will aid your… efforts,” Miss Parkinson said, sounding as if she didn’t believe he was going to do anything at all. Well, he wasn’t, Christian admitted. But only to himself.
“You could assist me,” he suggested.
“How?” Miss Parkinson asked, lifting delicate brows that did not look at all governess-like.
That was a good question. Christian glanced about, but there was still no sign of the ghost. His gaze was drawn to the blackness beyond the heavy wooden screen. “I’d like to look around, but I’ll need a lamp or lantern.”
“I’ll have one sent back to you,” Miss Parkinson said. Glossing over the whole assistance business, she appeared as eager to leave as the old colonel was, but for entirely different reasons. Didn’t she want his company? How exceptional, Christian marveled.
It was time to take off the gloves. Fixing her with a direct gaze, Christian asked, “Are you afraid of the ghost, Miss Parkinson?”
She drew herself up stiffly. “Certainly not!” she snapped. “However, you’ll forgive me if I decline to remain here with you, unchaperoned, when you made it quite clear that you did not want to be pu
t into any compromising situations. Good night, my lord!”
With that she turned on her heel, leaving Christian to rub his chin ruefully. It seemed that Miss Parkinson already knew how to take off the gloves. With amused respect, he watched her go, ignoring the slight pang that struck him as the scent of lilacs faded from the air.
And then he was alone. Christian almost called her back, before coming to his senses. What the devil was the matter with him, beyond some bizarre obsession with spring flowers? He shook his head. It certainly wasn’t the hall that disturbed him, for he harbored no fear of the dark or the unknown. Indeed, when his hostess’s footsteps had ceased echoing upon the old tiles, Christian turned toward the site of the haunting and stared, more perplexed than anything else. He was rather at a loss.
At Belles Corners, the ghostly happenings had been linked to a bed, where knockings and banging had erupted with great force and frequency, disturbing the tenants of the house, reportedly because of some past grudge. Christian had simply examined the furniture more thoroughly than any of the other enthralled witnesses had and pried open a side of it to reveal a boy in midknock. The young member of the household claimed he had been urged on by his elders, who, unable to afford their lodgings any longer, had come across the unique idea of charging admittance to the haunted room.
And that, as his grandfather liked to say, was that. Christian’s entire experience with the supernatural boiled down to less than an hour with a hoax. Now he had the distinct suspicion he would be adding greatly to that span of time. Very greatly, considering the fact that so far he hadn’t seen a thing. With a sigh, he began a slow study down the length of the hall, pausing to admire the old curved timber construction of the roof, then peering into corners and behind moldering tapestries.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he called out whimsically at one point, echoing the childhood game. But Sir Boundefort remained stubbornly unavailable even as the hall settled into darkness. The wide-eyed maid finally arrived with a lantern in each hand, visibly trembling as she delivered her burden, then removed herself from the place as quickly as humanly possible, leaving Christian alone once more in the silence.
A Man Of Many Talents Page 3