by Joan Smith
“Ghosts do not leave the premises,” Merton said. “We have your papa’s word for it.”
“Do you think it might have been Miss Monteith?” Charity asked. She was sorry to let go of her pique so soon, but curiosity once more overcame her and she found it hard to be both angry and curious at the same time.
Merton had no such mixed feelings. He leaped on this idea like a dog on a bone. “She was very annoyed with me when I ordered her out of Mama’s room earlier this evening. When I went to speak to Mama about Papa and Meg, you know.”
“Could the woman have been her, though?” Lewis asked. “She is pretty ancient to be capering about the house at top speed.”
“It seemed like a young woman, which is why I thought Miss Wainwright ...” Intercepting a gimlet stare from Charity, Merton spoke of other things. “Unfortunately, I did not get a look at the face at all. She had a sort of mantle pulled low about it. She—or someone—had drawn my curtains. I saw her by moonlight. It was a frightening moment. I first thought it was the singing nun, but of course a second thought brought me to my senses.” He glanced at Lewis with the dawning of suspicion. Odd he was wearing his shoes and stockings.
“Old Monteith has got one of the servants to play this trick on you, depend on it,” Lewis said. “Either that or it was the nun.”
“I shall question the servants tomorrow,” Merton said.
Lewis said doubtfully, “I should not bother, John. It will only set them to cackling. Best to forget it. Unless it happens again, of course.”
Merton gave him a knowing look. “You will see that it does not happen again, Lewis. I demmed near broke my neck.”
Lewis stared, the picture of innocence. “What, are you suggesting I—”
“Cut bait. You were wide awake and waiting for my reaction. You bore no traces of sleep when you came bucketing downstairs. You ought to have at least mussed your hair and removed your shoes and stockings.”
Glancing at Lewis’s feet, Charity noticed he was fully shod. “So that is why you were absent after dinner, and why you wore that gloating look when you joined me later. Who was the ghost?” she demanded.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about,” Lewis said, trying to look offended.
But when Merton laughed, he said, “Well, you deserved it. And now if you will excuse me, I ought to see that Millie gets home all right. Millie Dawson, old Ned Dawson’s daughter. I set it up with her this afternoon, as she is always ripe for any rig.”
“Such rigs as this could put the pair of you on the gibbet,” Charity said. “If Merton had broken his neck ...”
Lewis rose and headed for the front door to check on Millie Dawson. “You wasn’t supposed to chase her, John. You was supposed to swoon. And you wasn’t supposed to insult Miss Wainwright either,” he added as his parting shot.
“As to that,” Charity said nobly, “Miss Wainwright is becoming accustomed to insults in this house.”
“She was not treated so badly at Radley Hall, I wager,” Merton said.
“No indeed. Nor at Beaulieu either.”
“And now I must cancel our ride tomorrow as well. I fear this ankle will keep me chairbound for a few days.”
“Oh, I knew we would not be riding,” she said. “Papa told me not to pack my riding habit. He always knows.”
“Pity I went to the bother of sending a footman off to London for it.”
“Yes, I told you it was a waste of time, but some people do not listen to good advice. Would you like some assistance upstairs, milord? Shall I call Bagot, or will you require a brace of sturdy foottmen?”
“Just put the wine decanter here beside me, if you will be so kind, and leave me to plot my revenge on Lewis. I shall not further aggravate the Wainwrights by interfering with your papa’s ghost hunting in my chamber.”
“Don’t be foolish. Of course you must go to bed if you are tired.”
“And my ankle aching like the devil, to say nothing of my wrenched neck.” He looked, hoping to see a sign of sympathy. Finding none, he added, “And my wrenched pride.”
“You should have been forewarned, Merton. Did you not realize pride goeth before a fall? Talk about pride, what of mine? You were not ordered to leave the premises.”
He flicked a quizzical grin at her. “I have not heard the last of that, have I?”
“No, sir. Not by a long chalk.”
“I shall have a rout party to repay you for that infamous insult. Will that heal the breach?”
“I am very much inclined to forbid anything of the sort, but Papa told me to bring a special party frock, so there is no point. I shall leave you to your wine and your guilty conscience.” She rose, delivered the wine decanter, and glared. “It is unbecoming behavior for you to smile in that horrid way when you should be feeling guilty,” she scolded.
“I am smiling to think how I shall make it up to you, Charity. No, no. You must not fly into a fresh pelter at my presumption in using your first name. I use it to remind you of your Christian duty. As the Good Book says, ‘Charity suffereth long, and is kind.’”
“Yes, and charity begins at home. I shall have charity on myself and go back to bed. Good night, Merton.”
“Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
“Au contraire. Parting is a distinct pleasure, and I take leave to tell you, sir, you are no Romeo.” On this defiant speech she turned and left.
“I should hope not. Romeo was a young ass,” he called after her retreating figure.
The echo of a chuckle followed her as she went to the staircase. Once she was away from Merton, she allowed herself the luxury of a small, matching chuckle. How he had hated being caught in the wrong, making a fool of himself, and, most of all, apologizing. A few more such blows and his pride might be battered down to size.
Chapter Ten
Despite his lame ankle, Merton was already at the breakfast table the next morning when Charity came downstairs. He and Lewis sat together, harmony restored after Lewis’s prank. She was happy to see that Merton was not the kind of man who bore a grudge. He reached for the walking stick propped by his chair in a token effort of rising to greet her. Charity just smiled her sympathy and motioned him to remain seated. The smudges beneath his dark eyes told her he had not slept much.
“Good morning, Merton,” she said. “You are not looking your usual hardy self. I hope the ankle did not give you too bad a night?”
“Good morning, Charity. I slept well enough once I got to bed—at three o’clock. The singing nun was extremely active in my chamber, according to Mr. Wainwright. But she did not leave it. That was Lewis’s little prank. It seems we had another haunting as well.”
“No!”
“Oh, yes. Or at least Mama is convinced it was a ghost.”
“But you nailed the attic window above her room shut and blocked the holes in the clothespresses.”
“I fancy this ghost came directly from Miss Monteith’s room.”
“It was a white pigeon,” Lewis said, looking up from his plate of gammon and eggs.
Merton swallowed his annoyance at having his story plundered, but continued. “I heard Mama’s shouts of terror as I was finally preparing for bed. I hobbled down the hallway to see what was amiss. When I opened the door, a bird flew into my face. It gave me the shock of my life, I can tell you. No wonder Mama was shrieking. She says it was the soul of Meg, come to haunt her. It is a vicious stunt to terrorize her,” he finished grimly.
“Could the bird have gotten in by an open window during the day and been awakened during the night?” she asked.
“That hardly seems likely. Pigeons are not insomniacs after all. Why should it sleep peacefully while she was in her room and awaken at two-thirty in the morning?”
“Could have drugged it,” Lewis suggested. “Fed it a mouthful of laudanum.”
Charity nodded. “Papa has felt from the first that Miss Monteith should be let go.”
“Easier said than done, unfortunately,” Mert
on replied. “Mama has become attached to her. Something else occurs to me as well. This latest ‘haunting’ happened just after Mama spoke to Penley about giving that five thousand to the charity fund. She had not definitely decided to do it.”
“My five thousand,” Lewis muttered.
“You are suggesting some connivance between St. John and Miss Monteith?” Charity asked.
“Not necessarily. My thinking is that Miss Monteith is after the money for herself. She wishes to convince Mama to give the money to her, not the fund. She is Meg’s sister after all, her closest living relative. A sort of posthumous bequest.”
“Did your mama mention this possibility?”
“No, she was too upset to talk rationally. Miss Monteith gave her a paregoric draft. And suggested that Mama would like to move to another room—now that we have made her own chamber ghost-proof.”
“I see! Do you know which room? We should have a close look at it.”
“No, I shall discover that later today. But enough of this lugubrious talk. I am sorry we must miss our ride, as it is such a fine day. I had been looking forward to it.”
Charity saw no reason why a sore leg need keep them from a drive in his carriage, but Lord Merton did not suggest that alternative.
“I shall manage to amuse myself,” she said. “I shall go to take a look at Meg Monteith’s grave. Shall I take flowers, as you mentioned doing last night?”
Merton had been envisaging a quiet morning with Charity, perhaps in the solarium or sitting in the garden, talking. It was her insouciant mention of doing other things that brought the frown to his brow. Before he could answer her question regarding the flowers, Lewis spoke up.
“I shall show you the grave, Miss Wainwright. And a few other points of interest as well. Did John tell you we have our own hermit? And a grotto and all.”
“A hermit!” Charity exclaimed. “How very odd!”
“Did Radley Hall not have a hermit, ma’am?” Merton inquired satirically.
“No, but they had a lovely chapel.”
“We have a chapel, too,” Lewis boasted. “If you can call it a chapel. It looks like a big barn inside. Cromwell’s lads ripped out all the stained glass and pictures and statues. It is nothing but a bare whitewashed room now.”
“It is considered the best example of its sort in England!” Merton felt obliged to mention. “Most of the others have been semi-restored to their former glory. Ours is perfectly intact, an outstanding example of the period.”
“That is John’s excuse for not restoring it as it used to be,” Lewis explained. “Our stable is fancier than our chapel.”
“We have historical societies touring it on a regular basis, begging me not to tamper with it,” Merton said.
“Truth to tell, we Mertons were never much for religion,” Lewis added, to give the true explanation for the chapel’s Puritan austerity.
Charity said without much enthusiasm, “I should like to see it.”
“Eat up, then, and we shall be off. Pity you cannot come with us, John. Would you like me to haul you to your office before we leave?” Lewis asked.
“I can manage, thank you. I plan to take a book of poetry out to the garden.”
Lewis stared as if looking at a zebra or some other exotic animal at the Exeter Exchange. “Poetry! By Jove, you ought to get that bump on your head looked at. You never read poetry. I shall fetch you the Farmers’ Monthly before I leave. Are you nearly finished, Miss Wainwright?”
“No, I have just begun,” she replied, and continued eating her toast and eggs. “What poetry will you read, Merton?” she inquired. “Do you read the older poets or Byron?”
He hesitated a moment, not wanting to appear stuffy but uncertain as to whether she might find Byron fast.
“John has never bought a book of poems in his life,” Lewis told her. “If he has gone soft in the head in his old age, he is reading ancient stuff from the library. I doubt he has ever heard of Byron.”
“I happen to be a friend and admirer of Byron!” Merton objected. When this failed to impress his guest, he added, “I shall probably have another look at Southey this morning, however.” This brought no reaction from Charity. “What poets do you admire, Charity?” he asked.
“I do not read much poetry,” she said. “I prefer novels. I like something to happen in books I am reading—a story, you know, and not just descriptions of flowers and things.”
“I could not agree with you more,” Lewis said at once, robbing Merton of the opportunity to agree. “But Byron gives you a dandy story as well as the trees and oceans and all. He is keen on oceans. You really ought to give him a try, Miss ... Charity,” he said with a bold look at Merton. That look said, If you can call her Charity, so can I.
“It does not seem like a story when everything rhymes, though, does it?” she said.
Lewis frowned importantly and replied, “There is something in that, by Jove. I have just been thumbing through Fanny Burney’s latest offering.” He hadn’t, but his mama had a copy that he could lend Miss Wainwright if she wanted a novel.
“I love Fanny Burney!” Charity exclaimed. “And Maria Edgeworth and Mrs. Radcliffe.”
“By the living jingo, we are as like as peas in a pod. Let us go to the graveyard.” Charity had now finished her breakfast. She rose, said good-bye to Merton, then they left, chatting about books.
“I shall show you the library later. And this afternoon we shall ...” Merton heard his brother’s voice fade out as Lewis walked off with Charity. She was supposed to be riding with him this morning, stopping by the stream to enjoy the bluebells.
And instead he sat alone, with his demmed ankle throbbing like a bad tooth.
When the footman came to refill his cup, he said, “Send for the sawbones. I want to get this ankle strapped up to allow me to walk. And ride.”
“Yes, milord.”
While Merton suffered the discomfort of having a doctor poke at his swollen ankle, Lewis and Charity went to the family graveyard. It was a perfect spring day, with the sun sending down shafts of light to fur the treetops with gold. The small family plot was hedged in by wild thornbushes, with yews along one side. Wildflowers grew between the ancient gravestones, bringing a touch of life to the place of death. Impressive marble angels and crosses marked the last resting places of the lords of Merton, with lesser stones to mark the graves of younger sons and daughters.
“That is the church,” Lewis said, pointing to a squat gray stone building in the Norman style. “The little half-timbered cottage beside it is the vicarage, where St. John lives. Meg is planted over there,” he added, pointing to the very edge of the burial yard. “She don’t have a monument. There is a little plaque lying flat on the ground. Odd she was buried here at all, but I daresay it is because of her son. I mean to say, if he was Papa’s son, then that might account for it. They are supposed to be buried together, in the one grave.”
They found the simple stone. It read: Margaret Elizabeth Monteith, 1767-1784, and newly born son, Roger. “She was only seventeen when she died,” Charity said softly. “So young, her life hardly begun.”
“To say nothing of Roger,” Lewis added. “There is an odd story about this grave. I had it of Muffal, the poacher. He says there is no kid in the grave.”
Charity frowned. “How would he know? Surely a poacher did not see the open coffin.”
“P’raps he dug up the ground and opened the coffin, but more likely he had the story of whoever put Meg in her box. Anyhow, Muffal told me the tale when I was a lad. I never forgot it.”
“But if that is true, then perhaps Meg never had a child at all.”
“Of course she did. It has having the kid that killed her.”
“Was it?” Charity asked, and stared at him until he grasped her meaning. “Or was it a pretext for murder?”
“Good lord! Are you suggesting Mama had her done away with?”
“I don’t know. I believe I am.”
“Rubbish. John talk
ed to Mama. She told him Meg was big as a barrel. And she could not have stuffed herself with a cushion, for Papa would certainly have known the difference.”
“Not if he had stopped—I mean to say, once your Mama returned from her visit, he probably stopped seeing Meg—privately.”
“Without her shift on, you mean,” Lewis said. “Yes, I see what you are getting at. It was all a trick to con money out of Papa. But they would have had to come up with a kid eventually. I daresay Muffal was talking through his hat, trying to frighten me.”
“Is this poacher still around?”
“Of course he is. I could have a go at him. Daresay he will deny the whole thing, but I remember very well what he told me. A blasphemy, he called it. I half expected a bolt of lightning to rip down from the sky and rend the grave asunder.”
“Where could we find him?”
“In the spinney after dark, but it would be as much as your life is worth to go after him. He would take the noise of our approach for a rabbit and blow our heads—er, feet off.”
“He must be somewhere during the day.”
“He has a little shack down by the stream. I don’t know why John lets him stay, for the fellow lives off our rabbits and pheasants. Mind you, he is an excellent hand at ridding the park of moles, and he got rid of the rats in the cellar at home a while back. Does a bit of rat catching hereabouts.”
“Let us visit him.”
“If you like. I daresay John will ring a peal over me for taking you to meet Muffal. He drinks, you see. His shack is this way. He should not be bottled yet at this hour.”
He led Charity from the graveyard, across a meadow to the stream. “We could have ridden if I’d known we were going this far. I wanted to show you our hermit. He won’t talk to you. He gave it up. Talking, I mean. He lives in a cave. God only knows how he survives.”
“I believe it is the custom for the mistress of the estate to provide the hermit with meals in return for his prayers for the family’s well being,” Charity explained. “He also acts as a sort of religious consultant.”
“A regular take-in,” Lewis said. “We must do his laundry as well. I always wondered how he keeps his robe so clean. He wears white. As to praying, it is St. John who will pray us all into heaven. He lives in Mama’s pocket.”