Haunting Miss Trentwood

by Belinda Kroll

  Haunting Miss Trentwood

  Belinda Kroll

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  PUBLISHED BY: Bright Bird Press

  Columbus, Ohio

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2010 by Binaebi Akah

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means―electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise―without prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed and online reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SMASHWORDS EDITION LICENSE NOTES

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  Published by Bright Bird Press

  Contact: info@brightbirdpress.com

  Other Books by Belinda Kroll

  Catching the Rose

  To my parents, who still make each other laugh after 26 years of marriage

  ***

  PREMISE

  1887 England

  Mary Trentwood is horrified when she watches her father crawl from his grave the day of his funeral. Mistaking the newly-arrived Alexander Hartwell to be her father’s solicitor, Mary welcomes him into her home, not realizing he hunts a blackmailer.

  Why is Trentwood’s ghost determined to make everyone think Mary is insane? Why is Hartwell snooping around Mary’s home rather than looking over Trentwood’s papers? Who is the blackmailer, and what are they doing in Mary’s home?

  ***

  ONE

  Compton Beauchamp (three days ride west of London), February 1887

  At two in the afternoon the coffin of Mary Trentwood’s father was lowered to its grave. The sun shone unseasonably bright. Mary squinted through burning eyes. She heard the wooden box hit the bottom of the hole. She heard the whispers of her servants and father’s friends behind her. However quietly they thought they were speaking, Mary heard every word. The whispers grew louder and moved closer, crowding her ears.

  “Right barmy, that’s what she is.”

  “I heard she hasn’t any feeling at all.”

  “Certainly would explain the lack of tears.”

  “Making us stand here and watch the digging of the grave, it’s indecent, that’s what it is.”

  “Well, I certainly don’t know how you can expect any better from hermits, they’re not fit to be gentry, I say.”

  Mary didn’t know who they were, these people whispering about her as she stood a mere four feet in front of them. She didn’t care. They weren’t there for her, they—whoever they were for she hadn’t invited them, no, that had been the workings of her aunt Mrs. Durham—only cared about their gossip mongering. The local farmers and tenants would never treat her thus. But the funeral guests were certain to spread their hissing rumors across the countryside. Mary hated that unnamed mass of huddled, whispering heads standing behind her. She hated her father for dying, for making this entire ordeal necessary in the first place.

  The vicar finished his sermon and snapped his Bible shut.

  Mary hunched her shoulders as the mourners filed past. She gritted her teeth, but allowed the men to solemnly brush their lips against her gloved fingers. Her jaw all but shattered in her effort to not scream at the women making tut-tutting noises.

  And then Mary was alone, her black netted veil scratching her pale cheek as the wind blew. She stared at that father-sized hole. She stepped closer. How close to the edge did she dare tread? How soon before her nerves, strained to their last, snapped, rendering her as lifeless as her dear father at the bottom of that dark pit?

  Mary jumped when Mrs. Durham’s hand touched her arm.

  Mrs. Durham was a squat woman, with soft features that hinted at great beauty, once. Once upon a time, a very long time ago, Mary figured. Mrs. Durham had been her mother’s twin, fraternally speaking. Mary was glad she didn’t resemble her aunt in the slightest. Mrs. Durham’s cheeks arched upward—reaching, straining, pushing—trying to touch the topmost curve of her eye sockets. Truly an appalling sight; Mary decided her aunt should never squint, if she could help it.

  “Come away,” Mrs. Durham murmured, “let the men folk do their job.” She shifted so Mary’s view of the gravediggers filling the grave was blocked. She began pushing Mary back to the manor house, where a light luncheon waited for them.

  Whatever suggestive power Mrs. Durham had on Mary could not prevent the horrifying vision of a man, muddy and coughing, clawing his way from the grave site. He hung from the edge of the hole into which Trentwood’s coffin had descended, his elbows digging into the dirt as he wriggled his way out.

  Mary stared open-mouthed.

  He was dismayingly flexible, able to swing a leg over the edge and roll onto the disturbed ground. He stood, brushing himself off almost apologetically though no dirt clung to his clothing. He gave Mary time to study his determined chin, firm mouth, and snappish eyes. He combed his sandy hair back from his forehead while clearing his throat, revealing streaks of gray running from temple to crown. The overall effect was chilling familiarity.

  Mary wrenched free of Mrs. Durham. “Father?” she said, her voice hoarse from not speaking the week since his death. “Papa?”

  Mary sat upright, kicking her bed sheets away from sweat-soaked legs. A lock of her dark hair was plastered to her cheek. Her head ached from the bobby pins still shoved into her scalp. She lifted her hand to pull the bobby pins out and noticed she was wearing black crepe sleeves, the same she wore in her nightmare.

  Her hands shook. She hadn’t been dreaming. Mary knew she hadn’t been dreaming. She had buried her father, and he had crawled from his grave right before her eyes.

  Her bedroom door opened to reveal Mrs. Durham with a tray of tea. “Oh good,” Mrs. Durham said with false cheer, “you’re finally awake.”

  “Finally?” Mary said. Her voice was no more than an awkward croak, but it seemed Mrs. Durham understood her.

  “You’ve been sleeping for three days.”

  Mary shook her head. She gasped. Three days? Had it been three days since she had buried her father? Panting, she unbuttoned her dress to her collar bone, unable to inhale with the neck buttoned to her chin. She felt so hot. Why hadn’t anyone undressed her? Right, that’s right, she had dismissed her maid after her father died to alleviate costs.

  Mary shook her head again as Mrs. Durham placed the tea tray on the little table beside her bed. Everything felt fuzzy.

  Mrs. Durham sat in the vanity chair that had been dragged to the bedside while Mary slept. Her black dress rustled sweetly as she moved, the fabric shining in the gray sunlight. “You fainted dead away after the coffin went down.”

  Mary sighed. “Yes, I just—I thought I saw Papa.”

  “But you did, my dear.”

  Mary’s hazel eyes narrowed to slits. “I did?”

  “Well, do forgive my callousness, but I’m not certain who else you think we buried.”

  Mary felt a retort forming, but she held her tongue. She had to remember her aunt had lost her dear husband only four months ago, and was still out of sorts. She took the time to study Mrs. Durham shiny black earrings, the way her hands
folded in her lap, the perfection of her graying hair pulled into a tight chignon topped with white lace.

  Do I tell her? Do I admit I saw Father crawl from his grave? No, Mrs. Durham was not one for believing such “folderol” as she called it when Mary confided her nightmares or shared folklore and haunting stories with the servants.

  Mary looked at the bedroom door, not hearing the raucous laughter of the funeral guests. “Where is everyone?” Mary asked instead, accepting a lukewarm cup of tea.

  “Ah, I sent them home. Well,” Mrs. Durham chuckled, “they left fairly quickly on their own. They were quite startled when you announced you wanted everyone to follow the coffin to its grave. What in the world made you do such a thing? It simply isn’t done.”

  No, it wasn’t done, but then, there were a great many things that Mary had done to satisfy Society, and she had decided that Society, in turn, could grant her this one aberration. Mary swallowed the last of the tea and placed the cup on the tray. “I’m rather tired.”

  Mrs. Durham frowned, hearing the finality in Mary’s tone. “Of course,” she replied, standing. “I trust you will send for me should you need me?” At Mary’s silent nod, she took her leave, looking none too pleased.

  As soon as the door was shut, Mary threw her hands to her face. “I did not see my father’s ghost.” She shivered despite being drenched with sweat. “I must be mad.”

  “A bit dramatic, I suppose, but mad? Would I allow you to run my household if you were mad?”

  Mary screamed. She grabbed her skirts and scrambled atop her headboard.

  At the foot of her bed stood her father. At least, she thought it was her father. It certainly looked just like him. Trentwood stood as he always had when lecturing her, hands clasped behind his back with a stern look on his face. “So you didn’t see me, eh?”

  ***

  TWO

  It had been a year since the candle-lit chandeliers had bounced overhead the strenuous motions of the dancers. The ballroom had smelled of perfume and body odor, and the air was littered with conversation, music, and laughter. Mary had stumbled from the dance floor laughing, her hand resting on the arm of her dance partner. He had taken her to her father, who had watched sternly as they approached.

  “Father, I’d like you to meet Mr. Steele,” she had said, motioning to the towheaded man bowing beside her. She had been panting a little from the dance, which explained the flush in her cheeks and brightness in her eyes.

  “A pleasure, sir,” Steele had said, his voice faltering a little, betraying his nerves. He had watched Trentwood as they had approached, and somehow knew he had been found lacking. He shared a small, tight smile with Mary.

  It had been the way Trentwood’s lip had quirked to the side ever so slightly that had worried Mary.

  She had looked at Steele, trying to see what she suspected Trentwood saw: a young dandy determined to engage his daughter in nefarious acts.

  Steele had taken great care with his appearance. His shoes had shone in the gaslight, his pants hadn’t a wrinkle, and though he had been far too young, not even thirty, he had tucked a quizzing glass surreptitiously in his waistcoat pocket. Still, there had been much in him to like, such as his carriage: broad-shouldered and standing tall. He had not been afraid of Trentwood like the other gentlemen she had brought her father’s way, merely respectful.

  “You’ve danced with my daughter twice now,” Trentwood had said. He had crossed his arms over his broad chest. “There will not be a third.”

  Mary had pressed her lips together, praying to her dearly deceased mother for patience. “Come now, Father, give him some credit. He wouldn’t dare, not without your permission.”

  Steele had shaken his head vigorously. “Indeed, sir, I have brought her to you with the hopes I might call upon you at a favorable time tomorrow.” He had squeezed Mary’s hand resting on his arm.

  “You may not,” Trentwood had replied. “Mary, get your things, we’re leaving.”

  Mary had sent an anguished look Steele’s way, but had taken her father’s arm. She had followed his lead to the door and had accepted her wrap without a word. She had waited for the proper moment to say something, anything, which would have changed her father’s mind.

  It wasn’t until they had been alone in the carriage, bumping along the road in tense silence, that she had gathered the courage to say, “I don’t understand.”

  “What?” Trentwood had snapped.

  “I don’t understand why you didn’t like him.”

  Rather than responding, Trentwood had yanked the window sash so the cool winter air had access to charge into the little carriage. With the window open, Mary had heard hoof beats charging down the dirt road, taking her farther away from Steele. She had felt pressure rising up through her chest and into her throat. Her eyes had begun to burn.

  “I liked him.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Trentwood had said, eyes not meeting her begging expression. “He turned your head with pretty words and fancy footwork. If I allowed him to pay a call you’d be sorely disappointed.” He had looked at her then, his expression somber. “You’ll thank me, one day.”

  A brisk wind had whistled through the crack in the window sash on the opposite side of the carriage. Mary had shuddered, hugging herself. “We’ll catch our death of cold.”

  The next morning, Mary had entered the dining room with sunken cheeks and bags beneath her eyes, hinting at how the remainder of her night had fared. She had pulled a couple of rashers, a roasted tomato, and a slice of toast onto her plate from the breakfast buffet to accompany her strong tea. She had sat at the table and ate because it was habit, not because she was hungry.

  I am in love with him, Mary had thought with dull surprise. I am in love with Mr. Steele.

  Mary had not been able to understand just what Trentwood disliked about Steele. Steele had been eligible, able to provide for her, and he had been interested. What more did a father want for his daughter? Furthermore, Steele had been her last chance; she had been certain of that.

  One simply did not receive many interested suitors by the time one turned twenty-six, that was the way of the world. Mary had been resigned to a future of tending her father’s house, until Steele came along with his smiles.

  A rattling cough had startled Mary from her reverie. She had looked up to find a haggard Trentwood shuffling into the dining room, his eyes bloodshot. He had, it seemed, refused aid from his valet for his hair hadn’t been combed, and he still wore his evening finery beneath his dressing robe.

  “Did you sleep at all?” Mary had ventured to ask, watching him shovel food on his plate.

  “Damned cough,” he had rasped, “kept me up all night.” He had dropped his plate to the table, accepted a strong cup of coffee from the silent servant, and rested his forehead in his hands.

  Alarm spread, chasing away the dull surprise of Mary’s feelings for Steele and the memory of her own haggard night. Trentwood had taken a chill last night, just as she had feared, and was ill, far more ill than he was letting on. She had shoved away from the table and waved the servant away impatiently. She had circled the table to stand beside Trentwood. After a moment’s hesitation, she had pulled his hand from his forehead and replaced it with her own. She had gasped, snatching her hand from his burning skin.

  “Send for a doctor,” she had snapped at the servant. “My father has a severe fever.”

  “Utter nonsense,” Trentwood had muttered.

  “Father, I’m taking you to your room. You need rest.”

  “Not until I’ve had my bacon.”

  Mary had slapped the fork out of Trentwood’s hand. “Bacon! You can hardly lift the fork to your mouth and you’re worried about your bacon?” She had tugged at his arm, shocked by how heavy it felt. “Come, you are going back to bed.”

  Trentwood had tilted his head when he looked at her, his expression slack but his eyes bright with fever. “Gertrude?”

  Tears had sprung to Mary’s eyes. “No, I’
m Mary. Your daughter.” She had stooped so she could drag his arm around her shoulders to help him from the table. She had managed to get him to the doorway before she had to stop, hardly able to breathe due to her rising panic.

  Thankfully, Pomeroy, her father’s valet, had appeared at her elbow and taken Trentwood from her. “The apothecary is on his way, Miss.”

  Mary had sighed. When her mother was alive, they had been able to afford a surgeon. What a disgrace to be relegated to the local apothecary.

  The apothecary had arrived to bleed Trentwood and alternate bathing him in wet cloths while piling blankets high atop him to break the fever. Trentwood had recovered after a week, but never quite fully. He had never managed to regain that solid dependability Mary had assumed was inherent to her father. He had come to rely on her for most everything from the moment he woke fever-free.

  Mary had not recognized this man, this man with the body of her father. Most nights, she had cried herself to sleep, unsure whom she mourned more, the loss of Steele or Trentwood.

  She had shouldered the burden of being master and mistress of the manor to distract herself. She had balanced the ledgers, addressed the farmers’ complaints, and continued managing the servants and general household management that had been her original duties.

  Trentwood, meanwhile, had refused to eat unless she fed him. He had refused to sleep unless she read to him.

  Yet even with all these distractions, it had never been quite enough to fill the ever-widening hole in her heart.

  A year later, Trentwood had died in his sleep, holding the miniature of Mary’s mother, Gertrude. Mary had relied on her aunt Mrs. Durham for the funerary details, knowing she would be unable to face her father’s burial, and resurrection, alone.