Haunting Miss Trentwood

by Belinda Kroll

  In any case, Hartwell, having had the misfortune of having to stand through too many rain showers, saw no reason to stand through this one. He threw the woolen blanket over his head and shoulders before dashing to Mary’s side. He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her inside the doorway of the tomb.

  “For someone who seems quite averse to the idea of tombs, you’re rather ready to jump into one,” Mary said. She pulled away from Hartwell to crouch as close to the doorway as possible.

  There was hardly room for standing in the little cave-like structure, and it smelled of mildew. Better that than decomposing bodies, Hartwell thought darkly. He stooped, his shoulders scraping the top sarsen stone. He shuddered to know what his coat would look like after this unforeseen romp.

  There was a bed of rotting leaves beneath their feet, adding to the sickly sweet smells assaulting Hartwell. A gust of wind threw a sheet of rain into the tomb, and Hartwell backed away from the opening. Mary, however, remained where she stood.

  Hartwell clamped his jaw. “Would you rather stand in the rain and catch your death of cold than stand beside me?”

  Mary gave him a steely glare. “I will die eventually, Mr. Hartwell, but it won’t be from catching cold, not if I can help it.”

  Hartwell resisted the urge to scratch his head, puzzled as to why he felt he had royally put his foot far into his mouth. Maybe it was the way Mary’s shoulders were hunched. Or the way she was inching as close to the door as possible, and therefore as far away from him as she could get without venturing into the rain. Or maybe it was the way she had said, “Not if I can help it.”

  He still couldn’t see her face very well, what with the veil firmly in place. But then, he didn’t need to see her face to talk to her.

  “Miss Trentwood, I feel we’ve started on the wrong foot.”

  “To say the least,” she replied.

  She had no reason to be so terse with him, she could have no idea why he was in town. As he mulled over her reactions, he realized he was still holding the blanket over his head.

  Mary looked very little standing there, rocking back and forth ever so slightly, shivering as she hugged herself. It must be her mourning weeds that made her so small—she looked nearly his height, and he was tall by anyone’s measure. Ashamed by his callous behavior, Hartwell stepped close enough to wrap the blanket around Mary’s shoulders gingerly. She stiffened, but when he stepped away, she relaxed. Marginally.

  “Well, we won’t be going anywhere anytime soon,” Mary said. “Why don’t we share the blanket and you can tell me why you destroyed my mother’s bell pull, frightened my aunt so that she locked herself in her bedroom, and dragged me into this tomb.”

  Mary looked at him then, her hazel eyes transfixing him. “Whatever it is, it must be very important.”

  Hartwell coughed. In all his thirty-five years, he had never been as uncomfortable as this moment. He couldn’t tell her the real reason. For all he knew, she was part of the plot.

  No, he wouldn’t tell her the truth, but some approximation of it. Something close enough to the truth that he could remember the details, as he had always been, and probably would continue to be, an awful liar.

  “My sister was schoolmates with your aunt, Mrs. Durham,” he began.

  “What?”

  Hartwell repeated himself, unsure why Mary frowned so.

  “Then you’re not my father’s solicitor? Or related to him in any way?” Mary asked, her voice flat.

  Hartwell’s responding frown wavered, then exploded into an understanding smile that threatened to become a laugh. Hartwell liked to think her voice was flat with embarrassment and a sort of sheepish dismay.

  “You thought I was a solicitor?” At Mary’s nod he did laugh, a little. “No wonder you ran away.”

  “I didn’t run away, I went for a walk.”

  “A walk to a tomb.”

  “It’s my favorite spot. No one bothers me here, usually.”

  Hartwell didn’t mistake her meaning. “I’ve come, Miss Trentwood, at the behest of my sister. She heard of your sorrows, from your aunt, I assume.”

  Mary stood very still, her neck craned to see him. It was obvious she hadn’t noticed his scar yet. She still considered him an annoyance rather than someone to be feared. He had every intention to use this to his advantage, and made sure to stay shadowed as long as possible.

  Mary shifted, pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders. “And what does your sister intend for you to do, Mr. Hartwell?”

  “My sister has asked me to help in any way I can, being such friends with your aunt. Perhaps,” he said, hesitating slightly, “when the real solicitor’s representative arrives I can be of service?”

  “So you are familiar with solicitors, then?”

  “Oh yes, my father was one.”

  “That only makes you familiar with the person. What does that mean in terms of a solicitor’s business? I thank you, but no.”

  Hartwell inhaled, not expecting such a blast of sharp logic thrown at him. He fought the urge to study her expressions and guess her responses before she had the chance to make them. She was the trial, he realized, that Frank Brown had warned him about. Not the death in the family, not the unwillingness of Mrs. Durham, but Mary Trentwood.

  She had a logic that rivaled many of his schoolmates. That rare sort of common sense that cut to the point and left casualties in its wake.

  “I am often in the company of solicitors, Miss Trentwood,” he began.

  “Do you often require their services?”

  “Yes,” Hartwell snapped, “I do. I’m a barrister, Miss Trentwood. It is my profession to require the services of solicitors.”

  Mary was quiet far too long for Hartwell’s liking. She seemed to be looking behind him, listening intently to something he couldn’t discern. Her expression seemed to go slack for a moment, and then tightened as though she had just heard most unpleasant news. When she spoke, finally, Hartwell jumped, bashing his head into the stone ceiling.

  “Well,” Mary said, pausing for him to shake away the stars from his eyes. “First, you better sit down in case you’ve hurt yourself.” She scooted to the side ruefully, giving him room to plop beside her.

  Hartwell hesitated. She had given him space to sit to her right, which would have put his scar in view. For whatever reason, he wanted to postpone the unveiling; he was, he found with great amusement, enjoying her odd manner of speaking. He didn’t want to discourage this frank dialogue by startling her. He sidled to her left and waited for her to shift positions to afford him a space to sit. She did so with her brow wrinkled in confusion.

  “Second,” she continued, the way a prodded child might, “you might as well stay for dinner, since you’ve come all this way.”

  Still rubbing his head, Hartwell said, “Thank you. What’s the third item?” It sounded as if Mary wasn’t quite finished.

  “Third, I don’t believe your story about your sister, and I don’t like you, but we’ll have to see what my aunt says, given her supposed history with your family.” She glanced at him with a very slight curl in her lip. If Hartwell hadn’t been looking, he might have missed it altogether. “Pomeroy saw something in you, though I’m not sure what, so I’ll have to give you a chance, I suppose.”

  Hartwell’s mouth dropped open. What a pert mouth on this one! Had it been anyone else, he might have given them the benefit of the doubt and excuse her manners for grief or shock. But the words and tone came too easily—this was how she was, he suspected dourly.

  “Technically,” he said, keeping his tone light, “wouldn’t those be items three, four, and five? You had conjunctions in there.”

  Mary narrowed her eyes at him.

  “Oh look,” she said, “the rain is letting up. Do let us return and show Pomeroy he doesn’t get to hurt you.”

  “Oh yes, let’s,” Hartwell said sarcastically.

  ***

  SEVEN

  Mary shoved her hands beneath her dolman, claspin
g them tightly together. She walked smartly ahead of Hartwell.

  It wouldn’t do if they arrived together, despite Pomeroy’s questionable trust in Hartwell’s honor, just in case one of the locals saw.

  It was better, really, if he walked a few paces behind her. He was carrying that blanket, after all, and so anyone looking would see a familiar sight: Miss Trentwood walking with her footman.

  Mary had been decidedly more pleased with this impromptu plan than Hartwell. Being relegated to a footman was not something Hartwell relished. But when Mary had explained her logic, he had been unable to find fault with it.

  Which was probably why he was so annoyed.

  Mary glanced behind her when she caught the sound of Hartwell muttering to himself. “Everything all right, Mr. Hartwell?”

  His face was shadowed by the rolled brim of his derby hat. “Would you like me to answer honestly, or politely?”

  The edge of Mary’s mouth trembled in the direction of a smile. “Polite would suffice.”

  “This is a most charming walk, Miss Trentwood.” He sounded so very maudlin that Mary couldn’t help but break into a smile.

  “Dare I ask what the honest answer would have been?”

  Hartwell shifted the heavy blanket to his other arm with a slightly exasperated huff. “This isn’t exactly what I thought I’d be doing when I left London this morning.”

  Mary stopped and waited for him to approach her, noting that he pulled his hat down low over his eyes so she couldn’t see his face. There was something off about the man, something he didn’t want her to see. It made her want to slap the hat off his head. “What did you expect you would be doing?”

  She watched him watch her from the safety of the shadows beneath his hat. She knew what he would see. A tall woman with changing eyes, long features, and limbs all-akimbo. A female creature with a sort of awkward, lanky grace. An exasperated daughter with a father who wouldn’t stay dead.

  Well, Mary doubted Hartwell thought that last point. But the others, she was fairly certain he thought them. She had heard it often enough from her aunt to see the truth of the matter: she wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t even very pretty. Which had never bothered her until now, until this particular man who seemed to always carry laughter behind his voice even when annoyed, wouldn’t look her in the eye.

  “To be honest,” he said after a length, “I hadn’t entirely thought it all the way through.”

  Mary’s brows jumped. And there went his opportunity to redeem himself. She spun on her heel and continued her march back to the manor house, muttering to herself. Hartwell followed her after a moment, also muttering to himself.

  Hartwell trudged behind Mary wondering why he had agreed to dinner when all he really wanted was to be on the train back to London and sanity.

  The simple answer would be to meet Mrs. Durham. The slightly more complex answer was that for some reason, Miss Mary Trentwood was an interesting little duck, and Hartwell’s curiosity hadn’t been piqued like this in quite some time. It was rare that anyone disliked him, and even rarer for anyone to dislike him in the span of half an hour and to say so to his face. He should have felt insulted. And maybe he did, a little.

  The pervading emotion, however, was a perverse sort of excitement. Here stood a challenging woman with wit, common sense, and the boldness to use those features to her sometime-best-interest. And she wasn’t that bad looking, either.

  In fact, when she had pulled the veil from her face and the sun had hit her eyes just right, he couldn’t help but let his gaze drop down to her frowning mouth. She had a very nice mouth, in spite of the daggers it threw in the form of words. Her mouth had a natural curve, a sort of subtle plumpness.

  Hartwell watched Mary trip over a tree root and steady herself immediately, her shoulders rigid with embarrassment. She moved so self-consciously, so carefully. She wasn’t timid, but she seemed almost obsessively aware of where she was in proximity to him.

  Hartwell remembered hearing once that the Trentwood family was a line of hermits. Apparently so, if Mary was a prime example.

  He expected Mary to slow down when they reached the gravel drive. Instead, she maintained her pace so by the time Hartwell entered the manor house, she had already deposited her wet dolman, hat, and gloves with Pomeroy. She had also taken the time to leave orders that Hartwell dry off in the guest room. As Mary was nowhere to be seen, Hartwell assumed she had disappeared to her bedroom to do the same.

  Pomeroy took the sodden blanket from Hartwell with an easy bow. “Looks like you survived, sir. My compliments.”

  Hartwell bit the inside of his cheek. “The guest room, if you please,” he ground out.

  “Of course, sir.”

  Hartwell followed Pomeroy’s lead, each step he took making a satisfyingly loud squelching noise on the threadbare rugs running the length of the stairs and hallway.

  If Mary was doing what Hartwell suspected, what he was here to investigate, she certainly wasn’t putting the rewards back into her home. Now that he thought about it, the library had been rather lackluster, though well-loved.

  In fact, the entire manor house had a sort of timeless style, relying on subtle details that culminated in a happy balance of taste and status. No matter the current financial status of the gentry Trentwood family, at one point they had been well off and governed by a mistress gifted with an excellent eye for wallpaper, paintings, and other such knickknacks and furnishings.

  Pomeroy was silent as he led Hartwell to the guest bedroom, for which Hartwell was glad. What had been a simple task this morning was quickly spiraling out of his control. The task at hand, then, was to decide his next move. Would he growl in irritation, or step back and laugh? As per his usual inclination, he found himself chuckling over the day’s happenings. And it wasn’t over yet.

  By this point, Pomeroy had ensured there was warm water for Hartwell to splash across his face, and that the fire wasn’t too hot. He must have heard Hartwell’s laugh, because he stopped at the bedroom door, ready to leave Hartwell to his own devices.

  “Sir?”

  “Do you really think Miss Trentwood is haunted?” Hartwell surprised himself by asking.

  “When one finds one’s mistress whispering to herself, one begins to look for reasons.”

  “So you don’t think she’s haunted, then.”

  “I think she’s a very interesting subject to watch, Mr. Hartwell.”

  Hartwell nodded, having thought the same thing. Only... how would Pomeroy have such insight to his thoughts, unless...

  “Why you—where is my satchel? You went through my papers, didn’t you?” Hartwell, mortified, felt his ears turn red.

  Pomeroy smiled. “What kind of butler would I be, if I didn’t ensure the safety and reputation of my mistress?”

  “You could have chased after the chit yourself, rather than sending some unknown after her, for example.”

  “But then I couldn’t have rifled through your papers to determine why you’re really here, Mr. Hartwell.”

  Hartwell narrowed his eyes.

  Pomeroy stepped from the room, adding, “Your drawings are very good. I hope you find our flowers and animals as worthy of your skills.”

  It took every ounce of control to not slam the door behind Pomeroy. Huffing, Hartwell threw his hat and coat on the chair sitting directly before the fire to dry them out. He hopped around, struggling to extract his wet, swollen feet from his shoes. Once off, he placed them by the fireplace grate, followed by his shirtwaist, shirt, and pants.

  Clad only in his undergarments, Hartwell stood before the fire with his hands on his hips. His hair, which he kept cut long to cover the awkwardness of his left eye, fell before his face. The fire snapped, making him jump.

  For whatever reason, he had been pondering Mary’s eyes. Hazel, Hartwell thought, would best describe their odd combination of green and brown. Far more interesting than his plain brown eyes.

  There was something about her eyes that upset him. So
mething about them made him want to ask her what was wrong.

  Hartwell shook his head. He wasn’t going to solve the mystery by staring into a fire in his underwear. He heard a door snap shut and the voices of women. Two women, as far as he could tell. Mary and Mrs. Durham. It took him a moment to realize that the guest bedroom was next door to Mary’s bedroom. The thought made him feel nude. He tested his clothes, and satisfied that they were dry, gathered them in his arms. He carried the bundle over to the left wall so he could eavesdrop and dress simultaneously. Such small efficiencies always seemed to feel good, for whatever reason.

  “Why is he here?” Mrs. Durham asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Mary answered. Their voices were muffled so it took Hartwell a moment to process what they were saying. “But he seems genuine enough.”

  “Genuine! What can he be genuine about?”

  “He said his sister was a schoolmate of yours.”

  Silence from Mrs. Durham.

  “That would make his sister a schoolmate of Mama’s as well. Or am I mistaken?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Durham said, her voice strained. “I assume you are giving him the courtesy of drying before asking him to leave?”

  A lengthy pause. Hartwell realized he was holding his breath.

  “He’s staying, dear Aunt.” There was nothing tender about Mary’s tone. “We have not been the most gracious of hostesses. The least we can do is provide a meal and place to sleep.”

  Mrs. Durham scoffed.

  “He can’t go back to Swindon tonight. There is no one to take him. And anyway, you know as well as I do that our walls are very thin, and I’ve placed him in the guest bedroom. Unless he’s plugged his ears, he can hear every word we say.”

  Hartwell, who had bent to splash his face with water, slipped, dunking his head and shoulders in the basin. He tried to stifle the curse that burst from his lips, to no avail. Though he knew Mary couldn’t see him, his ears reddened anyway when he heard the smug smile in her voice when she said, “See?”