Haunting Miss Trentwood

by Belinda Kroll

  But if Hartwell had written the letter, Mary knew that Pomeroy’s plan was the most prudent. She shuddered. The gossip would be fierce, to say the least. But if Hartwell hadn’t written the letter, then who did and why did he have it?

  “Woolgathering again?”

  Mary flinched, missing her cup as she poured her coffee.

  Trentwood sat at the head of the table, his customary spot. He didn’t look quite as pale as she was used to seeing him—funny, that, to realize one was used to seeing one’s dead parent in the first place. His improved color was, perhaps, owed in part to his sitting in shadow. “Woolgathering about your Mr. Hartwell?” Trentwood prodded when Mary remained silent.

  Mary sat at Trentwood’s right, her customary spot. “I would hardly call him my Mr. Hartwell, Father.”

  “Especially not if he’s blackmailing your aunt?”

  Mary speared a bit of tomato with her fork. “Precisely so.”

  “Even if she deserves it?”

  Mary stopped cold, her fork halfway into her mouth. “What do you know?” she asked, setting her fork on her plate.

  Trentwood shook his head, the motion telling Mary he didn’t know anything, he was just provoking her, as was his way. “I don’t think he’s blackmailing anyone, do you?”

  She rubbed her thumb along the side of her mouth as she thought, wiping away an errant bit of tomato pulp. “The letter could be evidence. For a case he’s working on.”

  Trentwood nodded his approval. “Certainly would explain the careworn edges, if he had to reference it often.”

  Oh yes, Mary liked this theory. She bit into her tomato, enjoying the way it squirted sweet juice. “I’ll have to send my compliments to Mrs. Beeton,” she said between bites, “this may be a modest breakfast, but it’s delicious.” As she chewed, she caught the way Trentwood watched her and realized how broadly she was smiling.

  “Do you like the blackmailer?” he asked, leaning forward.

  “We don’t know he’s a blackmailer. Why are you calling him a blackmailer all of a sudden?” Mary protested. Blast the man, he always knew how to get under her skin. “Even so,” she said, trying to dig herself out, “it’s comforting to know something about him that he hasn’t told me himself.”

  “Oh?”

  “Father, he had the definite advantage over me yesterday. He knows a great deal about us and we nothing of him. Pomeroy’s snooping, while unpardonable, gave me a—a trump card, of sorts.”

  “And that pleases you?” Trentwood said.

  “Very much indeed.” In fact, Mary knew much of her surliness yesterday stemmed from being caught unawares by Hartwell—twice. Both times it had looked as though she was talking to an empty room.

  The idea of Hartwell knowing Mary spoke to herself, or rather, spoke to someone no one else could see, was mortifying.

  Knowing a potential secret of Hartwell’s? Yes, that pleased Mary greatly.

  “Even if we discover it is something completely unrelated,” she said, finishing her unspoken thought before sipping her coffee.

  “Unrelated to what?” Hartwell said, entering the room. He had foregone wearing his entire suit, instead opting for a shirt loosely tucked and a waistcoat to maintain some decency. He looked at home and glad to see Mary. She found herself wondering if Steele would have joined the house so painlessly.

  Not that Hartwell’s arrival was painless, lest she forget everything that happened at Wayland’s Smithy.

  “Your lovely eyes are making me blush,” Hartwell said after Mary had stared at him for a minute or more.

  Mary blinked and coughed, spluttering into the coffee she still held at her mouth.

  “You really ought to get that checked out,” Hartwell said as he turned his attention to the sidebar, taking no pains to hide his grin.

  “What?” Mary said between coughs she struggled to suppress.

  “That whole talking to an empty room. What must your servants think?”

  “Ha. What servants have I left to frighten? Pomeroy has been with the family since before I can remember, as has Mrs. Beeton, and the house staff are the children of my father’s—I mean my—tenants.” Mary realized she was babbling, but the momentum was too strong to slow down. “There have been odder things, I’m sure.”

  Hartwell joined Mary at the table, sitting at Trentwood’s left and across from Mary.

  How odd; Mary had often imagined Steele sitting in that seat. Seeing Hartwell there, both the night before and now, made Mary want to miss Steele. It was familiar to miss Steele, and startling that she didn’t. When had that happened?

  Certainly not when Hartwell arrived, she was not so shallow. When was the last time she had pined for Steele? Mary glanced at Trentwood. His eyes, his terrible eyes, pierced her as if he could read her thoughts, and worse, approved of them.

  Hartwell cleared his throat, snatching Mary’s attention from Trentwood. “You are completely correct, there have been odder things. I once had a client who wanted to sue his neighbor’s dog for... ahem... pressing his amorous attentions on my client’s wife.”

  Mary’s mouth dropped open even as her lips curved into an incredulous smile. “You didn’t take the case, I hope!”

  “I didn’t have to,” Hartwell said, spreading jam over his toast, “the defendant had his dog sent to his mother in the country before the trial, which suited everyone fine.”

  Mary looked at Hartwell askance. “You’re making fun of me.”

  “Upon my honor, I’m not,” Hartwell said, lifting his hand in solemn truth. “That dog was a menace anyway, and the owner was lucky my client didn’t shoot the thing. No, sending the dog away was the best solution all around.”

  “What are you talking about at this ungodly hour?”

  Hartwell and Mary both jumped in their seats. They turned to find a horrified Mrs. Durham standing in the doorway, clutching close to her chest her lapdog, inappropriately named Petit-Ange, or “Little Angel.” The dog yipped, and Mary’s lip curled.

  “Mr. Hartwell, my aunt, Mrs. Durham, and her dog, Petit-Ange.” Mary turned to him and murmured, “The dear little angel is not, as you so elegantly put it, fixed. I’ve more than half a mind to do it myself while my aunt sleeps, though. I’ve lost more pillows and shoes to that menace than the little beast is worth.”

  Hartwell snorted and tried to cover it with a rasping cough.

  Mrs. Durham was neither fooled nor amused. She marched to the sidebar, Petit-Ange tucked beneath her arm.

  Mary hid a smile as she watched Mrs. Durham realize she couldn’t hold Petit-Ange and pile food onto her plate at the same time. This had been Mary’s sole morning entertainment before Hartwell’s arrival.

  Now, Hartwell sat across from her and seemed to have noticed her amusement. He turned in his seat so he could watch Mrs. Durham also as she shifted Petit-Ange around, scolding him for trying to eat her food, yet purring at him for being so cute.

  Mary rolled her eyes, as was her wont, only this time Hartwell happened to see her do it. He grinned at her, and she found herself grinning in return.

  “Making friends with the enemy? Is this your strategy?” Trentwood said, reminding Mary that yes, he haunted her still and yes, he sat at her left and yes, he just so happened to believe Pomeroy that Hartwell was a blackmailer.

  Odd, though, that comment about Mrs. Durham deserving blackmail. Mary had no idea what Trentwood meant by that, and as her thoughts converged on that little mystery, her grin faded.

  She ruminated on the topic, not noticing that Mrs. Durham was walking toward the head of the table until it was almost too late. Just when Mrs. Durham was about to sit on Trentwood’s lap, Mary pointed her finger and shrieked, “No, not there.”

  Mrs. Durham gasped, dropping Petit-Ange to the floor and her plate to the table.

  “What did you do that for?” Trentwood said, peeved, as he stood to get out of Mrs. Durham’s way. “I was going to move, or did you think I’d like to have that thing on top of me?”

&
nbsp; Mary swallowed. Good Lord, now I’ve done it. Hartwell and Mrs. Durham stared at her as if she had lost her mind, and really, Mary was fairly certain she had. “There was a spider,” she said weakly.

  Hartwell shoved his toast in his mouth to muffle his guffaw, Mary could only assume. She slouched in her seat while Mrs. Durham inspected the chair, finding nothing wrong.

  Mary’s eyes darting around the room trying to find Trentwood’s new hiding place. Not that when Trentwood hid, anyone else could see him anyway. He did, however, at moments such as this, attempt to be a little less obtrusive. At least, that’s what Mary liked to think Trentwood was doing when he disappeared like that. Blink, my father’s haunting me. Blink, the ghost is gone. Blink, I’m definitely mad.

  And worse yet, Hartwell and Mrs. Durham ate their food silently, studiously, letting her take whatever time she needed to collect herself. They weren’t trying to have a conversation and pretend like Mary hadn’t just screamed at the top of her lungs, no, that would have been a kindness on Mrs. Durham’s part, and she had a limited supply of kindnesses, of that Mary was certain.

  “I’m so glad your headache subsided, Aunt,” Mary said, finally.

  “Whatever do you mean?” Mrs. Durham said. “Even if my headache had subsided, it’s back with a vengeance now.”

  A light whimper escaped Mary’s lips, one she was certain Mrs. Durham did not hear. Hartwell, on the other hand... Mary was beginning to realize that nothing got past him. He managed to notice her when she wasn’t worth noticing; indeed, it was when she wasn’t the center of attention that his attention was on her. Perverse man.

  “Did you sleep well, Mr. Hartwell?” Mrs. Durham asked, chewing on the leftover fish from dinner. “That guest bed is quite stiff, I ought to know, I slept there for three months before Mr. Trentwood died, and let me tell you, I still haven’t worked out all my back pain.”

  Hartwell smiled at Mrs. Durham, much to her—and Mary’s—surprise. “I slept as if angels had put me there.” He turned to Mary. “Your butler, Pomeroy, is very attentive. Does he always lay out your guests’ papers on that little table for them?”

  Mary clasped her hands together in her lap where Hartwell and Mrs. Durham couldn’t see that she was digging her nails into her palms. “I’m not certain I understand your meaning.”

  Mrs. Durham ate her food calmly, as if she hadn’t heard the warning that rumbled in the undertones of Hartwell’s question.

  “I wasn’t sure if it was a country custom, or perhaps something particular to Compton Beauchamp. As I understand it, personal possessions are exactly that—personal.” Hartwell continued his disarming smile, even as his tone grew colder with each passing word until he finally spat out the last.

  Oh, I could kill him, Mary thought, closing her eyes. What did it matter if Pomeroy had been with the family for thirty years? To have stolen a piece of correspondence from a barrister was bad enough, but to leave the papers out in a blatant disregard for secrecy of the robbery! Did no one have any logical sense anymore?

  At the very least, Pomeroy was going to get a stern talking to.

  “There must be a misunderstanding,” Mary stuttered, her mind racing ahead to lay down a plausible storyline. “Pomeroy was in the library with me this morning. We were going over some papers before the solicitor comes.”

  Hartwell leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So the solicitor is coming today, then?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Durham said.

  “No,” Mary said simultaneously.

  “What are you two playing at?” Hartwell said, frowning.

  I could ask the same of you, Mary thought. “I received word that he would be arriving tomorrow, and I wanted to speak with Pomeroy about where we could lodge him. You see, you and my aunt are in the only guest bedrooms.”

  That, at least, was the truth. Pomeroy had approached her in the library first to say that he had received notice of the solicitor’s arrival. It was only after that had been settled had he the nerve to pull out that stupid letter.

  “Why did you think the solicitor was arriving today, Mrs. Durham?” Hartwell asked, his eyes narrowing.

  The effect was rather terrifying, and Mary had to commend her aunt for not staring at that left eye, which had become nothing more than a patch of scarred flesh. Whether or not Hartwell was blackmailing Mrs. Durham, there was certainly something going on there. When he spoke to Mary, he was all smiles; with Mrs. Durham, he was as Mary imagined he would be in court. Terse. Suspicious. Indignant.

  “Well, that had been his original plan. I’m sure I don’t know what’s taking him so long.”

  Mary stared at Mrs. Durham. Why did she lie? They hadn’t known at all when the solicitor was coming, hence the reason Mary thought Hartwell had been the solicitor only the day before. Mary watched Mrs. Durham finish her meal, the thought that she didn’t really know much about her aunt, other than the fact that she was her mother’s younger twin, scaring her a little.

  Just what had Trentwood meant, Mrs. Durham deserved to be blackmailed?

  What good was it to have a ghost for a father if he wouldn’t divulge the secrets he knew? Really, the situation was impossible.

  “I thought perhaps since I’ve stayed the night, that I could do you a service in return, Miss Trentwood, and sit with you when your solicitor comes,” Hartwell said, his voice carefully even.

  Mary’s eyes lit with obvious relief, then dulled with a shifty wariness. “I don’t really know you, Mr. Hartwell. Why should I trust my family finances to you?”

  He shook his head. “Not to me, with me. I have no intention of representing you, only sitting beside you in case your solicitor decides to play any tricks on a grieving daughter. It has happened before, you know.”

  Mary stiffened.

  “I’m not implying that you’ve lost any of your senses in your time of mourning,” Hartwell rushed to add, “only that it might help to have someone sitting beside you, silently sitting beside you, who is familiar with all the terminology.”

  He was right, Mary was a trifle terrified about having to deal with the solicitor. This was a city man, coming to talk to her about Trentwood’s debts and investments, which she had only begun to wrap her mind around over the past year as her father’s health declined. When Trentwood was alive, he hadn’t the energy to guide her. But now that he was dead, and haunting her...

  “All right,” Mary said. “I will take you up on your offer.”

  Now it was Mrs. Durham’s turn to shriek. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “What?” Mary said, “isn’t he your friend’s brother? Is he not trustworthy?”

  “He’s extremely trustworthy, he’s a barrister, and a good one at that,” Mrs. Durham fumed.

  “Then why are you upset?” Hartwell asked, his voice low, calm, soothing. To Mary, at least, it was soothing; to Mrs. Durham it seemed to incite her further.

  “I’ll not accept charity from your sister, that’s why. I want nothing to do with her.”

  “Have you had a falling out?” Mary asked.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Durham spat. “And she’s sent her brother to rub it in.”

  Hartwell laughed then, and Mrs. Durham became purple in the face. “What nonsense. I didn’t hear of any falling out. If I had, you ought to know I wouldn’t be here. I quell disagreements, I don’t start them.”

  Mrs. Durham tried to come up with a retort, her mouth flapping, wordless. She looked like a fish grasping for crumbs. Mary allowed a small smile at the thought, a very small smile so no one would notice.

  “Aunt,” Mary said, “you aren’t accepting his charity at all. I am. These are my finances now, and I need to understand them. I need all the help I can get.”

  With Trentwood standing beside Mary, he could make certain Hartwell advised her properly. With Hartwell sitting beside her, Pomeroy could try to find other blackmail letters in Hartwell’s satchel, or anything to provide further context. Provided, of course, that he put everything back in plac
e. “Thank you, Mr. Hartwell, for being so kind to offer.”

  “If I’m to help you, I insist you call me Alex. I only give my services freely to my friends, and my friends call me Alex.”

  So very forward, this man, so determined to be on friendly terms. Why? “Well, if I’m to call you Alex, I suppose you ought to call me Mary.”

  Hartwell grinned. “Excellent. Mary it is.”

  Unbidden came Trentwood’s voice asking her, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  Truthfully, Mary didn’t. But then, she wasn’t really in the habit.

  ***

  TEN

  “Well, Mrs. Durham was vexed at breakfast, wasn’t she?” Trentwood said as Mary shut the bedroom door behind her.

  She had spent the remainder of the morning calming Mrs. Durham and feeding Petit-Ange dog treats while Hartwell had escaped to his bedroom. Coward. At this point, the last person—thing—Mary wanted to see was Trentwood’s ghost, so of course he would appear right when she was about to throw herself to bed to sleep away her pounding headache.

  Mary rubbed her temples. “What do you want?”

  “Why do you think I want something?”

  Mary leveled a look at him that translated, roughly, to “Are you really going to play that game?”

  “And just what do you hope to accomplish by looking at me like that, young miss?”

  Her chuckle was without mirth. “Father, you know I haven’t been considered young for years.” She brushed past him, noting when she did so the hairs of her arms stood on end and a chill ran down her back. Shivering, she sat on the edge of her bed. “I would like to propose a few rules, if you please.”

  Trentwood pulled his watch and chain from his waistcoat pocket. He spun the chain so the watch circled outward, rotating around his hand. It was his thinking motion and signaled to Mary she would need all her wits at the ready, for he would be determined to thwart her. How that was different from any other conversation lately, Mary wasn’t all that certain. Still, it didn’t hurt to be prepared.