“Rules?” Trentwood prodded.
Mary cleared her throat and kicked her feet out from her skirts. Right then. “I’ve got to keep appearances, Father. You don’t want me sent to the asylum, do you?”
He stood impassive.
Mary scoffed. “I see. So you would rest in peace knowing your only child and heir was wasting away in filth?”
“Seeing as how I’m not resting in peace now, I’m uncertain what your point is.”
“Father!”
“How do I know you aren’t mad?” he countered. “I’m not the one speaking to ghosts, am I?”
Mary threw up her hands in exasperation. “All right then, be that way. Send me to the madhouse. I’m practically living in one anyway since I’m not allowed to ignore you, you keep startling me right when someone comes in the room, and everyone seems to have secrets that I can’t make sense of.”
“Send you to the madhouse? Don’t see why I’d do any such thing. Do you think I’ve grown heartless since my death?”
“I was fairly convinced of it when you were alive,” Mary muttered, glaring at the floor.
Trentwood disappeared.
Mary jumped, startled by the sudden lack of a conversation partner. She swallowed. She waited. He was doing this to scare her, that’s what he was doing. He was trying to teach her a lesson. He was forever trying to teach her lessons.
“Father?” she whispered, her eyes focusing and refocusing on every little movement in the room.
Her bedroom window was open a crack, letting in a sliver of cool air that made the brocade curtains shift slightly. A beetle scuttled along the hardwood flooring. Mary squeaked and lifted her feet.
Really, she ought to have known better than to say such a thing to him. Her shoulders slumped.
Trentwood reappeared close to Mary, so close that his nose hovered inches from hers. “Care to try that again?”
Mary held her breath. Her entire body shuddered in response to the cold Trentwood emanated. She forced herself to concentrate on the peppermint scent that almost masked the lingering stench of dirt and decomposition.
So he was trying to punish her. Her temper flared as it never had while he was alive, and she found herself snapping, “You never did explain why Steele wasn’t good enough for you.” Her voice was low.
“I said he wasn’t good enough for you, remember?”
“Obviously not,” Mary said, sidling away from Trentwood. “And just what would have made him good enough for me, Father? What would have proven his worth to you that he was good enough for me?”
Trentwood’s smile was tight, a little cruel, and a little sad. “Let me ask you: did he ever once try to see you again after that party?”
No, he never did, both she and Trentwood knew that very well. She backed away from him, shaking her head.
“Did he ever write?”
Not that Mary knew of, but then Trentwood could have confiscated the letters before Mary saw them. Not that he would have, he could hardly move without her or Pomeroy helping him after that awful fever had taken hold. In fact, she had read his correspondence to him, and written his letters for him, as he had difficulty holding a pen.
“Have a friend ask after you or pass some word your way?”
Mary swallowed. Her lip began to tremble. Stop it, she wanted to shriek. Stop it. Why are you doing this?
“What has that dandy done over the last year—year, mind you!—that has you so convinced he intended to offer for you?”
By the time he finished speaking, Trentwood was shouting at Mary from across the room. His eyes, once pale and washed out, had adopted a frightening green hue. A vein at his temple bulged... as if blood still flowed there. His watch was hanging, forgotten, from his waistcoat pocket.
Mary pressed her lips together. She was not going to cry. She had cried about Steele, but only when alone in her bedroom when her loneliness had crept into her bed with the night shadows. Or when she had taken her solitary walks in the afternoons when her father had napped. But she had never cried before Trentwood, and she certainly wasn’t about to begin now.
And anyway... “How do I know you didn’t have Pomeroy hide his letters from me, or prevent him from seeing me? Pomeroy would walk through hellfire for you.”
Trentwood shook his head and sighed. His eyes lost their greenish hue and he seemed a bit more natural, or as natural as he could be, given the situation. “You don’t understand me at all, do you?” He drew up his watch by its chain and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket, the motion giving him time to find the correct words. “Don’t you think, if I had seen an inkling of spirit, of courage in the boy, enough for him to send one measly letter, that I would have respected him for it?”
Mary moved to the window, clenching the curtain between her white fingers. Trentwood was telling the truth. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew he was, and there was the rub. She felt her cheeks grow hot and a lump form in her throat.
“Did you think I enjoyed watching you, day-in, day-out, waiting for a sign of his affection?”
She had, indeed.
“Do you think I wanted to die, leaving you with Mrs. Durham as your sole companion?”
Mary hugged her arms tightly to her chest. “Why are you here?” she whispered.
Trentwood’s sigh of relief was so loud it made Mary jump. That wasn’t exactly what she had expected.
“Finally,” he said, “you’re beginning to ask the right questions.”
Mary spun on her heel, her mouth sagging. What did he mean, asking the “right” questions? How could there be wrong questions? And was she imagining it, or did he manage to say something that didn’t end as a question just then?
“You aren’t ready for the answer yet, but at least you’re asking the question. Can’t believe it took you a month. Thought you were rather more clever than that.”
Mary rubbed her temples fiercely. She couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. What had they been talking about, anyway, before he had derailed the conversation with all his talk of Steele?
Rules, that’s right, Mary had wanted to lay down some rules.
“Would it really be too much if you somehow gave notice of your... arrivals so I’m not quite so startled, at least?” Mary asked. “And could we try to keep your appearances to when I’m alone?”
“You could develop a thicker skin, you know.”
“My apologies that it’s taking me so very long to become accustomed to my father’s ghost popping in and out of vision without warning.”
He grunted.
“So then, will you warn me before appearing out of nowhere?” she pressed.
Trentwood nodded his acquiescence nobly, if a bit grudgingly.
“All right then.” Mary cleared her throat. “Now, what do you really know about Aunt Ophelia and Mr. Hartwell—I mean, Alex?”
“That he’s standing outside your door, for one.”
“What?” Mary dashed across the room and threw open the door to find, yes, Hartwell standing there, cool as silk with his hand raised to knock. “What are you doing?” she said flatly.
“Hello Mary,” Hartwell said, his hand hanging in the air.
“What is it? My aunt isn’t harassing you again, I hope.”
“Careful, Mary,” Trentwood cautioned, moving to stand behind her. “He suspects something.”
Suspects something? Mary eyed Hartwell warily. What did he suspect? That she suspected him of blackmailing her aunt? That she suspected her aunt of something so awful her father wouldn’t tell her? That she was haunted by her father’s ghost?
There were quite a number of mysteries needing to be solved, she realized suddenly.
“You really are one of the most frank women I’ve ever met,” Hartwell muttered, his voice almost low enough that Mary couldn’t hear him. Almost. “No, your aunt isn’t harassing me. You sounded distressed. I don’t know who you were talking to or what you were talking about, but I thought if you wanted to talk, the least I cou
ld do is offer to listen.”
Trentwood chuckled. “He’s lying.”
Mary twitched.
“Look there.”
Mary followed where Trentwood’s finger pointed and caught sight of Pomeroy sneaking around the corner of the hallway.
“Poor Pomeroy,” Trentwood said, still chuckling. “He thinks you’ve lost your mind.”
Maybe I have, Mary thought, closing her eyes. Her fingers of one hand clawed into the doorjamb while the other gripped the door handle. “Is that so? You want to listen?” she said to Hartwell.
“Oh yes. I’m very curious to know who Steele is. Pomeroy wouldn’t tell me.”
Trentwood roared with laughter.
Mary pointed an accusatory finger at Hartwell. “Ah-ha! Pomeroy thinks I’m speaking to myself and he wants you to distract me, that’s what you mean. How dare you speak about me with my butler behind my back? Who do you think you are?”
Hartwell threw his palms up in mock surrender. “The man cornered me in the guest room. I had nowhere else to turn!” He shoved a lock of hair out of his eyes. “Anyway, I am curious about this Steele chap. He sounds like a right bounder for leaving you.”
“I don’t believe this,” Mary muttered.
Hartwell smiled and Mary was struck with the thought that he had been handsome once, intimidatingly so. Thank goodness for small miracles like facial scars to remove her usual fear of handsome men...
“I like this one,” Trentwood announced. He wiped nonexistent tears from his dry cheeks, a residual habit from his previous life. “He has spirit.”
Excellent. Wonderful. He had known the man for less than a day and already liked him more than Steele, whom he had known a month. Mary set her jaw, determined not to answer Trentwood with Hartwell right in front of her. But oh, how she wanted to.
“In all seriousness, Mary,” Hartwell said, “I was wondering if you cared to walk about the property. The sun is fighting its way from the clouds, and I’m still a bit stiff from my jaunt with the Browns yesterday.” His gaze flitted to a spot behind her shoulder. He frowned.
Mary held her breath and froze in place. Hartwell was staring right at Trentwood. Did he see him? Did he see the ghost? Was she really haunted and the ghost wasn’t just her imagination?
No, she must have imagined it, for now Hartwell was frowning at her. Dimly she realized he was asking if she was all right.
“Show him the gardens, Mary, he’ll like that,” Trentwood said.
Mary sighed. She wasn’t entirely sure which was worse: Trentwood asking questions or issuing directives.
“If you go with him right now, I promise I won’t tag along,” Trentwood offered.
“I’d love a walk,” Mary blurted.
“Excellent,” Hartwell said as she grabbed her heaviest shawl and a thick felt hat to protect against the March chill. She didn’t notice the way he watched her. If she had, she would have noticed the cold glint in his eye, the grim line of his mouth.
Fortunately for Hartwell, Mary didn’t see the betraying expression, and so had no idea what she was walking—no, practically jogging—into.
***
ELEVEN
Mrs. Durham watched from the library window as Mary ventured out on a walk with Hartwell. She had listened to them talk from her bedroom, and followed as they left the manor house.
It had been Hartwell’s idea to take a walk, one that Mary hadn’t seemed too thrilled about, which was odd considering Mary was always gallivanting to that tomb. Mrs. Durham knew it wasn’t because Mary disliked Hartwell that made her hesitate to walk with him; she had seen the pretty blushes that stole across Mary’s cheeks when Hartwell looked at her just so.
Therein lay Mrs. Durham’s emerging problem. She knew she was a guest at the manor house, and at mercy of Mary’s whim... if Mary realized and exercised her power. Trentwood had been quite clear on his deathbed when he had asked to speak to Mrs. Durham alone. He had left nothing for her, and why should he?
He was the husband of her twin and had no true allegiance to her other than that.
She knew Trentwood had never liked her, which had suited her, really, because she had never liked him. Yet to be told she could never touch a cent of her sister’s money through lips cracked dry from fever, now that had been the deciding factor. What could Trentwood do about it? He was dead. Things had been progressing rather nicely, really, up until Hartwell’s arrival.
Mrs. Durham dug her nails into the wooden window sash as Mary and Hartwell disappeared around the corner of the house. They were taking a turn around the grounds; Hartwell had made up some excuse about wanting to see the gardens that he had heard his sister speak of so fondly.
Yes, she would think of them fondly. That was where she had seduced herself a husband. An uncharitable thought, but that didn’t make it any less true.
“What in the world am I to do?” Mrs. Durham muttered. Petit-Ange, at her feet, sneezed. “Bless you, dearest.”
The fact of the matter was it simply wouldn’t do to have Hartwell at the manor house any longer than absolutely necessary. Mrs. Durham’s mouth felt sour at the thought of having to face him at dinner. He had his sister’s eyes, and mouth, and smile, God help her. It made Mrs. Durham want to vomit, his sister’s smile, the very one that charmed Mary so.
She wanted to claw out his sister’s eyes and feed them to him.
No, no, that wasn’t right. Surely she hadn’t just thought such a grotesque act. Mary and Hartwell passed in front of the library window again, the wind pulling at their clothing. Mrs. Durham couldn’t see their faces, but she could tell by the way they leaned toward one another that they had, over the course of their walk, found more topics of discussion to amuse them. Mary even burst into laughter. When was the last time she had done that?
Mrs. Durham frowned. This had to be stopped. There was absolutely no way she would allow Mary to entertain feelings for a Hartwell, of all people, even if he happened to be the only honorable one alive.
Yet what could she do about it? Mary had all but agreed to give Hartwell access to her finances, the little brat, and so Hartwell was certain to stay until the solicitor left.
If only there was someone else to confuse Mary’s affections.
Mrs. Durham smiled. It was a cruel smile, a smile meant to wound even as it apologized.
“Come, Petit-Ange,” she said, scooping the dog into her arms. “Mama has a letter to write.”
She took one last glance out the window to confirm Mary and Hartwell had decided to take one more turn about the house.
Mrs. Durham chuckled, tucking Petit-Ange under one arm so she could lift her skirts to sashay from the library to her bedroom.
“She won’t know what hit her, Petit-Ange, will she?” she crooned. “Your Auntie Mary is going to forget all about her precious Mr. Hartwell and that horrid man will leave and you and I will get our house back. Just you wait and see.”
Petit-Ange barked and whined. Mrs. Durham looked down at her skirts, which had felt very warm at her hip, suddenly.
“For heaven’s sake,” she snapped, “couldn’t you wait until I put you down? This is the only black dress I have, you naughty thing.” She was going to write her letter smelling of urine.
Somehow, it felt so very typical.
***
TWELVE
Hartwell had been in the middle of writing a series of questions into his journal when Pomeroy had burst into the guest room with the suggestion which sounded like a demand that he invite Mary for a walk.
That annoying butler was lucky that inviting Mary for a walk had been on Hartwell’s mind for most of the morning. Otherwise, he’d have suffered the boxing of his life for interrupting a rather important chain of thoughts.
No matter, Hartwell was outside now, and it was easier to think outside. Well, usually it was easier to think outside. Something about being in Mary’s presence seemed to stunt his wits a little. Happily, she seemed comfortable with the silence between them, allowing Hartwe
ll to run over his list of questions in his head:
1. Who is Steele?
No wait, that wasn’t the first item on the list at all.
Focus, man, focus.
2. Why is Mary interested in a man who hasn’t thought of contacting her in a year?
Really, this was getting embarrassing.
3. Why had Pomeroy insisted he take Mary for a walk? Why not distract her himself?
Ah, now that was a question worth asking, as it suggested Pomeroy knew something more than what he let on about the situation. Just what did Pomeroy know? And whom did he know it about? Hartwell glanced sidelong at Mary, who puffed a sigh into the cool air. It took him a moment to realize they walked at the same pace, kept the same sort of rhythm.
What an odd thing to notice, and what an odder thing to have in common. He had long legs for a man. He couldn’t imagine how long her legs must be to keep in stride with him.
The last thing he needed to be thinking about was Mary Trentwood’s legs when he had a blackmailer to catch. For all he knew, she was the blackmailer. Really, this wasn’t what he had in mind when he left London yesterday.
Hartwell scowled. Absolutely ridiculous, this growing attraction to such a brusque woman who could very well be the person determined to ruin his sister with information that he hadn’t even been able to wring out of her uncharacteristically closed mouth.
All Hartwell knew was that if anyone knew anything, his sister Lady Kirkham had said, it would be Mrs. Durham. And that was all Lady Kirkham would say, even after hours of interrogation.
How Lady Kirkham expected him to help her when she wouldn’t confide the dastardly secret that her blackmailer held against her, Hartwell didn’t know. But he would try, of course he would try, for he loved his elder sister. Even when he wanted to strangle her. Which was most of the time, to be honest.
Haunting Miss Trentwood Page 7