Haunting Miss Trentwood

by Belinda Kroll

  “You will have Jasper,” he reminded her.

  Mary backed up to the bedroom door. “I will have no one,” she said. “Please, give me time.” She left him alone, as it were, and he listened to her pad to her bedroom and shut the door. Hartwell heard her crawl into bed, the wooden frame creaking beneath her as she settled under her blankets. He wondered how long, on average, it took her to fall asleep. Was she an insomniac?

  There was one final question Hartwell had for Trentwood, and he knew the ghost was still nearby because his head ached something fierce. “If you can possess someone, why not possess Mrs. Durham and be done with it?”

  “You think I haven’t tried?” Trentwood’s voice was low, borderline depressed. “You think I haven’t tried possessing everyone in the house just to see if I could? You’re the only one.”

  Hardly comforting. “Why is that?”

  “I daresay because you are the sanest one in the house. Ophelia, in comparison, is the least. I can’t read her thoughts, access her dreams, nothing. She is a painting to me. I watch her, I wonder about her, I know nothing of her, only what I know from her past. She is dangerous, Alexander Hartwell. Don’t let her get my child.”

  Hartwell’s headache lifted, an inconsequential relief when compared to the fear he had to swallow upon hearing Trentwood’s threatening tones. “Of course, sir.”

  ***

  THIRTY-FOUR

  It had occurred to Mrs. Durham as she dragged an unconscious Steele out of sight that perhaps she was walking down a path she would regret. She allowed the thought to occur to her, allowed it to bounce around in her mind, and then dismissed it with nary a sigh.

  Of course this was a path she regretted taking. She had regretted this path the moment she knew she couldn’t have children all those years ago. It was the same moment Henry’s eyes had deadened; the same moment his caresses became rough scrapes and prods. She was no longer his wife. She had become his medical test subject.

  She had submitted, of course, because she had loved him.

  Mrs. Durham let Steele’s head bounce against a loose rock just because she could. A low moan escaped his lips, but he did not wake.

  Henry had claimed he did such experiments because he cared for her, he wanted to have a child with her, he wanted to see his family name continue. How was Mrs. Durham to know he was performing experiments of another kind with other women? Women such as the lovely Lady Kirkham?

  With a low grunt, she tossed Steele’s feet behind a bush, retrieved the lantern, and studied her handiwork. The bleeding had stopped, thankfully. Mrs. Durham abhorred the messy stuff. His fancy London clothes were forever ruined, no doubt, and he lay in the weeds and mud, head lolled to the side, mouth slack. In fact, Steele would have made a very convincing inebriated beggar.

  Mrs. Durham squinted at the manor house, following a line of sight. Steele was nowhere to be seen, as far as she could tell. She wiped her hands on her skirts. Hiding Steele away had been a far dirtier job than poisoning her husband, but someone had to do it.

  It had been too easy, discovering her husband’s betrayal. Henry had gotten lazy about keeping his infidelity a secret. How could he have thought she had missed those smoldering looks across the table when Lady Kirkham deigned to dine with them, being that she was “such an old friend,” and all that? How quickly Lady Kirkham had forgotten she had been the friend of the long-dead Mrs. Trentwood, and not Mrs. Durham.

  How had Henry not seen, not felt, the way Mrs. Durham’s heart shattered every time he made an excuse to escort Lady Kirkham home, though she had her servants and private carriage. It had been the way Henry had handed Lady Kirkham into the carriage, the way his hand had lingered at the small of her back, the way he had caressed her hand, which had heightened Mrs. Durham’s alarm.

  Mrs. Durham had recognized those gestures. Those gestures had belonged to her.

  But that had been months ago, before Henry had died. She wiped a traitorous tear from her eye. And now to figure out how, exactly, to explain Steele’s disappearance.

  “You don’t think this is going to work, do you, Ophelia?” a man’s voice said.

  Mrs. Durham twitched. “Henry?” she said, swinging the lantern around to catch sight of whomever it was who spoke.

  “You need to let the past be, Ophelia,” the voice said.

  The voice didn’t belong to Henry. Henry’s voice was higher, more manic. Or was that simply her memory of his death, when he had begged for relief from the effects of the poison? Mrs. Durham set her mouth into a thin line.

  “I cannot stop,” she said.

  “Then I will stop you,” came the disembodied reply. The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Not that it mattered. Her plan was foolproof.

  A high-pitched giggle escaped her lips. “Try, if you like.”

  Mrs. Durham returned to the manor house, depositing the lantern to the front table. She climbed the stair to her bedroom, rather, her sister’s bedroom, peeling her gloves from her hands finger by finger.

  As she pulled her nightgown over her head, Mrs. Durham wondered about the last letter she had sent. Hopefully it had reached Lady Kirkham in time. Hopefully Lady Kirkham was so distraught by the contents, she was packing her bags at that very moment to journey to Compton Beauchamp.

  Mrs. Durham smiled. She was well on her way to achieving her goal. Her movements slowing from fatigue, she said her prayers, climbed into bed, and fell into a peaceful slumber.

  The following morning, Mrs. Durham arrived at the breakfast table to find Mary eating alone, looking more dejected than usual. Her hair was pulled back haphazardly, and her bleary eyes betrayed the fact that she had gotten little sleep. She wore her customary black dress, but it was wrinkled to the point of disgrace.

  Mary was odd, but never careless. Something was amiss.

  “Where are our guests?” Mrs. Durham asked as if she hadn’t any idea, and helped herself to a plate of bacon and toast.

  Mary slurped her coffee, no doubt because she knew it would make Mrs. Durham’s toes curl. So gauche. So uncivilized. Henry used to do the very same thing every morning, even after she scolded him.

  “Alex has left for London. Apparently he has learned what he needed to learn.” Mary paused to study Mrs. Durham’s expression.

  Mrs. Durham concentrated on seeming calm, disconnected, having only the barest interest. “How unfortunate. You shall certainly miss his company.”

  Mary’s hands fluttered over her plate. “Yes, well. I knocked on Jasper’s door, but didn’t hear anything. I suppose he needs sleep.”

  “You know, you will have to change how you do things now,” Mrs. Durham said, taking her seat at Mary’s left.

  Mary stopped eating to look at Mrs. Durham. “Change how I do things?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Of course? No, Aunt, I don’t understand you.” Mary’s voice was strained to the point of breaking. “What do you mean I must change things? And why must I change things now?”

  “Don’t take that tone of voice with me, young lady. I’m your mother’s twin sister, let’s not forget that. I was the one with the temper, you’ll remember.”

  Mary nodded, her eyes wide. Mrs. Durham hoped Mary was remembering the time when she had accidentally, or so she claimed, spilled all of her expensive Parisian eau de toilette on the Persian rug. That rug had absorbed the scent so thoroughly, it had tormented her for months. Mr. Durham, in turn, had chided her for being so careless.

  Mrs. Durham had caught Mary unawares and boxed her ears until her entire face was red, her body quivering. Mary had been eight-years-old only, but she had the tendency to tell falsehoods already. Mrs. Durham had been determined to beat the idea out of her, and to this day, she liked to congratulate herself on a job well done.

  Mary was watching Mrs. Durham, waiting for an answer, the little chit.

  “You’re to marry Mr. Steele, are you not?” Mrs. Durham said.

  “Well I, that is, I hadn’t...”

/>   “Of course you are. Let me tell you, Marianne, there are things men will say because they think they are right, and most of the time, they are. But remember this, Marianne, above all things: you have only one family. Your husband has no call to be loyal to you, unless he makes the choice.”

  Mary’s mouth sagged open.

  “He will tell you lies, about your family especially, in the hopes you will turn on them.”

  “This is hardly the sort of thing a newly engaged woman wants to hear, Aunt Ophelia.”

  Mrs. Durham pointed her knife at Mary. “You listen when I speak to you.”

  At this point, Mary rose from her seat, apparently done with her half-eaten plate of food. “I think I’d like to check on Jasper after all. Pray excuse me.”

  Ah yes, Mrs. Durham thought with a wry frown, go down one path expecting Mary to follow, and she will always do the opposite. Oh well. That was the benefit of being older, wiser, more clever... she could always readjust. “Are you certain he is in his bedroom? I thought I saw him taking a walk earlier.”

  “Really?” Mary said, frowning as she left to peer out of the library window. “I can’t see him. Do you know which direction he was taking?”

  Mrs. Durham made a show of seeming hesitant by looking askance at Mary and stuttering over her words. “To be sure, I hadn’t thought of it at the time, but it did seem as though he was walking to Compton Beauchamp. Now that I think about it, he had a satchel with him.”

  Mary’s laugh was shaky. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  Really, it was too easy. “We had been talking last night about families, and the topic of Mr. Hartwell’s unfortunate business with his sister came up, and Mr. Steele, or so it appeared to me, was so disturbed by the news that it seems he has returned to London to help Mr. Hartwell.”

  Mrs. Durham watched Mary closely to determine what she knew. Those two meddling men had done their part in ruining her plans by appearing and asking questions. She had no idea why Hartwell would leave. He seemed as stubborn as anyone she knew, including herself, which was a feat. Mrs. Durham wouldn’t mourn the loss of his presence.

  But Mary seemed distressed. Far too distressed that Hartwell had left. And there was no way she could know that Steele was in her garden, nursing a head wound. Mrs. Durham had checked on him as soon as she had dressed, making sure to tie his hands and feet together before he woke.

  In fact, Steele had roused mere minutes after Mrs. Durham had completed her final knot, just as she was tying a piece of cloth over his mouth. He was very alive, and very angry. Thank goodness he had been too weak to do more than thrash about on the ground, no doubt slinging insults at her through the cloth that gagged him.

  Young men had no respect for their elders these days. It really was such a tragedy.

  With this knowledge in mind, Mrs. Durham wondered just what it was that had Mary so upset. What had Hartwell said to her before he left?

  Petit-Ange scurried along the floor at the hem of Mrs. Durham’s dress. Mrs. Durham scooped him up so she could rub her frustration into the spot behind his ears. Mary knew something. She had to. Mary kept glancing at her with a slight frown puckering her brow. And she kept opening her mouth as if she wanted to say something, but thought better of it.

  And what about the way she kept looking to the garden, as if she knew, impossibly, that Steele lay there, his pulse growing weaker, his moans getting softer?

  What was Mrs. Durham to do? She had plans, plans that she would not allow to be spoiled by the likes of Mary, of all people.

  One way or another, the Kirkham baby was going to be hers.

  ***

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The weather was balmy, a bit misty but pleasant, as Hartwell walked the half-mile to Compton Beauchamp. He had his satchel in hand, his hat atop his head, and was doing his best to ignore Trentwood’s voice, who followed him the entire way.

  “You can’t be serious about leaving my daughter,” was how Trentwood notified Hartwell to his presence.

  Hartwell jumped, almost dropping his satchel in a puddle of mud. He scrambled, catching it just in time though he had to fall to his knees in the puddle. “Really, Mr. Trentwood, this is getting to be ridiculous.”

  “Yes, yes, you and Mary seem to think I ought to carry a bell with me. Ought I clear my throat before speaking?”

  Eyes narrowed, Hartwell stood and brushed off what mud he could. “That would help, I’m sure.”

  “Very well then.” Trentwood cleared his throat. “You can’t be serious about leaving my daughter alone with that woman.”

  Hartwell inhaled deeply. He counted to twenty. Calming down was his only option; he had no way to show his frustration with a ghost. Nor did he want to try showing his frustration, if the ghost had the ability to possess him, as it seemed Trentwood did.

  “Mr. Trentwood, Mary isn’t alone, she has Steele, and Pomeroy. Certainly they will keep an eye on Mrs. Durham.”

  That seemed to silence Trentwood for a while, because it was a full ten minutes before Hartwell heard anything else. In the meantime, he was able to admire the countryside, something he hadn’t had a chance to do while at the manor house.

  Again he was struck by the green elegance of the area. He wondered if the Browns were nearby, if they had wondered what had become of him after depositing him at the manor house. Did they think he had lost his mind, purposely entering a house whose mistress thought she was haunted?

  Well, perhaps he had. That could be the only explanation for why Hartwell now thought he was haunted by the same specter.

  Trentwood cleared his throat. “I wish you two would stop wondering if you’re mad simply because you can speak to me,” he said, sounding irritated. “It makes a man feel unimportant.”

  “I was just starting to enjoy the sights, Mr. Trentwood,” Hartwell muttered. “You wouldn’t mind coming back later, perhaps? When I’m alone in my bedroom and no one can see as though it looks like I’m talking to myself?”

  “Well, son, you probably will be alone when you return to London, for there’s no one there to greet you.”

  Hartwell stopped walking. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ll want to step to the side of the road in about two minutes,” Trentwood said, ignoring Hartwell’s question. “There’s a carriage of people coming your way.”

  Frowning, Hartwell followed Trentwood’s advice. What on earth was the ghost talking about? Hadn’t Mary said that no one came to visit her? That the people who had come to her father’s funeral had been people she had never met, people who hadn’t bothered to help in her time of need? Who, but for Hartwell and Steele, would want to come to such a back of beyond place?

  He had his answer soon enough.

  A carriage careened down the road at breakneck speed. The horses frothed at the mouth, their sides heaving under the whippings of the driver. There was little luggage, so at first he thought it was some London idiot having a bit of fun down a country road.

  Then the curtain of the carriage window flapped open. Hartwell saw, quite clearly, his mother and sister clinging to one another, the baby between them.

  Across from them sat a fainted nursemaid, who flopped about the carriage in an almost comical fashion. Hartwell and his mother shared a moment of shocked recognition. Then the curtain flapped shut and they were gone, around a corner and down a slight hill.

  He imagined the carriage shuddering along through the green lane. He thought he heard the frustrated whinnies of the horses as they were jerked to a stop, gravel and dead leaves flying up beneath their hooves as they dug the ground.

  Hartwell was halfway to the manor house before he realized he had dropped his satchel along the way. The carriage was at the high wrought iron gates. The driver was arguing with his mother, saying he deserved more than his usual fare for such unusual demands to get to the manor house at the risk of his horses and his life.

  Hartwell paused in his sprint to kiss his mother’s cheek and gasp that he would
have a word or two with her. He checked the fainted maid, righting her from her toppled position at the bottom of the carriage.

  His sister was not there. He looked at the manor house and saw the upset trail of gravel that belied her flight. His sister had always been lightfooted, even as a child. He wasn’t surprised that, even saddled with a baby, she managed to run to the house, probably dressed to the nines in her whale-boned bodice, smart bustle, and one of those ridiculous little hats that women wore these days.

  This was one of the many times Hartwell was sad to be right. He reached the front door just in time to see his hysterical sister handing her baby to a beaming Mrs. Durham.

  “Florence,” he shouted, “what are you doing?”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Hartwell,” Mrs. Durham called to him, “everything is quite all right now that they are here.”

  Hartwell reached the front door, gasping for air. Everything was as he had left it not an hour ago, which made logical sense, of course. But his world had been upended.

  There was the worn rug that he had ruined, when he stood there soaking wet with a shivering Mary in his arms. There was the side table with the silver salver, long-since cleaned of the results of Mary’s upset stomach. There were the typical pastorals hanging by wire that decorated every manor house, and the miniatures of family long since passed.

  Everything about this manor house brought Mary to his mind, even as he advanced on Mrs. Durham with his nephew in her hands.

  Where was Mary? What had Mrs. Durham done to her? And where was Steele? Did neither of them know what was happening at the front of the house? Were the newly-engaged already so stupid with affection and love that they had forgotten there were bigger issues at stake? Why was no one stopping Mrs. Durham from taking the baby?

  Unthinking, he reached for his nephew.

  Mrs. Durham hissed—she actually hissed—at Hartwell, shielding the baby from his grasping fingers.