Haunting Miss Trentwood

by Belinda Kroll

  “Mr. Hartwell,” she said, “your sister has entrusted him to me.” She backed into the house, her eyes shifting from one sibling to the other. “Florence, do come in,” she said, tittering, “you look positively exhausted.”

  “Indeed, I am,” Lady Kirkham said. “Thank you for offering your home to us as a refuge, Ophelia. You’ve no idea how trying these times are!”

  Hartwell bit the inside of his mouth to keep from screaming. What a fool his sister was. What a trusting, idiotic fool.

  ***

  THIRTY-SIX

  Mary sat in the library, hands resting in her lap. After a moment of staring at the locked library door, she began to tap her fingers against her skirts. Mrs. Durham had locked her in the library not five minutes ago, and she was beginning to feel rather peeved about it.

  Where in the world had she gotten a key to the library in the first place? And where was Pomeroy, or her father, when Mary needed them?

  With nothing better to do, she began sifting through the books, fuming all the while.

  “You’re going to have to change the way you do things now.” She mimicked Mrs. Durham in a nasal tone, a sneer curling her lip. She shoved two books onto an inexplicably straight shelf. She backed away from the bookshelf and pivoted on her heel so she could study the library in its entirety.

  All the bookshelves were righted. None of them sagged, none of them were dusty. The library looked as it had when she had first fallen in love with it as a child: well-used, yes, but orderly. Mary smiled, hugging a book to her chest.

  She bit her lip to keep from laughing as she realized that everything was going to be okay. Yes, it would take time to convince her aunt to let her out, and more time to convince her to stop blackmailing Lady Kirkham. But it was time well-spent, wasn’t it?

  Mary jumped when Trentwood cleared his throat.

  “You can’t say I didn’t warn you about my arriving,” he said, waving a finger at her. “I distinctly cleared my throat this time.”

  Relief flooded Mary and she smiled. “If you were alive I would hug you. The oddest things have been happening lately.”

  “Odder than my existence?”

  Her lips quivered. “Quite near, I should say.”

  “I suppose Mrs. Durham locked you in here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where did she get a key?”

  Mary threw her hands in the air. “I wish I knew! Alex is gone, I can’t seem to find Jasper—I came in here because Aunt Durham said she thought she heard his voice—and now I seem to be stuck in here.” A book caught her eye, and she snatched it from the table with a squeal of delight. “This was mother’s favorite! I thought it was lost.”

  When Trentwood appeared at her side, Mary was overwhelmed by warmth, rather than the cold which usually came along with being too near him. She glanced at him, startled to find him practically radiating golden tones.

  “Your mother was an odd little thing,” he murmured, staring at the worn copy of Greek mythology. “You’re much like her.”

  Mary’s brows rose. “Thank you?”

  A clattering at the front door of the house made them turn.

  “Now who would be visiting at this unseemly hour?” Mary mused. “Father, I don’t suppose you could...” Her voice trailed off as she watched Trentwood walk through the door. She shivered. She didn’t suppose she would ever get used to the sight of that.

  Another clattering at the bay window made Mary turn around to see a hand waving frantically. She inched closer, thinking the hand looked a bit solid to be Trentwood’s, and in any case, wouldn’t he walk through the door once his curiosity about the commotion at the front door was satisfied?

  Then she saw the ridiculous sight of Pomeroy hopping up and down, trying to catch a glimpse of her in the library. The bottom of the bay window was just out of his line of sight, though he was a tall man. The sight of him jumping to reach her was cheering, both because of how silly it made him seem and because it was so pleasant to know he had searched her out.

  “Miss Mary, are you all right?” he said, panting, as she unlocked the window and pushed it open. His white hair was tussled by the wind and misty rain. His jacket flapped open, and she saw a pistol tucked in his waistcoat.

  “Pomeroy!” Mary said, pointing at the pistol. “What on earth do you have that for? Where did you get such a thing?”

  His expression, having brightened upon seeing she was not hurt, turned grim. “Mr. Steele is missing, Miss Mary, and I think your aunt has something to do with it.”

  Mary narrowed her eyes and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen from her haphazard chignon. “Explain yourself. My aunt is distraught, yes, and perhaps even a blackmailer. But she wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  Unbidden came the memory of her aunt boxing her ears after spilling a favorite perfume. And the way she used to carry on, screaming at Mary after her mother had died for being a spoiled brat. But those were isolated incidences, weren’t they?

  Those moments had been when Mary had deserved a sort of schooling. Surely they hadn’t been the result of a hidden mean streak in her aunt.

  Pomeroy waited in the rain while Mary thought. When she looked at him, her expression troubled, he said, “Mrs. Durham and Mr. Steele left for a walk to talk privately. I checked his bedroom this morning, Miss Mary. He did not sleep in his bed.”

  Mary’s breath caught in her throat. It was as Mrs. Durham had said. Steele had left her.

  Something in her expression must have betrayed her, for Pomeroy rushed, “His belongings are still in the room. He hasn’t left the manor house, I don’t think.”

  At that moment, Trentwood returned. “You will never guess who has come. Oh good, Pomeroy found you.”

  Mary heard Hartwell’s voice shouting, and she whirled around. “What’s going on out there?”

  “It seems Hartwell’s sister has deigned to grace our humble home,” Trentwood said.

  “A carriage of ladies arrived at the front gate this morning,” Pomeroy said, “bringing with them a baby and a fainted nursemaid. They must be relations of Mr. Hartwell, for he was chasing them down. By foot!” Pomeroy grinned, looking most impressed. “The man has gumption, Miss Mary.”

  Mary looked from Trentwood, who stood at the still-locked library door, to Pomeroy. “Well, I must get out there. If Lady Kirkham is here, who knows what Aunt Ophelia will do? I assume Alex told you, Pomeroy, that my aunt has been blackmailing her.”

  Pomeroy shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I might have known a thing or two about it, yes. I might have found some drafted letters and placed them so Mr. Steele could find them.”

  “Pomeroy,” Mary breathed. “You knew all along? And you didn’t tell me?” Her voice rose to a shriek.

  He winced. “You were grieving, and the master made it quite clear before he died that I was to distract you. Make certain that you didn’t wallow, as it were.”

  Oh, now that was rich.

  Her dearly departed father hadn’t wanted her to wallow, and so he instructed his trusted servant to distract her. No doubt that was why, upon seeing Hartwell, Pomeroy had insisted Hartwell retrieve her that first day she had attempted to escape to Wayland’s Smithy. No doubt that was why Pomeroy had agreed to both Hartwell and Steele staying, though they hadn’t the room, and no doubt made his chores all the more difficult for having to look after more people.

  How kind of her father to not want her to wallow after his death. How unkind of him, then, to haunt her! How was she supposed to avoid wallowing if he was always there to remind her he was gone?

  Mary’s hands began to shake. The blood in her head roared through her veins. Her shoulders stiffened, and she felt her eye begin to twitch. For a moment, she thought she would have trouble breathing, but then she realized, not only was she breathing, she was gulping down air, trying to calm down.

  “Miss Mary?” Pomeroy said, hesitant.

  “Did you know, Pomeroy,” Mary said, glaring at Trentwood, “that my fat
her is haunting me?”

  A pregnant pause from Pomeroy. “I know you think you are being haunted.”

  “Oh no,” Mary snapped, pointing at him, “do not make me out to be mad, Pomeroy. My father is most definitely haunting me. He is standing right here with me. Go on, Father, show him. Do something so he knows you’re here.”

  Trentwood was frowning at Mary, as though for the first time since his death he couldn’t read her thoughts. Which seemed about right, for Mary couldn’t read her own thoughts; she was so angry she could hardly put two words together without spitting.

  “What are you about?” Trentwood said.

  “Show him.”

  Wary, Trentwood lifted a pillow from a chair and threw it out the window at Pomeroy’s head. It was a familiar motion to both Mary and Pomeroy; it was the motion most favored by Trentwood as he lay dying in bed. It was one of the few ways he could voice his frustration in those last days.

  Pomeroy stumbled back from the house, his face ashen, the pillow forgotten in the mud at his feet.

  “So you see, Pomeroy, I am not mad. My father haunts me.”

  Pomeroy nodded.

  “Now would you be so kind as to help me out of here? I would risk jumping from the window myself, but I’m not entirely dressed for the occasion,” Mary said, motioning to her stiff, high-necked bodice and layers upon layers of skirts complete with bustle.

  Apparently too shaken to speak, Pomeroy returned to the window and held out his arms for Mary.

  “And what shall I do?” Trentwood said, watching as Mary dragged a chair to the window so she could climb over the ledge.

  “Find Jasper for me. He’s here somewhere, and he might be hurt. And then make certain my aunt doesn’t hurt anyone else, if she has a mind to.” Mary clung to the sides of the window, her knuckles white. She hadn’t done anything so unladylike since she had been too young to be considered a lady. How she hoped Pomeroy would catch her, or at the very least, break her fall.

  “You aren’t really going to jump from the window!” Trentwood said, rushing to her side. “You could break your neck!”

  The wind burst into the library, fluttering the pages of books not tucked into the shelves. It whipped Mary’s hair free from the few bobby pins she had in place. She shook her head, freeing her eyes from her mess of dark hair. Her skirts tugged at her legs, cajoling her to jump. Her hazel eyes met Trentwood’s pale ones.

  “If you’re so concerned, be a good ghost and make sure I don’t break my neck.” With that, she dropped from the window ledge. The library fell silent.

  Across the room, the doorknob began to turn.

  ***

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  A familiar clearing of the throat made Hartwell groan inwardly. Really, Trentwood, you have the most awful timing.

  “Sorry, my boy, can’t seem to help it,” Trentwood replied, in far too cheerful a manner.

  Didn’t Trentwood realize his daughter was missing, his sister-in-law a blackmailer, and possibly worse? Where was everyone, anyway? Hartwell still hadn’t seen Pomeroy or Steele yet, and that knowledge was grating on his nerves.

  “Mary is in the library,” Trentwood said. “And of course Ophelia’s the blackmailer. Who do you think put it into Pomeroy’s head that he ought to make the letters obvious to Steele? Or, better yet, who do you think put it into your mother’s head that you ought to come to Compton Beauchamp in the first place?”

  “You knew the entire time?” Hartwell hissed.

  Lady Kirkham and Mrs. Durham, who were cooing over the baby, stopped to stare at Hartwell.

  “Knew what, Alex?” Lady Kirkham said, frowning prettily. She did everything prettily, all the more to annoy Hartwell. Or so he felt. She had her pretty blonde curls with her pretty blue eyes, her pretty blushing cheeks, and her pretty delicate bone structure. He had been the uglier child even before she had mangled his face. Being around her made him feel ugly. Made him want to act ugly.

  “Now’s not the time, son, rein yourself in,” Trentwood warned. “Ophelia’s got your nephew, and no matter how much you dislike your sister, you care about the boy.”

  Hartwell grimaced. “You knew,” he faltered, shoving his anger aside to address Lady Kirkham’s question without arousing Mrs. Durham’s suspicion. What could he say? “You knew where to find me? To find us?”

  Lady Kirkham laughed her tinkling laugh. Hartwell had once heard one of her suitors liken it to the sound of diamonds falling. Hartwell had liked the analogy. Diamonds were hard, unforgiving, and entirely too perfect for the everyday.

  “Of course I knew where to find you, Alex,” Lady Kirkham said, sharing a look with Mrs. Durham that showed just how little she thought of her brother. “I gave you the address, didn’t I, then?”

  “So you did,” Hartwell said between stiff lips. He waited until Mrs. Durham had shifted her wary gaze from him back to the restless baby in her arms before attempting to address Trentwood again. Where is Mary?

  “Locked in the library,” Trentwood said. “Mrs. Durham saw the way she wasn’t believing her folderol about Steele leaving last night and convinced her to step into the library.”

  How did she get a key to Mary’s library?

  “I can’t read her,” Trentwood admitted. “She’s terrifying.”

  Which was rather terrifying for Hartwell to hear from a ghost.

  “Her thoughts are erratic. She hardly knows herself, and so I can’t know her, or guess her intentions.”

  Hartwell frowned at the way Lady Kirkham was encouraging Mrs. Durham to play with the baby’s adorable little fingers and funny little toes. How had his sister come to think of this manor house, of all the places in the world she could have escaped to—Scotland, Ireland, Italy! For the love of all that was holy, why didn’t she skip off to Italy?

  No, Italy would have made sense, and sense had never been his sister’s strong point. She could have gone somewhere safe, as he had insisted in his written replies. Instead, she came to the very place she ought to have avoided. Hartwell had half a mind to leave Lady Kirkham to her fate with Mrs. Durham. He had half a mind to go back to London and pummel Sir Kirkham for giving his sister so much god-forsaken freedom.

  Hartwell felt as though he stood in the very center of a massive storm that threatened to destroy everything he loved.

  So much for Mary’s plea that Hartwell allow her the opportunity to stop her aunt. So much for any chance they could have had together. Mary being who she was, she would of course feel guilty if Steele had been hurt by Mrs. Durham.

  She would accept Steele’s marriage proposal as an apology, of all things. And even if she didn’t, Mary would never entertain feelings for a man who had no qualms in persecuting her aunt in order to protect his family.

  Why did Mary have to be so blindly loyal? To the likes of Steele and Mrs. Durham, of all people?

  Focus man, Mrs. Durham has your nephew.

  Hartwell knew he could get the baby away from Mrs. Durham. That is, he hoped he could, without hurting the babe or his sister in the process. A plan formed. Hartwell would retrieve the baby, somehow, and get his sister out of harm’s reach. He would take his family back to London, away from this mad manor house.

  At which point, Hartwell would bring Mrs. Durham to trial for attempted kidnapping, and several counts of blackmail, and send her to the gaol. Or Bedlam. That would be more fitting.

  Which meant that unless Mary cared for him, more than he thought she did, she would marry Steele, and he would never see her again. It would have to take a very great amount of affection, bordering on love, in fact, for a woman to forgive a man for sending her only relative to a life of misery for the rest of her days.

  The ghostly voice belonging to Trentwood had been silent for longer than was to Hartwell’s liking. He shook his head, realizing he had trailed Mrs. Durham and Lady Kirkham unconsciously as they wandered toward the library. Perhaps Mary could help them. Perhaps Trentwood could send Mary the message that they were approaching the libra
ry. Perhaps she could grab the baby from Mrs. Durham and flee.

  That was a lot of coincidences upon which to rely, but Hartwell was tired. He was beyond tired, he was exhausted. One didn’t just bounce back from gabbing all night with a ghost and his daughter, then walk a mile, only to sprint back propelled by horror.

  Trentwood, where have you gone? If thought voices could sound annoyed, Hartwell figured his was the very definition. Send Mary the message that we’re approaching her.

  With quite the embarrassed sound of clearing his throat, Trentwood admitted, “I can’t.”

  Hartwell looked in the direction of the mirror sharply, where Trentwood’s voice came from. Why not?

  “She’s jumped.”

  “Jumped?” Hartwell cried.

  Lady Kirkham glared at him. “Alex, really. You’re beginning to embarrass me.” She turned to Mrs. Durham, who planted a sickly sweet smile on her pudgy face. “Please tell me he hasn’t been doing this the entire time he’s been here.”

  “Oh no,” Mrs. Durham simpered, “he’s been the definition of a gentleman.”

  A most unladylike snort escaped Lady Kirkham’s lips. After all, she was only the wife of a knight and was allowed an uncouth moment or two. “There’s no need to tell falsehoods on my behalf, Ophelia. We both know my brother’s never been gentlemanly.”

  Hartwell itched to respond to his sister’s jibes, but was too panicked by Trentwood’s terse responses.

  What do you mean, she jumped?

  “She’s determined to rescue Steele,” Trentwood spat, “good little fool that she is. Pomeroy told her Steele didn’t sleep in his bed last night, and thinks something’s happened to him. Something has, of course, but why she feels she needs to save him is beyond me. Jumped right from the bay window into Pomeroy’s arms, and they’re off searching the gardens for him.”

  Bile rose in Hartwell’s throat as he remembered, clearly, the odd fairy tale Mary told him that day they walked together. She had found her prince to save, then.