by Adele Clee
No one came to greet them.
They stopped in front of the iron-studded door. Tristan held her arm as she slid down to the ground. “Go inside where it is warm and dry. Where will I find the stables?”
“Follow the path round to the left.” She shivered as she wiped the running rivulets from her face. Had the damp air finally penetrated or did the coldness she felt stem from the loss of Tristan’s touch. “I’ll ask Mrs. Birch to heat some water so you may bathe.”
An image of them sharing the large metal tub flashed into her mind, but she shook it away along with the drops of rain clinging to her cloak.
“Go inside,” he repeated. “I’ll join you shortly.”
Isabella did as Tristan asked. The front door was unlocked. She strode through the hall, leaving muddy footprints in her wake. Sedgewick was nowhere to be seen. Due to her last minute decision to return, she had not had an opportunity to send word to her staff.
Following the sound of lively chatter, she made her way to the drawing room to find Mrs. Birch, Sedgewick, the chambermaid and the footman seated around the card table. She stood in the doorway, water dripping onto the polished wooden floor, and watched with interest.
“You’ve pulled that one out from your sleeve,” the footman grumbled. “There are only four kings in a pack, and we’ve played them all.”
“Are you accusing me of cheating?” Sedgewick said in his usual lofty tone as he raised his chin. “Is that any way to speak to a superior?”
“We’ve played three,” Molly said.
“How would you know?” the footman countered. “You’ve nodded off twice. There’s only one way to know for sure.”
“You’ve more than likely miscounted.” Mrs. Birch slapped his hand away from the pile of cards in the centre of the table. “Have you been at my lady’s sherry again?”
Isabella stepped into the room. “I certainly hope not as I am in need of more than one glass.”
Four heads turned to the door. Their shocked expressions were quickly replaced with a look of horror. For a few seconds no one moved; no one spoke.
“Lady Fernall,” Mrs. Birch finally gasped. The chairs scraped along the floor as the servants shot to their feet. “We were not expecting you home.”
“I can see that,” Isabella replied with just a hint of irritation. In truth, she was too tired and too wet to care.
Sedgewick inclined his head. “I am afraid I have been led astray, my lady.”
Mrs. Birch elbowed the butler. “Let me explain, my lady—”
“You may save your explanations until later.” Isabella held out her arms. “As you can see, we were caught in the storm and are soaked to the skin.”
Mrs. Birch craned her neck to peer over Isabella’s shoulder. “We, my lady?”
“Lord Morford has come to stay for a few days. Let us pray Jacob is in the stables waiting to attend to him and not gallivanting around the countryside jumping fences on my horse.”
The housekeeper opened her mouth, snapped it shut, but then said, “Forgive me, my lady, but isn’t Lord Morford … d-dead?”
It suddenly occurred to her that the woman was referring to Andrew. Good heavens, fear might have addled her senses, but she had not lost her faculties.
“It is the gentleman’s younger brother who has come to stay. When he returns from the stable he will require a warm bath and his clothes will need airing. A hot meal and a tonic will help to prevent him catching a chill.”
They all raised their chins in acknowledgement.
Mrs. Birch turned to Molly. “The longer he remains in damp clothes the worse it will be.”
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Isabella sucked in her cheeks and raised a brow to convey her impatience. “Will someone go and heat the water.”
Molly gasped. After offering a curtsy, she scurried out into the hall.
“Lord Morford will take Lord Fernall’s old chamber,” Isabella continued aware of the curious look that passed between her servants. Should Tristan object, she would offer him the choice of another room. But she had her own agenda for making the request. Tristan needed to remain close if he was to bear witness to the strange phenomena. “Light the fire in his chamber and have a bath drawn for him as soon as possible.”
They all nodded and hurried from the room. Mrs. Birch hovered at the door. “Won’t you need some help to change out of your wet clothes?”
Isabella shook her head. “I shall manage. I would rather you all attend to Lord Morford.” If she caught a chill, no one would care. If anything were to happen to Tristan—
Mrs. Birch gave a weak smile. “If you’re sure, my lady.”
Her housekeeper knew not to pester her. Whilst Isabella had use of the house until she remarried or met her demise, it was Henry Fernall who paid their wages. Henry Fernall was responsible for the running of the estate. Henry Fernall controlled everything.
Samuel knew how to torment her even from the grave.
Highley Grange embodied the romantic aspects of any medieval-inspired building. It was not difficult to imagine a row of archers hiding behind the parapets, or a damsel waving her pristine handkerchief from her room in the ivy-covered tower. Nor was it hard to believe one might see the hazy white figure of a ghost appear in one of the arched windows.
Tristan snorted. He would wager there was a full suit of armour standing guard in the hall, and a pair of crossed swords displayed on the wall in case one was suddenly called upon for battle. The environment lent itself perfectly to a haunting.
The stables appeared to be deserted. Tristan searched the stalls to discover the groom asleep on a mound of hay.
“Does your mistress pay you to lie about idle?” he said nudging the man with the tip of his wet boot. When that failed to rouse him, Tristan tickled the lazy rogue’s ear with a piece of straw and shook a few drops of rain from his hat onto the man’s cheek. “Wake up.”
The groom woke with a start, slapped his ear as the water ran down his neck. “What? I said I’d have the money on Thursday.” He dragged a dirty hand down his face and blinked rapidly. “What? Who are you?”
Tristan did not know whether to let the chuckle fall from his lips or chastise the man for his impudence. Having spent years living in the monastery, Tristan still found that the lines between master and servant were somewhat blurred.
“I am Lord Morford,” he said failing to sound irate. “Now get up before your mistress catches you shirking your duties. Your coachman is stuck in the mud less than half a mile from here and requires assistance.”
“Lord Morford?” The man sat bolt upright. His wide eyes flitted back and forth as though he feared he was still lost in his dream. “But you’re dead,” he said before covering his mouth with his hand by way of an apology for his impertinence.
Tristan sighed. Did everyone at Highley Grange believe in ghosts? “You speak of my brother. Trust me. I am very much alive. Now get up before I drag you up.”
“Good Lord,” the man muttered, scrambling to his feet. “I mean, my lord. Won’t you forgive a man for his stupidity?” He held his hands in front of him and twiddled his fingers. “I was just taking a nap. That was all.”
“What’s your name?”
“J-Jacob, my lord.”
“Well, Jacob. I assume you have a cart here.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. As I said, the carriage is stuck in the mud. Your coachman hasn’t the strength to move it on his own.” The groom’s confused expression hardly raised confidence in his abilities. “You’ll need a rope and a couple more men.”
Jacob scratched his head. “Do you know where we’ll find him?”
“Past the crossroads on the road into Hoddesdon.” Tristan stepped back and gestured for the man to exit the stall. “I suggest you take a piece of board or a few logs, and a shovel.”
“Yes, my lord,” he said, nodding too many times to count. Jacob rushed towards the stable door but stopped abruptly. “Will you be telling Lady Fer
nall about my nap?”
Isabella had more important things to think about without hearing about the inadequacy of the hired help. “I tend to judge a man on the quality of his work,” Tristan said. “I’ve left my horse in the end stall. Treat him well and I shall forget I saw you sleeping.”
Relief flashed in the groom’s eyes. “Thank you, my lord. His coat will be shinier than your boots by the time I’m finished with him.”
His boots were sodden and splattered with mud. “Splendid.” It suddenly occurred to Tristan that he should take advantage of the groom’s willingness to please. Whilst the coachman’s need was great, Jacob might not be as forthcoming on his return. “Can I ask you something before you rush off?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“It might sound like an odd question, but have you ever witnessed anything unusual here?” He could hardly come out and ask the man if he had ever seen a figure in white wandering the corridors. “Have you ever seen anything that defies all sense and logic?”
“All sense and logic?” Jacob repeated, a look of confusion marring his brow. He stared at Tristan for a moment. “Oh, you mean a ghost. I have heard some say they’ve seen a lady walking about at night.” He glanced back over his shoulder before taking a step closer. “They say it’s the spirit of his lordship’s first wife.”
“Who said that?”
Jacob shrugged. “Mrs. Birch for one. She’s been the housekeeper here for ten years. And then there’s Molly, but she tends to agree with Mrs. Birch. Mr. Blackwood says they’ll say anything to squeeze another shilling from him.”
Tristan raised a curious brow. “Mr. Blackwood?”
“He lives in the gatehouse. He takes care of things, manages the estate, but he spends a lot of his time in London.”
In a bid to escape the torrential downpour, Tristan had not paid much attention to the stone cottage next to the gates. “Is Mr. Blackwood here now?”
Jacob shook his head. “I’ve not seen him about for a few days.”
Why would Mr. Blackwood spend time away when he was employed to manage Highley Grange? “Is Lady Fernall aware of his fondness for roaming?”
“Even if she is, I don’t suppose it matters. It’s Lord Fernall who pays his wages.” Jacob sneered. “It’s Lord Fernall who pays all our wages.”
Not wanting a repeat of their earlier misunderstanding by reminding the groom that Lord Fernall was indeed dead, Tristan said, “I gather you speak of Lady Fernall’s stepson.”
Jacob nodded.
So Isabella had not inherited the house from her husband else Henry Fernall would not have assumed direct responsibility for the staff.
The sudden rumble of thunder caused guilt to flare. The poor coachman had been left waiting at the side of the road. He had kept the groom far too long.
“Just to clarify before you go, other than what the housekeeper has told you, you have never witnessed any strange occurrences yourself.”
“Strange occurrences?” The words came out as one elongated sound. He scratched his head. “I’ve heard the odd howling noise at night. I’ve found dead animals buried in the gardens, but there’s nothing odd about that … just a fox hiding his secret food store.”
It was as Tristan suspected. Depending upon how one chose to perceive a situation, one could easily regard an ordinary everyday event as macabre.
“I thought to find headless knights and persecuted priests haunting an old place like this,” Tristan said feigning amusement.
“I can’t say as I have much cause to go wandering about the house. I’d tell you to ask Mrs. Birch, but Mr. Blackwood told her he’d not be happy if he heard her talking nonsense again.”
Judging by the anxious look in Jacob’s eyes, Mr. Blackwood was a man to be feared.
Chapter 7
It was remarkable how daylight held the power to banish fear. Despite the rain clouds littering the blue sky, it still brought a sense of peace. Staring out over the manicured lawns, Isabella let her gaze drift beyond what was trimmed and preened, up to the rolling meadow in the distance. The landscape filtered from the sublime to the picturesque. The long grass seeded with wildflowers appealed to her free spirit. It reminded her of the last summer she had spent at Kempston Hall. The days had been long, filled with gaiety and laughter. Walks through the meadow with Tristan always culminated in a warm embrace and a chaste kiss. Love blossomed. Her heart soared.
Now, it was but a treasured memory, and she could only imagine the scene from behind a pane of glass.
With some reluctance, she stepped away from her bedchamber window. At night she would not dare to come within three feet of the closed drapes, fearing what she would find. Still, her mind concocted images of savage dogs and ghostly spectres — just to taunt her.
She wandered about her room for an hour, maybe more, until the sound of a door closing and retreating footsteps drew her attention. The steps were light, measured, those of her footman. A strange fluttering filled her chest at the thought that, at some point during the last hour, Tristan had lounged naked in the bath tub just across the landing.
She sat on the edge of her four-poster bed and stared at the brass door knob. Why did she feel like a naughty child forbidden to leave her room? How could the thought of having Tristan in her home rouse feelings of anxiety and excitement both at the same time?
One thing was certain. Tonight, sleep would elude her. Fear would play no part in her inability to relax. Instead, she would replay every word spoken the night he broke her heart. Searching for an answer to the conundrum often hurt her head.
Why hadn’t she simply asked him for an explanation?
Pride played a huge part. And living in ignorance was often better than living with the truth.
Good lord! She wanted to slap herself for being so weak and pathetic.
Puffing her cheeks and exhaling loudly, she jumped off the bed and marched to the door. She could not sit in her room for the rest of the day. As mistress of the house, she ought to at least give her guest a tour.
Tugging open the door with a newfound level of determination, she failed to notice Tristan hovering outside. By the time she looked up and met his gaze, her eagerness had given her a boost of momentum, and she barged straight into him.
He wrapped his arm around her waist to steady them both. “I know you’re pleased I am here but don’t you think jumping into my arms is taking your appreciation a little too far. A simple thank you would have sufficed.”
Oh, the gentleman knew what to say to unnerve her.
Isabella straightened and stepped away. Feeling a blush rise to her cheeks, she brushed the skirt of her dress as though it was somehow to blame for her carelessness.
She thought to make an apology but for a reason unbeknown she said, “If I wanted to show my appreciation I would find a more pleasurable way of doing so.”
Tristan raised a brow as he folded his arms across his broad chest. “Now you have my full attention. What sort of thing did you have in mind?”
Exchanging flirtatious quips with him had always proved entertaining. “Well, with these nimble fingers,” she said, holding her hand up and wiggling the digits, “I could entertain you for hours.”
He cleared his throat and moistened his lips. “What a delightful thought.”
“Of course, I shall need to dust off the pianoforte as it has not been played in years.”
The smile touching the corners of his mouth caused a shiver of awareness to race through her.
“I have always found music soothes my soul,” he said in a rich tone. “Indeed, I am confident that once you find your rhythm, I shall be thoroughly entertained.”
A snigger burst from her lips. It felt wonderful to laugh again.
His eyes sparkled like the sun’s reflection on water. When he laughed she knew it to be genuine for his smile illuminated his face. In that moment, he was just as she remembered. The faint creases around his mouth, and the bronzed tint to his skin proved to be the only evidence that any
time had passed.
“Do you remember the day you chased me around the fountain, and you slipped and fell in.” She chuckled again at the memory. His coat had clung to his muscular arms; his boots squelched when he walked. “I laughed until it hurt. An hour passed before I could breathe properly again.”
He nodded. “I remember. I wanted to scoop you up in my arms until you were soaked through, too.”
“You did? Why … why didn’t you?”
He contemplated her question. “I suppose I wanted you to think me a gentleman.”
His answer surprised her. She’d always thought him respectful, considerate. That was until he abandoned her. Even now, that decision still seemed so completely out of character.
“Well, only a gentleman would give up his time to save a damsel in distress,” she said choosing to show her gratitude for his intervention instead of dwelling on the past. “Only a gentleman would listen to stories of ghosts and phantoms without declaring me insane.”
His arms fell to his side as he straightened. “We will find a plausible explanation for the strange events here.”
“Then let us begin our investigation this instant.” She turned, closed her chamber door and gestured for him to follow her along the landing. “I thought it best to start with a tour of the house unless you have other ideas.”
“I have spoken to Jacob. He informed me that a Mr. Blackwood is employed to manage the estate. With your permission, I would like to speak to him.” He stopped and turned to face her. “If I am to help you, I need you to tell me everything,” he whispered.
Isabella swallowed. “Everything?”
“Everything involving your personal situation.” He coughed into his clenched fist. “If I am to attempt to discover a motive for murder, then I must know what financial arrangements were made for you upon your husband’s death.”
“A motive for murder,” she repeated. He sounded so confident in his ability to succeed. It brought to mind an earlier comment. He had not spent his time in France in pursuit of pleasure, but in catching criminals.