A Mysterious Season

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  I put a hand to his cheek. “You’re quite right, of course. I must see about engaging another maid before we leave. Morag would never be able to manage on her own.”

  He smiled, a ghost of his usual grin, and I pressed a kiss to his cheek. As I pulled away, he touched my hand. “In light of…the dream last night,” he began, “I have asked Monk to look into the matter of Mr. Sanderson. Just a few general enquiries.”

  I blinked. “Won’t he have quite enough to do since you’re leaving the enquiry business in his hands whilst you’re away?”

  Brisbane stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Things are rather quiet just at the moment. Nothing Monk can’t handle. And something about this bequest disturbs me.”

  “Well, it is unusual simply to hand a house over to a man,” I agreed. “What do you suspect?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied simply. “And that’s what vexes me. It is too murky at present. It seems straightforward enough, and it well may prove to be so. But in the meanwhile, Monk will burrow around and see if there’s anything our Mr. Sanderson has kept from us.”

  “An excellent notion. But if I’m to find a maid by tomorrow, I must make haste. Oh, and Cook said to tell you she has a special surprise for dinner tonight?”

  One black brow winged up. “Oh?”

  “Stewed bananas.”

  * * *

  In spite of everything, we managed to depart on schedule, trunks and cases and carpet-bags in tow, trailing the odd book and umbrella and lap robe behind.

  “For God’s sake, we look like a travelling circus,” hissed Plum as we emerged from the carriage at the station. A pack of porters descended, scooping up our detritus and following Brisbane’s tall form as he strode down the platform.

  “Hush,” I ordered through gritted teeth. “You’ll frighten the new maid.”

  Plum glanced around, past Portia giving instructions to her nanny and Morag as they stood clutching their screaming charges. Portia’s stout maid, Clement, followed carrying Mr. Pugglesworth, my sister’s decaying pug, and in her wake trotted a slim, pleasant girl of perhaps twenty-two who was called Liddell.

  “She looks like a blancmange,” Plum said dismissively.

  “How can she look like a blancmange?” I demanded. “Human beings do not look like puddings.”

  “Of course they do. She’s pale and morbid-looking. Blancmanges are the saddest of the puddings.”

  “You are ridiculous,” I retorted as I glanced again at Liddell. Now that he brought the likeness to my attention, I could see it. A little.

  “Yes, I am ridiculous,” he acknowledged, “but that child’s face will sour your milk, so mind you don’t let her bring up your breakfast tray.”

  I went to pinch him but he dodged smoothly away. “Don’t be vile. You’re an invited guest, Plum. Act like it.”

  He adopted a wounded expression. “I am no guest. I am family.”

  “That’s worse,” I returned.

  He looked back at the long train of harried porters and scattered belongings. “Yes, I think it is. However can you exist in such a state of domestic chaos? I shall never marry,” he vowed.

  “It’s not always like this,” I answered tartly. “We do occasionally have things in order. It’s just that the building work has thrown everything into sixes and sevens, and it isn’t easy to organise a move to the country on two days’ notice, you know.”

  Something in my tone must have warned him I was dangerously close to exhibiting a strong emotion, for Plum—never the most demonstrative of my siblings—suddenly touched my shoulder.

  “I know, pet. And I’ll wager twenty guineas that Thorncross is an absolutely glorious place.”

  It occurred to me much later, as we stood on the steps of our new inheritance, I ought to have taken that bet.

  * * *

  “Perhaps a lick of paint might improve it,” Portia suggested helpfully. “Or perhaps an exorcism?”

  “Hush,” I ordered. “It’s utterly splendid,” I added in a somewhat breathless tone.

  We had arrived at the station in Greater Wibberley, the town across the valley from the village of Narrow Wibberley. The maids had stayed to collect the baggage while we journeyed ahead in a pair of station carriages. Our conveyances had drawn up to the manor just as the sun dropped below the little wood to the west of the house, leaving long purple shadows trailing behind. The house was built of grey stone in a haphazard style and betrayed a certain originality of design. It was as if the architect had been too enamoured with the possibilities before him and—unable to confine himself to one—had chosen to draw upon all of his favourites. One wing, fitted with Tudor windows and elaborate red brickwork panels, ended in a French pepper-pot tower complete with witch’s cap, while the opposite side was pure mediaeval fantasy with crenellations and arrow slits leading to a Queen Anne gallery. It ought to have been hideous, but the whole effect was one of such unbridled eccentricity I could not fail to be charmed.

  I glanced at Brisbane, who was grinning. “It’s utterly mad,” he pronounced.

  “That’s why I love it.”

  “It’s the most disgustingly undisciplined example of the builder’s art I have ever seen—” began Plum, but a wave of Brisbane’s hand silenced him.

  Before any of us could say another word, the massive wooden door before us creaked open on its hinges. The hall lay in shadows, one of which stirred to life, moving slowly towards us. It was a woman, older than any I had ever seen, with two bright black eyes peering out from a face like a withered apple. She wore a severe black gown, unrelieved save for the silver chatelaine at her ample waist.

  “Happen you’d be Mr. Brisbane?” she asked my husband.

  “I am he,” he acknowledged. “And you are?”

  She drew herself up as far as her dowager’s hump would permit. “I am Mrs. Smith, the housekeeper. And who are the rest of these folk?” she demanded.

  Brisbane’s lips twitched with suppressed mirth. With this mad fairy-tale house, what could one expect but a housekeeper who seemed to have stepped straight from the pages of a storybook?

  “How do you do, Mrs. Smith? This is my wife, Lady Julia Brisbane. Her sister, Lady Bettiscombe, and their brother, Mr. March. The rest you will meet later,” he said with a nod towards the nannies and children gathered behind. “For now we would like to come in,” he added with a touch of reproof.

  If she was abashed at leaving her new employer and his family standing on the doorstep, she gave no sign of it. She turned, almost reluctantly, and beckoned us to follow.

  “She’s a Gorgon,” Plum whispered. “Don’t look directly at her or she’ll turn you to stone.”

  I put a warning finger to my lips, but I needn’t have bothered. Without turning her head, Mrs. Smith said tartly, “I heard that, laddie.”

  Plum was subdued as Mrs. Smith led us into the hall. It was a proper hall, of the sort houses used to have in mediaeval times, with a fireplace large enough to roast two sides of beef at a time and a collection of rusty swords and suits of armour for decoration. Tapestries depicting hunting scenes hung along the walls. Once vivid, they were muted with dust and moth, for which I was a little grateful. The scene of Actaeon being torn apart by his hounds was a little too lifelike for comfort. Tall wooden armchairs were grouped around the hearth, each carved to resemble a small throne, and across the opposite wall stretched a minstrels’ gallery. Between, a long refectory table stood in pride of place as it had for the past century, I did not doubt.

  Mrs. Smith nodded to it. “Meals are taken here.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you particular about sauces?”

  I blinked. “Sauces?”

  “Sauces,” she said firmly. “Some ladies are very particular about sauces, but I’ve no patience with that sort of interference.”

  I gave her m
y most winsome smile. “I can assure you, Mrs. Smith, I have no peculiarities when it comes to sauces. I am entirely happy to leave such matters in your hands.”

  She gave me a grudging nod. “As it should be. A lady has better things to do than trouble herself with menus and accounts and orders for the tradesmen.”

  “You mean you are content to do all the ordering and speak to the cook about menus?” I asked, scarcely daring to dream.

  She stiffened. “I hope I know my job,” she replied. “My ladies have never had cause to complain,” she added, daring me to be the first.

  I was giddy with the implications. No tiresome meetings to plan menus or discuss the vagaries of the new fishmonger. No wretched conversations about the unsuitability of a new housemaid or the lax morals of a butcher’s boy. I was free from domestic constraints at last.

  I smiled broadly. “I think we are going to get along very well indeed,” I told her.

  She gave me a sharp look but must have realised I was entirely sincere, for she turned her attention to Brisbane. “It’s early yet, but you will be fatigued from your travels,” she told him. “Your rooms are prepared. Fires have been kindled, hot water is on its way up, and I’ve ordered a light supper to be served here in an hour’s time. Does that suit?” she asked, lifting her pointed chin challengingly.

  He spread his hands. “I think I would not dare to tell you if it did not,” he said.

  She nodded again. “Good enough.”

  “What sort of light supper?” Plum asked darkly, clearly expecting to be fobbed off with soup and a hot pie of dubious origins.

  Mrs. Smith gave him a searching glance. “Hare soup, broiled cod in parsley sauce, veal cutlets with French beans, roasted capon and rice, pheasants with apples, and a nice vanilla charlotte for pudding.”

  “Mrs. Smith,” said Plum in a hoarse voice, “I could kiss you.”

  She bristled. “Mind you don’t. I have a house to run.” She paused to retrieve a package from the long table, handing it over to Brisbane. “This arrived for you, sir. From that Mr. Sanderson in London what used to be the master’s solicitor,” she said, bowing her head in a gesture of respect for the newly departed.

  Brisbane took the parcel and thanked her. She reached for the chatelaine, and to my astonishment, took up a silver whistle and gave a short, sharp blast.

  Instantly, servants began to materialise, and it took a moment before I realised they were appearing through doors covered with the tapestries. Mrs. Smith grinned. “It takes a bit of getting used to, the way they pop in and out. But one never knows where they’ll be with all the stairs and hidey-holes in this house. A whistle’s the best for calling them to heel.”

  Rather like dogs, I thought, but did not say. She gave her orders quickly and within moments we had been whisked up the wide staircase to the upper floor by a pair of housemaids. One showed Brisbane and me to our rooms while another attended to Plum and Portia. A third guided the nurses and children to the floor above, where the nurseries were located. It had been a long day, and we agreed that an early night would be best for all.

  After washing, we all trooped upstairs to kiss the children goodnight and then assembled into the hall for Mrs. Smith’s “light supper.” It was a magnificent meal, one of the best I had ever eaten, and as each course emerged from the kitchens, more succulent and delicious than the last, I found myself in a state of relaxation I had not known for some weeks.

  “I like it here,” I pronounced over my third glass of claret. “Very much.”

  “The wine cellar,” Plum began with unreserved delight, “is the envy of any in London. My God, Brisbane, a single bottle of this claret alone is worth more than the furnishings in this room.”

  “It is a rather fine vintage, is it not?” Brisbane asked in some satisfaction.

  “How is your room?” Portia prompted. “Mine is utterly superb. All blue satin with silver embroidery.”

  “Ours is Tudor—red velvet and a bed only just smaller than the Great Bed of Ware,” I told her, resisting the urge to blurt out that Brisbane and I had already explored its dimensions to delectable effect.

  “Mine is green damask with the softest pillows I have ever put my head to,” Plum pronounced.

  “Running water would have been lovely,” Portia put in. “But there were four watermen to carry up the hot water for my bath. Proper watermen,” she said with a nod of approval. “Of the sort Father hasn’t employed in thirty years. Now it’s all chambermaids struggling under the weight of the cans, but these were strapping lads who brought up two at a time. It quite takes me back to my childhood.”

  “There is something timeless about the place,” I agreed. “It almost feels like there is a strange sort of enchantment about it.”

  Brisbane slid the claret decanter from within my reach. “The wine has made you fanciful.”

  “Oh, it isn’t the wine,” I told him. “It’s the house. Did you know it’s the most haunted house in England?”

  Plum gave a squawk while Portia burst out laughing. “Of course it is. Only the pair of you would inherit a house and find it populated with ghosts.”

  Brisbane slanted me a smile. “How do you know this?”

  “The package from Mr. Sanderson. You told me to open it when you were having your bath. There was no letter, just a book, quite slender, on the history of Thorncross. I only had a moment to peruse it, but apparently it lays claim to more ghosts than any other property in the United Kingdom.”

  The housekeeper bustled in then, supervising the maids who whisked away the cod and laid the veal. “Is that true, Mrs. Smith?” asked Plum. “Is this the most haunted house in England?”

  “Of course it’s true,” she said briskly. “Now, I’ve a nice champagne jelly if you’d prefer that to the vanilla charlotte,” she began.

  “Bring them both,” Plum instructed before I could reply. “What do you mean, ‘of course’?”

  She dismissed the maids with a wave of her hand, and they scurried behind a tapestry and into the kitchen passage. “I mean that everyone knows Thorncross has more than its fair share of ghosts. None that will harm you, mind,” she added with a meaningful nod. “They’re friendly. And this time of year, they’ll all come calling.”

  “All?” Portia asked.

  “All,” came the firm reply. “It’s nearly All Hallow’s Eve. What sort of ghosts would they be if they didn’t make an appearance this time of year?”

  “And do they depart after that?” I asked politely.

  “Of course not,” she said, her expression aghast. “Not before poor Guy Fawkes Day.”

  “You mean they tarry until Bonfire Night?” Brisbane put in.

  “I mean they tarry until they’ve all had a chance to see his ghost,” she corrected. “His is the noisiest of the lot.”

  “Why, precisely is he the noisiest?” I inquired. Every schoolchild knew the story of Guy Fawkes. His plot to blow up the king and Parliament with gunpowder had been foiled, and for his troubles, the fellow had been tortured and sentenced to hang. Instead, he had jumped from the scaffold, breaking his own neck in the process and hastening his death.

  Mrs. Smith gave me a thin-lipped smile. “Because he reenacts his own death right here every fifth of November. He jumps off the parapet of the West Tower just as he did all those years ago. You can’t see him, but you can hear him scream, and then a sort of gurgling sound.”

  Portia pushed her veal cutlet away, her complexion slightly green.

  “But why does he haunt this place?” I pressed. “What connection does he have with Thorncross?”

  Mrs. Smith pursed her lips. “And why would I know such a thing? It’s not for me to explain the ways of ghosts,” she said with lofty dismissal. She stalked from the room, whipping the tapestry aside in her annoyance.

  Plum fixed me wit
h a gimlet eye. “If she forgets the champagne jelly, I shall never forgive you.”

  Portia tipped her head. “I don’t like it. Her name is Smith. I find that suspicious.”

  Brisbane roused himself. “Suspicious?”

  “Is anyone actually called Smith?”

  “Portia,” I said, striving for patience, “it is the commonest surname in Britain.”

  “All the more reason someone would choose it for a pseudonym,” she answered triumphantly.

  She fell silent at Mrs. Smith’s approach—thankfully with the champagne jelly borne behind her by yet another maid. When we had finished the meal and sent our compliments to the kitchens, we agreed upon an early night.

  “Best,” confirmed Mrs. Smith. “Good Christian folk ought to be tucked up in their beds before the dead begin to walk.”

  “But I’m not—” I trod on Plum’s foot heavily to stop him finishing the sentence. Mrs. Smith gave him a dark look and nodded towards the row of maids holding candelabra to light us upstairs.

  “Pleasant dreams and God keep you,” she said.

  We made our way upstairs, dismissing the maids and taking the candelabra for ourselves.

  Portia yawned broadly. “I don’t care about ghosts. I’m far too tired to bother even if one were to climb into the bed.”

  Plum resisted the urge to make a jest at her expense and turned to me. “Why did you stop me telling Mrs. Smith I’m no Christian?”

  “Because you are. You simply think it makes you more interesting to pretend not to be. And if Brisbane and I are to make our country home here, I should like to settle in before the local folk discover precisely how odd my family can be,” I informed him.