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Elizabeth took her tea to her bedchamber. She shut the door to the hall, shutting out her responsibilities. By habit, she freed her hair from its braided coronet. Then she slipped off her half-boots. For one hour, at least, she was unrestrainedly herself.
Family was with her in her small sanctuary.
That seashell on the corner of her desk, a wild and strangely shaped conch, gave the sound of the sea. Her brother had given it to her, after his tour in the Caribbean as an ensign.
That sketch was Mama’s, depicting their residence in Portugal. Elizabeth had loved that simple house with its cream stucco walls and redstone corners and earthen tile roof. She had claimed the square tower peeking around the corner. Mama had dabbed watercolor to highlight the greenery, and the surrounding garden looked as lush as Elizabeth remembered.
Pride of place in her bedchamber, on the table at the window overlooking the moor, was a tiny blue and white cut-glass bowl from Bruges, a gift from her father. Pale pink roses filled it, and their aroma filled the room.
She settled into her sole upholstered chair and sipped her cooling tea. The clock had chimed a late hour as she came up the backstairs. The day had tired her, and she did nothing more than stare out the window at the moor. Tonight the stars were missing. The air felt damp. A draft kept tracing through, giving a hint of chill. She should go to sleep. The tea wasn’t worth drinking.
Yet her mind spun with ghosts. The Silent Lady and another ghost.
Should I believe Jessa? Hicks, Jessa, Mrs. Beatty the laundress, and the kitchen maids, all those had said nothing while Jackman and Diderot and the footman had laughed about ghosts.
Whispers. Scratching. Knocks.
The hall clock chimed once.
Elizabeth shook herself. She could not explain what Jessa had described—and it was much too late to puzzle it over.
She tugged the curtains closed, lit a candlestick then blew out the oil lamp sharing the table with the cut-glass bowl. She remembered the oil lamp on her desk, and padded in stocking feet to her office. Stockings off next, and her toes curled on the cold floor. She unhooked the redingote with its peplum adopted as her housekeeper’s uniform. Whatever chemise and skirt she wore beneath the dove grey coat did not matter. She turned it inside out to air then unwrapped the scarf she’d worn as a fiche. By then she’d reached her corner washstand. She draped the scarf on the knob of her wardrobe, turned to the washstand—and realized that she had forgotten to fill her pitcher.
Jessa only did Elizabeth’s room on Monday and Fridays, when Elizabeth met with Lord Harcourt. The rest of the time, she maintained the room herself.
Chiding her forgetful mind, she rewrapped the scarf, country-style. Picking up the ewer and the candlestick, she headed for the pump in the scullery. Her bare feet were silent on the uncarpeted floors.
Hair down, only a light scarf covering her chemise and bare arms, she hoped that she met no one.
On her return, at the very crossing to her hall, Elizabeth was congratulating herself when she heard an odd sound.
She stopped. And shivered.
The noise came again. A moaning.
Was it the wind? No. Or—she hadn’t heard it like this. This was—like what? Fear crept over her.
The moan rose and rose. Not an animal. Not—it didn’t sound human.
The light of her candle flickered over the walls, casting strange shadows.
The moan started low, rose and rose, then ebbed again.
Not the wind.
In the house.
On the stairs above her.
Now wonder Jessa had sounded determined to leave. Elizabeth wanted to hide far away.
The moan began to die away, as if the poor suffering creature moved away from the stairs.
She carefully set her ewer on the floor then tiptoed to the entrance hall. She lifted her candle high to cast its light to the landing above.
Nothing moved. Nothing was there. Just the shadows of the landing, the blackness deep in the halls above.
A draft set her candle flickering. She quickly lowered it to guard with a cupped palm.
The moan came, a little muffled, as if the ghost had drifted into an upstairs hall. That was definitely not an animal. Or a suffering woman. Or a child. It sounded like a man.
Elizabeth clutched her scarf close and started up the steps.
The draft increased. The candle guttered. A wraith appeared, shrouded by the hall’s darkness.
A sooty-grey robe covered it, all tatters. Its hair hung in thick dark locks, partly over its pale face. Darker scars streaked down those whitish cheeks. Its eyes were hollowed shadows. Arms lifted—or she supposed they were arms. The grey shroud lifted as well, hiding the form of the ghost’s arms. She saw no pale hands. It beckoned, drawing those arms back to it in a curved embrace. And again. And again, and it moaned, the sound of it beseeching.
She climbed several steps—and the moaning stopped. The figure receded.
An increased draft blew past. The candle flickered wildly. Quickly she cupped the flame. Somewhere ahead, above stairs or down here, a window or door stood open.
That shrouded figure appeared again, faint but steady. The darkness shielded its soot-grey form. It moaned. And those shadowy hollowed eyes looked straight at her.
Her blood froze.
But Elizabeth had stood self-reliant far longer than her five years in service. Sense asserted itself over fear.
At least, she told herself it was sense.
She turned and descended the stair. Her nape prickled. That wraith watched her. The sense was like the instinctive warning she felt while riding in Portugal: watched with evil intent.
She could no longer claim that she didn’t believe in ghosts. This was too real. The moaning. The intangible wisps of the tatters. The eerie way it moved, gliding soundlessly. The emptiness all around them.
On the ground floor she glanced up, but the ghost had receded into a hall. She retrieved her ewer and sped back to her rooms.
Then she tried to lock her door. That’s when she realized she wasn’t calm. The key kept jittering out of the lock. She had to guide it in with both hands.
When the lock turned, she breathed relief, a little exhalation. She pressed her forehead to the door.
I am shaking. I’m freezing.
Fear, her brain analyzed, and she saw that ghost again.
Then a scraping sound came from the hall.
Elizabeth backed away from the door. She stared at the doorknob. Is it turning? Did it turn? She seized a side chair. She braced the straight back under the knob, a handy trick she and Alexander had used to win free time away from their tutors.
She held her breath as she listened again. Her pounding heart was too loud.
She fled into her bedchamber and shut that door—then jerked it open to snatch up the candle.
She had to return a second time for the ewer. She paused as she lifted it and still heard nothing. But that prickling sense warned her that someone listened on the other side of her office door.
She tiptoed into her bedchamber and soundlessly shut that door. Then she blocked it with another side chair. And all her care was stupid, for anyone could see her through the shared hearth—but only a scrawny child could crawl through the opening. And the child would have to come over the hot coals to reach her.
Still, she pressed her ear to the door. No sound. Nothing but the moor wind, gusting from the heights, rattling her window and skirling as it forced its way around the Grange.
Elizabeth flew to the window to check it was latched—then she opened it to draw the shutters closed and latch them. The wind pressed through the boards, cold, damp with approaching rain. Thunder rumbled distantly. She hurried to close and relatch the window.
Then she leaped into bed and pulled the covers over her head.
The storm came quickly, the wind shaking the shutters, thunder and flashes of lightning, and finally the heavy rain.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
The candle had burnt out when Elizabeth roused.
The memory of the wraith and its moaning immediately seized her.
But fear was not a friend. She had decided that long ago, and she wouldn’t back off that decision. She cast it from her with all to do on Friday, with tasks to prepare for her day and decisions to make—and what she would need to say to Lord Harcourt.
Should I tell him about the ghost?
No. A firm no. He already thought her too young. She wanted to give him no chance to think her too emotional, too imaginative, certainly too dramatic.
She tossed back the covers and slid out of bed. She had to fumble to light the candle. She hadn’t banked the fire before she climbed in bed, and the room had chilled. Candle lit, she felt more assured and began to assess herself.
She hadn’t removed her scarf or skirt before jumping into bed. The scarf was limp. Her skirt was terribly crumpled. It would need washing to remove the wrinkles. She hadn’t washed or brushed her teeth. The ewer still sat on the floor beside the washstand. Her hair would be tangled because she hadn’t braided it.
What time was it?
She stumbled to the window and opened the shutters before hurriedly latching the window again. Still full dark. The wind had died down, but the rain came steadily, a soaking rain, too chill to warm the fields for planting.
Her grandfather’s pocketwatch, safe in her coat, still ticked steadily. Nearly five o’clock. She carefully wound the watch then replaced it in her coat pocket.
The coldness of the ewer water completed her waking. She dressed hurriedly but carefully, for she would see Lord Harcourt this morning. She braided her hair and left it hanging down her back.
Ready for the day, she removed the chair, crept into her office and stood listening at the hall door. For the ghost? For someone who had played the ghost?
She wanted to believe the latter.
Yet fear of the former kept shivering through her.
Jessa would straighten her room later. Basin emptied out and new water in the ewer. Fire laid in the shared hearth. A few little items straightened. Clothing taken to the laundry.
She drew out the pocketwatch. Five. Jessa’s day would be starting. She would light the main hall sconces first, kindle the fires in the rooms that would be used. A kitchen maid would be starting her work, preparing for M’Sieur Diderot to appear at seven.
Mr. Hicks would prowl the service hall in the next half-hour. Tea, eggs, and dry toast at six with the other servants trickling in. Then the day was truly started.
Lord Harcourt would have coffee on a tray at eight. Their conference would be at ten.
Elizabeth took a deep breath, unlocked her door, and entered the hall.
Darkness. Silence.
Then she saw the glow of light, off in the entrance hall. Humming. Jessa was about.
She slipped her room key over her head.
The servants had spoken of ghosts. Jessa had wanted to leave. Last night, Diderot and Jackman had mocked the idea of a ghost, but the others said nothing.
Elizabeth didn’t like coincidences.
She encountered no one until she entered the kitchen where she found Celly and the spit boy yawning over their tea.
“Good morning. No, do not get up. I’ll serve myself.” She found a creamware cup, the rim nicked, and poured tea, adding cream. Then she sat opposite Celly and the boy and silently sipped.
After several minutes and a top-up of tea, Celly nudged the boy. He yawned and stretched then began to build up the fire.
Footsteps in the passage heralded more servants. Mr. Hicks came in, grunted, and left. Then came another kitchen maid, who made a fresh pot of tea and immediately started a third fill of the kettle. Elizabeth discovered she was in the way of bread slicing and removed herself.
The footman was first to join her at table. He said nothing, just sat with his eyes closed. A good ten minutes passed before Jessa arrived, with Jackman on her heels. Elizabeth greeted them all with smile—but she watched them closely.
In the kitchen, the fire was going
If her ghost had been a false ghost, she wanted an idea of who had tried to haunt her.
Diderot arrived early, talking with Hicks about supplies still lacking after yesterday’s trip to the market. As soon as he took his seat, the butler ordered Ian Rodgers to check the attics for leaks.
Soon, they all sat around the table, passing scrambled eggs and toast, topping up the tea in their cups with a steaming pot, hoarding the marmalade until they had all they wanted.
Elizabeth waited until everyone seemed content with their breakfast, then she set down her fork. “Do tell me more about the resident ghosts.”