Chapter Five

THE RAIN HAD ceased during the night, and the morning brought a pale promise of sunshine. Mrs. Penloe waited tensely for some word from the new arrivals, but none came. Finally, well past nine o’clock, she went upstairs to peep into their bedrooms. Discovering the corner room deserted, she was not surprised to see the two ladies sharing the bed in the other room. What surprised her was the soundness of their sleep. Although the “ghost” had succeeded in frightening Lady Amelia from her bed, it had not managed to keep her, nor Miss Belden, from enjoying a deep and peaceful slumber.

Realizing that they were not likely to rouse themselves very soon, she prepared a breakfast tray for Lord Thorne and climbed the back stairs to his rooms. She found him awake, dressed and peering frowningly out the window. “Good mornin’, Master Harry,” she greeted him. “Lookin’ for somethin’ out there?”

“I was hoping to see signs of activity in the stables. Aren’t the ladies leaving?”

Mrs. Penloe shrugged. “Don’t know for sure. They be sound asleep.”

“They couldn’t be! Why, I’m certain the poor thing was frightened out of her wits. Do you know who that old lady is? My Great-aunt Amelia! It gave me quite a turn, I can tell you, when I recognized her. I’ve no liking for what I did to her. If I’d known that it was my sweet old Aunt Amelia whom I was frightening half to death, I’d never have done it.”

“Well, never mind, Master Harry. There weren’t no real harm done that I can make out. She be sleepin’ like a babe. Come to the table an’ have breakfast. I’ve made ’ee some eggs and covered ’em with scrolls, just the way you like ’em.”

Henry seated himself at the little table and picked up a fork. But his mind was not on eggs and bits of bacon, but on his unwelcome guests. “What am I to do now?” he asked, half to himself. “What if they don’t leave today? They may go wandering through the house, or—”

“I’ll keep an eye on’em,” Mrs. Penloe asured him. “An’ you can try again tonight.”

“But I don’t want to frighten poor Amelia again. Who’s the other one? Did you get her name?”

“Miss Belden, I was told. Lady Amelia calls her ‘Nell’.”

“Nell? Nell Belden? I don’t believe I know who … Wait, I seem to remember … a scrawny little brat that Sybil took under her wing. Helen Belden, that’s who she is. Perfect! Do you think, my dear, that you can persuade them to change bedrooms?”

“There’ll be no need, I’ll warrant. Lady Amelia was too frightened to return to her room last night—she bedded down wi’ Miss Belden. If they do stay on another night, ’tain’t Lady Amelia who’ll be in the corner bedroom.”

Henry Thorne smiled. “You may be right. Well then, my dear, by this time tomorrow, our house will be free of unwanted visitors.”

“’Tis a bit too cocksure you be, Master Harry,” Mrs. Penloe cautioned. “Miss Belden’s growed up since you last seen her, seems like. ’Tain’t no scrawny brat you’ll be dealin’ with. Seems to me she’s a good head on her, and a wide streak o’ stubborn pride.”

But Henry’s expectations would not be dampened. “Have no fear, my dear. If the floating candle doesn’t do it, I have one or two other tricks up my sleeve. They’re bound to send her packing quickly enough.” And he attacked his eggs with cheerful enthusiasm.

Amelia and Nell made no appearance until noon, when they came down the stairs and settled themselves in the sitting room which they’d occupied the night before. They had slept well into the morning and had dissipated the rest of it by arguing about remaining at Thorndene. Amelia was somewhat calmed by her few hours of sleep and by the fact that the daylight did indeed make the events of the night before seem like a dream. Nevertheless, she was all for making a quick return to London. Nell pointed out reasonably that such a course would result in her enforced marriage to Sir Nigel. Since no other course suggested itself, and since Nell offered to change bedrooms with Amelia (just as Mrs. Penloe had predicted), the elderly lady agreed to give Thorndene another chance.

Having instructed Mr. and Mrs. Penloe to meet with them in the sitting room, Nell set about making plans for the running of the household. It was decided that the dining room, the library, the morning room and the little sitting room in which they now sat should be cleaned and opened for their use, but that the rest of the house could be kept closed. Will Penloe was dispatched to Padstow with instructions to purchase sufficient provisions for their meals, to hire an abigail to assist the ladies with their clothing and comforts, and to aid Mrs. Penloe in tending to the expanded household. After he’d gone, the ladies asked Mrs. Penloe to prepare some sort of luncheon for them. Anything she had on hand would do, Nell told her, for they both were famished.

Mrs. Penloe, who had already opened and cleaned the dining room, set before them a modest luncheon of Cornish broth and something she called “Squab Pie.” To the ladies, who had not eaten a proper meal since they’d left Exeter three days before, the luncheon was delicious. The ingredients of the broth were easily identified—carrots, cabbage, pork scraps and leeks. But the squab pie was something of a mystery, for although Amelia tasted apple, bacon and bits of mutton in it, and Nell was convinced that onions and cream were also included, neither could find a sign of squab, or indeed any poultry, in the concoction. Nevertheless, they ate every bit that was put before them and sighed with contentment when they had finished.

During the afternoon, while Amelia retired to her room to nap, Nell, noting that the sky had brightened considerably, requested that young Jemmy take her on a tour of the grounds. The lad seemed reluctant but was persuaded to agree. He led her through the Great Hall and out the front door. She found herself in a courtyard protected from the wind on three sides by the main house and its two wings, and on the fourth by a fortress-like building with a large archway in the center. It was through this archway that they had entered the night before. “This is quite like a medieval fortress,” she exclaimed to Jemmy.

“Yes’m,” the boy answered, “that just what it is. In old Cornish, it was called the Dinas of Thorne. That means the Thornes’ Hill-fort.”

“Why Hill-fort?” she asked.

“When we come round to the back, you’ll see for yoursel’,” the boy said with a smile.

They walked around the east wing of the house, through some well-planned but overgrown gardens, to the back. There the land sloped sharply down to the cliffs which edged the estuary. The grounds close to the house were beautifully terraced and dotted with fascinating, wind-blown trees like those she’d seen from the carriage the evening before. But what took her breath away was the sight of the wide Camel Estuary beyond the cliffs and of the Atlantic beyond, stretching in gray majesty to the far horizon. The height of the grounds on which she stood permitted her a panoramic view of land, sea and sky. “Now I understand about the Hill-fort,” she told the boy with a smile of insight. “The Dinas of Thorne. Thorndene! The Thorne’s fort on the hill.”

She looked back at the manorhouse looming up behind her, its gray granite stone and mullioned windows shining in the light of the quickly setting sun. It was an imposing sight. “What are those buildings over there?” Nell asked, gesturing to her right.

Jemmy gave her a quick, nervous glance. “The … stables …” he said hesitantly.

“Let’s walk over to them, shall we?” she suggested.

“Well … I … ’Tis a longish bit o’ walk …”

“Nonsense,” Nell said briskly, keeping her eyes fixed on his face.

He flicked her a worried look and then lowered his eyes to the ground. “’Tis close to dinner time. My mum may have need o’ me in the kitchen.”

“It is getting late,” Nell agreed readily, “and I’ve kept you from your work too long. Go along to your duties, Jemmy. I’ll walk over to the stables by myself.”

Jemmy’s face flushed with alarm. “Yoursel’?” he asked uncomfortably. “You don’t want to do that! Why, ’tis … ’tis …”

“What, Jemmy? What troubles you, boy?”

The boy kicked at a pebble underfoot. “’Tain’t seemly, you walkin’ about by yoursel’,” he muttered.

She raised her eyebrows in cool rebuff. “There is nothing unseemly in my walking about on my own grounds. And it is much more unseemly for you to talk to me in that way,” she said reprovingly.

“Yes’m, I’m sorry,” the boy said sheepishly, but he didn’t move.

“Well, go along, Jemmy. Your chores are waiting.”

He sighed. “Best I go with ’ee,” he said truculently. “Mum’d trounce me proper if I let ’ee go off alone.”

“But why?” Nell asked curiously.

Jemmy, though a good, honest boy, was not at all lacking in imagination. The loneliness of his life in Cornwall encouraged his talents for pranks, storytelling and invention. So he was not long at a loss for words. “The presence, y’know,” he said in a suddenly conspiratorial tone. “I didn’t wish to frighten ’ee, but one cain’t be certain when the … the presence will show himsel’.”

“The presence? What do you mean?”

“The ghost, ma’am,” he said, looking at her with wide-eyed innocence. “The Thorndene ghost, y’know. Sure, you must have heard o’ the ghost?”

“More than I wish to,” Nell answered drily. “You don’t mean to tell me that a grown boy like you believes in ghosts?”

“Oh, yes’m, I do! An’ so would ’ee, if you’d seen him as many times as I’ve done!”

“So you’ve seen him, have you? Well, well! You stir my interest, Jemmy. I quite look forward to meeting your ghost myself. But now, if you please, lead the way to the stables.”

The reason for the boy’s reluctance to show her the stables was not clear to Nell at first. The buildings were unexceptional, well-kept and orderly, the few horses housed inside were healthy-looking carriage horses, and, in a corner stall, Nell noted a graceful mare who seemed perfectly suited for her to ride when weather should permit. But the boy’s unease did not abate. He stayed close at her side and seemed to be trying to hurry her out. A sudden, loud neighing cleared the mystery. Nell raised her head to trace the sound, but the boy tried to block her view. “What was that?” she asked, startled.

“Nought to trouble ’ee, ma’am,” the boy said promptly. “We’d best start back.”

Nell, ignoring his suggestion, thrust him out of her way and strode to the stall behind him. “Good Lord! What a magnificent animal!” she exclaimed as her eyes fell on the great black beast whose existence the boy had evidently been trying to hide. It was the most splendid horse she’d ever seen, combining a feeling of tremendous power with a graceful beauty. “Whose horse is that?” she asked, awe-struck.

Jemmy’s mind raced, but he could think of no explanation for the presence of such a horse. “Well, it … ah … it b’longs to the Thornes, o’course …” he said stumblingly.

Nell tore her eyes from the beautiful animal and fixed them on the discomfitted boy. “The Thornes, you say? How interesting. I’m surprised they keep him here, hidden away from the world, when he’d surely have been the talk of London had they taken him there.”

The boy shrugged without attempting to answer.

“Who exercises him? Who rides him? Surely not you?” Nell asked.

The boy lifted his head proudly. “I ride him sometimes … when he—I mean, when I’m permitted.”

“He? Who is it who permits you?”

Jemmy bit his lip. “My dad,” he said, lowering his eyes to the ground again.

“Is it your dad who rides him?” she persisted, disbelieving.

He glanced up at her briefly. “Yes’m,” he said shortly.

“I shouldn’t think a man his age could manage an animal that size,” Nell remarked.

The boy didn’t answer. After waiting a moment she shrugged and turned back to the horse. “Well, he seems very well cared for, by the look of him. What’s his name?”

“He’s called Caceres.”

“Caceres,” Nell repeated lovingly. “That’s Spanish, isn’t it?”

“Yes’m. That’s where he was bred,” the boy said, stroking the horse’s nozzle proudly.

Nell watched the horse for another moment. “He certainly is a beauty,” she said and turned to leave. With her hand on the stable door, she turned to look back at Jemmy, who was checking Caceres’ stall door. “But I can’t understand why you didn’t want me to see him.”

Jemmy opened his mouth to protest, but Nell stopped him with a motion of her hand. “Don’t bother to deny it, boy. I’m not easily put off the mark by lies—or by ghost stories, either.” And she turned on her heel and walked out.

Will Penloe returned before sunset, his wagon loaded with provisions and accompanied by the young woman he’d hired to be the a bigail. The girl was called Gwinnys, a name taken from that of a Cornish saint, she promptly explained. Gwinnys had a broad, heart-shaped face, full lips turned up in a perpetual smile and hair that hung about her face in unkempt tendrils, as if she’d washed it in the sea and had let it dry without bothering to comb it. She looked about the house with eager interest, keeping up a flow of excited comments about her delight in being permitted to work in the “great house.” Her thick West-country accent delighted the ladies, and by the time Amelia had helped her brush her hair and Nell had found a clean and proper dress for her to wear, they both agreed that they were pleased with her. The girl’s persistent cheerfulness, her enthusiastic eagerness to perform any task assigned to her (and many that were not) made her pleasant to have about. She brightened up the gloomy house considerably.

Mrs. Penloe viewed Gwinnys’ arrival with mixed feelings. While her presence would undoubtedly relieve Mrs. Penloe’s load of work, it would, at the same time, make her life more complicated; she would have to take special care to keep Lord Thorne out of sight. His meals would have to be prepared and spirited up to him only at times when Gwinnys was not likely to pop into the kitchen. All the Penloes would have to put strict guard on their tongues when the girl was around. More and more, Mrs. Penloe wished her guests would go away.

Nevertheless, it was an excellent dinner she put before the ladies that evening. The dining room, aired and dusted and gleaming, made Nell and Amelia glad they had worn proper dinner dress. They looked around in pleased surprise at the warm glow of the polished table, the epergne in the center filled with fruit and bright candles, and the cheerful fire in the hearth. The mutton, the smoked pilchards (a fish whose omnipresence any visitor to Cornwall soon learns to accept) and the Likky Pie were all deliciously prepared. Gwinnys helped Mrs. Penloe serve, her smile adding to the pleasant atmosphere. For the first time since their arrival, Lady Amelia showed signs of becoming her cheerful self. And after Nell suggested that Gwinnys be given Amelia’s dressing room in which to sleep, she became almost reconciled to remaining. The suggestion was greeted with equal eagerness by Amelia and Gwinnys. Gwinnys had never had such a beautiful room before, she exclaimed, and Amelia, with Gwinnys so close by, could face the night with a feeling of security. At long last, Nell began to feel that their stay in Cornwall might turn out to be not so very bad after all.

When they retired for the night, Amelia made Nell promise to call out loudly if anything untoward should occur. “I’m a very light sleeper,” she assured the girl. “The moment I hear you, I shall instantly rouse Gwinnys and we both shall come flying to your aid.”

Remembering the shaken old woman who had burst in on her the night before, Amelia’s brave words and vigorous tone made Nell laugh. She shook her head and assured her companion that she was not in the least worried about a ghost-visit. Then she went to her room and locked her door. Without the least hesitation, she crossed to the window and checked the latch. It was securely bolted. She drew the heavy drapes and closed the sheer curtains that covered the inner arch of the window enclosure. Then, true to her words, unperturbed by any nervousness or unease, she soon slipped into a deep, untroubled sleep.

When the ghost appeared, a little after midnight, he found it necessary to crash his chains into the wall three or four times before the sleeping figure made any movement at all. Finally, however, the sound penetrated Nell’s consciousness, and she sat up with a start. “Who’s there?” she muttered sleepily.

There was no answer but the rattle of chains, a thump or two, and a dim light appeared behind the curtain. Then, just as Amelia had described, a candle floated into view, exactly as if it were being held by an unseen hand. “Come now, speak up,” Nell demanded. “Who’s there? What sort of hoax is this?”

Again there was no answer, but the candle began to swing to and fro alarmingly. Nell leaned forward. “Stop that this instant!” she ordered. “Do you want to set fire to the curtains?”

Nell was sure she heard a brief snort of laughter, but the sound became a moan before she had time to identify it with certainty. The moan was low and definitely masculine. “So, there is someone there! Is it you, Will Penloe?”

There was another moan, but this time with an unmistakably negative tone.

“Are you trying to make me believe that you really are a ghost?” Nell inquired of the candle.

This time the moan was affirmative.

“Are you going to do nothing but moan?” Nell asked querulously. “I don’t see how we’re going to converse at all sensibly this way. Can’t you speak?”

There was another moan, but whether it was an affirmative or negative answer, Nell couldn’t say. She tossed aside the bedclothes and swung her legs over the side of the bed decisively. “Can you see me, ghost?” she asked. “I give you fair warning that I’m getting out of bed. If you don’t take yourself off this minute, I shall douse you with this pitcher of water.” And she reached for the pitcher on the bedside table and held it up for the ghost to see.

There was threatening rattle of chains, but the candle remained swinging through the air in an arc-like motion.

“Very well, then,” Nell said firmly. Grasping the pitcher in both hands, she crossed in her bare feet to the window enclosure. She reached out a hand to fling open the sheer curtains when a hideous wail stayed her. The sound made her courage flag, although it did not altogether fail. Without pulling back the curtains, she tossed the contents of the pitcher directly at the candle. To her astonishment, the flame remained lit. It was as if the candle were an illusion through which the water passed without effect. “Good God!” she gasped and backed away.

“Aha!” came a low, triumphant voice. “You are frightened after all!”

“I … I am not!” Nell declared. “It seems that you can speak, then.”

“When I wish,” the voice said.

“Well, then, I want you to know that I’m not in the least frightened. This is all some sort of trick.”

“I can see that you’re frightened,” the ghost insisted.

“Oh? Can you see me?” Nell asked curiously, taking a step forward. “I didn’t know whether or not ghosts can see—especially in candle form.”

“Of course I can see you. Quite clearly,” the ghost said in a matter-of-fact tone. “You are standing barefoot on this cold floor. Your right hand is clenched rather nervously at your side. And your nightcap’s askew.”

Nell’s hand flew to her cap. It had slipped over her left ear. Tossing a challenging glance in the direction of the candle, she set the cap on her head firmly. “There, is that better? You know, you are quite a rudesby to spy on a girl in her nightclothes.”

“Nonsense,” came a prompt answer, the voice quite unghostly and with an unmistakable touch of amusement lurking in it. “Such things don’t matter to us, you know.”

“Well, they matter to me!” she said, pattering back to the nightstand and replacing the pitcher.

“Then why don’t you hop back under the covers?” the ghost advised.

“No, I shan’t. This nightgown covers me well enough.”

The ghost chortled wickedly. “We apparitions have very good eyesight, you know. We can see through walls.”

“What—? Oh!” Nell gasped, looking down at her thin linen gown in horror. Without another word, she dived for the bed and drew the coverlet up to her neck. The ghost seemed to be struggling to keep back a very human laugh. “You needn’t laugh,” she said, putting her chin up defiantly, “for I don’t believe a word of what you’re saying. Come now, be honest. Tell me who you are! I shan’t call the magistrates if you’re straight with me.”

The voice became sepulchral. “I am the spirit of the late Harry D’Espry, smuggler and thief, born on the twelfth day of March, 1645, and died of sword wounds on the third of October, 1669.”

“Died so young!” Nell said mockingly. “How sad! And have you been haunting this place ever since?”

There was an affirmative moan.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Nell, “are you resorting to that dreadful moan again? What a pity!”

“You must go-o-o-o!” the voice said in a low, breathy wail.

“Why must I go?” she asked reasonably.

“This a place of danger!” he said in a frightening monotone. “You must go-o-o-o-o!”

“I’m not a bit frightened, Mr. D’Espry. And I intend to remain right here.”

The candle began to swing crazily. “You must go-o-o-o!” the low voice insisted.

“Stop swinging that candle, you fool!” Nell said, alarmed.

But the light had disappeared. Nell peered into the sudden darkness. “Mr. D’Espry? Mr. D’Espry? Are you there?”

The answer came from a long way off. “You must go-o-o-o-o!” The voice wailed and faded away.

Nell jumped out of bed, lit her own candle and stared at the window alcove. She could see nothing behind the white curtains. Taking a deep breath, she moved carefully toward them. Bravely drawing them aside, she raised her candle and looked around. The heavy window drapes were drawn just as she had left them, but she opened them anyway. The window was firmly latched. There was no sign of anything at all out-of-the-way, except for the puddle of water on the floor. She carefully scrutinized the panels of the thick walls, but they offered no clue. With a shrug and sigh, she pattered back to her bed. This time she left her candle burning. She reviewed and reviewed the entire conversation with the “ghost,” but sleep overtook her before she could make any sense of the incident.

While the rest of the household still slept, Mrs. Penloe carried his lordship’s breakfast tray up the back stairs. She found him dressed in his riding breeches, waiting only for his breakfast before taking off on his morning ride. “Be ’ee set on ridin’ today?” she asked in concern. “What if one o’ the ladies should see ’ee?”

Lord Thorne felt no anxiety on that score. “No one will see me. London ladies are not known to rise before ten in the morning,” he said cheerfully. “Besides, I’ll stay close to the edge of the cliffs. Caceres and I are not likely to be noticed if we stay so far away from the house.”

Mrs. Penloe took due note of his cheerful tone. She set down the tray and poured out a cup of steaming coffee for him. “Did your ghost do ’ee some good last night?” she asked hopefully.

He shook his head. “I’m afraid you were quite right about Miss Belden,” he said, taking his place at the table. “She’s an intrepid girl. I think it will take some doing to dislodge her. We’d better accustom ourselves to having them around for a while.”

Mrs. Penloe stared at him in surprise. He seemed not only resigned to the invasion of his privacy—he was almost cheerful about it! Could it be that the challenge of frightening the visitors from the premises was a source of entertainment for him? Perhaps the presence of visitors—especially a young and pretty one—was a pleasant change from the boredom of the life he’d been living. For the first time, it occurred to Mrs. Penloe that the invasion of the Thorne ladies into their lives might not be a very bad thing after all. Her lips twitched in an almost invisible smile. “Very pretty little creature, Miss Belden be,” she remarked casually, keeping her eyes fixed on his lordship’s face.

“Mmmm,” he assented noncommittally, absorbed in his breakfast.

Wisely, she said no more on the subject. She would watch and see. It promised to be a very interesting time.