Bridey noticed Lady Belinda wincing at the smashing glass. The other guests looked almost resigned, merely glancing around to be certain they weren’t in danger before returning to their tea and gossip.
The imperturbable Mr. Pascoe squinted through his monocle and looked about as if he smelled a cesspool. How a man as masculine as this Ives could hide behind dithering insouciance baffled Bridey, but she understood the why. Concealing strength disarmed lack-wits like Carstairs.
She shuddered at the shattering glass, imagining the eighteenth century pier glasses or Staffordshire china in ruins. Puzzled by the changes in her former home, Bridey turned to the woman who might be the next countess. “Have you visited before? Have these. . . occurrences. . . become common?”
Lady Belinda almost looked relieved to discuss the subject. “Carstairs has complained of it.” She looked a trifle embarrassed. “He blames you somehow. But this is my first visit. I don’t wish to believe in ghosts, but. . .”
Bridey shrugged. “There are spirits here, but to my knowledge, they are incapable of harm. Let us investigate the source of this last crash. I would hate to see the good crystal demolished.”
Leaving Pascoe to irritate their purple-faced hosts with his brand of effete diplomacy, Bridey strode from the room, directly to the butler’s pantry where the crystal was stored. Barker was gazing in dismay at a glass cabinet that had come detached from the wall.
“It’s the royal china, my lady,” he said in what was almost a wail of despair. “This cannot go on much longer or the spirits will bring the house down.”
“Nonsense, Barker. Someone has loosened the fastenings. Look at the plaster. Find who was working in here last and have him dismissed. That set was no longer complete anyway. What is the meaning of the atrocious furniture in the main salon? Did they crush the Queen Anne?”
Lady Belinda picked up an unbroken saucer from the collection and admired it wistfully. “This would have been lovely in the dining chamber.”
“Yes, well, china can be replaced,” Bridey said, examining the wall more closely. “People cannot. The Queen Anne, Barker?”
“There was a drunken brawl after your departure, my lady,” the butler said mournfully. “I should not say more.”
“Of course not, it’s no longer my affair. But a word of advice, if I may, hire only people you know and trust personally, people who would not see you or the other servants harmed, at least. I don’t need to read portents to see there is wickedness afoot.”
Not unintelligent, Barker straightened and nodded grandly. “Understood, my lady. Although the staff fears ghosts and departs daily.”
“I’ll take a look around.” Bridey lifted her skirts away from the shattered china. “But I don’t believe any of the family spirits would be inclined to damage china.”
Barker looked relieved. “They’ll believe you, my lady.”
She shot him a look of scorn. “They should have believed me earlier.”
The butler flinched as she sailed out, Belinda trailing behind her.
“What do you mean about family spirits?” the intrepid young woman asked.
“All houses as old as this contain elements of the people who have lived here. Just as you leave fingerprints in dust, they leave imprints of themselves on the household.” Bridey didn’t attempt to explain that she saw those imprints as auras.
“The first countess had exquisite taste, hiring William Adam—the father of Robert—to finish the mantels and salons,” she continued. “William wasn’t so well known as his son, but their tastes were classical. You’ll hear her spirit occasionally in the tinkling crystal in the chandelier. The earl who collected swords often casts a shadow over the display. Their spirits are just there. Ethereal beings cannot break china.”
Not to her knowledge, at least.
The lady paled but wordlessly scurried to keep up with her.
Bridey swept up the staircase to the landing where the swords had been displayed. They’d been relegated to one corner, replaced by a collection of old shotguns and blunderbusses, one of which was now lying on the stairs. “Really, Carstairs has the most abominable taste. If I were a spirit, I’d protest, too.”
She bent over to retrieve the battleax that had once hung proudly as centerpiece to the display. With the weapon safely in hand, she opened her third eye.
An aura of muddied angry red, and a sad, weak lemon-yellow, hovered over the fallen weapons. She thought it was the same aura who’d often hovered there, admiring the collection, but he was no longer proud.
She scanned their surroundings, but from this vantage point, she saw only the one unhappy spirit. She’d never felt endangered by the family ghosts, but for safety, she closed her mind again. There was so much anger in this household now, it didn’t seem wise to leave herself vulnerable. Was it possible for a spirit to rip weapons from the wall and drop them on Carstairs? She really couldn’t blame him.
“You see ghosts, my lady?” the girl asked anxiously.
“If you wish to call these ancient impressions ghosts, then yes. But they are truly no more than that—impressions. They cause no harm.” She hoped. She studied the wall where the fallen blunderbuss had been. “Look at that hanger where this gun should be.” She pointed at a bent iron support.
“It’s twisted?” Lady Belinda asked tentatively.
“Exactly, by human hand. While the earl was away, someone has taken liberties. I’d suggest you take him back to Edinburgh where he is safe until someone determines who wishes to kill him.”
The girl gasped and raced after Bridey as she strode back down the stairs.
“Who could possibly wish to kill him? Gilly is temperamental, upon occasion, but he’s not a bad man. He’s been all that is kind to me, although I am no one of great importance, when he could have any lady in the kingdom.”
“His brother is his heir. His laborers despise him for hiring Darrow. His servants are terrified and hate change, which he seems inordinately fond of. I am sure there are any number of other reasons people might despise a wealthy, powerful newcomer. They are no longer my concern, but they may be yours, so I warn you now. I’ll not be staying to help.”
Once upon a time she would have felt guilty for neglecting her duty to the village, to the earl, to the estate. Now, she gloried in the freedom to turn her back and go. At some point, people had to solve their own problems.
She had two important ladies in Wystan awaiting her return for the life-affirming duty of childbirth—two ladies who would not call her witch if anything went wrong. The window to her future was wide open.
“You aren’t really a witch, are you?” Lady Belinda asked, hurrying to catch up. “Lord Carstairs is not normally so superstitious. I cannot imagine what has set him against you so.”
“With a little more experience, you could. I’m a midwife, not a witch, but men like having someone to blame when anything goes wrong.” Bridey noticed the girl had gone from calling the earl by the intimate Gilly to his proper title, so she was no longer frightened. That bode well for the future, if the little idiot did not drive her off.
“A midwife,” the girl said in wonder. “And the late earl allowed you to do so? My father would have had an apoplexy!”
Had George cared about her at all, he might have had a fit also, but Bridey saw no reason to speak ill of the dead. “The village needs someone to treat their ills. Perhaps you could persuade Carstairs to lure a physician here. It would raise his standing considerably in the community.”
“I don’t dare make suggestions yet,” Belinda confided anxiously. “They are still discussing settlements.”
“There will be time. But do try to send him back to the city for now. The state of unrest here is dangerous.” Advising the girl increased her own anxiety. She needed to persuade Mr. Pascoe to depart with the twins. And her wretchedly stubborn brother. This place vibrated with hostility and danger. Perhaps some unemployed worker had come unhinged and decided burning the foundry wasn’t enough.
To her relief, Mr. Pascoe was leading the reptilian brothers into the foyer as she and Lady Belinda descended the stairs. The banshee had stopped howling, and no puzzling crashes delayed their departure. A short visit suited her fine.
“I am to inspect the foundry with Mr. Darrow,” Pascoe announced as they approached. “Do you wish to visit or shall I return you to the house?”
“The house, please.” She fretted over Pascoe going anywhere near the dangerous foundry filled with armed men, but she knew not to argue in the presence of others. Besides, he truly was no concern of hers, was he? “I need to return to Wystan.”
“The earl has invited us to a little soiree. Surely you would not wish to miss that?” Pascoe held out his arm to her.
Now that she was escaping this house that was no longer her home, she didn’t feel the need for his reassuring strength, but she wanted to leave more than she wished to make a scene. She took the bonnet Barker offered and tied it on. “I am sure I will know no one. I’d rather see how my patients are doing. And you still must decide what to do with the twins.”
Carstairs looked so relieved at her refusal that she almost changed her mind out of spite.
“Thank you for your hospitality, my lord, Mr. Darrow,” Pascoe said genially. “I’ll send a note around when I’m ready to visit your esteemed institution. If you’ll excuse us. . .”
“You will tell Uncle Willie that his aid would be most appreciated?” Carstairs asked.
“Of course, of course.” Pascoe waved nonchalantly while practically pushing Bridey through the door. “As soon as I determine that aid is actually needed.”
He hurried her over the threshold and the door closed behind them before the brothers could protest his last statement.
“They want an army. Why?” Bridey demanded.
“To prove they have the strength of the king behind them and to terrify the laborers into accepting inhuman hours and wages, naturally.” Bereft of his usual amiable demeanor, Pascoe’s square jaw set in angry determination. “The earl knows utterly nothing of his laborers. He leaves everything to Demon Darrow.”
Bridey thought of all the friends and neighbors with whom she’d grown up, patients of hers and her grandfather’s, people with whom she and Fin had played as children. There had been poverty and sickness, yes, but the village had been able to take care of its own. People worked, shared time with their families, shared what they had with others.
The foundry had created dreams of wealth, and for a very brief while, those dreams had come true, relatively speaking. People had added rooms to their cottages, bought finer clothes, talked of establishing a permanent school for their children. They had been happy when the benefits of newfound wealth had been fairly distributed.
It didn’t seem possible that in a year, the tide should have changed so drastically. "Is there nothing we can do to stop Darrow’s depredations?” she asked in despair. When she realized what she’d said, she wanted to wash her mouth out with soap.
“I was hoping you’d ask that,” Pascoe said in satisfaction, not giving her time to retreat. “I can send condemning reports to the king, but he cannot remove his godsons unless we declare them criminals. And even then, there is not much that can be done for the laborers unless Carstairs is forced to sell the foundry and mines.”
Bridey settled on the carriage seat and closed her eyes against incipient panic. What had she just done? Had she really offered to help? “I am only the dowager. I have no power here,” she reminded him as he climbed up beside her.
How had she not noticed his appealing aroma of shaving soap and masculinity? Despite the languid guise he presented to the world, Pascoe filled the old carriage with his presence, his energy, and his resolve. She must have slipped out of her mind earlier not to have leapt straight from the carriage and run far away.
“Power is overrated,” Pascoe said with a scornful wave. “Intelligence and information are what I need. Darrow will clean up areas to show me, let me talk to his pawns, and send me away confident that I will report the laborers are disgruntled for no reason. You will hear the true story.”
“Fin is the one you want, then,” she corrected. “He knows the men.”
“Fin is the hothead who got us here in the first place. He is as prejudiced against Darrow as vice versa. I want truth, not anger.”
“I still do not see what I can do,” she said stubbornly.
“Rid the manor of ghosts,” he suggested. “Coax Carstairs to trust you. I need to know what is happening in his head, if anything. And the servants can tell tales.”
“Absolutely not!” Horrified, Bridey willed the old horse to go faster. “There are no ghosts, just a malicious hand at work.”
“Carstairs is convinced otherwise. He will not believe his brother or anyone else would harm him. I doubt that it’s even entered his empty head. The lad is not bad, just inexperienced, spoiled, and a trifle stupid. I’ll help you convince him that the ghosts will listen to you, that it was his fault in turning you away that is causing the damage.”
“I cannot see how this will help,” she said stubbornly. “I must return to Wystan. The birth of two babes wins over imaginary fears. And you should be looking into the care of the twins.”
As if her words were prophesy, two sprites popped from the rhododendron beside the drive. Each carried a cooing pigeon in their arms. At sight of the carriage, they smiled broadly.