Spellbinding Spirit (Greenview Manor Tales #5)

11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Sebastian

T he Greenview Manor Hotel hums with the usual morning bustle. Guests linger over breakfast in the dining room, housekeepers chat quietly as they ready their carts, and I’ve already had to deal with a mix-up over room keys. Typical day. Or it should be, but my mind keeps wandering and no amount of spreadsheets or guest queries can keep it from drifting to the attic. To Cat. She has only be gone for a few days but I miss her already.

“Seb?” Marisa’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. She’s standing at the front desk, clipboard in hand. “You okay? You’ve been staring at that computer like it offended you.”

I blink and realise I’ve been scrolling the same guest list for the past five minutes. “Fine,” I say, closing the tab quickly. “Just a lot on my plate.”

She tilts her head, the sunlight from the tall lobby windows catching the reddish tones in her dark hair. Marisa’s one of those people who radiates calm, a quality I envy. “Busy weekend with your friend?” she asks, her smile easy. “How did the ghost-hunting go?”

I shrug and keep my tone casual. “Oh, you know. Just creaky floorboards and old pipes. Nothing exciting.”

Her smile widens knowingly. “I bet that’s not what Cat would say. She seems... professional.”

I chuckle, relieved there’s no judgement in her voice. “That’s one word for it.”

“She’s nice,” Marisa says, leaning against the counter. “Smart, too. Have you known her long?”

“It feels like forever,” I reply. “We met in our twenties and she’s been dragging me into her weird adventures ever since.”

Marisa straightens, flipping a page on her clipboard. “Well, if you need me I’ll be in the dining room. Don’t work too hard.”

“I’ll try,” I say, giving her a quick smile as she heads off.

Once she’s gone I retreat to my office and close the door. The space feels quieter than the bustling lobby but my thoughts are still restless. I sit down at my desk and stare at the blank screen of my computer. I’m supposed to be finalising staff rotas but my mind veers to Cat.

Her laugh echoes in my memory, the way she teased me over breakfast, the way she looked when she was reading George’s letters. And then of course there’s that night. The heat of her kiss, the feel of her hands on my skin, the way she whispered my name like it was something precious.

My phone buzzes on the desk and rattles against a stack of papers. I glance at the screen: Cat . My stomach does a little flip and I grab the phone before it can buzz again.

“Hey, Professor,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.

“Sebastian!” Her voice is electric, buzzing with an excitement that’s all too familiar. “I found something. About George.”

I sit up straighter, her words snapping me to attention. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she says, practically breathless, “I’ve been digging through records since I got back and I came across a site dedicated to soldiers who were executed for cowardice during World War I. I think I found him. George Moyes.”

Her words hit me like a gut punch. “Executed?” I repeat, the word landing hard. “What—how?”

“Just listen,” she says, her voice steadying but still charged. “There’s a profile for him. It matches what we know from the letters. Born in Kendal, Cumbria. Served in the King’s Own Royal Lancaster Regiment. Fought at Ypres in 1915.

Her voice catches, and I grip the phone tighter. “And then what?”

“And then... he was executed,” she says, quieter now, like she’s weighing every syllable. “For cowardice. June 1915. It’s him. I’m sure of it.”

The words hit me harder than I expected. George. Executed. I lean back in my chair and stare at the wall as her words sink in. “Cowardice,” I echo, barely able to wrap my head around it. “He was fighting for his life and they... they shot him?”

“It was more common than many people realise,” she says, her tone shifting to that professorial calm she always gets when she’s explaining something. “Men suffering from shell shock… what we’d call PTSD now, were often labelled as deserters or cowards. Hundreds of them were executed. Even though most of them were just... broken.”

Broken. The word hangs in the air between us. I think of the letters, of George pouring his heart out to Sally and holding onto her memory like it was the only thing keeping him afloat. Could Sally really still be waiting for him after all these years? Maybe.

“Tell me everything,” I say, sitting forward. “What else did you find?”

“I’ve got his profile up,” she says, the sound of typing in the background. “It’s part of a site dedicated to soldiers who were posthumously pardoned. They’ve got his service number and regiment details, even a copy of the court martial record. It says he was found behind the lines after a particularly brutal attack. Witnesses said he was confused and unable to give a clear account of how he got there. He just kept mumbling the words: I need to get to her. They accused him of desertion.”

I shake my head, anger bubbling under my skin. “Desertion? He was probably in shock. He was twenty-two years old, for God’s sake.”

“I know,” she says softly. “The record even mentions that he seemed... unwell. But back then they didn’t understand. They called it cowardice and made an example of him.”

I stand, pacing the small space of my office, the phone pressed to my ear. “And all he wanted was to return to his love. Why didn’t Mrs Harris mention it?”

“She couldn’t have known,” Cat says. “Families weren’t told the details, especially not in cases like this. The stigma was unbearable. His name was probably left out of local memorials too. It’s like he was erased.”

The thought makes my chest tighten. George wasn’t just erased from history, he was erased from Sally’s life, leaving her with nothing but unanswered questions and an empty space where his love should have been.

“What do we do with this?” I ask, my voice quieter now. “What’s the point of digging all this up if we can’t... I don’t know, fix it?”

“We can’t fix it,” she says, a note of sadness creeping into her tone. “But we can give Sally the truth. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s all she needs to move on.”

Her words sit in the air and I stop pacing, leaning against the desk instead. “Do you think... she knows? Wherever she is now?”

Cat hesitates. “I don’t know. But I want to try to tell her. If she’s still here, still waiting for him... maybe this is what she needs to hear.”

I rub a hand over my face, trying to process everything.

“Alright,” I say finally. “What’s your plan?”

“Well,” she says, and I can practically hear her shifting into work mode, “I’ve got the number for the charity that runs the website. They might have more details like witness accounts or letters from his regiment. I’m going to call them but I wanted to tell you first.”

I glance at the notepad on my desk, blank except for the name George Moyes scrawled in my messy handwriting. “When you have more please let me know.”

“I will. And I could come up on the weekend… to talk to Sally.” There’s uncertainty in her voice.

“Sounds good. I’m working during the day on Saturday. It’s Valentine’s Day so we’re fully booked. But I finish at six and we can have dinner and then head to the attic,” I suggest.

“Not sure I want to frequent a restaurant on Valentine’s Day,” she laughs.

“I’ll cook.”

“That sounds good.”

“Great.” Guess I’m going on a double date with two ghosts and my best friend on Valentine’s Day.