Chapter 2
Four years later, on a lonely stretch of road not far from Brighton
The gig carrying Thisbe Rose and her baggage pulled up at the entrance to a cart track, and the groom who drove it waved a hand toward an old stone house nestled back from the road in a sea of weeds.
“That there is Lucky Cottage. Don’t know how lucky you are to own it, though, ma’am.
You want we should go up the track, or maybe just turn around and leave? ”
Leave? Not the slightest chance of that, when the only alternative was to return home. She now had a house of her own and a little money. Somehow, with thrift and industry, she would get by.
Despite the evident neglect of the grounds, the house looked to be in tolerable condition. It had three floors—ground, first, and attic dormers, as well as a cellar, and plenty of windows to let in the light.
“The track seems relatively clear,” she replied, “so please drive up and help me unload my belongings.” As the gig rattled toward the house, she added, “Mr. Dent said there were servants here—a housekeeper and a man of all work.” Mr. Dent was the landlord of the Old Oak Inn on the outskirts of Brighton, where she had spent the night.
“Aye, ma’am, but they’re not the sort you’re used to, that’s for sure. The housekeeper’s a surly old woman, but no one else would stay, because of the ghost.”
“As I told Mr. Dent, I’m not afraid of ghosts.” Nor would she allow the innkeeper, the groom, or any other man to frighten her back to her father’s house.
The groom, a gloomy middle-aged man, tutted. “As for the man of all work…” He indicated the vast expanse of tall grass, unpruned bushes, dense, dark yews, and looming over all a massive, half-dead oak with its remaining leaves already on the turn in this chilly October.
“He doesn’t seem to have done much lately,” Thisbe admitted, wondering if leaving the place untidy made it useful for smugglers.
Not that Mr. Dent had mentioned such a possibility; he almost certainly bought smuggled brandy but was, she suspected, far too shrewd to be so obvious about discouraging her.
However, they weren’t far from the coast, so she wouldn’t be surprised if smugglers used her outbuildings.
Perhaps it was they who kept the track clear.
If she were a smuggler, though, she would cultivate a facade of respectability, not neglect.
“I expect it’s too much for one man to handle,” she said. “I understand there’s an orchard behind the house, as well as a stable and a few sheep as well.”
“Aye.” The groom nodded glumly and halted before the front door. “I hope Mr. Dent warned you that a highwayman rides this road.”
“What would he want with me? I have nothing of value to tempt such a person.”
The groom sighed and helped her down, then strode forward to knock on the heavy oak front door. While they waited, Thisbe had a good, long look at the house. The mullioned windows had lovely diamond panes, but the curtains were closed. Why, on such a beautiful autumn morning?
A minute passed, and the groom banged his fist hard on the door.
A curtain at one of the front windows twitched open, and a long, dour face peered through.
“Hold your horses,” came a grumpy voice, followed by the sound of bolts being drawn back.
The door opened enough for the same face, under a tattered mobcap and framed by untidy yellow curls, to glance suspiciously at the groom, and then, as if fascinated, at Thisbe.
“This is Mrs. Rose, the new owner of Lucky Cottage,” the groom said. “Inherited it from her husband, Captain Rose, what died in the war.”
The housekeeper couldn’t seem to decide whether to glare or…to laugh? A rusty chuckle escaped her mostly black teeth. She dug a pair of spectacles from an apron pocket and put them on, the better to stare at Thisbe, it seemed.
Thisbe trod firmly forward. “Open the door properly, if you please. We must move my belongings inside so this good man may return to the Old Oak Inn.”
The housekeeper grudgingly obliged. She was tall for a woman and sturdy, dressed in a round gown with a muddy hem, around which was tied a voluminous apron. She wiped her hands on it, sending puffs of flour into the air.
Thisbe marched past her into a surprisingly clean entrance hall with a bench for visitors and a table with some candles and a lamp.
To one side was the door to what looked to be a drawing room.
On the other side was a dining room and ahead was a flight of stairs.
From somewhere in the rear wafted the enticing smell of mutton and onions. Seemingly, the woman was able to cook.
The groom followed with Thisbe’s worldly goods. She hadn’t taken much from home—mostly clothing and books, as well as a few sheets and blankets in case she found nothing useful in the cottage, which supposedly had been all but empty for years.
“Where shall I put these?” the groom asked. “Upstairs?” He glowered at the housekeeper, who was still staring. “Look lively, woman. This lady is your mistress now.”
“I’ll be fine,” Thisbe told the groom, pressing a coin into his hand. She turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. ah—?”
“Wix,” the woman said in a creaky voice, dipping into a gawky curtsey.
“Pleased to meet you,” Thisbe said and dismissed the hovering groom. “Mrs. Wix and I shall take it from here.”
“Right you are, ma’am.” The groom shook his head and took himself off.
* * *
Gervaise Hervé Olivier Storm Transom wasn’t often taken aback—one couldn’t afford it while spying for the English in various disguises in France—but the war had been over for two years now. Evidently, he was out of practice.
Surely—surely he had met this lady before, but where? She didn’t look particularly memorable—petite like many other women, hair scraped back unappealingly like a governess, and wearing a frown which rendered her regular features far less pleasing than they would otherwise be. And yet…
He shook away the memory, which didn’t matter for now. So…this was Eddie Rose’s widow.
He shouldn’t be surprised at her sudden arrival.
Eddie had confided in him one drunken night in Vienna not long after Napoleon’s escape from Elba.
He’d just received his captaincy and looked forward to fighting once again.
“We’ll get Boney for good this time, although I have a feeling my luck has run out,” Eddie said in cheerful and correct prediction, “but I fear for my hapless little wife.”
By what Gervaise understood, she was a cousin who’d been taken advantage of by a dastard and forced into marriage with Eddie for the sake of her reputation.
Eddie had left the girl everything he possessed, including Lucky Cottage, in the care of a solicitor until her twenty-first birthday, after which she was free to do what she chose with it.
If she dared. Her father, apparently, was a brutal old tyrant who would consider it his right to control his daughter and her property now and forever, no matter what.
Judging by the way she had marched in, she did indeed dare. Good for her, he thought, but inconvenient for him that she’d taken her life into her own hands just at the time when Gervaise needed to remain holed up here in disguise.
Only for a few more days, though, thank God. He was itching to get back into comfortable men’s clothing again. His own fault, of course. He should have known better than to make another wager with his friend since boyhood, Sir Simon Best.
In Simon’s study one night, they’d smoked cheroots and spoken about Gervaise’s years as a spy, and avoided the forbidden topic: how unfit he felt for life at home in England, and where he might run to next.
Simon had got the calculating look that should have warned Gervaise, and said, “You can’t mean to say you disguised yourself successfully as a woman!”
“Several times,” Gervaise said. “The French were always looking for a young man, not an old woman.”
“You managed for a few days at most, I assume,” Simon said. “Fifty quid says you can’t do it for longer. Six months, with no one realizing you’re a man.”
“Done!” Gervaise retorted idiotically. He knew full well that Simon wanted to keep him from vanishing for months again, but he wouldn’t refuse a wager with his oldest friend.
They set the terms: Gervaise to occupy Lucky Cottage as its housekeeper.
Simon was keeping an eye on the place for the owner’s man of business, and the previous housekeeper had left because of a supposed ghost.
“My man will have to know,” Gervaise said, having hired one the day before. “No one else.”
Now, with only a few days to go, he smiled to himself. Inconvenience just made the wager more of a challenge.
“Tell you what, missus,” he said, slipping into the uncultured speech he used in this role.
“The rooms on the first floor are under Holland covers and such.” He champed his teeth, making vulgar sucking noises before adding, “Let’s leave your bags here, shall we?
How ‘bout a cuppa tea while I get the pie in the oven, and then I’ll clean them rooms.”
“I shall only need one room for now,” Mrs. Rose said. “I shall inspect the rooms first and have tea later. Go ahead and prepare your pie, while I choose which bedchamber I prefer.”
Gervaise muttered under his breath and returned to the kitchen, pondering what to say when she came down and confronted him in righteous indignation.
* * *
Thisbe headed up the stairs as the sound of the housekeeper’s heavy gait receded. The woman disappeared into the rear of the house, and Thisbe heaved a sigh of relief at being alone.
In her very own house. With no one to tell her what to do. Or think. Or say.
Except for Eddie’s ghost, who waited at the top of the stairs. He grinned at her, indicating his pride in the cottage with a sweep of his spectral arm.