Chapter 3 #2
Her shriek brought Lily, his sister, running from the drawing room, a flutter of pale muslin and lace, eyes brimming with happy tears.
Gervaise did his best to seem pleased to see her—he loved his sister dearly—but she would tell his parents, and they would expect him to go home and stay there, being made much of and introduced to innumerable young ladies.
He had no objection to ladies, but he’d never met one for whom he would make a good husband. No sane woman wants to marry a ghost.
“Shall you come to the assembly in Brighton?” Lily asked.
“Oh, please do, Ghostie darling! But you mustn’t fall in love with any of the ladies there,” she added gaily, “because I have quite made up my mind that you shall marry one of my friends, for if you do, we shall see each other much more often.”
And so it went, drinking tea and talking nonsense—he couldn’t possibly tell them what France was like after years of revolution and war, and how eaten up he was with self-disgust—until the guests left and the ladies retired, and he finally had a few minutes with Simon Best in the study.
“Damn it, Ghost,” his friend said, “how many days left? Three? Why risk coming here out of disguise?”
Gervaise threw himself into a chair in the study. “The arrival of Eddie Rose’s widow changes everything.”
“Inconvenient,” Simon said. “As I said earlier, you’re welcome to come here, but that would end the wager, I think.”
“To hell with the wager,” Gervaise said.
Simon snorted. “I’ve never heard you say that before.”
“I’m not giving in just yet,” Gervaise said, “nor have I gone to an inn. Staying where I am is more important than winning.”
“Wonders will never cease. But—"
“In any event, no one will find me out.” Unless Robin Somerville already had, but he had secrets of his own and would likely never let on, even to Gervaise himself. “As you say, it’s only a few days.”
“You can’t stay there, Ghost! She’s a young woman, admittedly a widow, but if it’s learned that you were there, it will tarnish her reputation.”
“I can’t leave her alone there, either.”
“But, my dear fellow, why didn’t she stay with her parents, as a young widow should? She must be scarcely more than a child.”
“She’s twenty-one years old. By what Eddie told me, her father, Lord Wrapton, is a brute.”
Simon grimaced. “I’ve met him once or twice. Estate near Guildford, as I recall. I can’t say I like him much. Fancies himself above everyone. King of all he surveys sort of chap. I don’t blame her for wanting to be out from under his thumb.”
“Yes, inheriting the house is her chance of escape. She is determined to make a go of living there. She’s short of funds, but I believe she can manage with what little Rose left her, added to the income from the orchard and the sheep.” He paused. “Better than turning it into a boarding house.”
“Good God,” muttered Simon. “That would never do.”
“She’s innocent as a lamb and about as helpless, which is why I’m here. You’re right, I can’t stay there for long, but for now, I feel responsible for her.”
“Why? You hardly knew Rose. Met him on the Continent, didn’t you?”
“He confided in me about her,” Gervaise said. “Felt sure he wouldn’t make it home alive, which proved to be the case. If she means to make a go of it, she needs friends. Neighbors to give her countenance and an aura of protection.”
“Ah,” Simon said. “You want my wife to befriend her, introduce her to the locals, and so on?”
“If she wouldn’t mind.” Gervaise glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “Damn, I’m late. I must be off.”
“Because?”
“Of something a JP is better off not knowing about,” Gervaise said, and fled.
* * *
Thisbe fell asleep almost at once but woke some hours later to the sound of a thump. And then nothing, which made her wonder if the thumping sound was part of a dream—one she didn’t recall. She sat up, turned up the lamp burning low by her bedside, and listened hard.
Nothing. No thumping except that of her own heart.
It wasn’t really surprising. She’d fallen asleep only because she’d been too exhausted for uneasiness to keep her awake. She didn’t like being alone in the house with only that strange old woman downstairs.
Suddenly, Eddie’s ghost appeared, motioning to her to get up.
Thisbe shook her head at him. “It’s the middle of the night.
I have a great deal to do tomorrow.” She couldn’t afford to let a ghost, or a grumpy servant for that matter, prevent her from getting a good sleep.
She turned the lamp down and settled under the coverlet, determined to fall asleep again immediately.
Creak!
She sat up, heart thumping again, but this time she knew where the sound had come from—the squeaky board in the room directly over her bedchamber.
She’d noticed it when inspecting the house that afternoon.
Annoyed, she turned up the lamp again, slid out of bed, and donned her robe and slippers.
She lit a candle and followed the triumphant ghost to the door.
The gallery was in darkness, save for a faint light from the windows. She crept toward the staircase. No light showed either below or above. She must have been mistaken. Old houses did creak sometimes in the night, so why was Eddie pestering her?
The ghost pointed upward and made a shooing motion, as if to urge her to take the stairs.
She balked. Ghosts didn’t understand human fears, since earthly danger didn’t affect them anymore. Who could possibly be up there? And why? Surely for something underhanded and perhaps dangerous!
Eddie rolled his spectral eyes—an unpleasant sight—and made an even more urgent motion with his hand, mouthing, “Hurry!”
She could ignore him, but on the other hand, he might have a good reason for wishing her to investigate that sound. She couldn’t afford to succumb to anxiety. No hesitation, she told herself. This was her house. She had every right to know what was going on.
She picked up another candlestick—the closest she could find to a weapon—and trod firmly up the stairs. Let the intruder hear her approach and tremble.
Good advice if the intention was to help her remain determined and unafraid. Unfortunately, there was no response from above, trembling or otherwise. Nothing but a nod and a grin from Eddie.
It was too late to turn around, so Thisbe trod gamely upward. Just as she expected, a flicker of light showed beneath the door of the garret above her bedchamber.
She thrust the door open. “What in heaven’s name is—”
A female figure by the window tossed a brief glance at Thisbe and said, “Hush!” Then she opened her mouth wide and let out a wail that would drown out a banshee.
It was Mrs. Wix, wrapped in a heavy cloak with a hood obscuring most of her face. She proceeded to open and close the shutters of a lantern several times. Eddie stood next to the housekeeper, looking mighty pleased with himself.
“How dare you order me to hush!” Thisbe said, but in a softer voice. “This is my house, my garret, and you have no business being up here pretending to be a ghost!”
“I’ll explain in a minute,” the woman hissed, a finger to her lips, astonishing Thisbe so much that a furious retort died.
So much for respect for one’s betters. Not that Thisbe really believed that some people were better than others merely because of an accident of birth, but surely an employee should be polite to her employer—especially such an understanding one as herself.
Mrs. Wix continued opening and closing the lantern in a strange, rhythmic pattern.
The air movement of the shutters, combined with the breeze from outdoors, wafted the scents of night and dead leaves, and closer by, horse and dirt.
What had she been doing in the stable? The woman surely needed a bath.
Suddenly, Thisbe knew what was going on. “You’re signaling to smugglers!” she said.
“I am not.” Mrs. Wix glanced at her again with a wide, mischievous grin. “I’m signaling to the revenue men.”