Chapter 6
Ghosts are troublesome things, in a house or in a family, as we knew even before Ibsen taught us. There is only one way to appease a ghost. You must do the thing it asks you. The ghosts of a nation sometimes ask very big things and they must be appeased whatever the cost.
“And this is the library.”
I trailed Lady Catherine as she led the way from the ornate dining room, across the black and white checkered tile of the foyer, toward a pair of doors to the right of the sweeping staircase.
The staircase was grand, branching in two at the second-floor landing—one arm leading to the drawing room, the other to the master’s study. Or, I supposed, Lady Catherine’s study.
“I expect it will become a second home to you in the coming weeks.” Lady Catherine threw a smile over her shoulder as she opened the door. “It’s not as grand as some, but it serves its purpose.”
I’d never stepped foot inside the Moore-Vandeleur library, so I had nothing to compare this one to.
My eyes swept over the book-lined partitions, floor to ceiling, as if the walls themselves were fortified with naught but leather-bound brick.
Brick that absorbed all light, despite the great bay window facing the front of the house.
Deep red wallpaper bloodied the walls, dripping in sheets from above, where a coffered ceiling depicted cherubs in each of its intricately chiseled squares.
Lady Catherine’s heels clacked over the smooth, dark wooden floor toward a great desk.
“Come, come,” she said.
I followed, heart pounding as Lady Catherine took her place in the master’s chair and promptly propped her feet on the polished, wooden surface of the desk. There had been no more outbursts from her, and no mistakes on my part, but I feared it would take time to settle into my new role.
“Now. To business.” From a fold in her skirt, Lady Catherine produced a pipe and brought it to her lips. “There are a few things to go over.”
Bending forward, Lady Catherine swiped the side of her heeled boot. Scritch. The hiss of a match rent the air, and the sweet scent of sulfur was soon replaced by tobacco smoke as Lady Catherine lit the pipe.
Another scritch, and she touched a fresh-lit match to an incense box that sat next to the inkwell of the desk. White smoke billowed forth, melding with the gray of her pipe, tobacco mixed with the same jasmine and lemon scent that wafted from the box in my room.
She glanced at me. “Don’t mind me. I like to cover the pipe with my favorite blend. The staff keeps it burning throughout the house, morning and night. Do let me know if it begins to bother you.”
“Not at all,” I replied, watching as the smoke steadied from a bulbous cloud to a thin, concentrated reed. The incense had been packed in a pattern, winding in thin spirals between metallic dividers, its burn now slow and steady.
Lady Catherine nodded. “Then to business. We don’t get any visitors, generally, isolated as we are, but the guest wing is always kept in a state of readiness—that’s the third floor, dear.
The second floor was Charles’s domain, so I do all my business from here, the library.
And though I daren’t venture to the study or drawing room, I realize sitting here with me all day could be a stuffy inconvenience, so you’re welcome to make yourself at home there.
That said, you have the run of the house until you’ve fully recovered your health.
” Lady Catherine took a long drag, then released the smoke on a breath.
I nodded, head swimming—from pipe or incense, I knew not.
“With the exception of the attic, that is. That’s where I was departing when we ran into each other upstairs. You noted the locks, I’m sure. The floor is unstable up there, and I’m the only one with access for fear of injury. You understand?”
Another nod, despite the cool draft that warned caution. But I shrugged it away as Lady Catherine continued.
“In the meantime, I expect you to eat your fill and exercise your mind. To pass as Wilhelmina, you’ll be expected to maintain polite conversation in company, and we’ll have to work on your elocution—refine your English. Then there’ll be some rudimentary French, as Wilhelmina was educated abroad.”
My chest tightened. Speech, yes. But French? “I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will. Do sit.” She spoke around the pipe, then took another drag before releasing it.
Bobbing a curtsy, I took the chair opposite as Lady Catherine gestured toward it.
“Now. The sea air will no doubt serve you well, so I insist on walks in the garden. When you’ve acquired a sufficient level of health, you may accompany Beth to the village. ”
“Yes, m’Lady.”
Lady Catherine raised a brow. “Mama.”
“Pardon?”
“Mama, dear. You must leave the past where it belongs for the time being, and you will call me Mama from this day forth. You must give no indication that you’re not who we say you are.”
Mama. Mom-aw. The English way of saying it. I closed my eyes and begged the Lord above that my own Mam—Mammy—could forgive me this sin, as she’d forgiven all others. What in the name of God had I gotten myself into? I’d come here hoping to bury my ghosts, not confront them head-on.
“Tea, m’Lady.”
My heart skipped as Aggie spoke from the door.
“Ah!” With a smile, Lady Catherine swung her legs from the desk and reached into her skirt pocket. “Right here, Mistress Lynch.”
In one smooth movement, Lady Catherine produced the key used to lock the attic door and opened a drawer.
Silver tinkled against porcelain as Aggie strode forward. “I took the liberty of adding a couple of scones, m’Lady. For the young mistress.”
My mouth watered at the thought. When was the last time I’d tasted Mam’s flaky scones?
“Excellent, Lynch.” Placing the key in the top drawer, Lady Catherine glanced at me as Aggie set down the tray. “Sugar?”
“Oh, no … that is, no thank you … Mama.”
Aggie poured two cups as I stared at the scones. Already cut, and slathered in creamy, golden butter. I knew I shouldn’t eat. Not so soon after breakfast … but maybe a nibble. Surely that wouldn’t cause my stomach to heave.
“I can handle the milk,” Lady Catherine said, waving toward the door.
“Of course, m’Lady.” With a curtsy, Aggie turned on her heel, the twirl of her skirt brushing my arm.
“A dash?” Lifting the delicate porcelain jug, Lady Catherine lifted a brow.
“Please,” I replied, before twisting in my chair. “Thank you, Aggie.”
She froze mid-stride and slowly turned. Lips pressed together, Aggie glanced at Lady Catherine before offering a nod in my direction.
Thump!
The sound echoed through the library, freezing the blood in my veins.
My eyes widened as Aggie whipped her head toward the wall of books to my right, and a tingle shot up my back when I spied a slim volume sprawled on the wooden floor.
I pursed my lips as the pulse at my throat startled to life, a horse whipped from walk to sudden canter.
Surely, the book couldn’t have simply fallen, and it certainly wasn’t there before.
“Blessed Virgin,” Aggie muttered, bringing a hand to her forehead to make the sign of the cross.
Without another word, glance, or attempt to put things back to rights, Aggie scuttled from the room, and I rose from the chair.
“Your tea, dear?” Lady Catherine tapped a silver spoon against the saucer beneath her cup, but my attention was firmly fixed on the fallen volume. “Don’t want it to get cold now, do we?”
“One moment. I’ll just pick that up.” I approached the leather-bound book, its jacket sprawled open, pages flipped over.
I furrowed my brow and dragged my eyes to the shelf.
Where its counterparts were tightly packed before, one now tipped over where this lone jumper once was.
Spirits didn’t bother me. Never had. What was Ireland if not death’s waiting room?
It was a comfort to think life went on in some way.
That maybe, somewhere, my family might be looking on from afar.
Bending, I plucked the book from the floor and quickly placed it back on the shelf.
“All this fuss,” Lady Catherine said with a snort. “Don’t let the staff’s contrariness infect your rationale. You’ll hear talk of some ‘woman in white,’ I’m sure. It’s all nonsense. Superstitious, the lot of them. There’s likely a lean on that bookcase. Lord knows, the place is old.”
Pursing my lips, I glanced at the golden letters declaring its title, only to find it wasn’t a book at all.
Tenant Registry 1828–present.
A quick scan of its counterparts revealed this was not where an accounting journal should be kept. Left and right, books on animal husbandry and agriculture sat in proud order, their spines cracked from dedicated study and hours pored over pages.
“Which one was it?” Lady Catherine asked.
With the middle finger of my right hand, I pushed the journal as far back, and as deep, as the shelf allowed, and with thumb and forefinger, I pulled the title to the right forward.
“On the Management of Bees,” I replied, offering a polite smile over my shoulder, despite the cool sheen of sweat that slickened my palms. Why on earth did I lie? “You maintain hives?”
Lady Catherine’s eyes widened in surprise, and she set down her cup. “God above. Perhaps there is a spirit haunting these halls.”
She laughed then, loud and hearty, but something about the pitch set my teeth on edge. Without thinking, I reached for the book to the left of the almost-concealed journal, and pulled that forward to match the title I’d called out.
“My dearly departed Charles once set his mind to raising bees,” Lady Catherine offered as she tempered her amusement.
“Ah, I see,” I said, forcing a bright smile as I pinched the two books together, to fully conceal the journal.
“Perhaps his spirit played a little trick just now to remind me of all the wonderful time we spent together,” Lady Catherine continued.
“Perhaps—” I began, but all thought of making polite conversation ceased.
My breath misted as a sudden chill rippled over my skin, and out of the corner of my eye, I swore I spied the flap of wings—a translucent bird in flight, gliding toward the specter of a familiar male figure before ducking behind a book shelf.
Eyes widening, I turned, but there was nothing there.
Except the strange echo of a long-forgotten memory that only I could hear.
Eitilt, eitilt, squawk!
And that was the last I remembered, afore suddenly, and completely, crumpling to the floor.