Chapter Twenty
Ghosts are just the manifestation
of thaumaturgic energy. You should not
be afraid of them. You should be bloody terrified.
I, on the Past, Cornelius Ottersock
Hilda led them to another door some distance from the ladies’ salon, but upon cracking it open and peering through, she closed it again immediately.
“Sir Nigel is in his study,” she whispered to Amelia and Caleb.
“You’ll need to go through the servants’ domain instead.
Just keep your heads down and move quickly.
Don’t let Grimshaw catch you, for God’s sake, or you’ll be sorry.
” A few minutes later she tried another door, opening it warily.
“All clear,” she whispered. “Good luck!”
“Thank you so—” Amelia began, only for her words to stumble, along with her feet, as Caleb pulled her across the threshold.
Once Hilda had closed the door behind them, he grumbled, “Please tell me that, next time you’re kidnapped, you won’t thank the person.”
“There is no circumstance in which one should surrender one’s dignity,” Amelia replied archly as she looked around the corridor in which they found themselves.
It was not much wider than the one they had left, but bore the dignity of radiant wall lamps, lemon-scented polish, and a well-swept floor.
The noise of clattered dishes and jostling voices came from nearby.
To their right was a door marked Linen; to their left, at the end of the corridor, a door stood half-open to what Amelia believed was the manor’s central hallway.
She looked questioningly at Caleb—he shrugged—and with this discussion concluded, they proceeded toward the exit.
Suddenly, a footman appeared through an opening in the wall ahead of them, swinging an empty silver tray in his hand as he made for that same door.
Amelia and Caleb stopped, holding their breath, but he had not noticed them.
However, it had become clear that they would be forced to pass by the kitchen.
Without a doubt, they were going to be seen.
There was nothing to do except keep moving.
With a pace that tried to balance between a casual stroll and running like hell, they walked past the entrance to the kitchen, not daring anything more than a glance inside.
A half dozen servants were sitting or standing casually around a long table, laughing as they watched one footman perform a scathing impression of Professor Throckmorton—“Brain? None!”—while employing a salt grinder as a pipe.
Amelia hastily clapped a hand over her mouth to repress a laugh of her own.
But the movement attracted the attention of a chambermaid, and two seconds later everyone was staring at them, including a man at the head of the table who bore an uncanny resemblance to the butler, Grimshaw.
He could surely not be Grimshaw, however, considering the way he slouched comfortably in his chair, wineglass in hand, face reddened from excessive laughter.
“Oi!” he shouted, proving his identity—for although the voice lacked its usual funereal timbre, it still managed to send a chill through Amelia and Caleb.
They immediately came to a halt, Amelia feeling half inclined to salute.
After all, in England’s hierarchy of authority, only the Queen is superior to a butler (and even then, not to her own).
“What are you doing here?” Grimshaw demanded.
Caleb pointed first to himself then to Amelia. “Us?” he asked innocently.
“No, the horde of barbarians behind you,” Grimshaw quipped, then laughed again.
It was the loose guffaw of a man well pleased with his own intelligence, despite not really having much of it.
In response, the rest of the servants chuckled, but their expressions had tightened with what looked rather disconcertingly like nervous anticipation.
“We were looking for the drawing room and got lost,” Amelia said. “So sorry for interrupting your evening. We’ll just be on our—”
“Come in, join us!” Grimshaw urged with a sweeping gesture that almost had Amelia flinching before she understood that he was welcoming them.
“We’ve got the good coffee in here! Sit down, sit down.
I’ll tell you all about the history of Ravenscroft Manor.
When I was a young man, things sure were different around this place! ”
Perhaps he is Grimshaw’s twin, Amelia thought, bemused.
Behind his back, two footmen with rictus smiles were shaking their heads urgently in warning.
Several others peeled away from the group and began making themselves busy stacking dishes, dusting furniture, or moving candlesticks back and forth as if a difference of three inches were of vital importance.
Grimshaw, noticing none of this, gestured again.
“Come on, you’ll be fascinated by some of the things I can tell you,” he enthused. “There was this time the prize ram got free from his paddock…”
Someone groaned. The two footmen were grimacing like they were in pain.
Amelia now understood why Hilda had warned against getting caught by the butler.
His dolorous manner was patently just an act, the truth of his character being something far worse: jocular.
Indeed, as he prattled on about the absconding ram, a twinkle in his eye suggested that, at any moment, he might suddenly leap to the heights of old-man humor; i.e. , removing his false teeth.
“Terribly sorry,” Amelia interrupted him, even as Caleb grasped her elbow and began tugging her along the corridor.
“We are in a dreadful hurry. But we shall return with pen and paper as soon as we can, to take proper note of all your—” At which point, they were through the doorway, and Caleb shut the door firmly behind them.
“Right,” Amelia said briskly. She began to stride down the hallway with such a rapid pace that Caleb had to half jog to catch up. “We’ve missed apprehending Vanity in Staveley, but that’s no excuse to slack off. If we leave at once, we might be able to get a ride on a late-night freight train.”
“A freight train from Windermere,” Caleb said dubiously. “What will it be bringing, container loads of poetry books? Maybe we should hold off until morning.”
“No,” Amelia said, not so much an argument as a command. “Look, there’s the front door right ahead of us. I am leaving this house now, while I have the chance.”
“Wait—Lady Ruperta mentioned raincoats.”
Amelia considered this, accepted it as an excellent point, but did not slow down. She had her momentum back and it would take more than raincoats to stop it.
“Also, we haven’t had any dinner,” Caleb added. “We should pack some food to take with us.”
Another worthwhile point, reinforced by the fact that they were approaching the parlor, from wherein came delicious aromas—although also the sound of conversation, which was almost enough to spoil her appetite.
Apparently, Dummersby and Throckmorton had taken the news of Vanity’s thievery with a grain of salt—and a dollop of gravy on their roast chicken, from the smell of it.
Amelia considered entering the room, did a rapid cost-benefit analysis of the kind her parents taught her when she was still in the nursery, then pivoted so sharply that Caleb almost collided with her.
“We shall go back to the kitchen for supplies,” she said, taking his arm to turn him. “And then we shall start walking to the village. We can eat as we go.”
“Amelia, wait,” Caleb urged as she towed him along with her. When she ignored this, he stopped, requiring her to either stop also or else release him. He knew her too well, damn the man. She was constitutionally incapable of letting him go.
With a little flash of impatience, she halted. “What?”
Caleb stepped forward until he was at her side, sliding his arm around her back and drawing her closer to him. “Meely, sweetheart, take a breath. Let’s go upstairs and pack our suitcases. We can call a servant to bring us what we need.”
“Suitcases? You’re willing to carry your luggage all the way down to Staveley?” She gave him a wry look.
“And yours also,” he said, smiling with a sweetness she knew perfectly well was in fact him being cheeky. “And I’ll carry you on my back too,” he added winningly. “Might as well make use of this magnificent physique. I’ll be your hero, Professor Amelia Tarrant.”
She huffed. “You’ll grizzle the whole way.”
“Of course. I have a soulful nature. How can I not, when I am met with beauty in the mirror every day?”
Amelia couldn’t help herself; she laughed. “You are ridiculous.”
“And you love me for it,” he replied, grinning.
“I—” she began automatically, and closed her mouth before she exposed too much truth.
She did love him, ridiculous man that he was.
Lovely, kind, generous man. But kisses in Cumbria did not equate to anything real in Oxford, and should Throckmorton appear in the corridor at that moment, they’d need to step apart and snarl at each other.
Amelia knew herself to be brave, but not even she possessed enough courage to place her truth in such a position.
“I agree that your plan is a good one,” she said instead, and allowed him to turn her to again face the entrance hall and its stairs leading upward.
Abruptly, they stopped, eyes widening at the sight that met them.
“Uh…” was all Amelia could manage to say.
“What the…” Caleb said, equally dumbstruck.
They stared in utter bemusement at a dark, narrow passageway leading to the mudroom.
“I must be more tired than I realized,” Caleb said eventually. “I could have sworn we were heading for the entrance hall.”
“We were.” Taking a step forward, Amelia set her hands on her hips and turned in a slow circle to comprehensively frown at the passageway.
Had it been an undergraduate student rather than a piece of architecture, it would have transformed immediately, with apologies, into the entrance hall.
But not even Amelia’s strictest look could perform such magic. Something had, though.