Chapter 6 #3
Master Everel, seated to her other side, smiled rather paternally upon her.
“Well, my lady, there have been many sightings of a young boy who walks the upper gallery at night in his bed shirt. Many servants have even spoken to him over the years. He asks for water, but whenever it’s brought to him, he’s gone. ”
“Oh, that’s chilling, Master Everel.” Leaf gave an eloquent shudder, spoon frozen midair. “Do you know who he is?”
At the head of the table, the duke cleared his throat. “Believed to be young Lord Edmund Monterris, who died of fever in 1676, though I have not seen him myself.”
“Have you, Master Everel?”
“No, my lady, though I have seen the Pale Lady.” By now the whole table had stopped their conversations to listen, and with so attentive an audience, Master Everel drew himself up.
“She walks the front courtyard, you know. A ghostly woman in a white dress who paces back and forth, awaiting a husband who will never return.”
“I think I would rather meet the little boy than the Pale Lady,” Leaf said.
The duke, far less entertained than his entranced guests, gave his longtime vowsmith a warning look before saying, “Believed to be Lady Elizabeth Reed, waiting for the second duke. He died in battle between signing their marriage contract and the wedding ceremony.”
“How very romantic it is to have ghosts,” Lady Theresa said. “Do you not think so, my lord?”
Her look along the table caught her husband paying more attention to his plate than the conversation. “Only if you find such stories entertaining, my lady,” Lord Ricard said. “Perhaps Vale will let you borrow one.”
“Are there any others, Master Everel?” Millie Radlay asked despite her father’s disinterest. “I’m glad we don’t have any, but I would very much like to see one while we’re here.”
“Many, my lady,” the old vowsmith said. “Although if you wish to see one, it’s best to ask the servants where to look, since they walk the house at all hours.” He turned as Castor passed behind his chair. “Castor, have there been any sightings of late?”
The butler’s eyes bulged at suddenly finding every pair of eyes fixed on him. “Uh, only the Faceless Man, though I do not think it an edifying—”
“The Faceless Man?” Millie and Leaf exclaimed together, each turning in their chairs. “Who is he?” Leaf added.
Castor rolled his gaze toward the duke as he said, “A dark figure with no face who walks the house and grounds at all hours, but I really don’t feel—”
“I think we have entertained ourselves quite enough,” the duke said, nodding for his butler to escape. “Some history is best left untouched.”
“Oh!” Across the table, Lady Theresa sat bolt upright, eyes bright. “Is it the ghost of Lord Francis?”
“Theresa!” Lord Charborough snapped. “That is quite uncalled for.”
Lord Ricard huffed a laugh. “Is it, Brother? Perhaps we could ask how he died and finally put all the rumours to rest.”
“There are other ghosts,” Master Everel said quickly.
“Like the two young men the townsfolk see at the old tower. They’re thought to be the sons of the second Earl Monterris, clinging to the last remnants of the old castle.
And we’ve lost no small number of serving staff over the years to the Mad Friar.
He can only ever be seen in the corner of your eye, but anyone hearing his cries is instantly overcome with a dreadful malaise that makes them want to take their own lives. ”
Even Lord Ricard looked horrified by this, a moment of silence holding the table spellbound.
“That is quite enough, Everel,” the duke said, tone bored. “There is no such thing as a Mad Friar. We have just been very unlucky in our serving staff.”
Leaf turned to Nic. “How do you go on with so many ghosts in the house?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never seen one,” he said as all eyes turned his way. “It really isn’t like living in a gothic novel, I assure you.”
Upon which utterance, the duke was finally able to turn the subject.
It stayed turned until the gentlemen, rejoining the ladies in the drawing room, found Leaf and Millie planning to search the house for ghosts. Nic was tempted to amuse them with more stories, until Rufus Gillingham rose from a chair to smile at his arrival.
“Lord Monterris. A very good evening to you.”
“And to you, Mr. Gill—”
“Gillingham,” Lord Ricard interrupted, entering in Nic’s wake. “Finished with the letters already?”
“Unfortunately, the evening mail has not yet come, sir.”
Lord Ricard glowered. “Damned rural fastness. May as well call it the midnight mail at this rate. Ah well, you had better join us for a drink while we wait.”
A nod of thanks to his patron and Gillingham turned back to Nic with a suggestive lilt to his smile. “Not that I am at all sorry it is late. I was hoping for a chance to remind you that you owe me a tour. Tonight, perhaps? Once I am done with Lord Ricard’s letters.”
With all that had happened since Gillingham first proposed their tour, Nic’s interest in the man had waned, yet the combination of Dashiell’s presence and Dashiell’s very sensible warning left Nic with the contrary desire to encourage the young vowsmith’s advances.
He told himself it was just that he could do with the distraction, and that it would be interesting to see how far the man would go for information, but it was with a sidelong glance in Dashiell’s direction that Nic said, “I look forward to it.”
Dashiell had taken a nearby chair and was reaching for the newspaper when Gillingham, grinning at Nic, said, “And I’ll make sure you look back upon it with equal fondness. After all, my company can be enjoyed forward or backward as you please.”
Dashiell smothered a sudden cough, and wearing something of a mischievous smile, Gillingham turned his way. “Master sa Vare, that was very fine work in the chamber today. Particularly as regards—”
“Need I remind you, Mr. Gillingham, that we do not discuss a contract with its principals,” Dashiell interrupted, all cold civility.
This only deepened the attending vowsmith’s smile.
“Ah, of course, how could I forget the guild tendency to be dull and straitlaced? Perhaps I, too, should have been taught by such a high stickler as His Grace.” He rolled his gaze back Nic’s way.
“Your father is quite renowned in guild circles, my lord. Not only for having produced the youngest master vowsmith in three generations”—a gesture at Dashiell—“and for being the greatest loss to the profession when he had to give it up, but for being such a stickler for the rules that people would go to him with their questions rather than check the charter themselves.”
Nic glanced at his father, who was standing by the fireplace with Lord Charborough, the two deep in quiet conversation. “I can well believe it.”
“Both His Grace and Master Everel were excellent teachers,” Dashiell said. “No young vowsmith could have had more esteemed masters.”
“How true.” Gillingham turned again to Nic. “Given such fine examples, I’m surprised you didn’t continue the family tradition, my lord. Your affinity for the Brilliance would surely have made you a remarkable student.”
Nic had no desire to defend his choices to Lord Ricard’s hatchet man, so instead he threw the question Dashiell’s way with a challenging smile. “Oh, I began study. You would have to ask Master sa Vare whether or not I was a remarkable student.”
Gillingham spun on the vowsmith. “Master sa Vare, you must tell me, though I will not hear anything but praise.”
“Then why bother asking?”
“Ah, Lord Monterris, he disparages you!”
“That is not what I said.” Dashiell scowled at the man’s grin. “Ni—Lord Monterris was an excellent student. He just did not always wish to apply himself to what was put before him.”
“So, he was distracting,” Gillingham said. “Now that I can well believe. I find him immensely distracting.”
Nic hadn’t thought it possible for Dashiell’s scowl to darken further. “No,” the vowsmith said. “He was a helpful and encouraging study partner, and I’m sure I am where I am today only thanks to his assistance.”
Nic doubted the sincerity of words spoken to cow the impertinent Gillingham, but all at once he remembered studying with Dashiell as though it had been yesterday.
The way his fingers pinched his quill, his little frown of concentration, and his shy smile whenever he noticed Nic watching him.
Until the day his best friend had just walked away.
“Ah yes, assistance,” Nic said. “Like when I snuck that bottle of brandy into the hayloft.”
A flicker of a reminiscent smile broke through Dashiell’s severity. “Master Everel never looked more sour than when he realised he had to deal with two drunk ten-year-olds.”
“You vomited into the old horse trough,” Nic said.
“Well, you fell out of the loft!”
“I merely misjudged the distance to the edge.”
“And had a bruise the size of a hand for weeks.”
They grinned at one another, the reminiscence returning the old Dashiell for a moment in which Nic’s heart yearned toward him.
To have his friend back was like drawing suddenly near a crackling fire, without having realised how cold the room had truly become.
He wanted never to step away, wanted to reach out and hold the flames no matter how much it would hurt—how Dashiell would inevitably disappear again as though it had all meant nothing.
Rather than thaw Nic’s anger, the realisation of just how easy it would be to fall in love with Dashiell again only bit his rage deeper.
“Sounds like you were left to run wild,” Gillingham said, and Nic found he didn’t like the shrewd look the man threw them. “I admit I did not realise you were here for as long as you were, Master sa Vare.”
Stern Dashiell returned upon crashing brows. “It is much easier to learn when you don’t have to move every year or two. I was very fortunate that His Grace was kind enough to keep me as long as he did.”