A Haunting at Havenwood (Seasons of Change Book 6)

by Sally Britton

  Grandmother Elizabeth threw her hands in the air. “I did not ask for your company; you said you wanted to come and ‘tell the lad a thing or two.’ You never want to be left out, yet all you do is complain.”

  Ras’s head began to ache. “You mean you’ve done this before?”

  Both their heads turned, their eyes wide and hopeful smiles upon their faces.

  “Oh, good. You’re going to talk to us now.”

  “They always give in, m’love.” Erasmus appeared almost smug, but he put his arm around the woman’s shoulders. “And we ken this one is smart as a whip.”

  Elizabeth ignored him. “We have done this before. One of your cousins, all the way in the Americas, needed help some time ago. A century or so back, I believe.”

  “Needed might be stretchin’ the truth.” The Scotsman shrugged. “But, aye. We showed up to offer some advice. Just as we’ve come to help ye, lad.”

  “Help?” Ras ran one hand through his hair. He let out a slow breath, thinking through what to say. Then he spoke firmly and slowly. “I do not need any help.”

  “Aye, lad. Ye do.” The superior smirk on the man’s face immediately pricked at Ras’s pride. Why did everyone enjoy telling him of his faults and failings?

  Elizabeth nodded. “You have not been happy of late, have you, Ras?”

  Happy? A pair of ghosts had appeared because they thought he needed to be happy? Did that mean all of England had ghosts wandering about, attempting to cheer people up? It was the weakest reasoning Ras had heard.

  “I am per-perfectly content with my life.” He nearly lost hold of his stammer again, but with the initial fright passed, he might get along well enough. Even if the situation was absolutely unbelievable.

  “That is not the same thing,” Elizabeth said firmly. “And there is more to it than that. You are at a crossroads. There is a choice coming, an important one, and we are here to advise you.”

  A choice. Ras perked up. “Is this about my book?”

  “Yer book?” The ghost-man shook his head. “No, ye daft wean. It is about yer life. Yer family responsibilities.”

  “Oh.” Ras folded his arms. “My books are my life. I am an author, you understand.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “Of course you do. I’ve heard you discussing it. I’ve written three novels, and they have all done quite well.” He tipped his chin up. “I have also heard you both discussing how important it is that I come here, to the Lodge. Why does it matter that I am here? My family is in London. Surely Town is where my responsibilities must be.”

  “There is more to it than your present circumstances.” Elizabeth checked the lace at the end of her sleeves. “We are here in an advisory capacity, of course, but we have also come to tell you something important.”

  “Och, now.” Erasmus grinned widely. “We cannae tell ye much, but we’re here for a purpose, lad. We’re only permitted to appear to our kin when there’s a great need.”

  Ras stared, nonplussed. While he was familiar with the concept of guardian angels, and heavenly messengers had abounded in scripture, he could not think of one instance in which such messengers appeared without knowing why. They usually had grand messages to impart.

  “Very well. What message have you for me?” Not that he intended to take anything they said seriously. They had to be figments of his overactive mind. He was delusional.

  “Your treasure, grandson.” Lady Elizabeth smiled slowly. “We are here about the treasure.”

  His insides went cold. The fabled treasure of Harbottle Castle had to be what she meant. But everyone knew—it was no more than a story to tell children, to encourage them out of doors and away from pestering their parents. Everyone knew if there had ever been a treasure, it was long since gone.

  “I remember when I first set my eyes upon this land.” Erasmus looked toward the arch of the cemetery. “I thought it heaven on earth.”

  Ras looked behind him, then at the arch. He had always loved his family’s holdings, though his mother thought Northumberland to be something of a social wasteland. He turned back to the spirits, ghosts, whatever-they-were, ready with another question.

  They were gone.

  That hardly seemed fair, that they could come and go as they pleased.

  But then, he had pulled the very same trick upon Miss Banner.

  His shoulders fell, his mind briefly drawing up her image again. Miss Louisa Banner. A lovely woman.

  At least no one knew he had come to the Lodge. Though he had given Miss Banner his name, he supposed. Blast. If people found out, he would be expected to attend social functions. He might even be invited to Harbottle Castle.

  He bent to pick up his hat from the ground, where he had originally dropped it when he settled in to write. Before Miss Banner came. Then he went to where she had stood, trying to ascertain how much she had been able to see from that point. It was where the ghosts had appeared, too.

  His gaze slid down to the grave marker where his own name was etched in stone. Why had he never noticed it before? He shuddered. If Erasmus Grey and his lady were not from his imagination, they needed to leave Ras alone. He had enough on his mind of late without adding a haunting to his list of worries.

  His mother’s pressure for him to wed, his publisher’s desire for a new book, and looking after his younger sisters as they entered into Society, were all heavy upon his mind. If he had his way, he would settle down some place quiet and ignore the outside world altogether.

  Apparently, Havenwood Lodge would not be that place.

  Louisa said nothing about her misadventure when she returned to her aunt’s house. The Manse was quiet, and Sarah informed her that Aunt Penrith had decided to take a nap after the apothecary’s visit. After Louisa put her somewhat strangled bouquet in a bowl of water, she decided to explore the house.

  Familiarizing herself with her new home would help her forget about her meeting in the graveyard. At least until her aunt woke up and she could ask some questions. Careful questions which did not reveal the nature of her actual encounter.

  Louisa found her late-great-uncle’s study, which also served as the library. There were two walls full of shelves, though not all of them held books. The late morning sunlight filtered in through sheer curtains, providing natural light in a way that would not damage the spines of the leather volumes on either side of the window.

  The first shelf she inspected held the usual classics one hoped to find in a family library. Shakespeare, various English authors from the last century, and a few volumes of poetry. Above that shelf was another only half-filled with books, then there was a glass-framed collection of butterflies. She shuddered. Why did people pin delicate creatures to a board and think it artful? There was also a miniature bust of a young man. She didn’t know who the gentleman was, but he had an aristocratic look about him.

  Fingers trailing along the edge of the bookcase, she stood on her toes to see the next shelf up. Books. A glass paperweight with the figure of an elephant suspended inside. Ah—an atlas!

  Without hesitation she pulled the tall volume down, having to reach high over her head to grasp it firmly. She hugged the book to her once it was in her arms, then went to the window. Were the house hers, she would have put a chair directly there for ease of reading. As it was, she slipped behind the curtains and sat upon the wide windowsill.

  The atlas was old, and it opened easily to a page filled with a precise drawing of the area. It seemed the whole of the book was dedicated to the northern parts of the Kingdom. Bits of Scotland and Northumberland were on nearly every page.

  Louisa pulled her feet up onto the sill, propping the book upon them as she turned the pages, searching for Harbottle.

  When she came to the page for the town, her heart jumped. Someone—perhaps her great-aunt’s late husband—had made several notations all over the map. The Manse was inked into place, along with its outbuildings. The castle ruins were sketched in beneath words original to the book, naming the place Castle Harbottle I
. To the east of the village, Castle Harbottle II had other buildings filled in.

  But what interested her most was Havenwood. Her finger followed the little road she had taken from the graveyard. All the way at the end of the path, there was a house labeled Havenwood Lodge. The graveyard was marked by a single small cross and the words Grey Family Memorium. Interesting.

  She followed the line of the River Coquet next, wincing when she saw that the bit directly across the road from the Manse was called The Devil’s Elbow. Who would name a perfectly delightful place such a horrid thing?

  Louisa turned the page, eager to see what came next.

  A folded slip of paper had been tucked so tightly into the margin that it did not fall out, though from its drab color and the writing on it she knew it did not belong in the book.

  Perhaps it was a receipt for the purchase of the atlas or notes on the local area.

  She opened the paper, angling it toward the light. The writing had faded somewhat, and it was a somewhat spindly hand to begin with.

  The old families rejected the Scotch King. They had guarded the border too long to accept an end of their work. When he placed one of his favorites, and not even a man of noble birth, to live at Harbottle, there was an outcry. This led to an arranged marriage for the Scotsman, to a local daughter of noble blood.

  It seemed Louisa had stumbled upon a bit of local history. The Scotch King had to have been King James I, all the way back to the beginning of the seventeenth century. Not that anyone used the term Scotch any longer. It had become considered derogatory. Harbottle had been a border castle, meant to intimidate the Scottish and keep them out.

  The First Harbottle Castle still stood, and rumors of the treasure left there abounded.

  Treasure? This was the second mention of a treasure connected to the castle.

  The treasure came from one of the Scottish kings of the previous century, stolen by the soldiers garrisoned at Harbottle. The local gentry and peasants feared the Scotsman had been sent by the new king to reclaim the treasure for Scotland.

  The note then bore only a list of references to the map on the previous page, noting something about the location where things had been written in. Louisa blinked down at the paper. There was nothing to indicate authorship, or what the paper had been used for, or anything else useful.

  She tucked the paper back where it had come from, closing the book. Her eyes went to the window which looked out to the road. The trees shook in the breeze outside, making her shudder. She pulled the shawl around her shoulders tighter before getting up and returning the book to its rightful place on the shelf.

  “Miss?”

  Louisa jolted as she turned around, surprised by the voice of her maid. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Penrith is asking for you.” Sarah bobbed a curtsy and withdrew, her message delivered.

  What sort of work did the maid do in this quiet house? Louisa determined to ask her later that evening. Even if her mother would disapprove. Sarah and Louisa were both strangers in a strange place. It would be a simple kindness—a thing her mother rarely showed.

  Upon entering her aunt’s room, Louisa immediately spied the wildflowers in a tall jug of water on the table by the bed. Her aunt was sitting up, light from the window showing her gentle countenance.

  “There you are, child. Come right inside. Thank you for the flowers.” Her aunt sounded much better after her rest. The scratch from her throat had faded. “I do hope you enjoyed your walk this morning.”

  “Yes. It was…interesting.” That was a safe enough word to use. Louisa approached the bed and leaned against one of the posts. “I hope you are feeling better.”

  “Much better, thank you.” Her aunt patted the side of the bed. “Do sit. Tell me how you have passed the morning.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, Louisa sat upon the edge of the mattress, sinking into the soft featherbed. “My walk was most invigorating. Though I must confess to you, aunt, that I did not make it so far as the church. I became rather distracted by the beauty of the trees and flowers. We did not have such wildness where I lived before.”

  Her aunt’s eyes twinkled, and she gave an understanding nod. “It is quite lovely, and there is no harm done. This means I will get to introduce you to Alwinton myself, as I wished.”

  Louisa clutched her hands together in her lap, thinking on where the flowers and raven had led her. Dare she ask about the person she saw? Perhaps not directly. “I saw a path which diverged from the main road. It looked as though it went directly into Havenwood. Where does it lead?”

  “Oh, to an old hunting lodge. The building has been there for ages. No one lives there anymore. I think the family who owns it has either forgotten about it or quit it for good, without telling the rest of us.”

  No one lived in the house up the lane. “That is a pity. It seems this part of the world is sparsely populated. Was it always just the two villages and the old castle?”

  Aunt Penrith tipped her head to one side, her eyes narrowing as she gave her answer some thought. “So far as I know, there were never very many people here. Northumberland is seen as an undesirable location for most in the kingdom, even now when we have a modern road system connecting us to all the great cities of Britain. People always wish to be close to where Society is, or where they can have the most influence or power. We are close to the Scottish border, further north than Gretna Green itself.” She gestured to the foot of the bed. “Will you hand me that shawl, dear?”

  Louisa fetched the shawl and held it out to her aunt. “Are you cold? Should I send for another blanket?”

  “The shawl will do.” Her aunt draped it around her shoulders before leaning back against the headboard again. “Where was I? Oh, the border. Yes. Many years ago, there were castles all along the border, put up by kings of England to reinforce Hadrian’s Wall. The castles up here were small fortresses, with soldiers garrisoned inside to repel any attempt at attacking the king’s subjects. Of course, the king would send a noble or two out to keep eyes on things, but it was not a cherished position. Some thought of it as a punishment, of sorts, to be put here. Any who came out to farm or work did so only for the upkeep of the soldiers. Although—” Her aunt cut off her speech for a moment, her eyes going to the window. “There is that story about Queen Margaret of Scotland.”

  Louisa shifted closer to her aunt, leaning forward. “Which queen was she?”

  “Sister to Henry VIII.” Aunt Penrith continued looking out the window, her voice softening somewhat. “Poor woman. She was as good as exiled to the castle, by her own husband. Apparently, they did not get on well. The story goes that after she arrived, she sent for all her earthly possessions, including a diamond, given to her by the King of France. She had a child while in the castle. That child was the grandmother of the man who eventually united Scotland and England.”

  Could a diamond be considered a treasure worth hunting for? Perhaps. But the idea that a queen once lodged in the now ruined castle conjured up all sorts of ideas most worthy of a gothic romance. At least, Louisa supposed those were the stories one found in such novels. Botheration. She ought to not even think such a thing. She ought to rise above interest in what her mother called cheap literature. But—what little she knew of that particular genre of literature had always held fascination for her.

  Her aunt, oblivious to Louisa’s somewhat unrealistic flights of fancy, continued on. “When the two countries joined under King James, the old border castle was fairly worthless. I’m told that by 1720, it was quite abandoned, and the new castle had already been built.”

  That fit with what Louisa read in the book and suspected with her own limited grasp of history and geography. “Who lives in the new castle?”

  “Baron Erran and his lady. Though they like to spend more and more time in London, of late. They are in residence with their children now. Two sons and two daughters. You will meet them, of course. As the daughter of a gentleman, you are quite right for their circle.”

  Her
aunt likely did not keep company with the family often, given her place as widow to a retired steward. Even if she owned the Manse and land about it with her husband’s passing. The unwritten rules of Society would place her beneath the notice of a baron’s family. She more likely mingled with wealthy farmers and tradesmen.

  “Aunt.” Louisa cast her gaze to the quilt upon the bed, and she used one finger to trace the pattern of flowers embroidered upon it. “What is the family name of the people who own that house in Havenwood?”

  “Hm? Oh, they are the Grey family. Though you needn’t worry about them. As I said, they are not in residence, nor are they likely to be this year. I imagine they are quite settled further south.” Aunt Penrith smiled, somewhat pityingly. “I know it must seem strange for you to be in all this quiet and empty country. But you will grow accustomed to it. And there is some society. There are families in Alwinton with daughters and a few sons your age.”

  Louisa needed to endear herself to her great aunt, not sound like a spoiled child in want of playmates. Thus far, Aunt Penrith had been kind. But what if she found Louisa as tiresome as her own mother had?

  Louisa forced herself to laugh, keeping the sound light and carefree. “I am not at all worried over that matter yet. I have hardly arrived, and this is something of an adventure for me. Will you tell me of what you thought when you came here? You came as a bride, did you not?”

  Her aunt obliged her in the change of topics, and Louisa found she enjoyed the story of her aunt marrying a steward. Not once did her aunt mention any treasure or ghosts. She had nothing but fond memories of living in Harbottle and had been a woman quite busy in the community. She knew everyone, from the Baron and Alwinton vicar to the scullery maids of the finer houses in the parish.

  If Louisa wanted to learn more about the mysterious treasure, or the man who had pointed her way home before vanishing, she would need to speak to someone else. So as to avoid making her aunt worry. But who could she question without them growing suspicious of her? Or worse—think her mad?