A Haunting at Havenwood (Seasons of Change Book 6)

by Sally Britton

  Chapter 6

  Aunt Penrith felt much better the next day, and she insisted Louisa join her on a walk up to the modern castle. Along the way, seemingly every member of the village hailed them. A blacksmith, grocer, farrier, and several farmers’ wives had their introduction. Louisa, having never mingled with people beyond her mother’s circle and her own servants, tried to speak as few words as possible with her best manners.

  Bert appeared, cheerful as before, and Louisa learned that his father owned the public house he had boasted about during their first meeting. The Unicorn.

  “It’s good to see you about so soon, Miss Banner,” he said, his cheeky smile in place. He couldn’t be any older than she was, though he was more than a head taller, and lean as a post. “The storm the night you came wasn’t all that welcomin’, was it?”

  Louisa looked to her aunt for guidance, but the older woman was exchanging words with Bert’s mother at the door of The Unicorn.

  Being friendly could not be wrong. Even if he was beneath her socially. Her mother wasn’t around to see Louisa make such a mistake. “Not precisely. But the fine weather yesterday and today has made up for it.”

  “It’s beautiful land, miss, make no mistake.”

  “Yes.” Louisa could think of no way to hint at what she most hoped to discuss, so she went for the direct question. “Bert, when we spoke before, didn’t you say something about treasure at the old castle?”

  His eyes lit up, and a crooked grin appeared upon his sun-browned face. “I did, miss. Everyone here about knows the story.” He crossed his arms and tilted his head toward the end of the village where the ruins lay. “Warden Thomas was to blame for all of that.”

  “Who?” Louisa blinked. She had expected a story about the queen.

  Bert’s shrug was friendly, and his tone as light as if they still spoke of the weather. “He was put here as a sort of guardian, a warden, by one of the Tudor kings. But instead of keeping the peace, he started robbing people on the other side of the border. He hid most of what he stole, or so the story goes. Every Harbottle and Alwinton child knows the story of Warden Thomas, the thief.”

  Louisa frowned and began to ask another question when her aunt called to her.

  She cut a quick look at Bert. “Thank you for the story.”

  He pointed up at the shingle for the public house. “You ever want to know more, miss, come sit for a spell. Lots of old codgers will be happy to talk ’til your ears come off.”

  Louisa gave a brief nod, then followed after her aunt. It took another quarter of an hour to arrive at the front entrance of a large, stately home. Harbottle Castle. A butler answered the knock, and he led them through a stately corridor into a well-furnished sitting room. It was as beautiful as any home she had seen in London. Everything from the curtain rods to the brightly colored rugs spoke of elegance and wealth.

  “Mrs. Penrith,” a woman exclaimed, coming through the doors. “How delightful. I have not seen you in an age, it seems.” The woman was middle-aged, with a fine stature and golden hair swept up in a twist of ribbons and bandeau.

  Behind her came two younger women, near Louisa’s age. They were quite like their mother.

  “Lady Erran.” Aunt Penrith curtsied to the baroness, and Louisa followed suit. “Please, allow me to present my great-niece, Miss Louisa Banner. She has come to live with me for a time.”

  “A pleasure, Miss Banner. These are my two daughters, Miss Angelica Cunningham and Miss Arabelle Cunningham.”

  The young ladies narrowed their eyes as they performed shallow curtsies. With matching names and appearances, Louisa immediately tried to find some way to tell the two apart. Since they both wore somewhat sour expressions, she doubted character would be a defining attribute.

  “My sons are out shooting at the moment.” Lady Erran gestured to the sofa and chairs. “Please, sit. Allow me to offer you some refreshment.”

  The cushions of the sofa were as stiff and unwelcoming as the baroness’s daughters. Aunt Penrith seemed oblivious to the haughty stares of the young women, busy as she was exchanging pleasantries with the baroness. Tea arrived, along with little cakes and sandwiches. Louisa accepted a cup of tea, but otherwise felt quite forgotten.

  “We so wish to set out for London before Epiphany, but my husband will not settle upon a date when we are yet two months away. It makes it terribly difficult to know what to tell friends in Town.” Lady Erran sighed somewhat lackadaisically. Then she tipped her chin toward Louisa. “Miss Banner, have you enjoyed London during the Season? My girls love the spectacle of balls and entertainments.”

  “I have been to London before, but after my father’s passing we remained in Scarborough most of the year. My mother has friends in Manchester we visit during the Season.”

  “Manchester. What a delightful town.” Lady Erran nodded thoughtfully. “We have stopped there on our journey to London. The state of the roads requires several halts and nights at coaching inns, if we are to make it all the way to Town. You know, of course, Northumberland is rather distant. Sometimes it feels as though we live in a different country altogether.”

  “We never even have any assemblies or balls here,” one of the Miss Cunninghams said, wrinkling her nose.

  “Newcastle is the only place of note nearby,” the other sister said.

  The first spoke again, arching her eyebrows high. “Though there are sometimes fine gentlemen here, visiting estates.”

  “Not often enough.” Lady Erran lowered her teacup from her pursed lips. “It is a struggle to keep our sons here with us at times. There is not much for a young gentleman to amuse himself with. It is no wonder other families leave the care of their houses to stewards.”

  Louisa ventured a question, though it may have been somewhat out of turn. “Like the Grey family? My aunt told me they own Havenwood, and surrounding lands, but are not in residence.”

  “They do not even have a steward.” Miss Arabelle spoke with a glower. “Only an old housekeeper and groundskeeper. I shouldn’t be surprised if the entire house fell down and the family never knew of it.”

  “It’s a shame, though. The woods are quite fine.” Aunt Penrith put her plate of cakes down upon the table. Then she stood, signaling the end of the social call. “Thank you very much for seeing us, my lady. My niece has heard me speak of your family a great deal the last two days. I do hope we can look forward to seeing you and your lovely daughters soon.”

  Louisa stood as well and returned the parting gestures as was expected. Neither of the daughters had seemed happy to see her, nor were they sorry to see her go. She had known many such young ladies in her time as part of Society. They were content with their own company, inconvenienced by hers, and likely gave little thought to much outside their own amusement. Perhaps it was wrong of her to judge so quickly, but her previous experience gave her some justification.

  Harbottle Castle lacked the warmth of friendly hearts.

  When they arrived back at the Manse, Louisa studied the quiet little house with some reluctance. The day was fine and sunny, and her thoughts were rather slow and sticky.

  “I think I shall go in and rest.” Aunt Penrith put her hand on the gate, looking up at her home with a smile of familiarity. Would Louisa one day look at the house the same way? Or would her aunt tire of her and send her packing before she could harbor affection for the country house?

  Aunt Penrith turned her gentle eyes to Louisa. “You ought to walk a little more, dear. Young people need exercise, and we elderly people need to rest our bones.”

  Louisa, who had allowed her gaze to wander to the tops of the trees of Havenwood, guiltily brought it back to her aunt. She needed to be a better guest and a more attentive relation. “Are you certain, Aunt? If you aren’t feeling well, perhaps I ought to accompany you inside.”

  “Nonsense. It is merely the vestiges of a cold. You go on. Enjoy the sun while we still have it. I am afraid that October is a storm-fraught month. There will be plenty of days for you
to sit at home with me, doing no more than reading and knitting.” Aunt Penrith waved Louisa down the path. “Off with you. Come home when you grow tired or hungry.”

  “Yes, Aunt.” Louisa had that feeling again, the feeling of being a child granted freedom from lessons or the nursery. How often had that actually occurred when she was growing up? It seemed she never went out to play in the parks or the tiny garden behind their town home. She spent hours with her father, closed up in his study, and then even more time with her mother as she grew older, walking with sore feet from one shop to the next, the cacophony of town life all around her.

  The noises of the country were different. The dirt and gravel of the road crunched beneath her half-boots, and leaves skittered along in the breeze, swept past her feet. Otherwise, there were few sounds to be heard. The river dashing nearby and leaves shaking overhead were growing familiar. The bleating of sheep carried down from the pastures on the hills.

  The split in the road beckoned her, and Louisa paused for but a moment before taking the path into Havenwood.

  Knowing what she would find at the end of it—an old lodge—made the decision easier. But she did not intend to go so far.

  She had to go back to the grave of Erasmus Grey. Where she saw that man claiming the same name. Would he be there again? Was he truly the ghost of the man resting beneath the stone she had seen the previous day? Perhaps, if he was a ghost, he had only appeared in order to direct her home. As a benevolent spirit of some sort.

  If she knew more about ghosts, a subject matter both her father and mother would scoff over, she might better understand what had happened the day before. There were books published by people who claimed to encounter spirits, but Louisa had never paid much attention to those titles and authors. As to fictional accounts of ghosts, she could not think of even one she had read. Father would have found ghosts distinctly beneath his scholarly interests. Mother would have called any book, fictional or not, purporting the existence of spirits as pure superstition.

  For the first time, Louisa had an opportunity to make up her own mind. The idea both thrilled and unsettled her.

  The route to the graveyard took her a moment to find. The grasses and leaves had overgrown the stones that marked the way. But once she started down the path, going beneath low-hanging tree branches, her confidence grew.

  The sun shone brightly above, with few clouds to be seen. She would go to the graveyard, find the marker, and prove how silly she had been to even think there were ghosts about. She would be alone in a clearing, on a beautiful fall day, and that would put an end to it.

  The man had either been a fancy of her imagination, or else a local who had played a trick on her.

  Either way, he would not be there today.

  The birds sang above her head, with no sign of the ominous raven. She walked beneath the archway, her steps firm in the soft mossy ground, and her eyes swept the scene before her with a measure of triumph. She had overcome her foolish imagination.

  She went around one tall monument, then looked down to pick her way carefully across the graves, she stopped right at the stone from before.

  Louisa peered about carefully, seeing no one near. “Thank heavens,” she whispered. Then she giggled to herself, the last of her nerves relaxing. Perhaps it had all been the country air after all. Her mother had used to claim such clean air did strange things to a person’s mind.

  Tucking her hands into her skirts, Louisa looked down at the tombstone and offered the inanimate object a curtsy. “Pleased to see you again, Mr. Grey.”

  Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest when he answered.

  “Miss-Miss-Miss Banner?”

  The spirit was back. And he remembered her name.

  Ras hadn’t intended to speak. But he came around the tree, still in its shadows, at the moment she said his name. He had been as startled as she, which meant there was no stopping his stammer.

  Miss Banner’s whole frame stiffened, rather like an icicle, but her gaze lifted to where he stood. She wore a gown of green with her purple pelisse; the colors reminded him more of summer than autumn, with thoughts of plums and apples at the forefront of his mind.

  Her eyes held a mix of uncertainty and fear as she peered at him. “Mr. Grey.”

  He said nothing. He hadn’t had time to think of what to say, given how preoccupied he had been with her loveliness. She had the most expressive face. Even at that moment, he could see the indecisive twist to her lips, the curiosity in the tip of her chin. Reading women was not generally Ras’s strong suit, but most were not as interesting to study as Miss Banner.

  “I have been asking after this place,” she said, her manner calm. She did not speak with reverence. She sounded, instead, as though she made conversation in a parlor. “Everyone I have spoken to is convinced no one is at the Lodge except servants.”

  Despite all his effort, she would undo his careful work the moment he confirmed his identity. Ras clenched his fingers around the pencil in his hand. Her gaze darted down to his side, catching the movement despite its subtlety. The pale skin of her throat quivered with her swallow.

  His silence appeared to unnerve her, as she began speaking with greater speed.

  “I do not mean to disturb you, sir. I only meant to come and see for myself if I had imagined our encounter. I never dreamed you would be here again. All of this is so strange to me. I have never spent time in the country, let alone in a place so deserted as Harbottle. Not that it isn’t a lovely town. But I have only lived in Scarborough, and Manchester. I visited London once.”

  Ras winced at the chatter. He hadn’t heard a woman speak that quickly since his mother tried to talk him out of his journey a week previous.

  She released a tense laugh and gestured with one hand to the surrounding trees. “It is quiet here, and I am not accustomed to being left to myself. My aunt—she is Mrs. Penrith, and I am living with her—seems to think it best I am out of the house while the weather is fine. So here I am.” She lowered her hand and shrugged. “I am terribly sorry if I bothered you.”

  Her gesture to the gravestone made him hesitate.

  “I am un-un-unbothered.” He rocked back on his heels. “Penrith. You are at the Manse?”

  Her silent nod gave him some hope that she was not always a babbling brook of words.

  Ras adjusted his stance and saw her tense. He raised his hand holding the pencil, palm up. “You-you needn’t be afraid.” He nearly had control over his tongue again, now that the surprise of seeing her had faded. “I am harmless.”

  “Is that so?” she listed her head to one side, her eyebrows drawing together.

  “Yes. You have my word.” Ras took a step back and leaned against the tree, folding his arms over his chest. The sunlight hardly broke through the shadows of the trees. It was perhaps a good thing that the sun shone brightly, as an overcast day would have rendered him easier to see.

  Miss Banner clasped her hands before her, and she turned toward the archway—her escape. In profile, the roundness of her cheeks was less obvious, and he was instead treated to a view of the gentle slope of her nose and curve of her chin. Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath before she turned again toward him.

  “Are you a ghost, Mr. Grey?”

  The question rippled through the air, neither accusatory nor curious. But what a question. He answered her with as slow a tongue as ever he had used. “What makes you think me a spirit, Miss Banner?”

  Her cheeks turned pink. She turned away from him and took a step in the opposite direction. Not toward the arch, at least. Though why he wanted her to remain when she intruded upon his quiet, he could not say.

  “I have given it a great deal of thought since I first saw you.” She took a few more paces before turning to face him again, walking closer. She pointed to the gravestone. “Moments ago, when I spoke the name on this headstone, you answered as though it was your own. When you first introduced yourself, you used that name. Erasmus Grey. It is a rather unusual n
ame. I cannot think that there are many boys running about England called Erasmus.”

  She was right on that account, and it nearly made him chuckle. How he had hated his name growing up! He had insisted school chums call him either by his surname or the shortened form of his given name. “Those I know well call me Ras.”

  Miss Banner pursed her lips in thought. “Is this your name on the headstone?” She pointed again.

  “Yes.” That he shared the name with a ghost currently haunting him, he did not say. Shorter answers were less likely to end with him stammering. And leaving out all mention of his great-grandfather made him feel less insane.

  For a moment, she only blinked at him. Then she let out a breath and a whisper at the same moment. “Extraordinary. And do you often linger about this cemetery?”

  “Not often.”

  His answers wouldn’t correct her assumption that he was from the spiritual realm. But if it kept her from talking about Mr. Grey being in residence, he would be content enough.

  “I see.” Miss Banner paced away again, then turned and came back, her pace quicker and determined. “Do you know anything about the treasure of Warden Thomas or the old castle?”

  The treasure? What an interesting conjecture, that a ghost from the past might know about that old legend. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, and that was when Ras realized what a perfect opportunity lay before him. Here was a young woman in a strange place, apart from friends and family, confronting a ghost about a long-lost treasure. It was the stuff of the best of stories. A gothic tale if ever he had heard one. Not even Mrs. Radcliffe could ask for better inspiration than the one the woman presented to him.

  “Warden Thomas was before my time.” Truth. And before the original Erasmus’s time.

  She narrowed her eyes and checked the headstone again. “When was he causing his trouble?”

  “His true name was Thomas Dacre.” Everyone who had grown up local to the area knew the stories. “He was appointed by King Henry VIII.”