A Haunting at Havenwood (Seasons of Change Book 6)

by Sally Britton

  More stories heard from locals filled the pages. Some were amusing, others made her shudder and burrow deeper into her blankets. Ghosts, witches, fairies, and wicked soldiers were all rumored to have tampered with the stolen Scottish wealth. But mingled with the treasure, many said, were taxes gathered from the locals by unjust nobility.

  I have wondered what role Mr. Grey’s ancestor played in the search. There are tales about he and his wife roaming the woods and valleys together, despite their social status, hunting for the treasure. Some tales have become ghost stories told to frighten children who would wander about the more dangerous parts of Harbottle after dark. Nonsense, of course. I have inquired of Mr. Grey, and he has given me entry to the family library.

  Louisa sat up somewhat, blinking away the sleep from her eyes. Given the date accompanying that note, it was her Mr. Grey’s father. Had her great-uncle found the book she and Ras read, too?

  Given the notes kept in the family logbook, it is apparent that Erasmus Grey felt Lady Elizabeth aided him in his search, perhaps implying that with her help he found the missing riches. But what I found more interesting were the relics about their home. Beneath every painting from that era, there is a message, a scripture, or a saying. I must wonder if they mean more than mere sentiment.

  Her heart jumped into her throat. The painting Lady Elizabeth had given to her niece had a message in Latin. What if other objects with messages had been given away, and together they would offer up directions to find the treasure?

  She needed to get to Havenwood Lodge and tell Mr. Grey.

  The kitten stretched and yawned, its little claws momentarily digging into the chemise she wore to bed. The hour was late. Obviously, she would have to wait until the next day.

  Gently removing the kitten’s claws from her clothing, Louisa mused upon what her aunt had said about making the treasure hunt into a hobby. Though Louisa had not felt entirely serious about her attempts, there was something to the search that felt…right.

  She marked her place in the notebook with a ribbon, then turned down the lamp, snuffing it out. She rolled onto her back, and the kitten protested before pressing into her side.

  Staring at the ceiling above, the faint moonlight painting shadows of blue across its surface, Louisa imagined what she would do if she found the treasure. Her mother would want to reestablish their family in Society. A fine house, with elegant trappings, and new wardrobes full of the latest fashions from all over Europe. There would be carriages, matching horses, liveried footmen, and every expensive bauble the shops could provide.

  The scenes she painted in her thoughts disquieted her. Perhaps it was all well and good to wish for a life of comfort, but of extravagance? What of the families who lived near her at that very moment, worrying over crops and winter storms yet to come?

  Because while her mother had blamed Louisa for spending what remained of their money, the truth of it was her mother’s shopping habits depleted what they had left. Hardly a day passed without a delivery from a modiste, tailor, haberdashery, or jeweler. Whether the things entering their old house had been for Louisa or herself, Mrs. Banner hadn’t cared. She treated every parcel with the same excited exuberance as a child would a Christmas gift.

  Except there was never lasting satisfaction with any of those purchases. A pelisse was cast off because a new style appeared in a women’s journal. Hats were worn once and tossed away with disgust as too unbecoming.

  There was no joy, no true happiness, in the way her mother lived. In the way Louisa had lived while in her mother’s care. Nothing was ever good enough for long. All that mattered was the pursuit of fashion, popularity, and a husband for Louisa who would provide more of both.

  Living in Harbottle, in the quiet village with only a few belongings to her name, Louisa felt more content than she could remember.

  Louisa’s kitten purred in its sleep, the content sound bringing a warmth into her heart that was not present when she thought on her mother. The poor little kitten had been disposed of by someone who didn’t wish to feed extra mouths. What if Louisa found the family in need and helped them? She had nothing to her name except her clothes and the money promised to Sarah for a year’s worth of work.

  If she found the treasure, might she do some good with it?

  She drifted off to sleep, still thinking upon the treasure, and wondering how far even a handful of lost coins might go to aid a poor family.

  Chapter 16

  When Mrs. Douglas came into Ras’s study without a tray of biscuits and tea, he expected the worst. Perhaps Mr. Douglas had injured himself, or one of her children had taken ill, or a letter had arrived from his mother. She only interrupted his work to bring him nourishment. Without food in hand, he could not imagine what her purpose in his study might be.

  Ras rose from his chair, leaning upon the edge of the desk with both hands. “Mrs. Douglas? Is something wrong?”

  The motherly looking woman appeared more confused than concerned when she spoke. “There is a young miss here to see you, sir. Though I did not tell her you were home, she seemed to know already. Miss Banner, the girl staying at the Manse with Mrs. Penrith. She’s brought a maid with her, too.”

  Ras put a hand to his cravat to check the knot, then put his fingers through his hair to fix anything he had mussed while thinking. “Miss Banner is a friend.”

  “A friend?” Mrs. Douglas’s eyebrows raised all the way to the curls poking free of her white cap. “I see. Would you like refreshments?”

  “Yes. Please.” Ras came around his desk. “I’ll show her in. Oh—and do get something for the maid, too. I imagine she’s the chaperone.” Although in London a maid was not considered enough of a chaperone, especially for calling upon a bachelor. But this was Harbottle. Expectations were different in the country, especially in regard to respectable families like the Greys and Penriths.

  Walking through the corridor to the front door, Ras tugged on the lapels of his coat to straighten them. The women had been permitted inside the foyer, and they were both studying a painting near the entry.

  Louisa had a notebook and pencil in hand, jotting something down.

  “Miss Banner, welcome.” Ras did not bother to hide his excitement at seeing her. He may have preferred peace and quiet, but when he found someone he liked, there was no use hiding the way he felt.

  She turned toward him, answering his welcome with a warm grin of her own. “Mr. Grey.” She curtsied, and the maid behind her did the same. “I have brought Sarah with me today, since I dared enter your house without asking you to stand in the shrubbery first.”

  He chuckled. “I would have been happy to do so if you required it.” He looked up at the painting which had captured their attention. It was a landscape of a Scottish kirk, with mountains behind it. “Do you like this piece?”

  “It certainly has a particular mood about it. Something solemn and wistful.” She pointed out the swath of storm clouds in the distance. “It is a strong painting, with the turn of the weather in the corner. Tell me, is it original to the house?”

  “It is. That is supposed to be the church my namesake attended as a boy. He brought the painting with him.” Ras knew the history of his family’s art and artifacts well enough. But he had never paid it much attention, besides knowing what was necessary to give a proper tour of the Lodge.

  “What does that say at the bottom? Is it Gaelic?” Miss Banner used her pencil to point at the little plate with engraved letters attached at the bottom of the ornate frame.

  Ras leaned forward, reading the words carefully and likely with a terrible accent. “Laigh mi gu sàmhach aig bonn na beinne.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t speak the language. Near as we are to the border, my mother and father never even suggested it was necessary. Even the Scottish poets write in English now.”

  A voice from behind startled him. “Curse the English for erasing me mother tongue.”

  No. Not now. Why had the ghosts decided to intrude upon what promised
to be a pleasant visit?

  “Now, Erasmus.” Lady Elizabeth’s placating tones did little to soothe Ras. “Times have changed. Interpret for the boy, so he may impress the young lady.”

  “Ack. Turning me words into a parlor trick. It means, lad, I lay quietly at the foot of the mountain.” There was some muttering which suggested his great-grandfather had more than one complaint toward the English language. “Remember, lad. Words can always have more than one meaning. As a writer you should know that.”

  Ras cleared his throat. “You know, I do believe it means something along the lines of ‘I lay at the foot of the mountain.’ The words must be in regard to the kirk.”

  Louisa narrowed her eyes at the painting, then opened her notebook to scribble something. “I think not. At least, I have a theory to discuss with you.”

  “Come into the study.” Ras gestured down the corridor. “I should like to hear it.” In truth, he would like to hear anything she had to say. Louisa Banner held more than the attraction of friendship, something he had recently acknowledged to himself. There was more, much more, to her than her delightful curiosity and heart-shaped face. She was lovely, fair of features, and quick-witted.

  Why were there not more young ladies like her in London?

  And would it matter to his family that he had found her in Harbottle?

  The quiet maid and her mistress entered his library. The maid took up a chair a bit apart from the two near the hearth, where Louisa sat on the edge of her seat. Her eyes were bright with excitement, her lips remaining curved in an eager smile.

  Ras laughed, settling comfortably in his own chair. “Tell me your theory, Miss Banner. I can see you cannot think of anything else until it’s done.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You ought not ridicule a lady’s choice of conversational topics, Mr. Grey. Even if you are right, and I nearly came to visit last night, though the hour was late, to discuss this with you.” She gripped her notebook upon her knees. “I was reading my great-uncle’s notebook—he kept one regarding his own attempts at treasure-hunting.” She waved at the side comment. “He visited your father, to look through the same family logbook we spoke of before.” Her eyes cut briefly to where her maid sat, indicating she wished to keep their prior meeting in the house to herself.

  “Yes, that would not surprise me. The late Mr. Penrith was a studious and methodical man. He and my father were quite alike.” Ras shifted in his chair, focusing his attention on the woman before him again. “What did you find in the notebook to cause you such excitement?”

  “My great-uncle mentioned the artwork and relics in the house, the oldest of them all bearing engravings. He said they were scripture, or quotes, but he wondered if they might mean something more. Then I thought of that painting I saw at Mr. Cruse’s home, of Erasmus Grey and his wife.”

  “That whole business of them never being apart, in life or death. Yes, I remember. A romantic sentiment.”

  “What if it was something more?” Louisa asked, her eyes widening. “What if it was a clue to where the treasure was kept? The logbook made it sound as though including Lady Elizabeth in the treasure hunt had somehow helped Erasmus.”

  Ras thought for a moment, trying to remember the exact wording. “I only took it to mean that they had grown closer while working together. Let me retrieve the book.” He rose from his chair and went to the old logbook, wondering if using it so often in the last several weeks had hurt its ancient pages.

  He found the place where first Louisa and then he had studied the words written by Erasmus and read them aloud again.

  ‘It was wise to trust my best beloved, Lady Elizabeth, all those years ago with the work my king has given me. Together, we have searched for the treasure stolen away from my country to hers. Though I despaired of ever finding it, Elizabeth would not let me give up. I rejoice in my partnership.’

  Ras shrugged. “That does not sound very promising.”

  “But it does!” Louisa rose and came to stand beside him, not cognizant at all of the way his heart sped up when her shoulder touched his. “Look. Despaired. By the time he wrote this, despair was a thing of the past. And he wrote that Elizabeth would not let him give it up—also in the past tense. If he had not found the treasure, wouldn’t he have used the present tense? Written something like, ‘I despair of ever finding it; Elizabeth will not let me give up’?”

  Ras had to clear his throat before speaking, as it had closed up with nervousness at her nearness. “I cannot think you ought to read so much out of something so simple as verb tense. It seems too tenuous a detail to hang your hopes upon.”

  She looked up at him, that determined gleam still there. “Perhaps you are right. I know many a person has tried to find the treasure before I came along. But Ras—” Her eyes widened. “Mr. Grey.” Her eyes darted to her maid, who studiously ignored them in favor of reading a small book in her hands.

  His heart flipped entirely, like an acrobat turning ’round in a handspring. “You feel you are on to something,” he finished for her.

  With a nod, the young woman handed him her notebook. “Only look at these two, from the portrait and the Scottish Kirk painting.”

  Ras took her notebook, his bare fingers brushing her gloved hand. Her handwriting was as he found her, elegant without being ostentatious. Graceful. The loops of her vowels reminding him of her playful nature.

  He had to get hold of himself. One could not find someone’s handwriting attractive. That verged on the ridiculous. He read what she had written.

  Never separated. In life or death.

  I lay quietly at the foot of the mountain.

  “Yes. These are the interpretations of the Latin and the Scottish Gaelic.” Ras handed the book back to her. Then he looked over his shoulder at the wall behind his desk. There were shelves of books, but there was also an old shield. It was meant to be an ornament, as it was too small to be of any use in battle, but it bore the family crest. “I wonder.”

  Ras went to the shield, and he felt Louisa follow him. The shield had nothing on its surface, but he remembered a time when his father forced Ras to clean it, along with every shelf of the library, when he caught Ras mishandling books. Ras the child had built a tower out of several leather-bound volumes, and his punishment had been to care for the study for a week.

  He took the shield down and walked the metal to the desk, laying it upon its face.

  Louisa came to stand at his elbow, bending down over the shield. She gasped. “It’s in English!”

  Ras swallowed, hard. The words had meant nothing to him as a child, but as he read them aloud, he began to believe in Louisa’s theory.

  “‘My king bid me seek a treasure, I found not one but two. My lady love hid the treasure trove, and I am no more.’”

  He stepped backward, then fell into his chair.

  The ghosts had insisted there was a treasure. But they had refused to give him its location. Was it because there were already directions to finding it? Was that what they meant, when they said he must prove himself worthy before claiming the wealth of the past?

  Of course, the ghosts were nowhere about to question at that moment.

  Louisa studiously scribbled the words from the shield into her notebook.

  “I cannot believe it. Ras, do you know what this means?” She did not correct herself that time, using his family’s name for him without hesitation. He almost smiled, but his mind was too disturbed by what they had found.

  The treasure was real.

  Lady Elizabeth had hidden it.

  Blasted ghosts.

  Ras looked up at the maid, who was watching them with wide eyes. Whatever she knew about the matter, he had rather not let her find out more. He cleared his throat, preparing to dismiss the maid, when Mrs. Douglas bustled in with a tray.

  “Tea and coffee for you, sir.” She put everything upon a table near the desk. “Shall I stay to pour out?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Douglas.” Ras stood and went to t
he tea things. “We can manage.” When she disappeared, he hastily put together cups for his guest, her maid, and then himself. Louisa carried a plate to her maid, then returned to her seat. She kept casting him significant glances, but Ras tried to ignore her.

  He had to think things through.

  If the treasure was real, why had his ancestors hidden it again? Why not use it, or return it to the king as James VI had directed?

  They drank from their cups in silence, Ras’s mind scrambling for answers and only finding more questions.

  “Mr. Grey?”

  He looked up from his cup, meeting Louisa’s serious gaze. “Yes?”

  “I can see you are upset by this. Perhaps I had better leave. We can discuss the matter later, if you wish.” Her expression had changed, fallen from excitement to regret. “I did not mean to do any harm.”

  “I know.” He forced a smile, wishing to offer her some comfort. They spoke in low tones that would not carry to where the maid sat at the opposite end of the room. “I am only trying to decipher what Erasmus Grey could have meant, mentioning finding the treasure only to hide it again. What did Lady Elizabeth have to do with it? She was a loyal subject to the crown, her father a powerful duke. Why not reveal that they had found the treasure, at least to her father? Why hide it again?”

  “King James didn’t have a very easy rule, did he?” She winced. “I was not an attentive pupil when it came to history, but I do know well enough that every court had its own problems.”

  Ras had been reading up on the king, using history books in the study, ever since finding out that Erasmus Grey had been sent to Harbottle on His Majesty’s orders. He scrubbed one hand through his hair as he thought, heedless of the mess he made of himself. “James had an extravagant court. He was deeply in debt, and he made deals with Parliament for the government to give him money to pay off his debts. The treasure would’ve allowed him to do that without giving up political power. He also had something of a…a fanaticism with the idea that the right of kings was divinely given, rather than a chance thing of birth. I know there are many who believe that even now. James took action against Catholics, too, to emphasize that he had no need of the Pope.”