A Haunting at Havenwood (Seasons of Change Book 6)

by Sally Britton

  Lady Erran approached him, her charming smile in place. “I do so miss your mother in the summer. She is a woman of such refinement, and her company is always welcome.” With a subtle tilt of her head, she beckoned for her daughters to join them near the doors. “Girls, were we not just speaking of Miss Grey and Miss Victoria yesterday? Such sweet young ladies.”

  The mention of Ras’s sisters brought with it a stab of guilt. They were in London with his mother, waiting for the season to begin, and waiting for him to return to act as escort and guardian should any suitable bachelors wish to court them. As much as he enjoyed the peace of Havenwood and the company of trees, he had responsibilities elsewhere.

  Miss Cunningham and Miss Arabelle stood on either side of Ras before he could move further into the room.

  “Shame on you, Mr. Grey, for surprising all of us like this,” the elder of the two said, gently tapping his arm with her fan.

  Not to be outdone, Miss Arabelle opened her fan to peer at him over its edge. “We would have planned a party to welcome you back to the neighborhood, had we even suspected you were here.”

  “How long have you been in the neighborhood?” Miss Cunningham asked, mouth pulling to one side in what might have been a flirtatious smile.

  Ras drew his arms tighter to his sides. It was the only polite form of retreat he could take. “Not long.”

  Lady Erran did nothing to keep her daughters from crowding him. “I do hope we have you for some weeks, Mr. Grey.”

  He peered over the feathers stuck in her head. She had arranged them in such a way as to give her the appearance of sprouting a pheasant’s tail. Behind her, still tucked into the curtains, Louisa watched him. When she caught him looking, she hastily averted her gaze back to Mr. Cunningham. She smiled up at the baron’s son.

  Ras’s heart sank. He much preferred when Louisa smiled at him.

  “—do you not think, Mr. Grey?” Miss Arabelle’s use of his name snapped him back to attention.

  “I beg your pardon. I was lost-lost-lost in thought.” He snapped his teeth together with a clack, then smiled. His stammer could not arise that evening. Not with this particular family present.

  Miss Cunningham tittered and touched his arm again. “My sister said we ought to go for a ride tomorrow, if the weather holds, and asked if you thought it a good plan. Would you care to join us?” She pursed her lips at him, cocking an eyebrow up with expectation.

  Ras thought through his reply, making the pause long and nearly cumbersome. “Not tomorrow. I have other things I must attend to. But perhaps sometime next week.” It was painful to speak so slowly, and Ras had nearly ridded himself of the need to do so, but Lord Erran’s family always made him uncomfortable. When he was uncomfortable, his words stuck like molasses to the roof of his mouth.

  Except the effect was much less sweet.

  The housekeeper appeared and announced dinner. Mrs. Penrith insisted that Ras take Lady Erran’s arm, as he was the guest of honor. That put the earl escorting Mrs. Penrith, and his sons their own sisters. Louisa entered the dining room last.

  Thankfully, Ras was put on Mrs. Penrith’s right hand and she gave the earl the other end of the table. Then Louisa was to Ras’s right. Mr. Cunningham on her other side.

  The meal passed with the Cunningham sisters happily sharing the gossip of acquaintances Ras’s family shared with theirs. All the people they spoke of were already in Newcastle or London, some far-flung in seaside towns. But the sisters spoke as though each misadventure of their friends held great importance to those at the table.

  Had Ras wished to know Society gossip, the chatter would have entertained him. As it was, he desperately wished to speak with Louisa. Instead, he feigned interest in Miss Arabelle’s recounting of a London musicale neither of them had attended. All the while, he eavesdropped upon Mr. Cunningham and Louisa.

  “You never told me what you thought about my book about ghosts and spirits,” the gentleman said, voice low.

  “I did not?” Louisa matched his volume. “I found it entirely fascinating. And believable, in most circumstances. The accounts of parents warning children left me rather sad, though.”

  “Indeed? I thought it showed paternal care.”

  Louisa looked down at her plate. From the corner of his eye, Ras saw the sad twist to her smile. “Of course it did. I only wished I had such a visit, of warning or comfort, from my own father.”

  Mr. Cunningham leaned toward her. “Ah, now I understand. How thoughtless of me.”

  “I suppose my circumstances do not merit such an extreme occurrence as a spiritual manifestation. I know there are those who doubt such things. I cannot put myself firmly on one side or the other of such an argument.” She lowered her fork to her plate. “I found the other book you loaned me of great interest. The Northumberland history book. It put me rather in hopes of visiting some of the ruins and ancient places still in the county.”

  “It is late in the season to go about on such adventures.” Mr. Cunningham sighed. “Though we might make a sojourn to Holystone and visit the Lady’s Well. There is more superstition for us to enjoy.”

  Louisa’s smile appeared somewhat forced. “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, how many holy sites could possibly exist that have anything to actually do with saints or miracles? I think people look for supernatural explanations to both their ills and their gains. It absolves them from responsibility.”

  Ras watched as Louisa’s hand stiffened in her lap, curling into a fist. “Perhaps that is how some think. For myself, I prefer to believe in miracles, and in holding true during times of trial, because I have a very real hope. A hope of seeing my father again. A hope that this life means something. A hope, and faith, that there is a Higher Power watching over me.”

  Ras’s heart warmed to hear her words. Though neither of them had discussed faith, he felt the truth of her conviction. Louisa’s intelligence did not make her a skeptic. For that, he was grateful.

  Mr. Cunningham cleared his throat and joined in the conversation of his sisters.

  After dinner, all the guests adjourned to the parlor. Since there was no Mr. Penrith to offer the men conversation and refreshment in the other room, they all remained together. Louisa rather wished Lord and Lady Erran would call the hour too late and take their children home. Instead, both settled in at a table with her aunt, a deck of cards appearing for their entertainment.

  Louisa purposefully waited until the Cunningham ladies sat to choose her own chair. They sat on either side of a small couch, and the elder sister immediately gestured to a chair near her.

  “Mr. Grey, will you not sit here so we might continue our delightful conversation?”

  Selecting the chair furthest from the fire, and the sisters, Louisa watched to see what Ras might do. They had entangled him in their conversation all evening, he, rarely venturing his own comments, and then speaking with a slowness that made Louisa ache for him. It could not be what he wished, to have to mind every word so closely.

  He had not spoken that way around her since giving up his act as a ghost.

  Ras tucked his hands behind his back and inclined his head. “I am afraid I am rather warm. I think I will sit here, by Miss Banner, instead.”

  The immediate relief his words caused ought to have surprised her. For the first time since learning of the unexpected addition to the dinner guests, her smile came naturally. When he lowered himself to the chair near hers, no more than a foot of space separating them, she lowered her voice to murmur, “Are you sure that is wise, sir? I might bore you, given my lack of news from more fashionable communities.”

  His eyebrows rose, and she watched him struggle to hide his own smile. “I have yet to be bored by any of your conversation, Miss Banner.”

  The way he spoke her name, though he addressed her as was polite, sent a shiver through Louisa. Her fingers tightened on the arm of the chair.

  From the edge of her vision, Louisa caught a glare coming from Miss Cunningham.


  Apparently, Ras saw it too. He raised his voice and addressed the ladies on the other side of the room. “When did your family arrive in Harbottle this year? I had heard you summered in Newcastle.”

  Miss Arabelle’s hands fluttered up from her lap as she spoke. “We came in August, when it was simply too hot to stay anywhere else. Even Newcastle is abominably warm in summer.”

  Mr. Cunningham picked up the chair near his sisters. “That is the truth of it. There is fine sport here, too.” He carried the seat across the rug to settle it next to Louisa’s.

  It took all her control not to stare at him, and to keep her lips pressed firmly shut. The attention he showed her by such a thing was unwarranted. It made her cheeks burn. She glanced at Ras, wondering what he made of the pointed move.

  “The woods here are lovely, and the hills beautiful. I have seen my share of deer merely by looking over the hills.” Louisa gave him the barest smile, then looked to Ras. “Though I am most taken by a clever raven I have seen on a few occasions. He fascinates me.”

  “Horrid things,” Miss Cunningham said. “They make the most awful racket.”

  “Or mimic the nicer birds,” the younger Mr. Robert Cunningham muttered.

  Ras lifted one shoulder in a shrug and addressed Louisa. “I do admire their abilities beyond mimicry. I’ve seen a raven unlatch a gate before.”

  Not to be left out, Mr. Cunningham leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out before speaking. “Ravens are rather full of mischief, I think.”

  “You talk about them like they are people. They are unintelligent animals.” Miss Cunningham wrinkled her nose and sniffed.

  Louisa sunk back a little in her chair as the debate about birds continued between Mr. Cunningham and his sisters. Next to her, Ras tapped a staccato rhythm on the arm of his chair. She turned toward him enough to catch his eye. His fingers stilled, the tips barely brushing the furniture, and one corner of his mouth went up.

  That was when Mr. Cunningham changed the subject abruptly. “When we were boys at Harrow, then Cambridge, Grey used to write stories. He submitted them to periodicals, I think. One found its way into a pamphlet passed around school. Do you still dabble in fiction, Grey?”

  The way Mr. Cunningham asked made Louisa squirm. He sounded smugly amused rather than curious or thoughtful. Ras paled. His use of a pseudonym and his desire to protect his family from censure meant keeping his secret.

  His answer sounded startled, and reluctant, and painful. He stammered almost every other word. “I-I-I-I cannot s-s-s-s-say I do.” He gulped, and Louisa saw the way his eyes widened. “No-no-no-no one s-s-s-s-seemed interested before-fore.”

  Miss Arabelle giggled behind her fan.

  “Ah, yes. You used to speak like that at school, too.” Mr. Cunningham chuckled, his smirk turning into a sneer. “Our headmaster once said Grey should carry a slate about to write his words rather than speak, as he would come to the point faster that way.”

  Mr. Robert Cunningham barked a laugh, then turned it into a cough.

  Mocking the perceived imperfections of another might be fashionable amongst the upper classes, but Louisa found it said a great deal more about the speaker than their subject.

  Louisa tilted her chin upward. “How interesting. I wish I could write my thoughts before speaking them. I might avoid a great deal of trouble that way, as I would be less likely to speak an unkind word.” She stood, glaring down at Mr. Cunningham. “I find people with quick tongues, as praised as they are for their wit, are often unaware how a word spoken in haste sounds thoughtless rather than witty.”

  She did not look at Ras. She had no wish to embarrass him further by rising to his defense, unasked. Instead, she marched to the door between her aunt’s sitting room and the parlor, throwing it open. “Would anyone enjoy some music? Aunt Penrith’s pianoforte is a most excellent instrument. Mr. Grey, would you help me select something to play?”

  The room behind her was silent a long moment. Louisa clenched her jaw. Had she gone too far? Even the baron, baroness, and Aunt Penrith had stopped their conversation.

  Louisa’s ears burned, her throat growing hot and tight. Her mother abhorred when people made a scene, as Louisa had most certainly done.

  A step upon the wood floor between the parlor and morning room at last pulled her gaze upward. Ras had followed her, as bidden. With everyone else at his back, and Louisa the only one privy to his expression, he granted her a look so filled with gentleness that she had to smile at him.

  Thank you, his look seemed to say.

  Louisa nodded and motioned to the top of the instrument where sheets of music waited. Her aunt had laid them out earlier that afternoon.

  He glanced over the papers, selected a small sheaf, and put them upon the music rack.

  She read the name of the tune and song, then looked back up at him with raised eyebrows. “A duet? Do you wish to sing with me, Mr. Grey?” she asked, voice pitched so the others would not hear should he have chosen the piece without knowing.

  He did not meet her eyes but tugged at the cuffs of his coat. “Accompanying you would be a great honor, Miss Banner.”

  Her heart fluttered, but she squashed any thought that might give it permission to truly fly. She needed wits, not emotion, to get through the evening with the sharp-tongued Cunninghams.

  “Deep breaths help,” Ras whispered, leaning over her shoulder as though to adjust the music. His breath tickled her cheek as he spoke. “Shall we begin?”

  Her fingers trembled when she delicately brushed the tops of the keys. Then she pressed the ivory-colored keys more firmly as the musical notes floated into the air. She sang first, the lyrics describing an early morning light. Then he joined her, his rich tenor a near perfect complement to her alto.

  While she played, and he sang, Louisa quite forgot about their audience. There was no one in the whole world save the handsome ghost and her.

  Chapter 18

  Ras leaned back in his chair, considering the scene he had completed moments before. The reclusive baron in his novel had just lost his chance to confess his love for the governess. She had been forced out of her position by a jealous employer, put onto a post coach, and it was too late.

  How did he send the baron after his lady love?

  Lady Elizabeth had appeared in the room at some unknown point while Ras wrote. She had remained quiet long after he even grew aware of her. But she asked him at that moment, “How is the book coming along, grandson?”

  How thoughtful of her, to wait until he paused in his work to speak. The ghost was far more considerate than his own mother and sisters. They never thought about interrupting him when he had pen and paper before him.

  “I think I am nearly to the end. The hero must chase after the woman he loves.”

  Lady Elizabeth approached the desk, hands folded before her. “A grand part of every love story.” She tipped her head to the side, staring down at him. “How is Miss Banner?”

  Ras tilted his head back, his gaze going to the ceiling while he remembered his last glimpse of Louisa. She had stood in the tiny entry hall of her aunt’s home, her expression softened by the lamplight, and her voice gentle as she wished him good night. He had wanted to take her hand, to press a kiss to it, or to touch the pulse at her wrist to determine if her heart raced as his did when she was near.

  “She is wonderful,” he murmured, then lowered his gaze to his many-times-great-grandmother. “She is kind, honorable, witty, and courageous.”

  Had anyone ever come to his defense as she had? Not in his memory. His father had been a gentle soul, but never understood Ras’s stammer. He had been impatient with it. Ras’s mother had been ashamed and ignored it, when she did not force him to the doctor for a cure. The boys at Harrow and his instructors openly mocked and rebuked him for it. No one had ever put themselves between Ras and his persecutors.

  He had learned to tolerate and ignore the comments others made. Or to laugh along with them at himself
, no matter how humiliating the experience.

  Louisa’s quick-witted rebuke to Mr. Cunningham’s remarks and his siblings’ snickers further cemented her place in his high esteem.

  And his heart.

  Lady Elizabeth cleared her throat, which was amusing considering as a phantom she had no need for such an action. “If you are finished with writing, perhaps you ought to call on Miss Banner. It seems once your mind turns to her, there is no point in directing your focus elsewhere.”

  Ras laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “You have seen her. Do you think—is it at all possible—that she might feel as I do?” There was no one else to ask. No friends to confide in. Only the ghosts.

  Erasmus chose that moment to speak up from the corner, behind the desk and chair, startling Ras. “Why not quit your dreaming and go ask the lass yourself?”

  Ras looked over his shoulder at the kilt-wearing ghost, narrowing his eyes at him. “I suppose that is what you did, when you fell in love with Lady Elizabeth?”

  His great-grandmother giggled. “He did nothing of the kind. Which is why you must, Ras. Be better than your namesake. There is no reason to delay when it comes to love. Go to her.”

  Love. The truth of what he felt echoed in his heart.

  Was it possible? Did it make him a fool to love someone so newly entered into his life?

  Greater minds than his own had debated the emotion and the unpredictable nature of the heart. Why dwell upon the subject when he could, as Lady Elizabeth said, go to Louisa?

  He left the desk, and as he went out into the corridor he shouted through the hall to Mrs. Douglas that he was stepping out. His mother would be horrified to see such a thing, but given that there was no butler to track his comings and goings, what else was he to do?

  He fetched his hat and overcoat from the closet off the foyer. He went out the door, trying to close it behind him while putting his arms through the coat sleeves. A valet, footman, or butler would have made it easier. He ought to see about obtaining more servants, even if his family did not spend more time at Havenwood.