I turned around, suddenly conscious of Mr. Cantrell’s eyes on me and the curious way they lightened my heart. I’d been silent for too long. “Mrs. Chalcroft doesn’t come here at all?”
“No. My aunt rarely leaves her room most days, which is probably why she decided to employ a companion. Lonely, I expect.”
Like a shield, the stone walls blocked the howling wind, and I was able to take a deep breath of the dampened air. Tendrils of ivy climbed the far walls, winding fingers in and out of chipped statues and a large vase. The tips of the vines reached up the house wall to a large window where a darkened figure stood facing out. Watching us?
Mr. Cantrell anticipated my next question. “Sinclair, I suppose. He just can’t seem to mind his own business. I’m sure he’s already been in to see Aunt Chalcroft this morning to discuss everything as if he has the charge of the whole estate.”
The mention of the highwayman’s name caused a flinch. Thank goodness I’d missed him in the breakfast room. I wasn’t sure I was prepared to face him again yet, particularly after hearing he’d robbed another man on the road that same day. The shadowy figure disappeared from the window, and I cleared my throat, hoping Mr. Cantrell hadn’t read my thoughts. “Does Mr. Sinclair come often to the Towers?”
“Too often if you ask me, but he is my aunt’s godson, I suppose. Although I daresay he only pops in when he is coincidentally short on money.”
“Ah.” So he wasn’t exactly related. “And are you well acquainted with him?”
Mr. Cantrell gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Yes. We were at university together, but I wouldn’t exactly call him a friend.”
I ran my fingers along the ivy leaves as I paced one of the walls, the soft rustle taking a ride on the breeze. “Oh. I only asked because he seemed a bit upset last evening.”
Mr. Cantrell trailed behind me, his long legs narrowing the gap between us. “The gentleman is upset as a rule. I wouldn’t regard it. My sister delights in his company, but I hope he won’t be staying long.”
I could imagine Miss Cantrell delighting in a highwayman’s company. I almost laughed out loud at the thought. Of course, the two of them were alike in many ways, both unconcerned with anyone other than themselves. “I hope not either—for your sake.”
“Thankfully, he usually keeps to himself.” Something flashed in Mr. Cantrell’s eyes, and he stepped closer. “But you will let me know if he bothers you.”
I nodded easily enough, but I couldn’t help but wonder what he meant.
The talk of Mr. Sinclair seemed to sour Mr. Cantrell’s mood. I knew it had changed mine. He held out his arm. “Shall we head back into the house? I wouldn’t wish you to get chilled. Not after your escapade yesterday.”
“You’re quite right.” I turned to meet him near the corner of the garden where the towering stone walls met. But as I reached for his arm, my foot snagged on something beneath the layer of withered plants. I stumbled and was forced to catch my balance on the far wall.
Mr. Cantrell grasped my hand and met my curious glance with one of his own. “What the devil?”
He kicked at the dried leaves for a moment until the toe of his boot found the culprit, and we were rewarded with a loud clank. It wasn’t a rock I’d tripped over. I knelt, pulling the weeds aside as best I could.
There, hidden by years of neglect, was a square iron grate with a round handle. I pressed my finger into the space between the bars, expecting to feel the wet earth below, but there was only cold air.
Mr. Cantrell dropped to the ground beside me. He looked at me as if he’d meant to say something but stopped himself, turning his attention back to our little discovery. He too shoved his fingers through the grate into the darkness below.
Our breaths mingled in the cold air, both of us peering down . . . at what? My chest felt light. I’d read of secret passageways and hidden rooms. Could we have found something the family knew nothing about—in the garden? A friend at the school had told me stories of her ancestors who’d held Jacobite fugitives beneath the floor of their country estate. Could this iron door lead to something similar?
Surely not. I bit my lip and took a quick glance at my coconspirator. Of course, Mr. Cantrell’s silence did little to lessen my imagination. “Do you know what this is? Can it be possible there’s a room below?”
I caught the hint of a grin before he reached for the handle. “I’ve never seen it before. The gardens have been covered in weeds for as long as I can remember. There’s only one way to find out. Shall we open it?”
I nodded, slowly at first and then quickly as if the two of us had found some undiscovered treasure that might disappear the longer we delayed.
He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his coat. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but I’d like to be certain.”
The metal door ground open with a terrible squeak, dirt sliding off the sides in all directions. For a breathless second neither of us moved as if the magic might float away and be lost forever. Then we leaned forward.
I blinked for a second, allowing the sunlight to seep into the dim space. I could see a small room, empty, carved out of the earth below us, probably only about ten feet across at its widest part. We’d need a ladder to inspect any further.
Mr. Cantrell surprised me as he guided my shoulders back and settled the iron door into its place with a loud clank. “Nothing but a little room. I was hoping for more. Weren’t you?”
I thought the room interesting enough, but I was far too ladylike to admit I wanted to go down into the darkness to see what we could find. “What do you think it was used for?”
“A priest hole possibly . . . or merely a storage space.” He glanced up at the east tower. “You’ll find this house holds a few secrets.”
“Secrets?”
He lightly touched my shoulder, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off the grate. “You know.” He took a breath. “I am quite glad you’ve come to the Towers, Miss Delafield, if for no other reason than to share in this discovery.”
Gently, he helped me to my feet and settled my hand on his arm. We both saw the grass stains across my skirt and laughed.
“You really are a unique woman, aren’t you?” He patted my arm for a moment, then rested his hand. “Forgive me. That did not come out the way I intended. What I meant to say is I’ve never met a lady quite like you—you intrigue me.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “I cannot explain all at present, but I must beg your discretion about the grate. It’s important. Can I trust you, Miss Delafield?”
I wasn’t sure what he meant and I loathed secrets, but I nodded. I imagine I would have done a great deal for such a pair of kind eyes.
He held my gaze for a long moment then lifted my fingers to his lips. “Thank you, Miss Delafield. I feel quite safe in your hands. Now, let us finish the tour. I still must introduce you to Evie’s ghost.”
5
The access to the east tower rose from a turn in the hallway behind the servants’ quarters. Mr. Cantrell explained that no one used the upper rooms anymore. By the look of the cobwebs and dry rot, I believed him. A few steps into the corridor and the heavy door Mr. Cantrell held open for me slammed shut, sealing off the kitchen’s familiar clatter for abrupt silence.
Miss Ellis had seemed so keen on joining us in this adventure to the tower. It was her idea after all, but when the time came, she was nowhere to be found. Walking the gardens with Mr. Cantrell had been one thing, but the tower . . . I wished to goodness she hadn’t abandoned me. I was forced to bring my maid in her stead, and Portia couldn’t stop muttering that she might rather jump off a cliff than go up to the east tower. But she came nonetheless. Who wouldn’t when Mr. Cantrell had asked so kindly?
I found myself climbing the tower stairs with Portia prattling in my ear and my thoughts still reeling from the discovery of the priest hole and my time alone with Mr. Cantrell. I knew a gentleman of his stature would no more look at me than a scullery maid, but I couldn’t seem to completely put the idea out o
f my mind.
Without warning he grasped my hand. “Watch your step. The railing isn’t secure here.”
The narrow stairwell settled into a circular pattern, and the stone steps stretched farther apart. I followed behind him as closely as possible, conscious of the feel of his fingers, so strong and smooth, all the while smiling to myself. His hand looked quite nice wrapped around mine. It was then my voice left me for a whisper. “Thank you. I’ll be careful.”
The farther we climbed, the thicker the air seemed and the more the damp walls closed in around us. I cleared my throat. “I don’t suppose anyone comes up here at night.”
“It would be near impossible without a light. And then I daresay most haven’t the stomach for it.” He released my hand and set his candle in a small alcove. “Ah, here we are.”
I heard the door creak open rather than saw it, the blackness was so thick ahead. Mr. Cantrell motioned with his chin. “After you?”
I gave him a questioning glance, hesitating where I stood, but I’d agreed to meet this ghost of Miss Ellis’s. I crossed my arms. “Does the ghost stay in this room all the time?”
“It’s the only place Evie and I have ever seen him.”
I gave him a sideways look as I crept by, my arm brushing his jacket. Tingles crawled up my spine. I tried to keep my voice light. “So it is a he?”
Mr. Cantrell laughed. “As far as we can tell.”
The wooden floor creaked as we crossed the tiny room, Portia sidling up against me. Dust hovered on the air. Shadows shifted around us. I started to duck then realized the roof only felt low. Giant beams crossed above my head. The candle’s glow from the stairwell didn’t penetrate far. What items weren’t swathed in Holland covers wore a thick layer of filth. I chose the safest spot I could find to wait. “Well. Where is he then?”
Mr. Cantrell slid beside me, a slight smile curving his lips. “You must be quiet and still.”
I knew I’d agreed to some such nonsense when I’d taken up the challenge of meeting Miss Ellis’s ghost. Of course, I knew it was all a game, but climbing those gloomy stairs with the fingers of darkness pushing me on as if something waited at the top had put me on edge in a way I wasn’t expecting. I’d just as soon get the whole thing over with.
Something made a popping noise behind me. The hairs on my arm stood on end. I rubbed the feeling away.
Portia, however, staggered to the left, crashing against the wall in her haste. The creak of the floorboards pierced the silence. “I’m so sorry, miss. I be too scared to stay.” Her footsteps echoed as she quickly descended the stairs.
Mr. Cantrell moved to close the door, a laugh in his voice as he said, “As we were.”
Darkness fell like a black curtain. I forced the muscles in my arms to relax and waited. Whatever Mr. Cantrell had planned would be over soon enough. I counted in my head to avoid panic . . . one . . . two . . . three.
“All right, Mr. Cantrell. You’ve had your fun. Let’s get on with this ghost or I’d like to go back downstairs.”
A shuffle sounded at my back. Then silence. I waited like a statue as my eyes adjusted to the dim light. Thank goodness we weren’t in absolute darkness.
A slender shape took form almost as if it had appeared from somewhere in the wall. A grayish-white shape, like a person a few feet away. Coming toward me. My heart jolted to life. On instinct, I took a step backward, stumbling against a tall crate.
Laughter rang out on either side.
“I told you she wouldn’t scream.” Miss Ellis’s voice echoed across the room before I heard the door open and she fetched the candle from the stairs. “What do you think of our little ghost?”
A painting. It was nothing but a horrid painting. “I—”
“I was only nine years old when Lucius played that trick on Elizabeth and me. I daresay it was far more believable then. He howled and moved it around and added a dreadful story I won’t repeat. And at the time I didn’t know Aunt Chalcroft had all this stuff up here.” Her shoulders sagged. “I don’t think we fooled you at all.”
My heartbeat slowed to a more manageable rate, and the ringing in my ears faded away. I took a deep breath. “Anyone would be frightened in a room such as this. What on earth was it used for?”
Mr. Cantrell swept a clump of dust away from their “ghost.” “Years ago, it was only an access room for the lookout on the tower.” He pointed to a door. “Now it’s been storage for as long as I can remember. My great-aunt keeps her late daughter’s things here.” He turned back to the painting. “And other odds and ends.” He paused. “I hope you’re not vexed at me, Miss Delafield. After our pleasant stroll in the garden, I wouldn’t wish you to think ill of me.” He poked Miss Ellis’s arm. “It was Evie’s childish idea.”
I smoothed out my gown, hoping to give the impression of ease. “Oh no. All in good fun.” I smiled but found my gaze drifting back to the painting. Whoever the man was, he sure fit the part of a ghost—there was something about his devilish eyes. “Who is he?”
Miss Ellis wrinkled her nose. “The Earl of Stanton. Isn’t he deliciously stern?”
I froze. Stanton. The man who’d sent me the letter. The bracelet.
The way Miss Ellis’s gaze fell longingly on his face seemed at odds with her declaration. She touched the edge. “He was married to my cousin Anne—Aunt Chalcroft’s daughter. But that was a long time ago, and I was told they didn’t suit.”
I stepped forward with hesitation. So Lord Stanton was familiar with the Chalcroft family as I’d suspected—by marriage. My fingers sought the bracelet on my arm. I had been right to come.
Squinting, I took a second assessment of the painting. Though apparently young at the time, harsh was the only word I could think to describe Lord Stanton. He exuded the idea of good breeding in the arrogant turn of his chin and a look that told you he knew his worth. His shoulders were broad, the cut to his clothes exceptional, but his eyes—so shallow and cold. Even the painter couldn’t help but catch an essence of pure emptiness. Goodness, I wasn’t sure I’d like to find myself alone with him. Yet, as I stepped closer, I wondered if I had seen him somewhere before. In London? “A perfect candidate to play your ghost. How long ago did he die?”
“Oh, Lord Stanton’s alive and well. A friend of mine actually. He’s been in the West Indies on business for the past few months.” Mr. Cantrell settled the cover back over the painting then turned to face me, seemingly startled by the look on my face. “What’s the matter? Are you acquainted with him?”
I shook my head, but was I?
Mr. Cantrell crossed his arms and tilted his chin. “You know, for some reason I get the feeling that you are.”
I inhaled a quick breath. “No.” And laughed. “We run in quite different circles, I’m sure.” I added a head bob for emphasis and turned away. “Well,” I huffed. “I really should return to Mrs. Chalcroft’s room. She could be awake and expecting me.”
Mr. Cantrell cocked an eyebrow then motioned to the door, the candor all but drained from his voice. “Then by all means. We don’t mean to keep you.”
“I really should go.” I hurried past him to the door, ready to make my exit, but my hand lingered on the rusty handle, a slight chill skirting across my shoulders. Was Mr. Cantrell angry with me? I glanced behind me, certain I’d seen something in his eyes as I passed, but he stood there smiling as he had in the garden when we made our little discovery.
I cleared my throat. “Thank you both for the, um, lively tour of the house. I do appreciate it, but I must attend to Mrs. Chalcroft.”
I didn’t wait for an answer and followed the first curve of the stairs without looking back. The tower room had set me on edge. As it would anyone, I told myself. And the painting? My second clue. The second connection to my past.
I paused, glancing back up the corridor, my shoe resting on the bottom of the first flight of stairs. In the cloying stillness I could hear Miss Ellis and Mr. Cantrell murmuring in the upper room.
Mrs. Cha
lcroft’s bedchamber was not as I’d expected—small and Spartan, not a painting or knickknack in sight. Just bare walls, a wardrobe, and chairs all standing like His Majesty’s soldiers at attention. I found myself straightening my shoulders, unprepared for what I might encounter.
Dark curtains hid a solitary window, staving off any hint of daylight. The scent of rosewater hung heavy on the air. The mistress lay propped up on pillows, a mere wisp of a shadow, nestled beneath the covers of a massive bed. As I approached, I was shocked by what I hadn’t seen the previous night—Mrs. Chalcroft on her throne, the true queen of the Towers.
Her hair was neat, her eyes serious. The wild look of the night had vanished from her face, replaced by a vestige of power one couldn’t ignore. I followed Mrs. Chalcroft’s lady’s maid, Dawkins, to the bedside, trying to make sense of the two very different versions of my employer.
Mrs. Chalcroft met my arrival with a crooked smile. “Still here, eh?”
I gave a little laugh. “Of course.” I sidled over to the window to allow Dawkins a moment to finish clearing the breakfast tray and wiping her face. The look in Mrs. Chalcroft’s eyes indicated I was not to watch.
I parted the curtains for a peek. Outside, the gray sky had starved the landscape of its summer hues. The morning sunshine Mr. Cantrell and I had enjoyed a few hours before had vanished into low-hanging clouds. I watched a bird swoop back and forth from treetop to sky before my gaze fell onto a tiny figure striding across the lawn. A woman, dressed in a thick brown cloak, darted between the misty corners of the far wall before pausing at the garden gate.
The woman first appeared to be a stranger, but intrigued by her impulsive movements, I leaned a bit closer to the glass for a better look. She rewarded me with a long view of her profile before slipping through the gate. Thompkins! The maid from the coach. My eyes widened. But why was she here—at the Towers?
I seized on the absurdity at once. Thompkins had never said a word of familiarity about the Chalcrofts. She’d had ample time to speak up on the coach. So why was she here? Scampering across the lawn to the garden like a mouse?
In the Shadow of Croft Towers Page 5
