“GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!”
The wall behind the vicar began to shake with Marcus’ voice.
He jumped away, staring at it as if it were about to fall on his head. The weapons decorating it rattled but stayed where they were, securely fastened to the wall.
“Listen to him,” he whispered fiercely. “Listen to him and get out while you still can!” With that, he turned and ran.
I had never seen an older gentleman run so fast. Luckily, Mr. Barker was there and quickly opened the door for him. He was barely through when Mr. Barker swung the door shut with a bang.
I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it, the expression of satisfaction on Mr. Barker’s face was unforgettable.
He gave a nod of his head to the door and said, “And good riddance to ‘im.”
Giving me a small bow, he walked past me toward the kitchen.
I was still giggling, but I tried my best to stop. Forcing an angry tone to my voice, I called out, “Lord Marcus, that was not well done!”
My statement was greeted by silence.
“I know you’re still there, don’t ignore me,” I called out again. “You should not have done that. You nearly scared that poor man to death!”
I could have sworn I heard a deep chuckle. I finally gave up and went back to the study to continue reading a journal on animal husbandry I had found there. I still felt it my duty to learn as much as I could about the estate and how it was run. My mind, however, simply would not focus. As I tried to read, I kept wondering about what the vicar had told me about Lord Marcus’ state of mind. Was he right? Was the ghost insane? Was that why he hadn’t been able to move on after he had died?
I sat staring into the fireplace for some time, question after question roaming through my mind. What I needed was to get my questions answered, but how? I was simply too frightened to ask the ghost directly. And if he really were insane, I probably wouldn’t get a straight answer anyhow, would I? Goodness only knows what he might do if I were to anger him, especially after seeing what he had just done to poor Mr. Collier. But who would have the answers I needed? Mr. or Mrs. Barker? I had tried asking them questions, but they always managed to sidestep them neatly. There had to be someone else. Someone in whom he’d confided.
Who did men confide in? Their friends.
I jumped up, dropping the journal to the floor. Surely, Lord Marcus had written letters to his friends. Perhaps there were copies, or his friends had written back.
I ran to the desk and began pulling out drawers left and right. One drawer held blank paper, pens, and ink. All the rest were completely empty! Who had emptied the desk? Clearly, someone had.
I ran to the kitchen but stopped just before entering. I didn’t want to startle Mr. or Mrs. Barker with my excitement. I took a deep breath and composed myself.
Slowly entering the room, I found Mrs. Barker hard at work preparing dinner, while Mr. Barker sat with a glass of ale before him. Upon my entrance, Mr. Barker immediately stood.
“May I help ye, Miss?” he asked, a small smile quivering on his lips. I could tell, my status in his eyes had now gone from someone to be wary of to, if not a compatriot, at least someone whom he respected. I appreciated this, so I reacted as casually as I could with the excitement of my quest burbling inside of me.
“Please sit down, Mr. Barker. I only have one little question I wondered if you might be able to answer for me.”
He raised his eyebrows, wary once more.
“I, er, I was looking for some estate papers Mr. Hancock said I might find in Lord Marcus’ desk, but it appears to have been cleaned out. You wouldn’t know who might have done this, do you? Who might have the papers which were there?” There, I was very pleased with my little fib, considering I had made it up on the spot. And it seemed to work too.
Mr. Barker considered the question for a moment and then said, “The only one who’s been in there would be his lordship’s solicitor, Mr. Chester.”
Yes, of course. I nodded. “Do you know where I might find his direction? Perhaps I can write to him and ask if he mistakenly took any papers away with him.”
“I believe I have it,” Mrs. Barker answered before bustling off to her room. She came back a minute later with a piece of paper. “Here ye are, Miss. He gave it to me should we need anything.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Barker. I’ll just go and copy this down and return it to you.”
I went off with my prize and then spent the next hour tapping my fingers against the desk, pacing, writing, scratching out, and rewriting. How does one ask for personal letters to which I honestly had no right?
Once again, I am ashamed to say, I was forced to resort to artifice. I wasted five pieces of paper before I gave in to that necessity. Finally, I sat back with the addressed envelope in my hand. I sincerely hoped this worked because I couldn’t think of where else I might find this information, without attempting to learn who Lord Marcus’ friends were and accosting them in person. Although, now that I thought about it, it might not be such a bad idea. But alas, not only would my father kill me if I were to introduce myself to strange men, I also wasn’t allowed to return to London where they most undoubtedly were. All I could do was sigh and dream.
Chapter Eight
The screams woke me again that night. It had been a few nights since I’d heard them, and it startled me so that I nearly jumped straight out of my bed.
I was still pulling on my wrapper as I walked quickly toward the gallery.
“Lord Marcus! My lord, what is the matter?” I asked, as his moans filled the house with such misery I thought my heart would break. He seemed to be saying something over and over again as he wept.
I listened closely. It sounded like a name. Rachel? Yes, he seemed to be cursing someone named Rachel. I could barely make it out, but I thought I’d give it a try. Anything was better than listening to such torment.
“My lord,” I said quietly, even going so far as to reach out to touch the frame of his portrait. “My lord, please tell me why you are so upset.”
The moans continued unabated.
I tried again, a little more loudly this time. “Lord Marcus, who is Rachel? What has she done that has driven you to this?”
“GET OUT! GET OUT! LEAVE ME ALONE! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST LEAVE ME BE?”
The whispers of Rachel renewed with such agony my heart wept.
“Not your fault, Rachel. It was not your fault.”
I leaned closer toward the bust of Lord Bolingbrook, sitting on a shelf just next to the portrait of Lord Marcus. It was a little out of my reach, but the voice seemed to come from it. Was that possible?
“Rachel,” he cried, filling the name with despair and more pain than a person could possibly bear.
“My lord, let me help you,” I called back, hoping he would hear me and take solace. “I’m here, Lord Marcus, it’s Laia, and I want to—”
“GODDAMNED COLLIER! THAT ASS FORCED HER! HE COERCED HER! IT WASN’T HER FAULT! SHE’S INNOCENT! INNOCENT! INNOCENT!”
I was knocked backward by the force of his screams so close to me. Screams followed by curses such as I’d never in my life heard before, and I’d heard quite a few.
He was insane. The vicar had been right. Did that mean I was in danger? Was he right about that too?
The bust of Marcus’ brother shook with the force of the ghost’s screams, teetering on its stand. I didn’t wait a moment to find out if the vicar had been correct. I backed away and ran.
I glanced back at the bust as I attempted to open the sliding pocket door I had foolishly closed when I’d come in. It seemed to be nodding at me as it rocked back and forth. Run away, girl, it seemed to say. Run! I was trembling so much my hand slipped, unable grasp the small handhold which served in lieu of a doorknob. I believe I might have whimpered to myself as I tried again. I could feel the sob of fear filling my throat as that disembodied head rocked back and forth, its empty eyes staring at me down the length of the gallery.
Finally, I gave a pull with all of my might and the door slid open. I jumped through only to have it slam closed again of its own volition, catching the back of my gown! I think I did scream out then, terrified and caught. I tried to take a breath, but my heart had nearly stopped. A chill descended over me such as I’d never in my life felt. Gooseflesh pebbled my skin. Was he near? The ghost? Had he passed through me?
No, he couldn’t have. I could still hear him screaming in the gallery behind me. A sob broke from my throat, barely audible over the screams and cries of Lord Marcus. I closed my eyes, prayed to the Almighty to deliver me from this torrent of anger and despair. I then yanked myself free.
Like an arrow shot from a bow, I flew the length of the hall to my room.
That night I locked the door to the hallway as well as the one leading to the master chamber. I didn’t think locked doors could keep out a ghost, but I didn’t care. It made me feel marginally safer, even if the safety was only in my own mind.
I woke up the next morning with only one thing on my mind. I had to find something that would tell me more about Marcus’ life. As I got dressed, I kept thinking there had to be something I had overlooked in the study.
I took out every drawer in the desk, even searching for anything that might have fallen behind. I searched through the many, many books on the shelves as well. The only thing I found, while sneezing almost non-stop for a full minute, was that the books were in desperate need of dusting. I was covered with the stuff by the time I finished. I had gone through every bookcase, randomly pulling out books, rifling through the pages, and searching for any sort of letters or notes.
I searched behind the books and everywhere I could think of in that study. Anywhere someone might hide personal letters. The only thing I found that was not directly on a shelf was a stash of pornographic drawings rolled up behind a row of Shakespeare’s plays. I supposed whoever hid them there figured that no one actually ever read Shakespeare and that would be a safe enough hiding place. Judging by the amount of dust on the drawings, I’d have to agree that they knew what they were doing. There were, however, no letters.
I had just entered my room to clean up a bit when my gaze landed on the connecting door leading from my bedroom to the master bedchamber. I stopped. Of course! Marcus would keep his personal correspondence in his bedchamber, not in the study where anyone could find it.
The drawer in his washstand revealed a razor, sharpening strop, and strongly scented soap. A bottle of cologne and a hairbrush were all that was in the drawer of the dressing table. There was no desk, not even a small lap desk was in evidence.
I was surprised to find the wardrobe filled with clothes, as if the man were truly in residence. There were certainly enough there that either he didn’t take a stitch of clothing with him to America, or I had just found the elusive man’s secret passion. He had at least ten coats and quite a few more waistcoats, ranging from the staid, plain blue double-breasted waistcoat to one that was lavender shot through with silver threads. I giggled over that one, but sadly, I found no papers.
A look through his bureau revealed plenty of gentlemen’s unmentionables, which I didn’t dare touch, including breeches of all sorts and enough shirts to keep a man well clothed for many days. Finally, as I opened the very bottom drawer, I found what I had been looking for. A portable desk!
Carefully, I lifted it from the drawer and then sat down right there on the floor with the desk on my lap. My hands were shaking with excitement as I opened the lid. I must say, Lord Marcus was a very meticulous gentleman. Two pens lay neatly sharpened and ready for use, a penknife was easily at hand, and a bottle of ink sat in its little slot, ready as well. Underneath the wooden tray with these things was a small pile of clean, fine linen paper, ready for whenever the master needed to write a letter. But not one had anything written on it. I riffled through the blank pages in despair. Nothing!
I nearly gave up, until I noticed that the very bottom page wasn’t blank. I think my mouth must have fallen open when I found what was clearly the beginning of a letter. “Dear Marcus,” it began. And then I stopped and closed my eyes. Soundly, I cursed myself with language that shouldn’t be known to a young lady of my years, or any years for that matter.
Of course! This was the master’s bedroom. Lord Bolingbrook’s bedroom. Not Lord Marcus’. I had no idea where Lord Marcus’ bedroom was. I couldn’t remember if Mrs. Barker had shown it to me when she’d given me a tour of the house. How odd.
I carefully closed and put Lord Bolingbrook’s portable writing desk back into the drawer where I found it. Wiping the dust from my hands, I took one last look around the room. I was about to return to my own when my eye was caught by something peeking out from under the mattress! Could Lord Bolingbrook have hidden something of import that I could use in solving my mystery?
Rushing over to the bed curtains, drawn and neatly made as always, I pulled at the white corner that stuck out of the top of the bed. This promptly undid the neat tuck of the starched white sheet, that covered the mattress. It was simply the sheet, which had not been tucked quite all the way under. I leaned my head against the post of the bed, resisting the temptation to bang it repeatedly against the wood.
There truly was nothing here. How was I to learn his story now? Where would I find out what had happened to the poor man? The thought of asking the ghost directly sent shivers down my spine. I tucked the sheet back in and made sure that everything was as it had been when I’d entered the room.
It was strange that the room was kept ready for his lordship, as if he would return at any moment. I supposed it was just habit on Mrs. Barker’s part or denial that he had passed on. Briefly, I wondered if the ghost insisted that the room be kept as well, but that didn’t quite make sense since he couldn’t make use of it himself. And it was his brother’s room, not his own.
Returning to my own room, I sat down dejectedly at my dressing table and began to take down my hair. It needed a good brushing after having dust falling on my head all morning. What I really needed was a bath and to wash my hair, but I didn’t have the energy for that right now. The vigorous brushing felt good, and I managed to put my hair back up in a respectable twist before dropping my hairbrush back into the drawer. As I did so, however, I noticed that when it hit the bottom of the drawer, it sounded hollow, rather than if my brush had hit a piece of solid wood.
I looked more closely into the drawer, removing my hairbrush and the few pins I had tossed in there. I knocked once again on the drawer bottom. Yes, it definitely did sound hollow!
Slipping my fingernail between the wood and the inside front of the drawer, I slid back a false bottom. A smile slowly crept over my face. Lord Marcus may not have kept his letters, but somebody else had hidden something here. My hands were at once shaking with excitement as I pulled out the small, soft leather-bound book. The gentle scent of rose came from the pages as I opened to the first page.
December 26, 1817
My dearest son Marcus has given me this handsome new diary in which to keep my thoughts as a Christmas gift. I am quite thrilled with it for my old one has quite fallen to pieces.
To ensure that there are no possible hurt feelings from the wrong person finding and reading it, I have burned the old one. Today I begin anew.
It is a sad holiday we spend together this year. There is only Marcus and myself, for Bolingbrook has decided to stay in London. I don’t see why he felt the need to stay there. I entirely lay the blame at the feet of that awful boy, Henry Collier. I believe he is avoiding his duties and dragging Peter with him.
The handwriting was cramped and not very easy to read, but I managed to make it out slowly, sometimes skipping words and coming back to reinterpret them in the context of the rest of it.
As I read, it became clearer that Lady Bolingbrook was a very unhappy woman. One couldn’t really blame her; her older son was off in London and the younger was kept busy running the estate.
She complained that she hardly saw Mar
cus at all. When he was not working, apparently he was off visiting “that girl.” Lady Bolingbrook never names her, but I began to wonder if she might mean Rachel. It was clear Lady Bolingbrook was trying very hard to be an understanding mother and not hang on her son’s coat sleeves too much. She was simply very lonely.
Dreams of Lady Bolingbrook, sitting in her private parlor scribbling away, haunted me that night. Tears began to fall onto her diary as she wrote, sitting all alone in her cold room. Wails of despair filled the air. It was then that I realized that the cries weren’t coming from her but from the ghost.
I sat up, my mind shifting abruptly from my dream to the harsh reality of the night. Pulling myself from my bed, I didn’t even bother lighting a candle before making my way to the gallery that night. I knew the way by heart now. Slowly, as I went, something began to churn inside of me.
Perhaps it was exhaustion. Perhaps just general discontent at my situation. I didn’t know what it was, but by the time I stood facing Lord Marcus’ portrait, it had become straight out anger.
Now, it was rare that I ever became angry. On the whole, I have to say that I’m a very even-tempered individual. Generally happy. Almost never given to bursts of pique.
“Why must you do this every night?” I shouted at the painting. “Why must you wake me and everyone else in this house with your moaning and groaning? I want to sleep! I am tired!”
The wailing continued unabated.
“I swear you are the most inconsiderate ghost I have ever had the misfortune to come into contact with!” I shouted over his wails. “And yet, you don’t even listen to me. You go on and on all night, every night. I’m tired of this! I’m tired of you! Why can’t you just shut up?” I paused to take a breath.
Once again, I could make out the name Rachel repeated over and over again.
“And who is Rachel?” I asked. “Why won’t you at least tell me why you are crying for this woman?”
The wails increased in volume, as if he were deliberately blocking out my voice.
My Lord Ghost Page 7
