My Lord Ghost

by Meredith Bond

  I looked at it, and indeed, it was the shoe that I had lost the previous night. “Yes! Yes, it is. Where did you find it?”

  He put it down on the floor. Wiping his fingers on his handkerchief, he said, “It was found this morning in...in an open grave in the church graveyard.”

  “Ah.” I handed him a cup of tea, biding my time before I confronted him with what I already knew.

  “Could you possibly explain how it got there?” he asked.

  Oh, no, he was not going to play the innocent with me. “How is Mr. Henry Collier this morning?” I asked. I was done playing games with this man.

  The vicar’s eyes widened for a moment, and then he put down his teacup with a slightly shaking hand. “The doctor says he will be fine. He is recovering. But how... You couldn’t have…”

  “Oh no, it wasn’t I who beat him senseless.” I gave Mr. Collier a cool smile. “It was Marcus.”

  It was a good thing Mr. Collier had already put down his teacup, otherwise I imagine we would have had some shattered china all over the floor. His face was white as a sheet, and his mouth opened and closed a few times without him making a sound. Finally, he said, “But, but that’s impossible! Lord Marcus is dead!”

  “So one would think,” Marcus said, entering the room. I wanted to laugh at his impeccable timing, but instead I just gave him a bright smile and then poured him a cup of tea.

  Mr. Collier jumped up and began to back away from the door. “But, but…” A moment later, he reversed direction. “You, you liar! You trickster! You have been pretending to be dead all this time? How dare you, sir?”

  He still kept his distance, however, even as Marcus strolled casually into the room and took the cup I held out to him. “I have not been pretending to be dead. I simply haven’t told anyone that I wasn’t. It was all of you who presumed that I was dead.”

  I noticed that Marcus included me in his sweeping glance as he said that. And indeed, I had probably been one of those who had publicized his death the most, proclaiming that living in a haunted house wasn’t so bad.

  On the other hand, it had been Marcus himself who had scared away my relatives with his carrying on. I pushed aside my thoughts and said to Marcus, “The vicar found my shoe in an open grave this morning. And his son nearby, I presume?”

  Mr. Collier nodded.

  “Ah, I see,” Marcus said, helping himself to a tart from the tea tray. He clearly had a lot of making up to do when it came to eating. He was much too thin. “So you’ve come to find out what happened.”

  “Yes. I take it you had a hand in this, my lord?”

  Marcus nodded, his mouth full.

  “But it was Henry who led me to fall into the grave, and then he who pushed Marcus in after me,” I said. I turned back toward the vicar. “Mr. Collier, perhaps you can help me. I’m confused about something,”

  He nodded his head slowly, hardly taking his eyes from Marcus. “I am happy to do what I can.”

  “Why was your son trying to kill me yesterday?”

  His head snapped back toward me. “That is a very strong accusation, Miss Grace.”

  “But a valid one since Henry not only pushed me into that grave last night, but was most likely the one who was responsible for two other incidents yesterday that could possibly have killed me,” I answered unapologetically.

  It was clear that the vicar, in all good conscience, couldn’t refute my words. Instead he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing guiltily in his long, thin throat. “My son is due to inherit a great amount of money from an uncle of mine,” he explained. “It’s possible that he was worried about what you might do with…with certain information you have regarding his actions over the past year.”

  “If word got out that he was responsible for Peter’s death…” I began.

  Mr. Collier nodded. “He would lose any chance of inheriting,” he said, completing my thought.

  Well, I could certainly understand—if not condone—his actions.

  “What I want to know,” Marcus said, interrupting, “is where my wife is.” The restrained anger in his voice sent chills down my arms. I could only imagine what Mr. Collier was feeling.

  I shoved aside the pain that blossomed in my heart at his question. Although his wife had abandoned him, he was still a married man. Of course he still felt something for her. Of course he wanted to know where she was.

  The vicar’s eyes widened. He took another step backward and bumped into the mantelpiece. “I, I have not had a chance to speak to my son regarding...”

  “Do not lie to me, vicar,” Marcus growled, advancing on the man.

  “Henry, Henry…”

  “Yes, what did Henry say?”

  “I am very sorry, my lord, she… She passed away,” Mr. Collier stammered.

  I chastised myself at the feeling of relief that ran through me.

  Marcus stopped. He just stared at the man for a moment before turning away toward the window. “How? Did that bastard kill her too?”

  “No! If you mean my son, no, he didn’t kill her.”

  Marcus turned back to the vicar, who was still standing pressed against the mantel.

  “Then how did she die?” he asked quietly, his voice tinged with a deep sadness.

  “Apparently, when they stole away from Marshfield, she… She was pregnant. They intended on taking a ship from Dover to Calais, but she wasn’t well. The journey south was apparently very difficult for her.” The vicar paused, his Adam’s apple in his long, narrow throat bobbing up and down as he swallowed. “She passed away before they could even board the ship. Some, er, some complication with the pregnancy, I presume.”

  Marcus closed his eyes and stood for a moment in silence. I held myself back from running to him, from consoling him as I wanted. When he opened them again, he cleared his throat and said in a very tight voice, “I see. So he did kill her.”

  “No!” the vicar protested.

  “Yes! He forced her to leave Marshfield and travel a great distance in a delicate condition! He might as well have shot her while she was here!”

  “No, my lord. I am certain that it was unintentional. He didn’t know that the journey would harm her. He was horribly upset by it. He loved her,” the vicar ended, his voice quiet.

  “She was my wife!” Marcus growled.

  “Yes, that is true,” Mr. Collier admitted. “But it wasn’t a love match. You know that.”

  Marcus raked his hand through his hair. He did know that. He had told me so himself. “She was in love Henry, wasn’t she?” he said in a more gentle voice.

  “I, I believe so, my lord. I believe they loved each other a great deal.”

  Marcus sighed and sat down on the chair nearest to him. “I never should have asked her to marry me.”

  “But you loved her,” I protested.

  Marcus shook his head. “I thought I loved her. She was so beautiful. But as the vicar just said, she never truly cared for me. She only married me for my title and wealth. She would have been better off if I’d just let her marry Henry, as they had probably intended all along.”

  There was silence in the room for an uncomfortable minute. My heart went out to him, but I stayed silent knowing he had to work through his emotions himself.

  Marcus then turned to the vicar once more. “But that doesn’t mean your son wasn’t responsible for the death of Peter.”

  “What do you mean? Did...did those savages...?” the vicar started.

  “No. They didn’t kill him, although probably not for lack of trying. I tasted their idea of how one keeps a prisoner, first hand. But if Henry had gone to Fort Shelby, a mere thirty miles from the Native American’s camp, he would have been able to secure help and free Peter right away, instead of leaving him there at the hands of those savages.”

  “He could have... He’s never said a word about this to me,” the vicar said with a tightness in his voice.

  “No. He wouldn’t,” Marcus agreed. “He was always the cowardly sort.”


  “You can’t prove anything, Lord Marcus.” With that Mr. Collier seemed to get his spine back, for he stood away from the mantelpiece and said, “I think it best if you and Henry simply stayed away from each other.” And with that parting shot, he left.

  I refilled Marcus’ cup of tea, which he drank down quickly.

  “You can prove your story, Marcus,” I said, watching him.

  He put his teacup back into its saucer. “How?”

  “Write to Robert and ask him to write out a sworn affidavit, stating what happened to you. That the commander of Fort Shelby would have been happy to rescue Peter if he had known he was there.”

  “And I could probably get a statement from the Indian Chief as well,” Marcus said. “He was actually a good man, with just a few bad apples in his community, but it is neither here nor there.” He put down his teacup and took another tart. “Henry will not receive the punishment I think he deserves for his actions. It was a long time ago and in a foreign country.”

  “You should write to Robert anyway,” I offered. “To tell him the news, and that you’re all right.”

  Marcus stared at me for a moment, thinking this through.

  “You need to let the world know that you’re alive,” I said.

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Because your title and property have already been dispersed!”

  “I don’t care about my title, and you’re not about to throw me off of my own land, now, are you?”

  “It’s not your land. Not until you go and inform Parliament that you are alive.”

  Marcus thought about this for a moment and then shook his head. “I can’t. I can’t go yet. Please, Laia, I’ve just found out that my wife is...” He stopped.

  I wanted so badly to run over to him and hold him in my arms, to make all of his pain go away. But right now, I didn’t know if my efforts would be welcome. He’d said he loved me—did he still? Had he actually meant it as I had, or was he still in love with Rachel?

  I knew he was mourning the loss of his wife, but... No. I swallowed back my pain. It would be wrong to impose myself on him just now. I clasped my hands together in front of me, in order to keep myself right where I was. “Of course, Marcus. Please, forgive me.”

  Marcus did little else but eat and sit outside in the cooling sun for the next few days. After months of being hidden inside the walls of the house, he couldn’t get enough of the sun, no matter the temperature.

  I was surprised when, three days after our adventures, he wandered into the office. He walked up behind me, where I was sitting at his desk, and peered over my shoulder.

  “You’re reading the business pages?” he said, clearly surprised at my activities.

  “Yes. I just want to be kept up-to-date on things that might have an impact on the estate.” I sat back from the paper I had been perusing. “What do you think of planting wheat in the spring?” I asked.

  He gave a little laugh. “I think Hancock would have your head if you even suggested it.”

  I had to agree. “That man just cannot stand any interference, can he?”

  “No, and you are not going to antagonize him anymore,” he said with authority.

  I supposed he had a right to do so. Although technically the estate belonged to my father, rightfully, it was Marcus’. I looked up at him. “Do you feel ready to take it over again?” I asked as gently as I could.

  He looked down at the paper on the desk and then gave a slow nod. “If you don’t mind, I believe I will ease myself back into it very slowly.”

  “I don’t mind at all. But you should take your time. It has been fascinating for me to learn about animal husbandry, and overseeing Mr. Hancock has not been very much work. I don’t believe it is an occupation that I would want to engage in for too long. However, I will happily continue with it until you’re ready.”

  He looked at me for a full minute as if trying to read my mind. I wondered if he wanted to ask what occupation I was interested in, but he said nothing. It was too awkward a topic for me to broach either, so instead I turned back to the paper and folded it neatly to set aside.

  “I believe Mr. Hancock is doing quite well,” I said, when I could think of nothing else to say.

  Marcus blinked. “Of course he is. There is no better man at running this estate than Hancock. But there are quite a few other concerns that come with the title that need to be seen to.”

  “I believe my father is dealing with them. He simply asked me to look after the estate itself.”

  He gave a nod. “In that case, I will leave things as they are, at least for a little while.”

  “Perhaps you should go riding,” I suggested, thinking that some exercise would help put the color back into his cheeks.

  He gave me a smile. “Once you are finished here, I’ll take you to some of my favorite places on the estate. Have you seen the hidden cottage?”

  “No, I haven’t!” I responded, very intrigued.

  “It’s in the wood. Put on some sturdy boots and we’ll go for a walk later.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Our eyes met and he seemed to relax, which made me feel good as well. I so wanted him to be happy and healthy, and he was well on his way.

  Oddly enough, life began to feel normal once again. Every so often, he caught me staring at him. There were times when I still could not believe he was alive and with me. And I reveled in being able to speak to him any time of the day and still get a full night’s rest.

  Even though he had finished telling me his story, we never seemed to run out of things to talk about—whether it was my strange upbringing or something as mundane as the estate. It was just so wonderful to be with him.

  I felt Marcus stiffen next to me on the bench of the gig.

  A week had passed since our night-time adventures, and we were headed to the inn so Marcus could show his face around town and dispel the rumors of his demise once and for all. We had agreed that it would be a start to his re-entry into the real world.

  “Henry Collier,” he growled loudly.

  I looked ahead of us and saw the same man who had nearly run me over the previous week. “That’s Henry?” I blurted out. I quickly bit my tongue. I didn’t dare say anything to further enrage Marcus. He was already gripping the whip in his hand so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

  I quickly put a soothing hand on his arm. I didn’t want a scene. It wouldn’t do for people to think that Marcus had truly gone mad on his trip to America. There were already whispers as townspeople became aware that he’d been “haunting” his own home, living in the walls and priest holes.

  No, he needed to be seen as stable and trustworthy. Even the slightest wrong move and people would turn away from him. I knew better than anyone, the importance of a good reputation.

  The tall, blond, lanky man in front of us turned, startled. He too eyed the whip in Marcus’ hand, but he didn’t bow nor break eye contact. “Marcus.”

  “That is Lord Bolingbrook to you,” Marcus said.

  Henry just stood there, a muscle in his jaw twitching from being clenched so tight.

  “I ought to...” Marcus shifted his grip on the whip.

  I opened my mouth to give a word of warning to Marcus, but in the end, I didn’t need to.

  “But I won’t,” he finished. “I think you’ve been punished already and will continue to be so for the rest of your sorry life.”

  “What do you mean?” Henry asked, not taking his eyes off Marcus.

  “You lost the woman you loved,” Marcus explained. “It was through your own fault. You killed her.”

  “I...” Henry began but Marcus interrupted. “She was in a delicate condition and you, you bastard, forced her to travel. And her death isn’t the only one weighing on your soul. You could have saved Peter, but you saved your own hide instead, leaving him to suffer at the hands of those Indians.”

  Henry opened his mouth to defend himself, but once again Marcus stopped him. “Save your ex
cuses, Collier. I was there. I know the entire story. I was the one who rescued him and got caught in their trap, just as he had, while you were killing my wife.”

  This time Henry didn’t even try to defend himself. The man realized Marcus wasn’t going to let him get a word in, so instead he stood gritting his teeth.

  “I would suggest that you leave Marshfield.”

  “This is my home! “ he protested.

  “Not anymore. If you care for you own hide, as I know you do, you would do best to take it elsewhere, out of my sight.”

  Marcus shifted his grip on the whip. “Otherwise, I won’t be held liable for my actions.”

  Henry’s eyes shifted momentarily to the whip. “I believe my uncle has requested that I move in to his home with him. He’s threatened to cut me from his will if I chose not to do so.”

  “I think that would be an excellent idea.” Marcus nodded. He then turned his attention back to the road and drove onward to the inn.

  It was another week of joy with Marcus—riding the estate with him, sitting and talking over the tea tray through the afternoon, chatting at the table long after dinner had been cleared away—that I ran into the vicar while delivering some much-delayed letters to be posted.

  I should have written to my father and Rose immediately after my ordeal, but I just hadn’t been able to compose the missives without sounding melodramatic. I didn’t want them to worry for me and my safety. And I didn’t know how they would react to learning that Marcus wasn’t dead after all.

  “You are still here, Miss Grace?” the vicar said, greeting me as he always did.

  With a laugh, I turned toward him as he approached. “Yes, Mr. Collier, I’m still here.”

  “I wasn’t aware that you had a companion living with you,” he said, tilting his head a little.

  “As you very well know, I don’t,” I responded, a little confused.

  “Ah, then I shall be calling the banns this Sunday?”

  “What? “ I nearly screeched.

  “Well, you are clearly living in sin with Lord Bolingbrook,” he explained.