by Ava Stone
One Haunted Evening
Copyright © 2014 by Jane Charles, Jerrica Knight-Catania, Ava Stone
Cover Design by Lily Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by these authors.
Table of Contents
Please note, in writing One Haunted Evening, Jerrica, Jane and Ava discovered that each story was so closely related that in reading the stories separately, pivotal points of other stories would be given away. So, we are offering readers two ways to read One Haunted Evening – each separate story as written and a combined version of all stories with a timeline from start to finish. You can choose either or both. The path of your Haunted Journey is up to you…
Individual Novellas
Prologue
The Lady Vanishes ~ Ava Stone
The Haunting of Lord Wolverly ~ Jerrica Knight-Catania
Her Muse, Her Magic ~ Jane Charles
One Timeline Version
One Haunted Evening ~ Ava Stone, Jerrica Knight-Catania, & Jane Charles
October 1815 – The Merciful Widow Inn, Newmarket
Eugene Post, the Marquess of Bradenham, slapped David Thorn on the back in congratulations as he took a spot across from his old friend. “Well done today, Thorn.” After all, the man’s Arabian had clocked in faster than any other horse on the racecourse that day.
Blake Chetwey laughed. “You make it sound like he ran the lengths himself, Braden.”
“I did have something to do with the siring of the filly.” Thorn lifted his glass of whisky in a mock toast.
“One of your byblows is she?” Braden’s younger brother, Lord Quentin, chuckled as he dropped into a chair beside the man.
A wicked glint sparked in Thorn’s eyes. “If she was one of mine, she’d have run even faster.”
This earned him an uproarious round of guffaws from the others. Just as the laughter died down, Alastair Darrington, Viscount Wolverely, said to Braden, “See what you’ll miss if you head off to godforsaken Cumberland?”
“Cumberland?” Thorn turned up his nose as though he’d smelled something awful. “Why the devil would you want to go there of all places?”
Braden scoffed. “Want is a strong word. Required is more apt.”
“You’re required to go to Cumberland?” Sidney Garrick frowned.
“Haunted castle,” Quent supplied, wiggling his brow dramatically. “He’s inherited a haunted castle.”
“Aren’t all castles haunted?” Garrick slid forward in his seat as he reached for a cheroot.
Wolf agreed with a nod of his head. “They are if you pay any attention to local villagers.”
“But Marisdùn Castle really is haunted,” Chetwey replied. “Everyone in the Lake District has heard stories about it.”
And hauntings were something Chetwey knew a little something about, or so he said. Still, Braden didn’t put a lot of stock in such nonsense. He was simply traveling north with Quent to look the place over and didn’t imagine they’d encounter any apparitions once they arrived.
“Well, if everyone in the Lake District has heard about it…” Garrick smirked.
Chetwey snorted. “Spoken like a fellow who hasn’t ever seen something that can’t be explained. There are many things, my friends, that cannot truly be explained away.”
“They say our great-grandmother vanished within the walls of Marisdùn, never to be seen from again,” Quent added, warming to the telling of nonsensical tales.
“More likely she ran off with some seaman,” Braden tossed in. “Can you imagine raising twelve children?” He shuddered at the thought.
“Our great-grandfather packed up those twelve children and went straight to Shropshire, vowing never to step foot in Marisdùn again,” Quent said.
Garrick took a puff of his cheroot. “You are rather engaged in the retelling of the story.”
“I think it’ll be interesting to see the place myself.” Quent shrugged. “A real haunted castle. It’ll be great fun.”
Braden was rather tempted to sign the place over to Quent and be done with it. He had no interest in haunted castles in Cumberland or anywhere else.
A bemused smirk settled on Thorn’s face, but he said nothing.
Wolf, on the other hand, seemed just as enthralled as Quent. “You know what you could do?”
“Who said we were doing anything?” Braden asked, but he was drowned out when Quent said, “What could we do?”
“Satterly had a Samhain festival a few years back—” Wolf rubbed his brow as though trying to remember something “—at that place in Devon, old abbey.”
“Lypston Abbey,” Chetwey added.
“Yes!” Wolf’s eyes lit up. “Lypston Abbey. Everyone dressed in costume and it was a right good time. Something about the worlds of the living and the dead colliding on that one night. I’ll never forget it.”
“Some of those girls didn’t wear drawers,” Thorn tossed in. “I’ll never forget that.”
“Did some colliding, did you?” Garrick asked.
Wolf grinned widely. “Wouldn’t it be enormously fun to have a Samhain festival at Marisdùn Castle, where the worlds of the living and the dead collide all the time anyway?”
“Brilliant!” Quent gushed.
“It’s not brilliant,” Braden protested. “It’s ridiculous. We don’t even know if the place is standing.”
“It’s standing,” Chetwey replied. “I’ve seen it myself.”
“Why not, Braden?” Quent asked. “Everyone dressed in costume, girls without drawers. I’m certainly game for that.”
“Oh, here, here.” Thorn lifted his glass once more. “Count me in.”
There was a chorus of voices all in agreement for that. So Braden heaved a sigh and shrugged. Who was he to spoil everyone’s fun? “Marisdùn may be standing, but we’ll want to make certain the structure is sound.”
“Why don’t you all come with us when we head for Cumberland?” Quent tossed in. “More eyes to look the place over.”
“I’m game,” Chetwey said.
“Why not?” Thorn sighed.
“Sounds like fun,” Wolf added.
“Well—” Garrick shrugged “—if everyone else is going…”
In loving memory of my grandfather who always watched old Vincent Price movies with me every Friday night when I was a child, instilling within me a love for the slightly mysterious, creepy, and sometimes scary things out there in the world.
~Ava
Just outside Ravenglass, Cumberland – October 1815
“Absolutely not!” Braden grumbled as the coach hit a bump in the road. Honestly, had his brother lost his mind? “In the first place, the three of them are entirely too young for such an event.”
“They’re eighteen,” Quent reminded him, swaying slightly against the squabs as the carriage took a turn.
But they might as well be eight, for that’s as old as they still seemed to Braden. They probably always would, but that was hardly the main point in his objection.
The last season nearly killed him, trying to keep track of the triplets, trying to make certain each of them was out of trouble in any given moment. He was nine and twenty and hadn’t spotted one single grey hair on his head until the day their younger sisters had come
out in society that spring. He’d had to pull at least five grey hairs since, and each one was preceded by some harrowing event or another that one or more of them had gotten themselves involved in. “Did you hear Thorn that night? Girls with no drawers at that Lypston Abbey party?” Braden’s brow lifted in meaning. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to have our little sisters at a masquerade with men like David Thorn about?”
Quent snorted. “He’d never touch them. They’re our sisters, for God’s sake.”
Perhaps Quent had missed the part about it being a masquerade. How would Thorn or anyone else know which girls were Ladies Hope, Patience or Grace Post, or anyone else for that matter? Braden leaned back against the squabs and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not having them there and that is it.”
Quent heaved a beleaguered sigh, as though he’d personally faced the trials of Job. “They’re going to be quite put out with you.”
“They’re always put out with me. Having them safe and put out with me is preferable to having them happily in danger.”
“Please,” Quent complained. “They’re perfectly fine, Braden. You make it sound as though they’re thrill seekers or running around Town with their hair on fire or some other such nonsense.”
Braden narrowed his eyes on his younger brother. “It wouldn’t matter if you could convince me or not, Quent. Lady Bradenham would never agree.” Their step-mother was hardly the carefree sort who would let her daughters participate in a masquerade Samhain party, after all, and discussing it any further was a waste of time and breathable air.
Quent winced just a bit, the first silent acknowledgment that Braden had a point. “She’d let them if you talked her into it.”
That might be true, not that Braden had any intention of doing so. “And yet I won’t.”
“Fine.” Quent turned his attention to the waning mountainous landscape passing out their window. “You’ll have to deal with their wailing and resentment, not me.”
And that was how it had always been. Quent would champion the girls for something wholly inappropriate and Braden would have to end the merriment. Being the oldest and responsible brother was quite tiring a lot of the time.
“Oh!” The tone in Quent’s voice had changed from disappointment to one of awe. “There it is, I think.”
Braden shifted on his bench to glance out the window and spotted a massive medieval castle against the dark blue horizon. That would, indeed, appear to be Marisdùn Castle, the childhood home of their maternal grandfather, the place that had haunted the old man until his death the year before.
“It doesn’t look haunted,” Quent mused.
“And what does something that’s haunted look like?”
Quent shrugged. “Darker, I suppose.”
It looked plenty dark to Braden, but immaculately kept up. “Well, Great-Uncle Cornelius lived there until his death last month. I’m certain he wanted the place kept up.”
“I guess.” Quent sounded so dejected, like a boy whose plaything had been taken away.
“Perhaps you just want it to be haunted,” Braden suggested.
“I remember the stories grandfather told us when we were boys about Marisdùn. Sounds and wailing he’d hear in the dead of the night, candles moving by themselves up and down the corridors, his mother disappearing all together.”
Braden remembered the stories too. They’d been something to enthrall a young boy’s imagination, but as a grown man, in the light of day… Well, such musings seemed rather childish these days.
The coach slowed and the road became less bumpy as they crossed through the ancient battlements and entered the castle grounds. When the carriage finally came to a stop and the coachman opened the door, Braden stepped outside and stared up at the magnificent medieval castle before them. Marisdùn was exceedingly large, nearly double in size of any other property he owned. The main building sported twelve rows of windows on the front and seemed to stretch on forever.
Behind him, two more carriages entered the courtyard and then stopped next to his. Wolf and Garrick were the first to exit their coach. The two fellows glanced about the place with skeptical eyes. Then Thorn stumbled from the last carriage in apparent haste, a severe expression on his face as he approached the others.
“Everything all right, Thorn?” Wolf asked. “Where’s Chetwey?”
“In the carriage,” Thorn replied, his tone rather grave. “He is not well.”
“Damn.” Braden’s hands went to his hips as he turned towards the last carriage that still contained his friend. God help him if he should ever contract malaria. “Someone ought to go for a doctor then. None of us is equipped to handle an episode.”
“I’ll go,” Wolf said quickly, before anyone else could reply.
At that moment, servants began emerging from the castle and were making their way towards Braden and the others. A tall, thin man led the group of servants, followed closely by a plump older woman just behind him.
“I’m Bradenham. You must be Bendle.” Braden stepped towards the leader whom he took to be Marisdùn’s butler.
“Aye.” The man nodded quickly and then introduced the rest of the staff.
Braden acknowledged the servants with a tight smile. They’d probably think him the most unfriendly fellow in all of Cumberland, but right now, Chetwey’s condition was of the upmost importance. “I don’t mean to be short, Bendle, but we are in need of a doctor right away.”
“Dr. Alcott is just in town, my lord. You’ll find his lodgings off the main street, directly adjacent to the Pennington Arms. There’s a sign just above his door.”
Wolf glanced back at his driver who had just finished unloading the trunks. The fellow climbed back up to the seat without a word. Wolf joined him in the coachman’s box and then they were off.
Braden helped Thorn carry Chetwey into the castle and then followed Bendle down a maze of corridors and staircases until they reached a set of rooms for the sick man.
“And now,” Thorn said as Chetwey moaned from the four-poster, “we wait.”
Miss Callie Eilbeck could not have been happier. The day was beautiful. Nearby starlings were singing in the trees. And she was headed to the vicarage to visit Lila Southward, her dearest friend in all the world. Of course, she’d had to escape Braewood without her brother being the wiser. Had Cyrus known she was headed out to see Lila, her brother would have followed after her and made a complete nuisance of himself. Again.
The scene he’d made at the end of services this last Sunday still flashed in Callie’s mind and made her cringe. Poor Lila was a saint to put up with Cyrus’s pointed interest and far from subtle attention. A veritable saint.
As she approached the vicarage, Callie spotted Lila resting against the stone fence, which was odd. She’d never waited for Callie out-of-doors before.
“There you are!” Lila pushed away from the fence and waved her hand in the air.
Callie increased her pace until she reached her friend. “Surprised to see you out here.”
Lila shrugged slightly. “I wasn’t certain you’d be alone, and Papa…” her voice trailed off.
“Would probably thrash Cyrus were he to see him before next Sunday,” Callie finished for her. Then she shook her head. “I am sorry, Lila. If I had any sort of control over him…”
Her friend sighed and said, “I know it’s not your fault. Besides—” she threaded her arm through Callie’s and started in the direction of town “—it’s such a pretty day for a walk and we are fresh out of Daphne’s rum butter. I thought it might be nice to pick up some more.”
Daphne Alcott did make the best rum butter. Callie matched her steps with her friend’s, and they began to chatter away about everything and about nothing. The pretty green ribbon Elizabeth Clarke wore last Sunday. Mr. Bolton’s loud, off-key singing. The Hotchkins’ goat that kept breaking free of its pen.
And just as they were reaching the edge of town, a loud ruckus came up from behind them. Callie and Lila glanced
over their shoulders to find a trio of strangers on horseback, riding right for them.
Callie gasped, and she tugged Lila closer to her, away from the middle of the road.
The three men sped past them, their steeds kicking up a storm of dust in their wake. And if Lila hadn’t let out a scream, they probably wouldn’t have stopped.
But Lila did let out a scream, startling Callie nearly half to death. She looked over at her friend to find Lila covering the side of her face with one hand. “Are you all right?” she asked.
Lila let out a whimper. “A rock,” she said softly.
“I say,” came an unfamiliar male voice just a few feet away. “Are you all right?”
Callie turned towards the interloper; one of the riders had dismounted and was quickly approaching them.
“Are you mad?” Callie snapped. “You could have barreled right over us.” Heavens! She was still trying to catch her breath.
“I am sorry,” the fellow replied, brushing his dark brown hair from his brow. “We were racing. We didn’t see you.”
Which was hardly an excuse for nearly killing them. “Racing?”
“Oh, dear God,” the man said, brushing past her and reaching out a handkerchief to Lila. “You’re bleeding.”
Which was the wrong thing to say as Lila had never been one to handle the sight of blood. Her knees buckled beneath her and she would have fallen if the handsome stranger hadn’t scooped her up in his arms.
“Put your arm around my neck,” he directed.
“She all right, Quent?” one of the other fellows called as Lila slid her arm around the man’s neck and rested her head against his shoulder.
Heavens, if Callie’s brother saw this particular scene, Lila in the stranger’s arms, Cyrus would turn three shades of red before bellowing loud enough to wake the dead.
“Bleeding,” Quent, whoever-he-was, called back. Then the gentleman met Callie’s eyes and said, “Where can I take her?”
“Th-the vicarage,” Callie replied, still rather shaken; but relieved that the fellow did seem inclined to help her friend.
