The Lost Duchess of Greyden Castle

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  My husband now looked as though nothing had upset him. I put a smile on my face. A good wife indeed! “I wish you could come with me,” I said with a sweetness I did not feel.

  He smiled and patted my hand. “I have some papers to attend to.” He glanced at the sky. “You go ahead. Just don't stay out too long."

  I nodded and gave the stallion his head before I should forget myself and tell my husband what I was really thinking. The great horse cantered away. I tried to enjoy the wind in my face and the feel of a good animal under me.

  But my temper was up. Richard had no right to order me about like that. Well, perhaps he had the right. I had promised to obey him. But even Papa had not presumed so much.

  Why was Richard so terribly unfair to his brother? Not fit, indeed! Roland was the only member of the family who had bothered to be kind to me, and now I was forbidden to ride with him. It wasn't at all fair.

  Turning the stallion onto the moor, I pointed him toward a great jumble of fallen rocks in the distance. I knew this ground. I knew it was safe to let the stallion run.

  When we reached the rocks, neither the stallion nor my anger was spent. I aimed him at another distant pile and off we flew.

  We were almost there when I heard a sudden snapping sound. The same instant I went flying through the air, the saddle with me. Fortunately I did not land on any large stones, but again I had to labor to get air back into my tortured lungs.

  The stallion waited patiently, and finally I was able to sit up. I checked all my limbs and decided that at worst I would suffer a few bruises. My saddle lay on the ground some distance away. I got to my feet and went to it automatically.

  When I bent to pick it up, I gasped. The girth had been cut half through, up under the flap where it would not be noticed. Half the broken strap was frayed, but the other half was cut clean. Someone had wanted me to have an accident.

  My hands began to tremble, but I paid them no mind. This was no time to get vaporish. I dragged the saddle to the pile of stones. I could not carry it far, but I marked the spot where I left it.

  Then I considered my situation. It was a long way back to the castle. I must either walk it or ride the stallion bareback. I had no inclination for such a long walk, especially in boots designed for riding, but to mount the stallion bareback—and to ride astride—what if someone should see me? Someone like Cressadine Varish?

  I glanced at the sky. It would soon be dusk, and the landmarks I knew would not be visible. I sighed and led the stallion to an overturned slab of stone. I would rather risk the bareback ride than be caught on the moor in the dark.

  I spoke soothing words to the stallion as I used the stone to mount him. To my surprise he stood, meek as a lamb, until I turned him back toward the road. Then he kept his gait to a comfortable walk.

  I leaned forward to pat his neck. “You're a good horse,” I whispered. “A beautiful, good horse. And I won't let anyone hurt you."

  Dusk was falling as we reached the stable. Seeing me astride, Toby let out a piercing whistle. The stallion, good animal that he was, never quivered.

  Remembering himself, Toby rushed forward and grabbed the bridle. “Sure, Yer Grace, I'm sorry. But whereats your saddle?"

  Richard emerged from a stall. “I was coming to meet you,” he said. Then he, too, noticed my unusual position. “My God, Vanessa! What are you doing astride?” He reached up to help me down.

  "I had an accident,” I said, recounting what had befallen me. “The girth was cut."

  I heard Toby's quick intake of breath. “'Twas her,” he muttered.

  Richard frowned. “What are you talking about?"

  The boy trembled, but he went on. “I seen her. The ghost of the late duchess."

  "Nonsense!"

  Toby quailed, but he stood his ground. “I did, Yer Grace, I seen her. She were standing right there, right outside the stallion's stall."

  "You're imagining things,” Richard said.

  Toby shook his head. “No, I ain't, Yer Grace. She left—” he reached into the tack box—"she left this."

  My knees went suddenly weak. There in Toby's hand was a handkerchief. It was not as white as it had once been, but the monogrammed C was still plain, and I had no doubt that a hint of Caroline's scent clung to it still.

  Chapter Seventeen

  There was no discounting the reality of the handkerchief, but Richard adamantly refused to believe in a ghost. Someone else had dropped the handkerchief, he said, someone who wanted us to believe that ghosts existed.

  I wanted to think as he did. It would soon be the full moon again, and I would be left alone while he attended to Rosamund. Under such circumstances the prospect of ghosts was not one I really cared to consider.

  Logic told me that ghosts hardly went about cutting girths. Someone earthly wanted to do me harm. Perhaps even—I pushed the thought aside.

  The accident was clearly meant for me, since it was the sidesaddle that had been damaged and I was the only one who used it. This was not a much pleasanter consideration, however, than the possibility of ghosts, and so I tried to put it from my mind.

  For several days I could not ride. I fretted and fumed around the castle, nursing my bruises and my temper, until Richard brought home a new girth. His instructions were quite explicit: Every part of the saddle was to be inspected before it went on the horse, and Toby was to be held personally accountable for my safety.

  The days passed and the full moon drew nearer. It hardly seemed possible that I had been at Greyden Castle less than a month. One night as Richard and I prepared for bed I said as much.

  He smiled at me. “You have made my life bearable again, my dearest."

  As compliments go, this was not the best I'd ever heard; but still, it gladdened my heart, and it prompted me to speak what was on my mind. “Richard, soon it will be the full moon."

  He nodded and hung his coat over the back of a chair.

  "Will you go to Rosamund then?"

  He frowned. “I must, Nessie. No one else can manage her."

  "Not even Penrose?"

  "No, not even he."

  I climbed into bed and sighed. “I do not like to sleep alone."

  Taking his place beside me, Richard chuckled and drew me closer.

  I flushed. “You know what I mean. I want you with me. I cannot sleep when you are gone."

  He kissed my forehead. “I don't like to leave you, Nessie, but if you stay in bed, you should be safe enough."

  I snuggled closer. “But, Richard, I cannot sleep."

  "We'll have a pot of tea brought up. Maybe that will help relax you."

  I had to smile at my husband. He was sometimes a most amusing man. How could he possibly think that a cup of tea was a reasonable substitute for a husband? But I loved him dearly, and I knew that for his sake I would suffer through the full moon, whatever it might bring me.

  The next night the maid brought up a pot of tea. It was cozy to sit in bed with my husband, sipping and discussing our day. Richard told the staff to make the tea a nightly ritual, and I began to look forward to it.

  More days passed. Sarah was blossoming into a lovely little chatterbox. Every day she grew dearer to me, but I was no more successful in bringing her and Richard together than I had been before. I thought often of the book Sarah said her mother wrote in. But, though I went several times to the tower room especially to search for a diary, I could find no sign of it.

  The dowager grew ever more insulting, her comments on every aspect of my life sharp and stinging as winter rain. I had often to bite my tongue to keep back the bitter replies I wanted so badly to make.

  Penrose had no trouble getting Rosamund to discard her black and wear her new gowns. The yellow made her look ghastly, but next to the orange silk it was her favorite. Penrose and Richard complimented her daily, no matter what she wore or how she looked.

  Roland was not much about. Truth to tell, I missed his cheerful company. He was the only person in the household who behaved in
a normal fashion, and I rather looked to him to help me keep a sense of what was right and decent.

  Then the night of the full moon was upon us. At bedtime Richard accompanied me to my chamber and tenderly kissed me good night. I wanted to cling to him and beg him to stay with me, but of course I did not. I was made of sterner stuff than that.

  "I shall be back at dawn, my dearest,” he said. “Sleep well."

  I made no reply to such a sentiment. I doubted I should sleep at all. But I knew Richard and I knew his sense of duty. If Rosamund needed him, he would be there. I could not dispute that.

  I took off my clothes, got into my nightdress, and climbed into bed. It looked as though it would be a long lonely night. The maid arrived with the teapot, and I had her put it on the table right beside the bed. Perhaps a good cup of hot tea would calm my nerves.

  I checked the drawer to make sure I had plenty of candles. Since my entrapment in the North Tower, I had been unable to overcome a distressing fear of the dark. It was one thing to lie in the dark beside Richard and quite another to be alone, staring into frightening blackness.

  There would be light from the moon, I knew, but I meant to take no chances. I did not intend to be trapped in the darkness again. My memory of that experience was too vivid to be easily forgotten.

  The time passed very slowly. I finished my tea and slid down among the pillows. The sensible thing would be to go to sleep, but no one had ever accused me of being sensible, so I tossed and turned and counted enough sheep to overrun all of Cornwall.

  Nothing helped. I was still wide awake. I lay there, contemplating the moonlight that streamed through my window. If only Richard were there in the bedchamber with me. I let myself go back in memory to our last lovemaking. I remembered it so well, I could almost feel his arms around me, his lips pressing on mine.

  These pleasant-memories worked where the sheep had failed, and soon I drifted off into slumber.

  I don't know low long I slept, but a noise woke me. I could not tell what made it, but I knew it was real and that I had just heard it.

  The candle was still burning. I lay there, rigid, waiting for I knew not what. And then it came. “Van-ness-sa,” the strange voice whispered. ‘This is not the place for you. Go home while you can."

  I bit my lip. Should I reply to this so-called ghost? Should I tell it I had no intention of leaving my husband and the child who had come to love me like the mother she had never really had?

  I opened my mouth, but I closed it again without saying anything. Surely one did not argue with a ghost. I would wait it out. Ignoring whoever it was would prove just as effective.

  But I had never been a person given to waiting things out. As Papa always said, I was far more likely to rush in and start fighting even before I knew what was at stake. If only I could see my adversary, then I would have a better chance.

  I had not forgotten Richard's admonition to stay in bed, but I found I could not obey it. This inaction was driving me up in the boughs. I must do something to change the current state of affairs.

  Surely the logical thing was to find out the ghost, to discern its identity once and for all. That was what Papa would do. Then we could take steps to end this charade.

  I threw back the covers, but I did not hurry. This time I was determined to think clearly. I drew on my robe and stepped into my slippers. Then I picked up the candle.

  Halfway to the door Richard's words came back to me again. I knew I should not put myself in danger, but I simply could not bear this kind of thing any longer. I had to do something, and I would be careful.

  I crossed the room and laid my hand on the doorknob. Like everything else in the castle it was cold to the touch. I shivered, but I did not turn back. I must discover who was behind these ghostly visits, and then I could put an end to them.

  Carefully I turned the knob and opened the door. The hall was dark. No white figure lurked outside my room. I was not surprised. I had not expected to find anyone—or anything—right there.

  Taking a deep breath. I stepped out. The figure was halfway down the hall, just about where I had seen it before. It lifted a ghostly appendage and beckoned to me.

  And I followed.

  It led me in the direction it had before, down the hall toward the North Tower. And, as before, it kept the same distance in front of me.

  It stopped, finally, in what looked to be about the same place it had stopped the first time I had followed it. I paused, too. Should I rush down the hall and try to grapple with this intruder? Unmask him or her? The prospect was enticing.

  But Richard's words of warning were still echoing in my mind, and as I debated with myself, the ghost vanished again.

  I uttered an oath that would have set Papa to frowning mightily and left Richard, who had never heard me curse, blinking in astonishment. Then, holding my candle high, I continued down the hall.

  My progress was slow because I was examining the inner wall as I went. I could see nothing out of the ordinary, and I was just about to give up and return to my room when there it was.

  A section of the wall was tilted out, and behind it gaped a hole, just big enough to squeeze through. I approached it carefully, ready to scream, to fight, to run, but the light from my candle showed me nothing but a dark passageway.

  I drew closer. I stuck my arm and the candle into the darkness. Nothing happened. There was no one there.

  I stood, half in and half out of the hall. Should I step inside and follow the passageway to its end? I dearly wished to get to the bottom of this thing.

  The ghost was no longer nearby—clearly it did not wish to be confronted—but the passageway was there. I could follow it.

  I took one step forward, then another. Richard's warnings rang in my head, but I did not heed them. One more step and I was completely inside the passage.

  My knees trembled. My heart pounded. I stood there, trying to decide which direction to go. Suddenly I felt a cold wind on my cheek, and my candle flickered and almost went out.

  My heart rose up in my throat. Fear, bitter as bile, filled my mouth. I could not get enough air into my lungs. With a sob I rushed back through the gap and out into the hall where I stood quivering and gasping for breath. I could not venture into that blackness, my fear was too great.

  I tried to mark the section of wall by dripping candle wax on the stones, and then I backed slowly away.

  My progress back to my room was slow. I could not bring myself to turn my back on the dark hole that threatened there in the wall. But finally I reached my room and the haven of my bed.

  As I climbed back into it, I reflected that it had not been Richard's sensible warnings that had deterred me, but my own very real fear. I simply could not stand the thought of being trapped again in the dark.

  It was just as well, I thought, pulling the covers up to my chin. Tomorrow I would take Richard with me. Together we would find the wax-marked stones and the passageway they hid. Together we would explore them. With him beside me, I could brave the darkness. With him beside me, I could do anything.

  Incredible as it seems, I soon slept and I remained asleep until Richard returned to our room at dawn. The sound of him opening the door must have aroused me. As he climbed in beside me, I opened my eyes.

  "You see,” he said. “You slept undisturbed."

  I did not intend to let him go on believing such foolishness. But he had been up all night, and I hadn't slept much myself. So I just mumbled something and rolled into his waiting arms.

  * * * *

  When I woke again, Richard was gone. Some early business had no doubt called him away. I went down to breakfast. When my husband returned, we would look for the passageway.

  Penrose came alone to breakfast. I surmised that his mother was still sleeping. The boy looked tired, as though he hadn't slept much himself. “Good morning,” I said, determined to be cheerful.

  Though Penrose looked exhausted, I no longer suspected him of being the ghost. I was convinced that the a
pparition was the creation of the servant who had been Caroline's lover.

  "How is your mother this morning?” I asked.

  Penrose frowned. “She's not at all well. She heard it last night."

  Icy fingers sidled along my spine. Still, I had to ask. “Heard what?"

  "The crying babe, of course.” His smile was sinister. “Have you heard it again?"

  I shook my head. “Did Richard hear it?"

  Penrose filled his plate. “He said not."

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Penrose was still scowling as he took his seat. “He says she imagined it."

  "Be fair, Penrose. Perhaps she did."

  His eyes bored into mine. “But you heard it. You know the babe is real."

  I chose my words carefully. “I heard crying. That doesn't mean it was the babe."

  His eyes were bright, too bright. “It does. You know it does."

  His hand went to his coat pocket. “I am still working on my poem. Do you—want to hear it?"

  I did not. I did not want to hear any more about the haunting babe or any other supernatural apparitions. But the boy seemed so eager, and so friendless. I tried to smile and said, “Yes, of course."

  In another situation I might have found some humor in all this. Certainly Penrose was too young to be writing about Death and apparitions. In his somber black clothes he looked very like a little boy playing at grown-up.

  But I did not say that, and I did not laugh. Instead, I composed my features into a properly serious aspect. “Go ahead,” I said. “I am listening."

  Now that he had an audience, Penrose did not seem eager. He hesitated. “It's rough,” he said. “Only a first writing. I'll be doing more work on it.” I nodded. “Go on.” He struck an eloquent pose and began:

  Death has gentle arms,

  Yet the haunting babe gets no rest.

  Death holds for it no charms.

  It wants its mother's breast.

  Penrose looked at me anxiously, and I nodded. I was no connoisseur of verse, but even I knew that this effort was no competition for Lord Byron.