Sea Wraith

by Jocelyn Kelley

  “You do not believe in ghosts?”

  He came around the circle and toward her. “I should. Every inch of Cornwall has some legend or another connected to it. Many of the legends contain at least a ghost or two.”

  “Very much like the moors in Yorkshire.”

  “But I know you are too sensible a woman to believe in that flummery.”

  “It is fun to imagine such things.”

  “Quite the contrary. It is a waste of one’s time to use one’s mind in fruitless pursuits.” He crossed his arms and looked down his nose, as if she were one of his students.

  She bit back her annoyance. Or tried to, because some slipped into her voice, turning it sharp as she said, “I never consider using my imagination as a fruitless pursuit. Without imagination where would we be? Just sitting about as our ancient ancestors did, never having invented any machines to bring us out of the Dark Ages or created any beauty.”

  “You have the luxury of such musings because you are a lady of quality. Others do not. I trust you will not speak of such things in the village. It takes all my persuasion to keep the lads from setting off on some Arthurian quest. They believe it is their birthright, when anyone with any learning knows that if Arthur existed at all, he was not the magnificent king of fable. One word about ghosts, and they will be off on a fool’s pursuit.”

  Sian was more successful this time holding back her retort. She understood why Mr. Trembeth spoke as he did, but she wondered how he would react if she told him about the ghost guardian who had followed her to Bannatyne Hall. He would consider her queer in the attic, she suspected. Mr. Trembeth defined practicality. Could such a man exist behind Wraith’s mask? Maybe so. Wraith was indubitably a pragmatic man, who knew what he wanted and was undeterred by how he obtained it.

  “I need to make a few quick sketches,” she said as she reopened her book. “Before the light goes.”

  “Do not let me keep you from your task.” He walked to the far side of the barrow.

  It took longer than Sian suspected to outline the pattern of the stones set closely together. A few tufts of greenery poked out between them, and the changing light created intriguing shadows across the hollows in each stone. Edging around the barrow, she sketched it from several different angles before one stone’s odd shape caught her eye. She was not seeing what she thought she was seeing—was she?

  She lowered the book and went closer to the outer wall. She was seeing right! The stone was heart-shaped. She ran her finger along its surface which was about the same size as her palm. Next to it, a smaller rock had been engraved with what looked like an ornate letter I.

  “Who did you love?” she whispered.

  “What did you say?” Mr. Trembeth walked over to where she stood by the mound of stones.

  “Look.”

  He copied her motion, letting his fingers slide over the stones. “I doubt any love note has lasted as long as this one.” He frowned at the heart-shaped one. “Or perhaps, it is better read ‘Love I.’ Could it be an order of adoration from a long dead Viking?”

  “If so, his hopes have been dashed because nobody knows who was buried in this barrow.”

  “We shall not find out today, because we must leave. The sun is falling toward the horizon. Tonight the moon will be new, and the beach is no place for decent, law-abiding people.”

  Sian motioned for him to lead the way to the footpath that wound up to the top of the cliff. Even though his words had sent a chill through her, she did not rush on the narrow, uneven path. She took care with each step and was glad that Mr. Trembeth held her hand in his strong one to steady her when the trail grew more treacherous. They picked their way among the piles of small stones that had tumbled down it. The breeze off the sea swirled around them, trying to pull them from the cliff’s brittle face. It flipped her bonnet off her head, but the ribbons held it. On each step, it bounced against her back.

  When they reached the top, Sian’s knees threatened to buckle beneath her. She had kept them stiff so long that now they felt like jam. She sat on a boulder, pulled her bonnet onto her mussed hair, and retied the ribbons under her chin.

  “I thought you said this path was easier to traverse,” she said with an unsteady laugh.

  “Apparently I mistook it for a different way.” He squatted next to her. “Forgive me, Miss Nethercott. You cannot believe that I would do anything to endanger you.”

  “I do not.” The entreaty in his eyes unsettled her. It made her wish, for a moment, she had acceded to his request that she not go down to the beach with him while he retrieved his hat. It reminded her too much of the expression Sir Henry had worn when he asked her to reconsider breaking off their betrothal.

  Again she told herself not to be fanciful. Mr. Trembeth was worried about her. That was all. She could not paint him with her own sins.

  Sian stood, obliging Mr. Trembeth to do the same. When she made some trite remark about returning to Bannatyne Hall before dark, he nodded and walked with her across the field.

  He continued to talk about the barrow, and she was engrossed by the tales. She was amazed how many legends had grown up around a pile of stones, because he had not run out of stories by the time they reached the hedgerow.

  “Thank you,” she said as she paused by the gate. “I am so pleased to have had a chance to see the cliffs from the beach, and that would not have been possible without your help.”

  He smiled. “Miss Nethercott, I must say this afternoon’s excursion has been an unexpected pleasure.”

  “I had a wonderful time, too. Your knowledge of the ancient ruins is admirable. I can now include a barrow in the mural.”

  His smile faded. “For a child’s room? The sight of that might be too frightening.”

  “To a baby?” She laughed. “Until he or she grows up enough to hear the legends, it will look like a pile of stones.”

  “But Lord Bannatyne’s household may be bothered by the depiction of the barrow.” He rubbed his gloved hands together. “They may soon be talking about maleficent ghosts coming from the barrow to the nursery.”

  “They should not assume all specters are evil.”

  “But if they are not, why wouldn’t they have gone on to their just reward?”

  “I thought you did not believe in ghosts.”

  “We are not talking about what I believe, but what your sister’s household does. How will you answer when they start warning you about ghosts invading Bannatyne Hall?”

  She smiled and opened the gate. “You need to ask me a question that I can answer. I have no idea how anyone will react to the tidings that ghosts have taken up residence there.”

  “Very well. Here is one. Will you allow me to call again soon?” He put his hand over hers on the gate. “It is invigorating to have someone who employs her mind in something other than devising a reprehensible plot.”

  “I would like that,” she said with a smile. She was thrilled—and, yes, a bit scared—by her encounters with Wraith. If Mr. Trembeth was the same man, she longed to enjoy his company . . . without being frightened of being drawn into Wraith’s dark world.

  “Perhaps we could explore Lord Bannatyne’s library. I understand there are some treatises on local history and mythology among the volumes. They might provide guides for further explorations. Now that I know you are interested in barrows, we might find pictures of standing stone and fogous.”

  “What?”

  “A fogou is a series of caverns connected by tunnels. They were built by the Celts.” He bowed over her hand. “I see we have much to discuss about prehistoric Cornwall.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “As do I.” He held the gate open until she had walked through, then, as he closed it, his hands close to hers on its top, he added, “I will endeavor to call soon. You ask excellent questions. I have been waiting for someone like you to come to St. Gundred.”

  She must have answered him because he bid her a good evening and walked away on the road leading t
o the village.

  I have been waiting for someone like you to come to St. Gundred. Mr. Trembeth’s words echoed the ones which Wraith had whispered in her ear the night he stopped her carriage: I have been waiting for ye.

  Was it simply coincidence, or were her suspicions about the similarities between Mr. Trembeth and Wraith closer to the truth than she had dared to believe? She had to find out, so she could be prepared when Wraith told her why he had been waiting for her.

  Chapter Nine

  Humming a cheerful tune, Sian walked across the small green in St. Gundred after a visit to the shop where the mail coach left packages. She was pleased to have the paintbrushes she had ordered from London before she left Nethercott Castle. The song helped her ignore the eyes following her. Some were merely curious, but others glared, suggesting a malevolence that made her nervous.

  Then she realized, with a thud of relief, that the scowls were not aimed at her, but at a man sitting on a small boulder where the green met the road to Bannatyne Hall. He was so skinny he looked as if he had stopped eating a month ago. But she knew that was not so because he tore a bite off the fowl leg he held. Grease ran along his chin, carving a path in his mat of scrawny whiskers.

  She wanted to tell him to stop staring at her, but she remembered the warnings from Mrs. Jenkin and Oates, the butler, to give Yestin Gillis a wide berth. Anyone with a hint of authority—even the sister of Lord Bannatyne’s wife—would be, in his eyes, an enemy.

  She was not surprised when he jumped to his feet, stepping in front of her. “Ye are from the Hall, aren’t ye?” he asked sharply.

  “Yes.” She started to walk past him, but he blocked her way again. Looking back, she saw the green was empty. Where had everyone gone? She hoped at least one of them would have the decency to help her with this crude man. Instead they had fled.

  Dread flickered through her. She did not lower her gaze, even though she knew this man had the blood of countless victims on his hands. It was not his way to kill in the daylight nor did he prey on someone known to the other villagers. His victims were faceless and slain on nights when the moon was new.

  Like tonight.

  She refused to let her own thoughts frighten her more than Gillis did. It was only mid-afternoon, and she had every right to come into the village.

  “Go home,” he ordered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Stay inside the Hall, Miss Nethercott. There be no place for ye in St. Gundred.”

  “I will go where I wish as I wish.” She raised her voice so that those hiding could hear. “I do not intrude on your hideous activities on moonless nights, so I ask that you do not intrude on mine now.”

  “Ye talk fancy, miss, but ye should heed my advice.” He tossed the chicken leg into the dirt, and a dog rushed out to grab it. He swore and kicked at the dog, but it leaped aside and still managed to steal the bone before it fled.

  She edged around him and continued on her way.

  But he was not finished, because he called, “Come back here again, and ye shall be sorry.”

  Knowing she should keep going as if she had not heard him, she whirled and snapped, “No, you will be the one who is sorry. Can’t you smell the changes blowing in on the sea wind? Your time of terror and death will soon be over. If the authorities do not put an end to your crimes, Wraith will.”

  He blanched, his face become a sickly gray. He sputtered something, but her words had found their mark. No, a single word had done that.

  Wraith.

  Yestin Gillis was not afraid of his fellow villagers, the constable or the justice of the peace, but he was afraid of Wraith. That made no sense, if Gillis led a gang of wreckers. Maybe he did not. But then who did? She wondered if Constantine was aware of Gillis’s fear of Wraith. She must make sure to mention it to him the next time they spoke. And she must not let herself believe that she was safe either. Gillis was a mouse who yearned to be a rat, and like a rat, he would attack if provoked.

  * * * *

  Sian stretched her cramped fingers. She had been outlining the cliffs on the wall of the smaller room in the nursery. Tackling the big, slanted wall was something she must let wait until the morning. Her hand ached from trying to draw straight lines on the uneven wall. The floor by her feet was sprinkled with bits of white plaster that had broken off when she drew over them. Not just the floor, but her shoes and her apron.

  Stepping back, she appraised her work. The lines were crooked, but a brush would glide over the rough wall more easily. At that point, she could define the edges.

  She went to the open window and looked at the silvery sea streaked red and gold as the sun dropped toward the waves. She frowned as she turned to look at the wall. Something was not quite right. The angle of one of the cliffs was wrong.

  There must be at least two hours before the sky was dark. If she hurried, she would be able to go out to the cliffs, discover the true angle, and be back inside before the light vanished. Hurrying to her room, she collected her sketchbook and her shawl. She left her bonnet behind, because it would not stay on her head in such a stiff breeze.

  Oates, the silver-haired butler, came up the stairs as she descended. He was a short, plump man who had an unmistakable aura of authority. Wearing a coat the same dark green as the Hall’s livery, he somehow made himself appear superior to the footmen he oversaw.

  “Good evening, Miss Nethercott,” he said in his shockingly deep voice. “If you are ready for supper, may I suggest the western terrace? The sunlight on the waves is always a favorite.”

  “Perhaps later. I have something to do now.” She slipped past him on the wide staircase.

  He looked down at her. “I hope whatever it is will not take you beyond the gardens.”

  “Not far.” She tapped her sketchbook. “I need one more view of the cliffs for inspiration.”

  “Miss Nethercott, it is almost sundown.”

  “I am aware of that, Oates. I intend to take a quick peek, then hurry back here.”

  “Take someone with you.”

  She nodded. “Where is Tibbet?”

  The hint of a smile tipped the butler’s lips. “I will have him meet you by the gate at the back of the garden, Miss Nethercott.”

  “Thank you.” Hurrying down the stairs, she added over her shoulder, “Tell Mrs. Jenkin I would like supper served on the western terrace in half an hour, if it is no trouble.”

  “Yes, Miss Nethercott.” His lips wobbled as he fought not to reveal how relieved he was.

  Sian went into the garden and took the path to the gate in the hedgerow. In the past year, she had become used to overseeing herself and Nethercott Castle. Having to watch every step because of the murderous wreckers frustrated her.

  Just as did everything else.

  Or was it that she was as much on edge as everyone around St. Gundred while the moon was gone from the night sky? In a few days, it would be a thickening sliver, and the wreckers would be visible along the cliffs.

  She shivered, not wanting to meet Gillis in the meadow that led to the cliffs. She would not go beyond where she could be seen from Bannatyne Hall. Looking back at the house as she reached the gate where Tibbet waited, she saw both the butler and the housekeeper standing by separate windows, watching her. She did not acknowledge them as she walked with the footman toward the shore.

  For the first time, she wondered where the ghost from Nethercott Castle was. He called himself a guardian, and having him by her side would offer all the protection she needed from the superstitious Cornish.

  Birds chirped, and a young rabbit paused to stare at her. She opened her book and made a quick sketch of its short rounded ears. Somewhere in the grass the rest of its family must be hidden.

  Remembering her promise to stay in sight of the house, she followed Tibbet as they cut across the field. They took found a narrow, meandering path which she guessed had been made by sheep, but it allowed them to walk through the gorse half-concealed by thick blankets of ferns. With her gown hel
d close to her, she could keep prickers from snagging it.

  She halted as she saw a motion to her right. Was someone there? What was someone doing in the empty field? Even the sheep had wandered elsewhere.

  “What is it, Miss Nethercott?” Tibbet asked.

  “Did you see that?”

  “What?” He put his hand up to his brow and peered into the setting sun.

  “I thought I saw someone over there to right.”

  “Maybe we should return to the Hall.”

  She nodded, even though she hated turning tail and hiding. As she turned to go with him, she looked past her own shadow that had grown monstrously gigantic with the setting sun at her back. The wind shook the plants and rippled through the hedgerow. Had it been a motion caused by the wind that had caught her eye? If she was startled by every commonplace thing around her, she would be as terrorized as the staff at Bannatyne Hall.

  That thought spurred her feet—and Tibbet’s—along the path. She kept her gaze on the ground because the setting sun blinded her. Risking a single glance in its direction, she realized it was much lower than she had expected. She must have misjudged the time. No wonder Oates had been dismayed she was leaving the garden.

  She hurried as quickly as she dared on the stone-strewn ground. With the sun directly behind her, she chased her own shadow toward the edge of the field.

  “Stop! Right there!” came a shout.

  Frightened, she froze. A gun fired, and she dropped to the ground with Tibbet throwing himself on top of her. Her hands and left cheek burned. Not from the ball from the gun, but from striking the gorse she had not seen amongst the ferns. Could the ferns hide them? She tried to sink more deeply into them, but the stony earth was hard beneath her.