by Sahara Kelly
Hecate willingly agreed. “We’re not putting you out?”
“Good Lord no,” said Richard, coming up behind her and dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “Seeing you looking so well…it’s the best gift we could receive.”
“In that case, let’s find our rooms.” She turned to Dal, who held out his arm, supporting her as she limped across the parlor.
In the hall, she paused as Dal swept up behind her, put one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back. He had her up at the top of the staircase in no time at all.
“Well, that’s a lovely way to mount the stairs.” Cressida shot Richard a little glance.
“No,” he said flatly. “I’ve been lifting beams all week outside. My back won’t take any more.”
“Spoilsport.” She rolled her eyes and left him to stride upstairs by herself.
*~~*~~*
It wasn’t until Cressida had seen her guests settled, that she remembered two things. The first was that she’d never thought to remove her apron—which horrified her at first, but then she realized it was too late to do anything about it—and second, the papers she discovered earlier were still tucked away in her pocket.
They might be very important, but she was of two minds whether or not to share them with anyone other than Richard. In spite of their forthright conversation with Hecate and Dal, neither she nor her husband had mentioned Cressida’s newly-revealed parentage.
They had kept it to the “trouble at that Brussels ball”, and left it at that. Richard had disclosed his financial difficulties, but since it was all in the past now, nobody felt the need to delve too deeply.
With those thoughts in her mind, Cressida changed her gown, tidied herself for dinner, and carefully tucked the papers away in a drawer beneath her stockings. There would be time enough to peruse them later.
A loud banging sound heralded dinner. It wasn’t a gong, of course, since that handy instrument had gone missing years ago. The substitute was a large saucepan lid and a wooden spoon, wielded with much enthusiasm by Worsnop, who admitted to an early yearning—as a youngster, he’d wanted to join the army so he could play the drum for the parades.
Whatever the reason, he certainly played an effective saucepan lid, since everyone found themselves hurrying downstairs to see what all the noise was about.
Zizi had decided that the loud noise was an invitation, and she added her barks to the chaos.
Even Dal’s eyes were wide open as he kept a protective arm around Hecate.
“It’s the dinner…er…gong, with canine accompaniment,” said Cressida with an apologetic smile. “Worsnop continually surprises us with his brilliant improvisations.”
“Goodness.” Hecate smothered a laugh and held a hand to her chest. “It might also induce heart failure. But if this place ever catches fire, I’d recommend using the dinner gong to alert everyone to the danger.”
“No argument there,” said Richard, ambling up to the group. “But one gets used to it. And it does give Worsnop a great deal of pleasure.”
“In that case,” nodded Hecate, “I say beat the saucepan.”
“How about we dine instead?” Richard led them downstairs, as Dal picked up Hecate.
She glanced at Cressida. “Damn stairs are still proving a problem,” she explained. “I have to watch what I eat, since I’m afraid I might grow too heavy for Dal to lift.”
Since she resembled a delicate fairy who might take flight in a swift breeze, Cressida shook her head in denial. “I don’t see the likelihood of that happening, myself.”
Once again in the small parlor, everyone sat and sniffed as delicious smells seeped from beneath covered platters.
“We do have a real dining room,” said Richard. He shook out his napkin and laid it across his knees. “One day we might clean it and use it. And also add a few footmen. But until then…” He glanced around. “Think of this as a dining adventure.”
Dal spread his hands wide. “You have a roof over your head, Mr. Richard. A fire, fine meals and a family. The rest is unimportant.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Cressida with a smile. “And we grow our own vegetables…”
“Eggs from our own chickens,” added Richard.
“So since there are only four of us, I think this is the perfect place for dinner.” Hecate sniffed. “I know I’m going to enjoy that leek soup, Mr. Worsnop.”
Obedient to the hint, Worsnop carefully served the four at the table, only dripping once or twice, and even then it was merely the carpet, not anyone’s clothing.
The conversation ranged over more than a few widely diverse topics, but in one lull, Hecate turned her head to look at Cressida.
“Did you know your house is haunted?”
The silence that fell was total. Even Worsnop froze in his tracks.
“What?” Richard found his voice.
“Oh yes.” Hecate nodded. “A woman, I believe. And she’s quite upset about something.”
At that moment, a door banged loudly upstairs, echoing through Branscombe Magna, and everyone jumped—then shivered as the air in the room grew cold.
Zizi howled.
Chapter Eleven
“You certainly know how to stop a conversation, dear,” said Richard as he passed Hecate her tea.
They sat around the fire, four chairs closer together than convention would suggest, drawn to the warmth of the flames.
Dinner had been concluded earlier, but nobody had any interest in separating so that the gentlemen could indulge in port and cigars. Dal did not drink or smoke, and Richard wasn’t about to leave the women unattended after Hecate’s dramatic pronouncement. Zizi stayed close to Cressida’s feet and showed nary a sign of moving anytime soon.
“Now,” said Cressida. “Please, Hecate. Can you tell us about this ghost you’ve sensed here?”
“I’m glad I finished my dinner first,” muttered Richard, with a glance at Dal.
“One accustoms oneself to Miss Hecate’s gift,” he said pragmatically. “Although one will also admit it can be a mite disconcerting.”
“That’s an understatement,” added Richard.
“Hush.” Cressida frowned. “I want to know more.” She turned back to Hecate. “The cold. Why does it get so cold? That happened to us the first night we were here.”
“Really?” Hecate looked intrigued. “Can you tell me about it?”
So Cressida described what had happened in the wee hours—the faint light, sounds and the bitter cold in their bedroom.
Hecate listened intently, then nodded. “I am not sure why the cold is almost always present at times like this, but it is. Perhaps the normal warmth of human presence is inhibitive, or maybe they simply find it distasteful…I cannot tell.”
“How do you know it’s a woman?” Richard watched his sister, wondering anew at this person with whom he shared a father, but little else.
“I can feel her.” Hecate hesitated. “It has happened before, but since the accident I seem to be much more susceptible to such things. As if, during the time I was unconscious, a door that was ajar in my mind opened wide.”
Dal leaned forward and placed his forearms on his knees, folding his hands together. “Miss Hecate has honored me with such confidences. I already knew of her unusual gifts and yes, I would concur. She has grown in her abilities.” He smiled at her. “In my country we venerate such gifts and cherish those who possess them. To us they are beyond extraordinary, touched by a magic the rest of us cannot comprehend. We just accept their differences and try to learn from them.”
Richard blinked, amazed at Dal’s words. “How…astute of your people, Dal. And how generous. I would that such an emotion was the norm here in England.”
Cressida shook her head. “I cannot see it happening,” she said with a sigh. “Even though here, in the country, there are many superstitions and beliefs that would not be held worthwhile by London Society, for example.”
“True,” added Hecate. “And yet here we
are, at Branscombe Magna, discussing your own, very personal ghost.”
“So,” Cressida put her tea down, almost untasted. “Please tell us, Hecate. Who is she?”
Silence fell while Hecate gathered her thoughts. Then she lifted her head and swept them all with a glance from beneath her lashes. “She is definitely a woman. I felt her presence as a softness, a scent…” She turned a little toward the other woman. “Cressida, have you gone into a room and detected a flower scent? Something spring-like. Lilacs perhaps? Or lily of the valley?”
Cressida snorted. “My dear Hecate, the only fragrance we’ve detected here up to now is one of mustiness, age, dust and mouse droppings.”
“Ah.” Hecate chuckled. “Yes, well, never mind the scent then. As you work your way through these rooms, though, you may find something like that now and again. Don’t let it concern you if it happens.” Her voice firmed. “I cannot begin to stress enough that this spectre, this presence, does not mean you any harm at all. She is not vengeful or vicious, she’s merely angry at something to do with her family.”
“Us? The Branscombes?”
“I cannot tell,” sighed Hecate. “There is much I do not know. All I can give you is her gender, and the fact she died badly.”
“What does that mean?” asked Richard.
His sister gazed at him. “It means that her life was taken from her. She did not live out her natural term on the face of the earth.” Her gaze turned distant. “Sometimes, when life ends precipitately, or there are strong emotions involved—fear, anger, pain—then the energy that was that person will linger.”
“And you think our lady ghost exhibits something like that?”
“I do, Cressida. And I also believe that she has been here for over a century.”
“That long?” Richard was stunned.
Hecate smiled. “That is no time at all to some spirits, Richard. But yes. It’s not as if she speaks to me, but the…feelings I receive, the impressions…I’m trying to describe something for which there are no words so forgive me if I stumble a little…this lady lived here at least a hundred years ago.”
“So she was family?” Cressida asked the question that tickled her brain.
“In that she had some connection to here, yes. Whether she was born a Branscombe or married one, I cannot tell.”
“Might she have been a servant?” offered Richard.
“Possibly.” Hecate nodded. “But my senses tell me she felt strong emotions here. And that points to a closer involvement than a servant.”
They were all quiet for a few moments. Then Cressida spoke again. “Was it her slamming the door, Hecate?”
The other woman shrugged. “It might have been. Or, given the age of this house, it might simply have been an odd gust of wind.”
“But the cold…” Richard still shuddered at the memory.
“Yes, that is a sure sign,” affirmed Hecate. “She is here, in this house. Why, we cannot tell. But if there is something on her mind, she will find a way to let you know.”
Heaving a sigh, Hecate rose to her feet, pushing herself from the chair with her hands on the arms. “Forgive me, but I find I tire easily.”
“Of course.”
The others rose and Dal went to Hecate. “No more walking for you today, Miss.”
She smiled wearily. “If you say so, Dal.”
He picked her up, and she thanked him with a glance. “I will bid you all goodnight. Remember, your spirit guest means you no harm.”
Dal carried her from the room as her words echoed around them like a blend of blessing and warning.
Richard looked at Cressida and she returned his gaze.
“Damn,” he said.
“Quite,” she concurred.
*~~*~~*
In spite of the unsettling nature of the previous evening’s conversation, Cressida was surprised to waken with the dawn after a solid night’s sleep, uninterrupted by any ghostly visitations.
She had thought she’d never close her eyes, given all the images Hecate’s words had sent spiralling through her brain. But she’d found warmth beneath the covers, and warmth with Richard’s heat next to her, so as usual she awakened to discover herself tucked in against his chest. Her bottom snuggled close and his thighs heated the backs of hers.
It was a delightfully intimate cuddle, and she had grown to love these moments, private oases of precious minutes when she felt truly enclosed in affection.
She dared not call it anything else, although she longed to, since affection was a weak word for what she suspected lay within her heart.
However, with her usual resolve, she pushed such notions aside and slid from Richard’s arms to begin her day. Zizi shot her a look of disgust, yawned, scratched one ear, then decided to join her.
The sun was up, the sky clear, and she willingly visited the henhouse to gather eggs for breakfast, leaving Zizi to explore and conduct her own business in the garden. There was a slight tang of ocean on the air and she sniffed with pleasure, knowing that the auspices for a fine day were all in place.
“Good morning.” Hecate’s voice stopped her as she walked back toward the house with her basket of eggs.
“Goodness, you’re up early.” Cressida blinked.
“Something woke me.” Hecate frowned a little. “And I’m not sure what, but it’s out here.”
“Is Dal down yet?”
“Of course. He’s by the window. I asked him to wait there while I investigated.” She leaned closer. “And also so that I could have a few moments on my own in the sunshine.”
“I understand,” smiled Cressida.
“Yes, you do, I can tell.” Hecate nodded. “He is my right hand. I could not exist without him, and I know he was sent to the right time and the right place just for me. But every now and again, I need just a moment away from his protective aura. A respite from his care. Which sounds ridiculous…” She stopped and frowned, holding up a hand to hush whatever Cressida was about to say…
“Over here.” Hecate picked her way through the unkempt grass to the trunk of a tree.
Cressida heard it, a little cry, weak but clear.
“Oh,” whispered Hecate, bending down. “Oh sweet thing.”
Cressida hurried to her side, and found herself echoing Hecate’s “ohhhh” at the site of a tiny black bundle of fur cradled in the other woman’s gentle clasp.
“How precious,” said Cressida, tickling the kitten gently under its chin.
“How unique,” said Hecate. The kitten turned and stared at her with eyes a mixture of green and gold. “Yes, darling. You are mine, indeed.” She dropped a kiss on top of its head.
“Look,” said Cressida. “Its tail…how strange.”
They both examined the little tail as it twitched in Hecate’s grasp. It seemed as if something might have tried to attack the wee thing, since there was a definite rip in the last third—creating a tiny fork.
“Hullo.” Hecate lifted it and nuzzled it. “My little Beelzebub. How clever of you to find me.”
To Cressida’s astonishment, the tiny kitten rose on all four paws, arched its back, and rubbed Hecate’s face. She could even hear a tiny grinding purr.
“Well it seems you’ve made a friend,” said Cressida.
Zizi, after having enjoyed her morning trundle around the house, came up to them and sniffed inquiringly at Hecate’s skirts.
The kitten lowered her hindquarters and sat on Hecate’s hand again, paws precisely aligned. and looked down its tiny nose at the dog.
Hecate and Cressida laughed. “They were once revered as gods, you know,” said Hecate.
“That’s quite clear with this one, isn’t it?” Cressida chuckled.
She looked at Zizi. “You are outclassed, my dear.” Zizi ignored her and begin snuffling around their feet. “Did you bury a bone here?”
Hecate looked down as well. “No, she’s not looking for something she buried. She can smell something.”
Cressida bent down, moving the
long grass aside as Zizi pushed her nose around where they stood. “What the…” She reached down and wiggled her fingers inside the roots of a particularly dense tuft of grass that Zizi was trying to dig into. After a moment, she pulled something free, and stood, brushing the dirt off it.
“A ring?” Hecate stared.
“It looks like it, yes. And heavy too.” She brushed off more dirt, revealing a dull shine. “A man’s ring…must be.”
Turning it over and wiping it clean with a corner of her skirt, Cressida’s eyes widened. “A signet ring. Look, Hecate. The initials. RB and JH.”
“Any idea who they might be?”
Cressida shook her head. “No, but the B could well be for a Branscombe. With these initials we do have a place to look.” She met Hecate’s curious gaze. “Do you think this might be related to the matter of our lady ghost?”
“Do you believe in coincidences?”
“Um…”
“Me neither.”
Chapter Twelve
“I’m going to rethink my position on animals,” muttered Richard, leaning over the desk with his magnifying glass. “Hecate goes out to find a kitten and Zizi finds a ring right where the little creature was sitting.”
“Never underestimate them, brother,” warned Hecate. “Animals are a great deal more intelligent and responsive than we give them credit for.”
“This is true,” added Dal. “In my country, the elephants are noted for their intelligence, and their empathy. They mourn when one of their herd is lost.”
“Really?” Cressida looked astonished.
“Indeed.” Dal nodded.
“Oh,” Richard poked at the ring. “Look. There is some kind of crest here. It had some dirt caked around it…”
He picked up the cloth, carefully pushed it into various places, poked a little bit with the nib of an old pen, and finally extracted another little clump of dirt. Then he polished the whole once more.
