The Ghost and Miss Demure

by Melanie Jackson

  “I’ll call you next week,” she promised. “Maybe I can e-mail you some pictures of the Limoges.” That was about the only picture she would send. The rest of the house continued to be too dirty, both in a physical and moral sense. “Give my love to Dad. Bye.”

  She closed her phone and began considering how to get back down with the current atmospheric conditions. The roof looked fairly close, but it was wet and the tree was far from stable. Sighing, she decided there was nothing for it but to make the usual climb back down and hope she didn’t lose her breakfast before she reached terra firma.

  Glancing about carefully, she made sure she was alone. People continued to come and go from Belle Ange, but out of habit Karo avoided them. She had met an electrician named Lucas Fane and a termite inspector with the unbelievable name of Daryl Pettibone. Both of them had caught her up this tree and been amused at her explanation about cell phone reception. And of course the Campion brothers—mostly landscapers but really jacks of all trades—were usually working in the garden. But inside it was just her and Tristam. And maybe the ghost. She hadn’t seen Vellacourt again, and she was okay with that.

  Seeing no one about to witness her less than graceful descent, she made the climb down.

  A short time later, she and Tristam stood shoulder to shoulder and admired the entry hall. They were covered in enough soot to pass as a charwoman and a rag picker, but even the itchy black sweat that rolled down their backs and faces was insufficient to dim their pleasure.

  “Well, the old girl scrubs up quite nicely.”

  “Quite respectable,” Karo agreed. “Thanks to lemon oil.”

  It was the truth. There was lots of carved wood and wrought leather that had been hidden by decades of dirt and clutter, all of it very handsome and tourist-friendly. The hanging armory was gone. After a week of work, the hall no longer looked like it was expecting a siege from infidels.

  Of the witch prickers and thumbscrews that had littered the hall, there was likewise no sign. All mounted animals, moth-eaten or fresh, whole or in parts, those actually extinct or simply on the endangered species list, had been removed and packed for storage in some later-to-be-identified location. Tristam was voting for the bottom of the river, but it would probably be a storage locker or one of the outbuildings. The only remaining hostile piece was the suit of armor stolen from the same Moorish fortress that had supplied the mansion front door, and that was almost welcoming now that the battle axe had been replaced with a smallish pike with a red and gold standard wired on top; he might be a high school mascot, cheering on his team. Other banners and tapestries had been hung from the peculiar balconies whose function was yet to be fathomed.

  Karo was especially pleased with the fireplace. It was unlikely that mandatory late seventeenth-century ox-roasting hearth had ever seen an ox over its thick flags, as the practice was given up at about the same time as jousting and holy quests went out of fashion, but she knew instinctively that it would look madly picturesque in the winter, when the marble overmantel was decked out in festive evergreens and gilded pineapples.

  The last piece to be removed was a large painted armoire. It disfigured the room with its looming presence, its shape rather like double coffins nailed together and weighing at least as much. It was hard to say what one noticed more once the dust was wiped away: the alarming color or the obscene murals.

  “I’m surprised Valperga didn’t burn it,” Karo huffed as they shoved it out of the chamber and down the back hall. But then she realized why the woman hadn’t. “She was afraid of her grandfather, wasn’t she? Of retribution? That’s why she left all his stuff alone.”

  “She never said so specifically—not in the journals I’ve read—but I think that can be inferred.” Tristam wasn’t puffing as hard as she, but he was definitely working.

  The thought of Valperga’s fear wasn’t comforting. Ghosts weren’t supposed to actually hurt people, were they? At least, in real life and not in movies? Karo shoved the idea aside for later consideration and applied herself to the last of the cleaning. It felt as good as an exorcism and was probably a lot more practical. Tristam helped by moving the armoire and providing sotto voce obscenities. He had a gift for invective. It was probably from being fluent in more than one language. Of course, he only had the energy to curse because of the lovely plastic sleds they had found to slip under the armoire’s thick feet. Carrying it would have been impossible, and dragging it would have marred the floor.

  “Maybe we should have burned the damned thing,” Tristam said, leaning down to pull Karo to her feet when they had the thing in position.

  “I’d sure like to see a fire on that hearth,” Karo agreed. The whole room was a definite photo op. It should go in the cookbook along with the Limoges. But she would mention that later. Tristam seemed to get a bit cranky whenever she mentioned the china.

  “I never suspected that you had such hidden depths,” Tristam praised her. “Such pretty hands for so much practical work. You must have been wearing gloves.”

  “Are you kidding? Of course I wore gloves. Do you know how many kinds of spiders were living in that chimney?”

  “I have a fair notion of how many kinds took up residence in our stuffed friends,” he retorted. “I should have called the Discovery Channel. There were species there I’ve never seen before and hope to never see again.”

  “That probably would have been a good idea. I wish we’d thought of it sooner.” Karo was getting the hang of notions to seize on free publicity to draw in tourists. “Just imagine if we did have some howlingly rare spiders here. They might do a special on us.”

  “Too late. They’re gone now.”

  While Tristam had hauled away the racks of antlers and badger masks, Karo had commandeered the Campion brothers’ tallest pruning ladder and, armed with a bucket of water and oil soap, had attacked the webbed ramparts with sponge and rag. She had found lots of web but very few spiders. She assumed they were catching rides with her boss, which suited her fine.

  Tristam had protested that scrub work wasn’t expected of her, but when she persisted in the filthy endeavor he’d cheerfully rolled up his sleeves and set about destroying another good shirt with lemon oil. His lack of skill with the polishing cloth suggested that he was not in the habit of doing menial work, so Karo was touched that he offered to help with a job so far beneath his dignity and job title. She took it as yet another hopeful sign that things were going to work out with this job.

  Of course, the first and best indication of future happiness was the fact that Hugh had left her strictly alone since their meeting at the cookhouse. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity—at least it seemed more and more that way to her. Maybe for Tristam this was common fare, but she couldn’t imagine ever again having the complete run of a plantation, one not yet turned over to tourists and guardians of a historical society. It would have been a shame if the ghost had driven her away.

  “You’re looking pensive,” Tristam said.

  “Just reflecting upon my good fortune.” Karo was even beginning to talk like Tristam. It seemed right for the environment.

  “Yes?”

  “I am very glad that my family has no ghosts. In fact, we don’t have much ancestral baggage at all—no money or scandals. I got saddled with my grandmother’s name, but that’s about it.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Tristam admitted.

  “I mean, of course I have ancestors. Everyone does. We just kept moving around and lost track of them.”

  “That could be handy.” Tristam smiled. “I should like to lose any number of the boring sticks and demagogues I am related to.”

  “Does your family home have a ghost?” Karo asked. She was wondering if he’d seen anything lately, and this seemed a nicely roundabout way to inquire.

  “Alas, no. But there is one at the rectory next door—and a ghost horse has been heard trotting up the lane!” He didn’t mention anything about Vellacourt, though, and nothing in the mansion.
/>   “A horse ghost? That seems rather sad,” Karo remarked. “Animals shouldn’t be restless spirits.”

  Tristam frowned. “I suppose not. I think perhaps I’ve been immunized by my childhood. The idea of seeing any ghost is more annoying than scary. Or sad.”

  “That’s probably why you’re handling all the weirdness of this place so much better than I am. The very idea is outside my frame of reference. I don’t know what to think or feel.” That was an understatement if Karo had ever made one.

  “You’ve coped magnificently.”

  Karo smiled and did not contradict him. She indeed thought that she had handled things fairly well.

  “Is it tactless of me to mention that I’m so hungry I could eat a badger mask?” Tristam said after they had basked in the glow of accomplishment for a minute or two longer. “Any large animal would do. A pig or cow would be fine. Or one of the larger fowl.”

  “No, it’s not tactless. Especially not if you’re offering to slaughter it. And cook it.” She was feeling a bit punch-drunk with victory. Dizzy, even.

  Tristam groaned. “I haven’t the strength for the hunt. But…perhaps I could cheat a bit and take you out. I know a place that does excellent cow.”

  “Well…” Karo looked down at her splotched blouse and wondered if it was worth any attempt to salvage. She supposed that she should make an effort; she was going through clothes at a phenomenal rate, and there was no clothing allowance in Clarice’s budget. “I’ll have to shower.” She looked at Tristam. He was just as tattered and grubby. “And so will you. I think we’ve gone beyond mere housework and passed into the realm of Dumpster-diving. Nobody will have us if we don’t clean up a bit.”

  “I’ll be out in five and then Bob’s your uncle,” he assured her, starting for the stairs.

  “In your dreams!” Karo remembered that her room possessed the only decent shower, and that the boiler capacity was modest. She bolted after him. “Me first! I need longer to wash and dry my hair.”

  Tristam, hearing her pursuit over the wood and marble floor, lunged for the first stair. “Never! The race is to the swift and daring.”

  Karo snaked out a hand and hauled on his belt, beginning to laugh at his look of outrage as she pulled him up short. If she tugged any harder, she’d give him a wedgie. “Take another step and you’ll be the halt and the lame,” she threatened between giggles, tugging on the waist of his pants.

  “I suggest a compromise,” he said, straightening. “We’ll share. Two minutes of warm each and then a rinse in cool.”

  “Nope. Me first,” she insisted.

  A gleam entered his golden eyes. It did nothing to sober Karo’s mood, but it did make her slightly wary. She dropped her hand and retreated a half step.

  “Absolutely firm about that, are we? Fine. First you shall be.” Then, with the ease that he had shown on the first night, Tristam turned, plucked her off her feet and hoisted her up into the air. Karo found herself hanging from his shoulder like a carelessly donned backpack. This time he didn’t bother being a gentleman.

  “Put me down,” she demanded. It was obligatory.

  He ignored her. That was also obligatory.

  She tried squirming, but he simply threatened to drop her on her head if she persisted. With each long step, the bathroom got closer. Karo’s mind filled with deep suspicion.

  “Don’t even think it,” she warned, and smacked him once on the left flank that she was getting to know up close and personal.

  An immediate, retaliatory smack answered her. “Consider carefully before you start that game, my dear,” Tristam cautioned. “I’ve probably had more experience, and I’m a great deal larger than you. Besides, I’m only seeing that you get what you wanted.”

  “Where’s a witch pricker when you need one?” Karo complained, but then ruined it by laughing. “A stick! A stick! My kingdom for a—Tristam!”

  The ugly doors were kicked open. It was no great feat, as they were unlatched, but the crash was dramatic against the wall. Four strides and she and Tristam were into the bathroom. Karo began to flail her feet. She tried tickling him, too, but to no avail.

  The water was turned on. All the way. She couldn’t see which knob he’d grabbed, but she was betting on it being the one with the C.

  “If you do this, you’ll regret it,” she warned, a last effort of delay. “I always get even.”

  “I’m a bit of a plunger. Can’t win a packet without having a little flutter now and again.” Tristam shrugged her off his shoulder and used the momentum to sling her into the shower stall. Her feet slipped on the porcelain and only his arms kept her upright under the deluge. After a count of three, she was pulled from under the spout and allowed to breathe. They were both sopping.

  “The only thing that may save you is the fact that the water is warm,” she spluttered through her hair. She could see the knob’s H turned on its side.

  “It is? Well, of all the rotten luck!” Tristam made sure that she was steady on her feet and then let her go. Black sludge was streaming off both of them. “Make haste, my dear, I am dripping all over the floor.”

  “So use a towel—Not a white one! And then disappear. If you’re lucky, I won’t use all the hot water.” She shoved her sodden hair aside and pretended to glare at Tristam. “You look like a grease monkey.”

  “Hm. I won’t return the compliment. Such exchanges never lead to anything good.” He sounded amused. Perhaps he hadn’t seen himself in the mirror yet. A fastidious creature, he would be appalled. Through the folds of a maroon towel he added, “I think I’ll shower downstairs. I don’t fancy the odds of my getting lucky.”

  “Neither do I. I’ve decided to condition my hair and shave my legs,” she informed him, and then pulled the shower curtain shut. Even dripping soot he was capable of producing those dangerous pheromones, so she’d just make like a Victorian lady and bathe with her clothes on until they went away.

  She heard the heavy tread of his feet as he made his escape. Finishing her shower, she checked the bedroom carefully before she ventured out in her towel. Her clothes were still soaking in the sink, though her first impulse had been to throw them in the trash.

  Karo was once again struck by the architecture. The builders of this estate had clearly not been the kind of people for whom wealth was an abstract concept. The house aside—and that was a vast aside, since the mansion was an end to end example of conspicuous consumption in a rather more erotic vein than the norm—most of the furnishings, being Euro pe an, were better pedigreed and at least as well traveled as she. Of course, their passage across the sea had probably involved a good deal more danger than any she had ever made. Karo could only hope to someday be as well dressed as the windows in her bedroom—albeit a little less colorfully. In the meantime, she was fortunate not to be allergic to rare woods, priceless antiques and gilt.

  “So, where are you taking me?” Karo asked as the BMW whipped along the lane. She smoothed her uncrushable skirt and thanked the technologists who’d invented Lycra. She had spent an idiotic amount of time deciding whether or not to wear it. The decision might have taken longer, since she was uncharacteristically dithery that evening, but she was really hungry. The taupe dress had been wadded into the back corner of her suitcase, and it was the only thing she had that could be described by adjectives like “feminine” or “pretty.” Finished off with a brass and bead belt, she felt quite ethnic and sophisticated.

  Gold eyes turned her way. They were still smiling, smug at getting away with his prank. Obviously it took more than a cold shower to squelch his spirits. She felt pleased he wasn’t a creep.

  “I warn you now that ‘artistic vegetables’ are out,” he told her. “We are not in Williamstown.”

  “I am not in the mood for ‘artistic.’ Just a small salad,” she told him. “Then cow or pig—or fowl, if it’s in large quantity, as you once said—some heavy starch and a bit of wine. Perhaps some fruit and cheese.”

  “I’m not fussy, and frankly I
haven’t the faintest idea where one would go to find artistic around here. This isn’t exactly California Cuisine country.”

  “You’re prejudiced, having been raised on mushy peas and overcooked Brussels sprouts.” Karo looked at the bare birches whipping by alongside. They didn’t lay so much as a dirty leaf on the perfect paint job. She had offered to drive, but Tristam had shuddered. She couldn’t blame him. Her car was a mess, and her father was correct that at the very least it needed an oil change. She couldn’t actually recall the last time she had taken it in for a tune-up.

  “That’s probably true. I rather avoid the entire brassicaceae family. The smell of cooking cabbage still brings me out in hives. They have decent vegetables in Williamstown,” Tristam admitted, as if considering the food to which she was accustomed. “I’ve seen them there. I’ve even dined on them, though I prefer a good chop house. Still, they know me at the place we’re headed, and I get good service and adequate food—though generally not quite so early in the evening. We will be missing the usual redneck crowd that lends it such a wonderful local color.”

  “I think I’ve had enough color for the day.”

  Vegetables. Karo thought of the cafeteria at her old job and grimaced. They’d had good vegetables there, but she didn’t know the next time she would dare show her face. The management there probably had her picture on file on a Least Wanted List, right behind the Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches that had invaded their kitchens back in ’05. “Yes, they do have nice veggies…We’re not going anywhere near Williamstown, though. Are we?” she asked, feeling sudden alarm. Would he drive them that far?

  Tristam looked over. His expression was bland. “Scared? What have you been doing, Karo Follett?” He tut-tutted. “Of course I’d like nothing more than to round out the evening by watching you have a flaming row with your ex in a public place and then getting myself arrested and thrown in the stocks for blackening his eyes.”

  “Would you?” She chuckled. “Thanks. I’m touched by the show of support. I think you’d probably manage to take him out. I did. Nevertheless, an evening without bloodshed would suit me better.”