by Colleen Ladd
Portia loved Rosewood and in its way, it had loved her. It had glowed under her tireless hands, the servants working happily for and with her. It did not so bloom under the new Lady Ashburne, and no doubt the servants’ habit of turning to Portia for direction had something to do with the decision to send her away.
Portia’s eyes grew hot. She had not been happy at Rosewood Close, but she had been content. She angrily blinked back tears. She had to forget Rosewood. Ashburne Hall was her home now.
The carriage turned onto a deeply rutted track. Portia grabbed for the strap and Ellie clung to the seat-edge as the carriage listed into one alarming dip after another. Branches scraped the sides of the coach and tapped insistently on the top. Portia hung on grimly. The bouncing seemed endless, but they’d gone no more than half a mile when they emerged suddenly from the grasp of the trees. The coach passed through a once-clear area of wild and tangled grasses and drew up before the Hall.
Something about the looming Hall kept even Ellie from speaking as they descended from the carriage. The main house was tall and square and impressive, the hewn stone and wrought iron stern and unbending. Shorter wings swung off from either side, their dimensions lost to the darkness. Over it all hung a crescent moon, its pale light reflecting off the mullioned windows like a hundred tiny eyes. Somewhere at the top of the house, a candle flickered, solitary and cold.
Portia shivered and drew her cloak more closely about her. “Let’s hope the boy reminded them to light a fire in the sitting room.”
On the contrary—as Portia discovered upon entering the Hall unannounced, having been unable to discover a knocker in the dark—a welcoming fire appeared to be quite the last thing on the minds of the servants.
The grand staircase that swept up from the center of the vast, echoing hall opened out onto a gallery at the first floor landing, then split and ran up both sides of the hall to the second floor. On the landing, three people—a stripling lad, a tall narrow woman in black bombazine wearing a stiffly starched mobcap, and an older man in attire more suited to the stables—struggled to remove a large painting from the wall.
“Good evening,” Portia called. The painting dipped, dropping three inches on one side. Someone gasped audibly.
“Good evening, my lady.” The housekeeper broke away and dropped Portia an abrupt curtsey. She started down the stairs. The other two broke out of their paralysis, stared wildly at each other, and went back to the painting. “I beg your pardon, Lady Ashburne. We were not expecting you.”
“Stay there. I’ll come up.” Portia lifted her dress and started up the steps, occasioning a flurry of activity around the painting, which only stopped when the housekeeper hissed something Portia couldn’t hear.
Numerous doors led off the great hall, the first floor corridor and the top floor landing, many gaping open like dark mouths. Portia forced herself to turn neither to the right nor left, though the back of her neck itched strangely with the pressure of unseen eyes, but kept her focus resolutely on the housekeeper. Dust rose from the carpet runner, mixing with the pervasive odor of mold. Four steps in succession creaked when she put weight on them, each worse than the last, and she could see herself crashing through to the flagstones below. She tightened her grip on the balustrade and reached the landing safely several nervous steps later. The housekeeper met her at the head of the stairs, the other two remaining before the painting, which they’d finally succeeded in getting down. Half again as tall as the boy, it leaned drunkenly against the wall behind them.
The housekeeper faced her with blank inscrutability, but the other two had a nervous air Portia found strangely familiar. In a moment, she had it. They reminded her of her brother the time he’d knocked one of Mama’s precious figurines off the mantelpiece. Tony had stood just like that, drawn stiffly erect, every muscle taut and trembling with strain, using his body to hide the gap where the figurine had stood long past the point it was clear the damage had been discovered.
She took pity on them and turned to the housekeeper. “You were not expecting me, Mrs...?”
“McFerran, my lady.” She bobbed another curtsey. Her face was pulled into severe lines by the iron gray hair scraped back from her brow. “I’ve been housekeeper here nigh on thirty years. And much the old house has suffered. My husband and I take care of things as best we can, but there are limits, my lady. There are limits, with he and I the only staff in the poor old Hall.” The man snatched off his shabby cap, his wispy hair floating uncertainly around his head as he bowed, giving Portia a glimpse of the upper third of the painting before he jerked upright. “The boy’s from The Duck and Drake.”
“So I assumed. Did not Lord Ashburne send word?” Now that she thought on it, Portia wasn’t entirely certain James would have bothered to notify them of her imminent arrival.
“Yes, my lady. We got the letter from Lord...” A grimace flew across Mrs. McFerran’s mouth. “...Ashburne this morning. But until the boy came from the inn, we didn’t know exactly when to expect you.”
“I see.” Portia cocked her head to one side, torn between irritation and laughter. “And you thought the best way to prepare for my arrival was to remove this picture?”
“No, ma’am,” Mr. McFerran said in a high voice like cracked leather. “Lord Ashburne told us to do it, and doin’ it we were when the boy came. Couldn’t stop then, not with it half off the wall like it were.”
“Mr. McFerran,” his wife snapped, “Lady Ashburne isn’t interested in our difficulties.”
“On the contrary; I’m fascinated. Did Lord Ashburne’s letter mention why he wanted the painting removed?”
“Letter? Weren’t no—” McFerran broke off at his wife’s glare and shuffled his cap around in his hands.
“If you’ll follow me, Lady Ashburne,” Mrs. McFerran said with a stiff little smile, “I’ll show you to your room. I won’t say it’s ready for you, but it’ll be as comfortable as any here.”
“I should like to see the painting first.”
Indeed, Portia could hardly contain her curiosity. James was not likely to have ordered the painting removed. His letters were invariably as short and discourteous as he was, and Portia couldn’t imagine he’d have bothered to lengthen this one with such orders when he couldn’t even be bothered to mention when she’d arrive. Perhaps it was Roger who’d ordered them to take it down and news of his widow’s arrival had prompted them to make an enormously belated attempt to obey. Though why they should be so obviously frightened was beyond her.
“Come now,” she said when none of them moved. “Step aside. It can’t be as bad as all that.”
Their faces set in identical expressions of reluctance, McFerran and the boy stepped away from the life-size portrait. A figure of black and white stood before stormy skies, dark hair and eyes contrasting sharply with pale skin, his features too rugged to be considered conventionally handsome. The artist had painted the man’s lips curved into what Portia wasn’t entirely certain was a smile and captured something implacable in the flat glitter of the eyes. Not, Portia thought, a comfortable man.
“Who is he?”
Mrs. McFerran gazed at Portia for a moment too long, dark eyes calculating in her narrow, suspicious face. “Kit,” she said suddenly. “Run along home now, your mum’ll be worried.”
“Wait a moment, Kit,” Portia said on impulse before the boy could take a step. “Help Mr. McFerran put the picture back up first, will you?”
“Yes’m.”
Portia turned to the housekeeper. “You can show me my room now, Mrs. McFerran.”
The woman’s eyes flashed and Portia feared she’d have outright rebellion on her hands, but after a moment the housekeeper turned away, taking a candle from the candelabra at the head of the stairs. Portia followed, reminding herself that the woman had been housekeeper at the Hall for thirty years. Roger only held the title ten years, none of them spent at the Hall, and who knew how often the previous lord had bothered to visit. Mrs. McFerran had no doubt becom
e used to following her own course. Her new circumstances would take some getting used to.
“Who is he?” Portia asked again.
“That?” They’d moved out of earshot of the two struggling to lift the portrait back into position, which seemed to loosen the housekeeper’s tongue. “That, my lady, is Viscount Giles Ashburne. He was lord here before Mr. Roger Ashburne took the title. You’ve not heard of him?”
Portia shook her head and saw something flare in the housekeeper’s eyes. They reminded her suddenly and unpleasantly of the hard painted eyes of the portrait.
“I don’t wonder the new Lord Ashburne chose not to spread the tale. Ten years ago,” Mrs. McFerran said, lowering her voice and drawing closer to Portia, “Giles Ashburne was engaged to be wed. Beautiful, she was. Lady Amelia Holgate, ward of his Grace, the Duke of Ransley, who owns half the county. Biddable little thing with blond hair and blue eyes, as much like his lordship as a poppy is like a blackthorn. A month before their wedding date, his lordship holds a house party. Now I’m not saying it was her idea, but this house had never seen such a party since his lordship took the title. Certainly,” she added, almost inaudibly, “it’s seen no such thing since.”
“Yes,” Portia prompted when Mrs. McFerran had stood silent for a moment, staring at the portrait that was nearly back in place. “And?”
The housekeeper returned her flat eyes to Portia. “There’s some say Lady Amelia wasn’t so pleased with the match as her guardian, that she’d given her heart, and more, elsewhere. And there’s some say a man like his lordship didn’t deserve to lay eyes on such an angel. But,” she went on with extraordinary vehemence, “there’s no one doubts he killed her.”
Portia stepped back involuntarily.
“He caught her, they say, in the arms of another man, and bided his time until her lover left.” She paused until Portia’s skin crawled, then added in a tone almost matter-of-fact, “And then he cut her throat.”
Portia’s eyes went to the portrait. Giles Ashburne scowled blackly down at her and she turned away without meaning to. “He doesn’t,” she said and, hearing the tremulous note in her voice, firmed it up determinedly, “look like a murderer.”
“No, my lady? He vanished within the week, escaped to the Continent before he could be brought to trial. He died there, far from home. A fitting end, some say. They say,” Mrs. McFerran ploughed darkly on, “he’s come home: Giles Ashburne, doomed to haunt his own Hall until the Last Trumpet sounds.”
An appalling clatter spun Portia around, her heart leaping into her throat, to scan the great hall. Ellie stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at her with stolid imperturbability, and Portia could see nothing amiss. She couldn’t tell if any of the doors that had been open were now closed, though that was no doubt the source of the noise. A draft, perhaps. Portia cast her eyes higher and gasped when she spied movement. A tapestry on the second floor landing swayed gently. A draft, definitely. She took in a slow breath.
“Nonsense. I’d have thought you above believing such things, Mrs. McFerran.”
“As you say, my lady.” The housekeeper’s expression was smug, putting paid to any hope she might have missed Portia’s brief fright. Mrs. McFerran headed off down the gloomy corridor and Portia followed, but not without a look back at the painting that hung glowering at the head of the stairs.
*****
From the upper stair, Giles Ashburne watched the woman who’d invaded his home. This was the new Lady Ashburne? He wouldn’t have thought her to Roger’s taste. But it was ten years since Giles was borne off by death and disaster. A lot could change.
He studied the trespasser. She was small—only the boy was shorter and his growth would surmount hers in less than a month—but there was no hint of frailty about her. Quite the contrary. Her health and strength shone through her every gesture, just as her ripe curves transformed the atrocious traveling dress she wore. Her hair was caught up in a complicated knot, the brown tresses gleaming red in the flickering light of the housekeeper’s candle, and her eyes when they scanned the Hall had been far too bright.
He would have to get rid of her.
CHAPTER TWO
“Here you are, my lady.”
The chamber Mrs. McFerran showed Portia to had once been grand. Deep window casements and a high square ceiling were framed by what looked in the flickering light of Mrs. McFerran’s candle to be elaborate plasterwork, though somewhat set about by spiders. The rich colors of the once-sumptuous wall coverings and window hangings were muted by age and dust.
“Hasn’t been used in a decade,” Mrs. McFerran said when Portia rustled the moth-eaten drapes. There’d been a superficial attempt made at cleaning, but cobwebs clung to the bedcurtains and a musty smell arose from the bedding. “No one in the house but me and Mr. McFerran, and we stick to our own.”
“And the family bedchambers? What condition are they in?” For the room was clearly, by appointment and location, a guest chamber.
“Not good, my lady.” Mrs. McFerran touched the flame from her candle to a battered stub sitting in a silver holder by the bed. It flared up brightly, the odor of burning dust momentarily eclipsing the damp smell of the room. “The roof leaks, most places, and there’s hardly a chimney that doesn’t smoke bad enough to drive out even the most stubborn.”
“Poor condition for a great estate.”
“For the culprit you must look to the upstart Lords Ashburne,” the housekeeper flared. “No help and no money. Who can manage to keep up such a house with no help and no money?”
“M’lady?” the coachman called from the hall. “Your trunks?”
Portia went to the door to wave him in. “In here, John.” It took him only a moment to lug her trunks into the tiny dressing room. Ellie came hard on his heels with Portia’s one bandbox, her lips tight-pressed as she took in the straits they’d come to. When he’d finished, the coachman stopped once more before her, his hat in his hands.
“Have you any thoughts about where you will pass the night?” Portia asked. “You may remain here with my blessing, if that will suit.” Though Lord knew what kind of accommodations she could coax out of Mrs. McFerran.
The coachman bobbed his head deferentially. “Thank you, m’lady, the boy and I will return to The Duck and Drake for the night. I must return their horse and look after my own cattle.”
“Very well. Perhaps you could take the potboy with you?” He must have come from the inn on foot, for Portia had seen no sign of a horse; the least he deserved was a more comfortable return trip.
“Of course, m’lady.”
He bobbed his head again when she pressed a few coins into his hand, though they both knew it was less than he deserved. His look was one Portia would never get used to, compounded as much of pity as respect.
“Mrs. McFerran,” Portia said when the housekeeper would have followed him out, her eyes narrowed as if she suspected him of having designs on the silver. Assuming there was any. “I will require dinner—a cold collation will do. And send Mr. McFerran to light the fire.”
“I can’t speak for the state of the chimney—”
“I’ll just have to take my chances, shan’t I?”
Mrs. McFerran sniffed and swept out. Portia’s candle sputtered in its own wax—an extravagance from a more prosperous time, which Portia had best not get used to. She had no doubt the household was otherwise reduced to tallow, or even rushlights. She looked at the shadow-draped room, her heart a weight more stifling than the tightest corset. It was a far cry from her light, airy chamber at Rosewood Close.
“A fine mess, if I do say so.”
Portia turned to Ellie, a smile lifting her lips at the maid’s practical tone. “It does leave something to be desired, doesn’t it?”
“Spiders in the clothespress and mice in the walls, I’ll be bound.”
“You forgot the birds nesting in the chimney.”
“I don’t call this much of a welcome, I’ll tell you that.”
“T
hey only received Lord Ashburne’s letter this morning. Hardly enough time to prepare.” Portia picked up the sputtering candle and set about searching the drawers of the small dressing table.
“So they say.”
There were no additional candles in the dressing table; indeed, Portia found the drawers uniformly empty but for a layer of dust. Ah well. The search had been more a product of wishful thinking than expectation. Portia pulled open the last drawer and stifled a scream when a mouse vanished through a hole in the back of the drawer. Her heart racing, she gently slid the drawer closed.
The carpet was compounded more of dust than wool, and when Portia pushed aside the cobweb-colored drapes to look out onto the rain-swept night, she found one of the windowpanes broken. Someone had stuffed a rag in the hole in a failed attempt to keep out the wind. Three more mice took off for parts unknown when she and Ellie tossed back the counterpane, their sudden appearance less startling than Ellie’s shriek.
“Well.” Portia took a breath imbued with the odor of mold and let it out slowly. “It could be worse.”
Her bosom heaving, Ellie stared at her as if her wits had gone begging.
“At least we have a roof over our heads.” Portia stripped the blankets down to the foot of the bed. She didn’t find any more mice, but the sheets were unpleasantly damp, and she pulled the blanket back up. “We shall just have to make do. We’ve done it before.” Though Rosewood Close had been nowhere near this bad. “Any house can be made habitable with enough effort.”
“And money,” Ellie said darkly.
“I have a little money of my own I can draw on, as you well know.” And thank heavens for her late grandfather, the Duke of Bedingfeld, whose man of business had seen to it that the modest money he settled on her was so wrapped about in protections that even Roger had found no way to touch it. Otherwise, it too would be gone and Portia would be in dire straits indeed, for she could certainly not rely upon her dower. The income from one third of Roger’s lands that was her widow’s portion wasn’t enough to keep a mouse alive.
