“Of course I don’t wish to be alone,” she finally said, at which her mother audibly sighed. “However,” she continued, making her mother bristle again, “I don’t think that is a good enough reason to marry.”
“Well, then, perhaps a little trip to the poorhouse will give you cause.”
Samantha shrugged. “Perhaps,” she concurred with a nonchalance that most certainly made her mother want to clock her over the head. “But I don’t believe I’d end up there anyway.”
“The world is a cruel, cruel place outside of our circles, Samantha.”
“But it’s not, Mother!” Sam cried, eager to defend the masses. “Why look at Clarissa Parfitt. Her family is most decidedly middle class and they’re happy as can be.”
Mother reared back, her skinny face twisting into something grim, all shadows and pockets and ugliness. Not that Mother was horribly ugly usually — she’d had her day as a diamond, if the portraits of her were any indication —but she’d let years of unhappiness and bitterness get the best of her. Sam vowed she’d never become like that, which was why she refused to marry just for the sake of marrying. If she was going to wed, it was going to be to someone she could at least get on with. Nothing like her own parents who spent as little time in one another’s presence as possible.
“Carl Parfitt is in trade,” she whispered the last emphatically, as if she might summon the ancient aristocratic spirits of Castle Keyvnor if she said it too loudly. “How happy can one truly be who is in trade?”
Much happier than you, she wished to say, but she knew it would only get her into trouble and prolong this painful lecture. It was time to cow tow, as much as it pained her, so that she might gain at least a modicum of freedom today before dinner.
“Oh, yes,” she said, as if just remembering Mr. Parfitt was a tradesman. “You’re right, Mother. I will strive to conduct myself in a manner worthy of our family and name. You shan’t be disappointed.”
Mother narrowed her eyes. She knew Sam was simply trying to be done with their teatime, but she couldn’t argue with her anymore, not after that. “Thank you,” she said, with a terse nod of her head. “You may be excused, but I expect you and Cassandra back in an hour so that you may nap before dinner.”
Nap. Sam hated naps. They made her feel out of sorts and even more tired than before. She’d only had one season, and she quite detested it. While Cassandra was happy to arrive home just before dawn and sleep the day away, Sam hated it. It didn’t seem natural. She preferred to tuck herself away early and then wake up with the sun and the roosters. Terribly plebian of her, but she couldn’t help herself.
“Yes, Mother,” she said, extricating herself from the stiff-backed Jacobean chair, her bottom numb from sitting for so long, both here with her mother and in the carriage on their long journey to Keyvnor.
And then, with a placating curtsy for her mother, Sam took herself off to explore.
Chapter 4
Blasted rain. It had slowed his trip considerably, forcing Chad to seek shelter at an inn along the way rather than pushing on until Keyvnor. It shouldn’t have been that long of a ride—they’d left early enough that they might have made it by nightfall. But with all the rain and mud, they were still nowhere near the castle. Night was falling fast and the horses needed a rest, so he called up to the driver to stop as soon as they were able.
It wasn’t fifteen minutes later when John pulled the carriage up to a coaching inn, and Chad had to admit, he was quite relieved. He could use with a good meal and a comfortable bed, and tomorrow, they’d start fresh and arrive at Castle Keyvnor early enough that perhaps he could conduct his business and be on his way again. Wouldn’t that be perfect? If he could avoid contact with the earl’s family and take care of things with the old earl’s solicitor, he might even make it back home before…
He shook his head, not wanting to think about it. About Father. About the fact that when he returned home, he might not be there. It didn’t seem possible—to think that his father would no longer be at Foxglove Manor just didn’t make sense. His brain refused to accept it, as if he were trying to tell it that the sky was green.
The door to the carriage swung open a moment later, and John stood in the pouring rain, waiting for Chad to descend. Chad felt sorry for the poor man, so he made quick work of his descent so John could get to the stables as quickly as possible.
The mere seconds that Chad was exposed to the rain saw his greatcoat and hat drenched straight through, so he was eternally grateful for the warmth of the inn, with its roaring fire and quiet chatter coming from the dining area. He’d be there soon enough.
“Evening, my lord,” the innkeeper said, clearly making an assumption on Chad’s birthright, as he pushed his spectacles up on his nose. “How can I help you?”
“A room, if you please.”
The skinny, older man looked as if he wanted to crawl inside a hole. “My deepest apologies, my lord, but I haven’t a room left in the place. Seems everyone else was just as eager to escape the deluge.”
Several expletives sat on Chad’s tongue, but he bit them back. It wasn’t the innkeeper’s fault that other travelers had beaten him to the all the rooms. “I see,” he said, casting about for other options, as if a room might appear before him.
“It wouldn’t be ideal, but you are welcome to join the drivers in the stables, of course.”
“If you don’t mind,” he said, eyeing the warm fireplace, “I will stay in there, near the fire.”
“Whatever you’d like.” The innkeeper rushed around the tall desk and led Chad into the dining hall to a table near the fire. “I’ll have a hot meal and a glass of ale brought right away, my lord.”
“Many thanks.”
Chad divested himself of his wet coat and then settled onto the hard, wooden chair, letting the warmth of the fire wash over him. His stomach growled, and his mind raced. Where was that food and ale? If he couldn’t sleep in a proper bed, he’d have to imbibe quite a few tankards to get any shut-eye on this hard thing. But it was better than being in the carriage—or worse, being stuck on the side of the road in the mud. At least John was getting a rest and the horses weren’t in any danger.
A plate piled high with roast beef, asparagus, and potatoes arrived before him, steaming and filling his senses with delight, accompanied by the promised glass of ale.
“Will that be all, my lord?” the innkeeper asked.
“Please see that my coachman is given a proper meal, as well, Mr.—”
“Simmons,” the man provided.
“Mr. Simmons. Many thanks for everything.”
The man scurried off and Chad tucked into his meal, devouring every last morsel as if he’d not eaten in a month. And indeed, he’d not eaten much. The smell of his father’s sick room would leave even the most starving of humans with very little appetite.
He tried to push away further thoughts of his father. It wouldn’t do him any good to worry or wonder. The man was practically gone before Chad had even left. He’d said his goodbyes, though they felt inadequate now. How did one say goodbye to someone they loved so very much? Someone who had been at their side since the day they entered the world? It didn’t seem right. It wasn’t right. Father was still so young—he’d seemed in his prime just a few months ago, before this…thing had taken over.
He took an extra long swig of his ale, desperate to drown his sorrows and maybe even find a little sleep, though at this rate it didn’t seem likely. Another bite of beef, another nibble of asparagus…
He tried to focus on the food, turning his thoughts to animal husbandry, farming, productive thoughts that might serve him well as the new baron.
Chad motioned for another glass of ale. As his mind wandered back to Father, he downed the remainder of his first glass, and when the new one arrived, he tossed most of it back in mere seconds. He was well on his way to being knackered, a feeling he’d not enjoyed in quite some time. The ale warmed his blood and settled his belly, it quieted the voices in
his head that warred with one another…
You should have stayed with Father.
You’re doing the right thing by the old man.
He needs you in his final hours.
His dying wish is all that matters.
They hadn’t quieted all together, but it was better now. More like the annoying hum of a bee rather than drums beating against his brain.
With his belly nice and full and his worries fading away, he folded his arms on the table and then rested his head in their cradle. It wasn’t going to be a terribly comfortable night’s sleep, but it was better than none at all.
“You look troubled, my boy,” came his father’s voice, and Chad shot up with a start from his little nap on the table.
“Father?” he said, disbelieving. “What are you doing here?”
The baron sat across from him, an almost-empty tumbler of scotch in his hand. “I thought you needed me, and haven’t I always been there when you needed me?”
Chad nodded. “Always.”
“You need sleep, my boy. You are looking rather weary these days.”
“I’ve been…” He wanted to say at your bedside but he refrained. He didn’t want to make the man feel bad. “Traveling,” he finally finished.
“Ah. To Castle Keyvnor,” his father replied, knowingly. “Of course.”
“Won’t you tell me what this is about?”
“All will be revealed, my son, but even I do not know everything about this bequeathal.”
“But how can you not?” Chad shook his head, as if that might clear it.
“I wasn’t always the baron, remember? It is my belief that this has more to do with Jeremy than it does me. But seeing as he’s not here…”
But you aren’t here either, popped into Chad’s head. But how could that be? The man sat before him, seemingly flesh and blood, and in fine health. But hadn’t he just left him a few hours ago, shrunken and pale on his death bed?
“Thank you for telling me about my mother,” he said at last, eager to say the words before it was too late. Even if this man before him was merely an apparition, a trick of his mind under the influence of the ale, he wanted to say the words aloud. “I will carry your words with me always.”
Father smiled gently, as he did everything else. Always kind and gentle. The world would be worse off without him in it. “I know you will, my boy.” Then he turned toward the window, where the sky was just turning from black to a dark purple. “I must be on my way,” he said. “Godspeed, my dear son.”
Chad’s heart ached, and a sob bubbled up from his chest. His father was gone, and he was alone…
“My lord…my lord!”
Chad bolted upright with a start, confused and…wet? His clothes were damp with sweat, his face with tears. Mr. Simmons stared at him, his salty brows drawn together with concern.
“My lord, are you all right?”
The sun was just coming up over the top of the stable beyond the windows of the pub. A few people were breaking their fast at a nearby table, and occasionally glanced Chad’s way with wide-eyed curiosity. He’d be known as The Mad Baron before long.
He swiped at his face and ran his fingers through his hair with a bit of difficulty. “My apologies,” he said, his breathing still a bit labored. “I must have had more ale than I realized last night.”
“Can I bring you some breakfast, my lord?”
“Coffee and toast will be fine, thank you.”
As Mr. Simmons scurried off to retrieve his meal, Chad attempted to steady his breathing and calm his heart. What did it all mean? Was it just a dream? Or had Father visited him from…beyond?
Of course it was just a dream! He shook his head and laughed at himself. How silly he was being. The stress of it all, the travel, the ale, the hard table for a pillow—not ideal conditions for anyone.
By the time he finished his coffee and toast, he was feeling much more human. John came in to announce they were ready to depart, and Chad gladly left the little roadside inn, eager now to get to Castle Keyvnor, in spite of the frightening stories he’d heard of the place. Nothing could be more disturbing than what he’d just experienced.
Chapter 5
The moment Samantha stepped foot into the corridor, after her interminable interview with her mother, the feel of freedom coursed through her veins. It spread like wildfire, sending pinpricks to her fingers and toes, and setting her heart to fluttering with excitement. A haunted castle. The kind one read about in books but rarely had the chance to visit. Sure, there were purportedly haunted townhomes in London and haunted manors in the country, but nothing like this. Nothing like Castle Keyvnor. This place was teaming with ghosts—she could practically feel them. Like just there, the air felt like ice, but then as she kept walking, it turned warm again. She turned back in hopes of seeing some sort of specter, but there was nothing. Just the icy cold feeling of walking through a ghost.
Of course, it was the middle of the day, and sun poured in through the large windows at the end of the corridor. How could she expect to see a ghost in broad daylight? Surely, they’d only appear to her after dark.
Sam stopped by her own chambers to retrieve her pelisse before exploring the castle further. She was desperate to find the staircase to the turrets, but the air was chilled, as one would expect of October, and the last thing she wanted was to catch an ague during her visit and be forced to stay abed the entire time. What a horrible disappointment that would be!
With her pelisse in place and her book of poetry tucked safely against her torso, she took off from the room and out into the corridor. She didn’t know which way was which, but she took a gamble, and headed to the right, away from the windows. One corridor led to another, and the only way to distinguish them was to take note of the scenes on the tapestries. For instance, the one nearest her chambers depicted a garden picnic in front of a castle that sat far in the distance, two lovers on one side sharing an intimate moment while several others looked on. It was really quite awkward looking, if you asked her. Couldn’t the couple have waited until they were alone to engage in a public display of their affections?
Ironically enough, the next tapestry was a depiction of Jesus and his twelve disciples at the Last Supper. And eclectic collection, for sure, but perhaps if she took mental note of the wall hangings, she’d be able to trace her way easily back to her bedchamber later on.
She neared the end of yet another hallway, and heard voices as she rounded the corner. It probably wasn’t well done of her to ignore her relatives, especially her first cousins, with whom she was quite well acquainted. But she wanted to be alone just then. To see the castle through her own eyes first, before she went traipsing about with the others. And she most certainly didn’t want to see it with Cassy, whose voice rose above the others all of a sudden. She was out of her mind with fear of this place, and would only encourage Sam to return to the safety of her bedchamber to huddle in terror until the reading of the will was over.
Sam’s ears perked up when she heard a gentleman addressing Cassy. It could have been a cousin, but something told her it wasn’t. She’d know Anthony’s or Michael’s voices anywhere, and…
Oh, bother. If she got any closer, someone might discover her. She’d just have to leave Cassy to her own devices so that she might be left to hers as well.
Like a shot, Sam darted off in the opposite direction, retracing her steps for a moment before turning down another corridor. And then another and another and…
She ought to have changed her shoes. She still wore her boots, but they were starting to chafe at her ankles the slightest bit. She hadn’t wanted to change into her more comfortable slippers for fear they might get snagged or dirty up on the turrets, but now she’d gladly suffer Mother’s censure over snagged slippers if only she could—
She stopped short, staring up at the tapestry before her. She didn’t normally think in expletives, but all she could think just then was Damn and blast! It was that same scene again—the one with the ov
ert lovers in front of the castle. Had she truly just walked herself in circles? She opened the door on the other side of the tapestry, frustrated to find that she had, indeed, walked in a circle. Or some kind of shape that led her right back to her own bedchamber.
With a sigh, Sam made her way to the armoire, snatched her slippers from the bottom before tugging off her boots, and then replaced them with the much-more-comfortable blue satin slippers.
“There,” she spoke aloud, to no one in particular. “Much better.” She rose from the damask-covered bench with new determination. “Now I shall find the staircase to the turrets.”
“I can show you the way.”
Sam nearly jumped clean out of her clothes at the unexpected voice behind her. She whirled around to find Betsy standing in the doorway, her large brown eyes even larger than usual in her tiny, angelic face.
“I’m so sorry, Lady Samantha!” the girl cried, clearly horrified that she’d frightened Sam.
“Good heavens, Betsy!” Sam clutched her hand over her heart, as if doing so might keep it from jumping out of her throat and running away. “You really ought to have announced yourself.”
“A thousand pardons, my lady.” Betsy bowed repeatedly, up and down, like a puppet whose master wasn’t quite certain how to work the strings yet. “I would have scratched, but the door was already open and—”
Sam held up her hand, taking pity on the poor girl. “It’s all right, Betsy. Truly no harm done…my heart seems to have resumed its normal pace now. But mind you don’t do that to Lady Cassandra or she will surely have an apoplexy.”
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