Old Lover's Ghost

by Joan Smith

  “About as much fun as watching grass grow” was Lewis’s opinion of watching the estate carpenter putty up the holes in the clothespresses and the wall between them. “Let us see what your papa is up to instead.”

  They found Wainwright in the library poring over yellowed and sere documents pertaining to the history of Keefer Hall.

  “Have you found any more ghosts, sir?” Lewis asked.

  “An interesting account of the ravens,” Wainwright replied. “I had heard of them before, of course. It is said they have been here since the execution of Charles I.”

  “Really? That long!” Lewis exclaimed. “I had no idea ravens were such long livers.”

  “Not the same birds, Lord Winton, but six ravens.”

  “Ah, hatched right there on the roof, no doubt.”

  Mr. Wainwright did not like to have his dramatic soliloquies interrupted by the audience. He lowered his black brows and continued. “Birds are frequently harbingers of luck, either ill or good. At Longleat it is said the family will die out if the swans that nest on the lakes of Longleat ever leave.”

  “Yes, I have heard that old canard—er, legend— forever.” Lewis nodded.

  “At Radley Hall, where I was doing my research last year—perhaps you read my extract? No? I have a copy in my room if you would like to have a glance at it. At Radley Hall the swans fly around the house to foretell a death. There are black swans at Radley. There was a theory that unwonted activity of black birds foretold death. The ravens here at Keefer Hall throw that theory askew. What I have found in this account of Sir Nicholas Dechastelaine, your great-uncle—”

  “You never want to believe anything Uncle Nick said. Drunk or sober, he never told the truth in his life.”

  “Indeed!” Wainwright exclaimed, aghast at the fellow’s impertinence. “It is pretty well documented that the ravens have been circling the house in a frenzy to foretell good luck for nigh on two hundred years—numerous victories at war, births, marriages. They flew when the Royalists took Marlborough in 1642. Your ancestor, Lord Whitby Dechastelaine, led a regiment in that campaign. And again in 1745 when another Dechastelaine took part in the British victory at Louisburg in Canada. Various of Admiral Nelson’s victories, too. Word of those triumphs did not reach Keefer Hall for months, but the ravens knew. They flew on the dates of the occurrences. The account goes on for pages, documenting not only issues of national importance, but family births and marriages, as I mentioned. Your mama will know if the ravens flew at the time of her marriage.”

  “I shall ask her.” Lewis was more interested in ghosts than in birds and said, “Have you found any more ghosts?”

  “I am just looking for confirmation of my feeling that Knagg and the Ironside ghost are related by blood. It is bound to be here someplace.”

  Lewis poked through a few books, then came up with a different idea. “Perhaps you would like to see the secret panel, Mr. Wainwright, and the priest’s hole? We call it a priest’s hole, but as we never were Papists I daresay it actually had something to do with hiding from Cromwell’s men.”

  “I took the liberty of investigating the secret panel and the priest’s hole earlier, Lord Winton. Lady Merton was kind enough to tell me to make myself at home. Very interesting, but there are no ghosts there.”

  “How did you find them?” Lewis demanded. “Mama did not leave her room until Vicar arrived.”

  Wainwright just smiled. “I knew where they were. Something beckoned to me. I have a sixth sense regarding such matters.”

  His daughter suspected he had also taken a glance at the plans of the house. Three long cylindrical tubes of the sort that often held house plans sat on the table where he was working.

  “By Jove!” Lewis exclaimed. “Would you like to see them, Miss Wainwright?”

  “Indeed I would.”

  “We shall do it after lunch. It is a bit late to begin now. I daresay you will want to brush out your pretty hair. Not that it needs it. Or your long eyelashes or your satiny cheeks either,” he added foolishly.

  Charity was too kind to state the obvious: that she never brushed her eyelashes or cheeks. “My hands are a little dusty,” she said, and darted upstairs.

  The vicar, St. John, remained for lunch. Charity feared the meal would be an uneasy one. Vicars often took her papa’s interest in ghosts amiss. Fortunately, St. John was not adamant on the matter.

  “There were instances of ghostly apparitions in the Old Testament,” he mentioned. “Saul’s visit to the witch of Endor comes to mind. Samuel the prophet materialized. And of course during the witch trials of the Middle Ages there were various appearances of spirits.”

  Lord Merton was unhappy with this wanton encouragement of his mama’s folly. “I had not expected a man of the cloth to hold such views, St. John,” he said.

  Lady Merton bridled up like an angry mare. “Are you saying I am mad, Merton?” she asked. “I know what I saw.”

  “I doubt you will be bothered by these ‘ghosts’ again, Mama,” he said.

  “I hope you may be right,” she said doubtfully.

  “I am right.” He stared across the table at Miss Monteith. “I have taken certain steps, and if any more spirits come to harass you, I am ready to take further action. Now can we not discuss something more tangible? How is the St. Alban’s fund coming along, Vicar?”

  “The kind ladies of the parish are holding a sort of spring bazaar. The proceeds of that will, I hope, take care of the necessary repairs to the perishing stonework in the church tower. You know it is my hope to build up an emergency fund. There are times when money is required on the spot, as it were. The horrible fire that consumed the Danson residence comes to mind. Six children—fortunately all survived, but for that poor widow to have to start from scratch, outfitting a house and six children—I wished I could have done more for her.”

  He shook his head sadly. Sadness seemed to come naturally to him. He was all skin and bones, like a tuppenny rabbit. A tall, austere gentleman with wispy blond hair, pale blue eyes, a long nose, and a weak chin.

  “Your contribution was most welcome,” he added to Merton. “Very generous, to be sure, but had it occurred while you were in London—well, you see why I am eager to have an emergency fund at my disposal.”

  The vicar went to the library with Wainwright after lunch to look over the family documents pertaining to ghosts. Lord Merton suggested that his mama go for a drive, hoping the spring sunshine would raise her spirits.

  “Yes, I would like to drive into the village,” she said. “I have a little business to attend to.”

  “Miss Wainwright will accompany you,” Merton said with a meaningful glance at Charity.

  She assumed this was an effort to get Lady Merton away from Miss Monteith, to allow her to confess her past transgression. “I would be happy to accompany you, ma’am,” she said at once.

  Lady Merton showed only lukewarm pleasure. “You are entirely welcome to come with us, my dear, but I fear you would be bored. I really do not feel up to visiting the shops or anything of that sort. I have to see my man of business, Mr. Penley.”

  That “us” suggested Miss Monteith was going along.

  “There you are then,” Lewis said. “We can investigate the secret panels and so on, as we planned, Miss Wainwright.”

  “That will be more amusing for you,” Lady Merton said at once, and left.

  Merton gave a grimace at Miss Monteith’s retreating back. “The woman is worse than a burr. I wonder what mysterious ‘business’ Mama has to take care of.”

  Lewis said, “Arranging to give St. John money for his charity, I daresay. I know she has been giving him plenty. When I asked her for that advance, she said her pocket was to let. She has not bought a new bonnet or gown for two years. What else could she be doing with her blunt?”

  “Very likely she contributed something for the Dansons,” Merton mentioned. “Yet she would hardly have to visit her man of business for such a trifle as that....”


  Lewis gave a quick frown. “I hope she ain’t planning to hand over my fortune to that trust fund St. John is always nattering about.”

  “She would not do that,” Merton said. “Yet it is odd she is visiting Penley. I shall have a word with the vicar about this trust fund before he leaves.”

  “Then we are off,” Lewis said, offering Charity his arm.

  Merton gave his brother a sharp glance. “You have weighed the wool from the shearing and arranged for its removal to Eastleigh, Lewis?”

  “Eh? No, how could I? I have been busy all morning.”

  “The wool is your responsibility.”

  “But what about Miss Wainwright? Dash it, John, she is our guest.”

  “I can look after myself,” Charity said, feeling she was a burden on the family. “In fact, I should see if Papa needs me. Very likely he has copious notes for me to copy.” She rose to go after her father.

  Merton placed a restraining hand on her wrist. “No, no, you wish to see the secret panels. I will be happy to show them to you.”

  “I do not want to be a burden on anyone. I am quite accustomed to looking after myself.”

  “I fear I have already offended Mr. Wainwright by my lack of faith in ghosts. It would be unconscionable of me to offend both my guests. You must allow me to do the pretty, Miss Wainwright.”

  There was some teasing manner in the speech that made her uncomfortable. Merton seemed unaware of it, however. He turned to Lewis and said, “Well, what are you waiting for? That load of wool ain’t going to get to town by itself.”

  Lewis decided a trip into Eastleigh would offer some amusement. “I shall take a peek in Penley’s window while I am there and see if Mama is giving St. John my fortune.”

  “Has Mr. Wainwright taught you to hear through walls?” Merton asked.

  He did not observe the angry sparkle in Charity’s eyes. She had no argument with his lack of belief in ghosts, but when he derided her father in this way, he was going too far.

  “Lord Winton said window, milord,” she snipped. “It would require lipreading for that, would it not? Unfortunately, reading lips is not one of my father’s accomplishments.”

  “I am sorry,” he said at once. “But you must admit, Miss Wainwright, these notions of your father are a load of rubbish. No sane person can actually believe in ghosts.”

  “Then you are calling your mama mad as well,” she pointed out.

  “No, merely overly prone to suggestion. We know someone has been playing tricks on her. I do not suggest your papa is involved, for he only arrived yesterday and this has been going on for a month, but I fear his presence aggravates the situation. Ah, here is St. John!” he said, as the sound of footfalls in the hallway was heard.

  Charity had no time to reply, but she felt an angry burning sensation in her breast.

  Merton went to the doorway. “Have you a moment, St. John?” he asked.

  The vicar entered the saloon with a shy, tentative step. “About this St. Alban’s Trust Fund,” Merton said. “Exactly how is it set up? Who is in charge of the money?”

  “The board of directors, milord.”

  “And you are the president of the board?”

  “Why, yes. That is the arrangement.”

  “Who is the treasurer?”

  St. John blinked in perplexity. “You are, milord. Do you not recall, when the fund was set up last year, you were kind enough to assume the role of treasurer? Squire Lockhead is the secretary.”

  “Ah! Just so.” A trace of pink was noticeable around Merton’s jaw. “It had slipped my mind as we never seem to have any meetings.”

  “It is all very informal. You are busy, milord. I handle the day-to-day business. The spring bazaar and so on.”

  “Yes, yes. I understand. I just wondered, as you mentioned it at lunch.”

  “Was there anything else, milord?”

  “No. That is all. Thank you for your time. I shall make a point to attend the bazaar.”

  The vicar bowed himself out and Merton scowled at Lewis. “That was demmed embarrassing. I told you St. John was innocent.”

  “I never said he wasn’t!” Lewis shrugged. “I only said Mama might be planning to give him my fortune.” He explained to Charity, “Since there are no girls in the family, Mama has left her money to me in her will. Ten thousand pounds. Merton is already rich as a nabob. As St. John is our cousin, and poor as a church mouse, she might feel sorry for him is all I meant.”

  “You implied he was weaseling around to get her money for his trust fund,” Merton said.

  Before the brothers came to cuffs, Charity tried to smooth the waters. “The vicar does not look like you two. Nor like Lady Merton either.”

  “He ain’t a real cousin,” Lewis told her. “That is to say, he was adopted by the St. Johns at birth. They are our cousins. They live just a few miles away. Although he could be some kin, I daresay. Cousin Algernon cut a few capers in his day.”

  “It is possible, but unlikely,” Merton said. “The vicar was born somewhere near Keefer Hall. The St. Johns were an aging couple, childless. They raised him as a son and a gentleman. He attended university and so on, but unfortunately had no money left to him.”

  Charity listened, trying to piece together the relationship. “As he lived nearby, is it possible he would know what is bothering your mama, Lord Merton? Perhaps that is why she chose him for her confidant.”

  “How could he know? He is not much older than myself.”

  “Surely he is much older than you!”

  “No, he is younger than he looks. It is his shuffling manner that ages his appearance.”

  “He will certainly outlive Mama,” Lewis said. “And if he goes on with these insinuating visits, he will diddle me out of a couple of thousand at least. Well, I am off. What was it I was supposed to do again, John? Oh, yes, the demmed wool. And keep an eye on Mama, too.”

  He left. Charity judged by his insouciant whistle that he was not too concerned about losing his fortune to St. John.

  “Shall we have a look at the secret panels now?” Merton said, and put his hand on Charity’s elbow to lead her off.

  Chapter Six

  “Will we not require lamps?” Charity said.

  “There speaks the voice of experience,” Merton replied. “I see our priest’s hole and secret panel will be no thrill for you, Miss Wainwright. I have not been down the stairs for years myself.”

  “There are stairs! That will be something new at least. Where do they lead?” She watched as Merton’s long, graceful fingers fiddled with the flint and wick. A carved emerald ring gleamed on his left hand as he took up a lamp.

  “That would spoil the surprise,” he replied. “I fear I am giving you undue expectations. It is really a very dull staircase.”

  “How spoiled you are. A secret staircase, and you not only ignore it for years, you actually call it dull!”

  “You are thinking of Pope, the poet, I wager. About to bethump me with the old cliché that all things look yellow to the jaundiced eye.”

  “You put words in my mouth, milord. What I was about to say was that if I had such a thing at home, I would run up and down it ten times a day.”

  “When I was a child, I behaved as a child,” he said with a grin. “Now that I am a man, I have put away childish behavior. There is an insult for you in there if you look hard enough.”

  Charity was surprised to discover that Merton was more conversable than she had thought. She decided a little gentle teasing might do him good. “An enjoyment of harmless pleasures should not die with childhood. We all require diversion from time to time.”

  “Running an estate of this size leaves but little time for diversion. In my free moments I can usually find something more amusing than running up and down a staircase.”

  “If you would rather be doing something else, I can go alone.”

  “Good lord, that was not my meaning! I shall be seeing it with an attractive young lady. In such company the activity
is secondary. That is a compliment, ma’am, to make up for my former insult.” He noticed, however, that neither insult nor compliment had much effect on her. “Quite an occasion in my Spartan existence,” he added.

  “Odd that men speak of Spartans as if they were the height of manhood, yet it was the more urbane, pleasure-loving Athenians who overcame Sparta in the end. A Spartan life leaves no room for the imagination.”

  Merton lifted the lamp and headed for the morning parlor and the priest’s hole. “I see you are adept at debate,” he replied with a smile. “An unusual talent in a young lady. I wonder what can account for it.”

  She frowned. “Papa’s society has lively debates. I wonder what manner of young lady you have been associating with, if they cannot hold up their end of a discussion.”

  “Perhaps they can, but they don’t, when they are with an eligible parti.”

  Charity felt her experience in the field of flirtation was lacking. Her mama had died when she was young; she had never made her debut or had a really close female friend with whom she could discuss the important matter of nabbing a husband. Was she doing something wrong? Was that why her young gentlemen never came up to scratch? She said, “How do they behave?”

  “They agree. They simper. They praise. They ask sly questions. You missed an excellent opportunity to discover the extent of my estate just now.”

  “I already know it. I looked you up in the Peerage before leaving London.”

  A choking sound came from Merton’s throat. It increased in volume until it was a full-blown laugh. “I see. Very sensible.”

  “Then why are you laughing at me?” she asked sharply.

  “There is nothing so amusing as the truth. I was not laughing at you, but at the foolish hypocrisy that exists between the sexes.”

  “I know perfectly well you were laughing at me, but let us not spoil this delightful diversion by arguing.”

  “I see you will be easy to entertain, Miss Wainwright. You must consider the moldy cellars and dusty attics at your disposal, to enjoy yourself to the top of your bent.”

  “Oh, not cellars! There might be rats there.”