by Louise Allen
‘And see what Mr Parrott lent me, it’s called the Household Vedey Meckum or some such and it’s all about everything you need to know to run a big household.’
‘Vade mecum.’ Hester took the big book and opened it at the title page. ‘It’s Latin, Jethro, it means it’s a useful companion full of all sorts of knowledge.’
His eyes widened in awe. ‘Will I have to learn Latin to read it, then? He didn’t say anything about Latin.’
Hester set his mind at rest and left him doggedly ploughing his way through page one, his tongue protruding slightly in concentration.
Susan, nodding over her needlework, confessed that she had left the butler and the boy together and had gone to have a bread and cheese luncheon so she had no idea what they had talked about. Seeing her suppressing a yawn, Hester packed her off to bed and went to make a meal for herself and Jethro which he ate with one hand while precariously balancing the book on his knees.
When Maria emerged looking the better for her nap Hester showed her the sleeping draught. ‘It is Dr Forrest’s handwriting, I recognise it from the notes he left me on making up a saline mixture. It says one wineglass before retiring, but that was for a grown man. Perhaps it wouldn’t do him any harm just to have half a glass, the sleep would do him good, Hester. When he’s so restless he tosses and turns and that can’t help his back and shoulder.’
In the event, by bedtime Jethro was looking flushed and uncomfortable and put up only a token resistance to the medicine. His three weary nursemaids gathered on the landing outside his room, each with their chamber stick in hand, and exchanged relieved looks at the sound of heavy breathing from within.
‘I’ve double-checked round all the locks and catches,’ Susan said. ‘The groom from over the road has been to see to Hector and the lanterns are safely out in the stables.’
‘What are you holding?’ Hester peered at the object Susan was attempting to conceal in her skirts.
‘The kitchen poker. I’d like to see any headless ghoul get the better of that!’
Smiling faintly at the puzzle of where one hit a headless apparition with a poker, Hester took herself off to bed. A thin line of moonlight fell across the floorboards and she went across to look at it out of the window. ‘The waxing crescent,’ she murmured, looking out at the pure beauty of the sickle of white pinned on the black velvet of the sky. ‘What nonsense to attribute evil to that.’
She paused, her hand on the crumbling silk curtain, looking across at the darkened house opposite. Strange that it should be so quiet so early. Perhaps Guy had gone away. That would be a comfort, she told herself stoutly. No one to endanger her reputation in the eyes of local society, no one to lure her into behaving in an immodest and reckless manner, and it would certainly remove the only person who wanted her house. The only person I know who wants it, she corrected herself.
Not that physical proximity would stop whoever it was; whatever she might suspect Guy of, it was not personally creeping about the Moon House depositing dead roses.
Hester climbed into bed and settled herself to sleep by watching the faint shimmer of twigs from the climbing roses outside her window thrown into silhouette on her bedchamber walls by the cold moonlight.
She woke some hours later feeling uncomfortably thirsty. The baked gammon at supper had been rather salty and she had not thought to bring a glass of water to bed with her. Hester lay half-dozing, hoping she would go back to sleep, but the discomfort persisted and, as the longcase clock in the hall struck two, she gave up and scrambled out of bed and into her dressing gown.
It did not occur to her to trouble lighting her chamber stick; the old house was so familiar now that she could have walked around it with her eyes closed, and, in any case, the moonlight cast the faintest of light through uncurtained windows.
Her bare feet were on the lowest step of the stairs before her sleepy brain roused sufficiently to suggest to her that this was not a sensible thing to be doing. Hester took another, cautious, step down so that she was standing on the cold hall floor and listened intently, thirst forgotten.
Silence. Or at least, as her ears strained, the silence of any house at night. A stair creaked where she had just trodden on it, the longcase clock ticked heavily, outside an owl hooted and the ivy scratched against a window pane. Then the lightest of draughts touched her cheek, and with it came the suggestion of the scent of roses.
Hester smiled, then became still at the realisation that all the windows downstairs should be closed. Where was that stir of air coming from? Even as her mind formed the question and her hand tightened on the newel post, she heard the breathing.
It was right beside her, the faintest whisper on the air, the sound of someone keeping very, very still. Waiting. Watching her from the shadows in the drawing room.
She had already made a mistake in standing still for so long, surely they would suspect she knew they were there? Could she make it to the kitchen before they attacked her? There were knives there, the rolling pin-but not the poker, which Susan had taken to bed with her.
And there was also, she recalled with a sudden flash of relief, her father’s sword propped up by the front door. She had put it there that morning to remind herself to drive a nail in to the long wall opposite the clock and hang it up.
To reach it she would have to leave the stairs and cross in front of that half-open door. The breathing was so faint she wondered if she was imagining it, then a board creaked as though someone had shifted their weight. No, that was not imagination.
Fighting the urge to run upstairs screaming her head off, Hester stepped briskly into the hall, half-turned as though to go towards the kitchen then spun round, reaching for the sword. Her hand found the hilt and her fingers closed round it with the ease of long familiarity. How many times had she cleaned it for Papa? She dragged the blade free, letting the scabbard clatter to the marble, and swung round to face the door.
The sword was heavy and she had to use both hands to hold the point up at waist height.
‘Come out. I know you are there.’ Her voice sounded surprisingly level and determined in her own ears.
The door swung wider, slowly revealing a tall silhouette. Hester raised the sword. ‘Out.’
The shadowy man stepped forward, then with a speed that completely wrong-footed her, side-stepped the blade, caught her wrist in one hand and dragged her into the room and against his body.
‘Quiet!’ he hissed. The voice was instantly recognisable.
‘You!’ Hester struggled in Guy’s grip. ‘How could you?’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘You… you bastard.’ Hester struggled to free herself.
‘Language, my dear Miss Lattimer.’ Guy was not letting her go and her efforts to free her wrist only succeeded in tightening his grip. ‘Please let go of that sword before you run me through or I will have to hurt you.’
‘I mean to run you through,’ she gasped, attempting to kick him, but finding that in bare feet all she was doing was stubbing her toes, despite the fact that he appeared not to be wearing boots. ‘I wanted to trust you and now I know I was right not to-but how you could-’
He let go of her suddenly, then used both hands to twist the sword in her grip. With a gasp Hester let it go and heard it land with a soft thud on the chaise as he tossed it away.
‘I’m sorry, but one of us was going to get hurt.’ She found herself gathered tightly against Guy’s chest. ‘Now please, stop struggling and be quiet. Do you want to wake the household?’
‘Yes!’ She stamped hard on his stockinged foot. ‘Brute! You treacherous, lying, deceitful brute. Jethro will be down with a shotgun in a moment-’
‘No, he will not. He was snoring his head off when I climbed through his window; in fact, everyone was snoring, except you, and you were making enchanting whiffling noises. Look, if I let you go, will you stop kicking me and come and sit on the chaise?’
‘No, I will not! Whiffling? I do not whiffle.’ She broke off and stared up
at what she could see of his face in the faint light. ‘Why were you climbing through Jethro’s window? You couldn’t know he had taken a sleeping draught.’
‘Parrott and he thought it was best if I came in that way, because of course we wanted Susan to lock and bolt everything downstairs as usual.’ He relaxed his hold. ‘Be still, just for one moment, and tell me if this looks like the actions of a man who is set on haunting your house with dead roses.’ Guy stepped away from her and there was a sudden narrow beam of light that fell on the chaise. Blinking, Hester realised he had partly opened the slide on a dark lantern.
On the chaise was a pillow. On the floor beside it his discarded boots and a long-barrelled pistol contrasted incongruously with a bottle and a napkin open to reveal what appeared to be a ham sandwich.
The dark lantern clicked shut. ‘Now, come and sit down. We do not appear to have woken Susan or Miss Prudhome, but I suggest we keep our voices down. I have no wish to be taken to task by your chaperon for having a tryst with you in your nightgown.’
‘It would more likely be Susan brandishing the kitchen poker.’ Hester felt confused and relieved in equal parts but she let herself be steered to the chaise. Guy put the sword on the floor and sat down beside her. ‘I am sorry I kicked you-but what are you doing here?’
‘Setting a trap for your night-time visitor, although I imagine if he is within fifty yards of the place he will have fled by now.’ She could see no more of him than his outline against the faint light from the window, but the sense of being protected was so strong that it was an effort not to throw her arms around his neck and cling to him. She had been wrong about Guy and suddenly the knowledge that he was innocent was all that mattered.
‘And Jethro knows?’
‘I was worried about you all, so I sent Parrott over. He was coming anyway to talk to the lad. They spent a cosy afternoon plotting and Jethro promised to leave his window open for me.’
‘But how did you get up to it? We have no ladder long enough.’ The image of Guy making his way stealthily across the road encumbered by a ladder almost provoked a giggle and she stifled it hastily. Hysteria seemed rather too close for comfort.
‘On to the water butt, along the penthouse roof over the scullery, up a somewhat poorly attached rainwater pipe and in through the window.’
‘Your clothes must be filthy.’
‘My valet sent me out in my second-best housebreaking outfit,’ he assured her in a solemn whisper.
This time the giggle did escape. ‘Oh, Guy, I am so glad it is not you,’ Hester managed to gasp between faint hiccups of mirth.
‘Are you? Why?’
‘I felt in my heart… I mean, I felt instinctively that you would not do such a thing, but my head told me to be sensible and mistrustful.’ At least he could not see her blushing in the darkness-why had she mentioned her heart? ‘I felt you were my friend-those few moments when I was convinced I was wrong were horrible.’
‘Well, I am your friend, although I give you fair warning that I still intend trying to persuade you to sell to me. Why did you cut me dead this morning?’
Hester sniffed. ‘I did not want another prosy lecture on what I ought to do.’
‘Prosy?’ Guy sounded indignant. He reached out in the dim light and tweaked a lock of Hester’s straying hair. ‘I was merely being careful on your account. As I should be now- go to bed, Hester.’
‘Do you think I would get a wink of sleep?’ she demanded. ‘I am staying here.’ To emphasise the point she curled up against the pillow at the head of the chaise and tucked her feet under her. Nothing was going to dislodge her now. Reverting to his previous remark, she added, ‘And I did not cut you, I waved my whip.’
‘Ah, yes, to make sure I noticed that you were with my rival for your affections.’
Hester gave an inelegant snort. ‘What nonsense! Sir Lewis was merely escorting me to visit with his sister, and in any case, surely I am allowed more than one friend?’
‘He is very good looking-or so the other ladies seem to think,’ Guy remarked pensively.
‘He is indeed. Very good looking,’ Hester teased, determined not to pander to Guy’s vanity by pointing out that he, too, was an attractive man. ‘It is odd,’ she added, suddenly serious, ‘but whenever I see him I am reminded of someone, but I cannot think who.’
‘Are you? Now that is interesting. I wonder if anyone else has noticed the likeness?’
‘To whom? Guy, you are being deliberately provoking and mysterious. I must tell you that now I have another prospective purchaser for the Moon House I can safely cut your acquaintance unless you stop teasing.’ It was so unreal in the moonlight and shadows that it felt safe to talk this nonsense, scandalously alone with a man.
‘Who has offered to buy it?’ He was all at once serious.
‘Why, Sir Lewis. Miss Nugent was telling me the most ridiculous stories from some old family collection of legends and he said that, if I was suffering from haunting at the Moon House, he would feel honour bound to buy it back.’
* * *
That made sense. Guy stared into the darkness that was the hall. Miss Nugent does her best to scare Hester with ghost stories and her brother makes an offer for the house. But why would the father sell the house and the children want it back-especially if they were the ones behind the hauntings? What could they possibly want so badly? It was obvious that Hester knew nothing of their motives. He knew things about their connection with the house that she had no idea of, and he was not about to enlighten her.
It was disturbing, yet curiously restful, to be sitting in the darkness next to Hester. She was curled up like a cat against the head of the chaise, so close he could feel the warmth of her. He moved his hand and it brushed her bare foot.
‘Your feet are freezing; here, put my coat over them.’ He reached behind the seat and found his coat by touch, tucking it around her legs and over her feet.
‘Thank you. I should have thought to put on my slippers, but I was so sleepy and thirsty that I didn’t think of it.’ She was smiling, he could hear it in her voice, despite the fact they were whispering. Now, if there was ever a moment, was the time to intensify his flirtation with her. Moonlight, intimacy-if he could not win her over to doing what he wanted by the end of the night, then he was losing his touch with women.
As he thought it Guy felt a stab of distaste. He did not want to flirt: or to persuade Hester into anything she did not want to do. He wanted… what? She wanted to be friends, she already considered him one, hence her furious sense of betrayal when she found him here. Was friendship enough?
Hester shifted slightly, but was quiet. She had a quality of repose which was attractive. It seemed she felt no need to chatter or to display her fears in order to attract attention. Guy smiled, recalling Hester’s courage and quick wits as she drew the sword on him. No, he wanted more than friendship-it seemed he wanted to court her.
Taken by surprise at his own thoughts, Guy shifted away to the other end of the chaise. Hester murmured, ‘Thank you,’ obviously thinking he had moved to give her more room.
Am I in love with her? He took a startled look at the question and made himself consider it, never having suspected himself of such an emotion before. She is delightful to look at, but then so were all the high-fliers and bits of muslin he had enjoyed an association with from time to time. She is quick-witted, unusual, direct, never qualities he had looked for in a woman before. And she is brave, to say nothing of stubborn, proud and secretive. How did that add up to love? If love was this feeling that was a mixture of desire, tenderness, protectiveness and sheer terror and he wasn’t simply suffering from brain fever.
After all, Guy reasoned with himself, you came here on an errand that could only be described as quixotic and romantic, perhaps you are just in the mood to fancy yourself in love.
‘Can you smell roses?’ he whispered. ‘I’ve only just noticed it-but surely there cannot be any in bloom now, or smelling at this time of night, come to that
.’
‘You can smell them too?’ she asked eagerly. ‘I thought it was only me. I smell them when I am happy, or when I am thinking about the house. I sometimes think that scent is the only ghost the Moon House holds. There are a few sodden blooms in the garden, but of course-’
‘Quiet,’ he murmured, putting his fingers over her mouth. Was he imagining it? No, there was the sound of movement from the hall, the merest brush of unshod feet on the marble, the almost imperceptible stirring of the air. ‘Stay here.’ He used one hand to press her down on to the chaise, with the other he reached for the sword. The thought of bullets flying in the darkness with Hester there chilled him.
Almost holding his breath, he drifted towards the door. The intruder was closer now, at the foot of the stairs. Guy lunged out of the door and a figure whirled around, cloak swirling as it did so. Guy took in only that it was fast, clad all in black and that it had no face, then his mind caught up with his imagination and he realised it was masked.
‘Stand! I am armed.’
The figure seemed to waver in the faint light, then something swept towards his face. Instinctively Guy threw up his left arm to protect his eyes and stabbed forward with the sword as pain lanced through his face. For a moment he thought the intruder had thrown a cat and it was clawing at him, then his hand closed around hard, thorny stems and crisp, dead leaves and he realised it was roses.
He swept them aside and drove towards his attacker again, lunging forward in a fencer’s attack. His foot came down, not on flat marble but something hard and rounded, slipped as the scabbard moved on the polished stone, and, completely off- balance, he began to fall. As he went down he dropped the sword and hit out with his right fist, to feel it connect with a satisfying thud on the masked face.
Then he was on the floor, scrambling to regain balance to spring to his feet as someone tripped over him with a cry of dismay. His reaching hands found themselves full of fine cotton and the warm female form beneath. ‘Hester!’ Unceremoniously he rolled her off on to the floor behind him and got to his feet. The hall was empty, the house silent. Where the hell had it gone?
