Haunting Miss Trentwood

by Belinda Kroll

  ***

  THREE

  Mary remained where she was, clinging to her headboard and staring at Trentwood. She shook her mind free of the memories from that horrible night over a year ago. There was nothing to be done about that now. Steele had never called, and she hadn’t the time for courting anyway, not with her father so ill. And now that her father had died—and his ghost was standing at the foot of her bed—well, that didn’t make her future chances at courtship seem any brighter.

  Practically speaking, of course.

  Mary’s mouth wavered between hysterical laughter and another scream. Her father was dead, and she wanted—needed—to mourn him. She wanted to remember him fondly and cry herself to sleep over her loss. She did not want to be crawling away, terrified of this vision that was her father.

  It wasn’t right or decent, this horror replacing sorrow.

  She swallowed, biding her time, waiting for words to come. Did ghosts need to sit? Or was it merely the principle of the matter? Her father had been, if nothing else, concerned with the principle of the matter. Did such things carry over into the afterlife?

  “Aren’t you growing rather tired of hanging from that headboard as if you were some primate?” Trentwood said.

  Mary dropped to her knees. She landed with little grace in the jumble of sheets piled atop her bed. She couldn’t take her eyes from Trentwood. His fingers were grimy, most likely from his unearthly climb. He smelled of earth and age and disease, spiced with a hint of peppermints—his favorite treat.

  “There now, isn’t that better?” Trentwood looked as he had in his life but for his eyes, the irises particularly. They had lost almost all pigmentation, so that the dark hazel she had inherited looked an insipid beige.

  She scowled. A knock at the door startled her from responding.

  “Miss Trentwood?” It was Pomeroy, Trentwood’s valet-cum-butler. His voice was gentle, but firm, as he said, “I happened to be in the hallway just a moment ago and had the oddest idea I heard you scream. Might I come in and inquire?”

  Mary cleared her throat and dragged her gaze from Trentwood. “No, thank you,” she said, raising her voice so Pomeroy could hear her. “I thought I saw... er, there was—”

  As Mary scanned the room looking for an excuse for screaming, she caught sight of Trentwood looking rather smug while he waited for her reason. She pressed her lips together. He was having fun with this! She crawled from her bed and backed to the door. Her chin jutted out, and she glanced at Trentwood, noting the way his brows rose.

  It was easier to breathe by the door, Mary couldn’t smell Trentwood. She pressed her cheek to the carved wooden door that kept Pomeroy from entering. She breathed the warm smell of old wood, relishing in its solidity. She needed to convince herself she was grounded, sane, normal.

  “I had a nightmare,” Mary said, “and frightened myself awake. Please don’t concern yourself, it was very silly.”

  She heard Pomeroy clear his throat and imagined him shifting his weight from one foot to the next as he searched for the most proper way to voice his thoughts.

  “Shall I ask Mrs. Durham to keep you company?”

  Mary closed her eyes. “No, thank you.”

  “Shall I keep you company, Miss?”

  Now that was an interesting thought, to allow Pomeroy enter. Especially with Trentwood standing there as if he hadn’t died a week earlier. If Pomeroy saw Trentwood, then Mary would know she wasn’t entirely mad, or certainly not delusional. Of course, the danger in ushering Pomeroy inside would be the realization that I am, in fact, losing my wits. Mary bit her lip.

  “Why not let the poor man in, make certain you haven’t done harm to yourself?” Trentwood suggested. He had moved to the vanity, taking the seat Mary had not offered to him. He watched her archly, radiating his displeasure with his stiff carriage and the way he picked at the dirt beneath his fingernails.

  If I answer him, I acknowledge his existence, and then I’ll know I’m mad. If I don’t answer him, I don’t know either way. Decision made, Mary threw open the door. “Just for a moment, yes, I’d like your company. I find my... thoughts disturb when I’m alone.”

  Pomeroy was as tall and lanky as Trentwood, and as old as him, if not older. Mary had no idea, in fact, how old Pomeroy was. She knew only that he had always been her father’s valet, he never had a hair or piece of clothing out of place, and he worried about her as if she were his daughter. And that he was a prize pugilist who was more than happy to teach her a thing or two.

  Pomeroy’s hair was completely white and had been so since he turned twenty—something about the shock of losing his sister in a fire. Mary never knew the details and knew better than to ask.

  “Thoughts are one’s own enemy at a time like this,” Pomeroy murmured, entering the room.

  “Would you care to have a…” Mary’s voice trailed off. Trentwood sat in the only available chair in the room and didn’t look as though he was about to give it up to anyone, especially not his valet. Thankfully, Pomeroy had no plans to sit.

  “I’ve only come to say, and do pardon my impudence, that I’m worried about you. We both are, Mrs. Beeton and me. You’ve had a rough year, taking care of your father and your aunt besides.”

  Mary nodded once. She crossed her arms over her chest. It rankled, the awkward sounds of kindness about her loss. She hadn’t decided if she was prepared to accept such words yet. Having her dead father in the room didn’t help matters.

  Pomeroy continued, stammering a little as Mary stepped away from him. “It was decided I should tell you we will handle the running of the house, to—to ease your burden.”

  Trentwood scoffed from his corner. “A lovely sentiment, I’m sure, but what are you to do with yourself if he takes away your one occupation, hmm?”

  Mary squared her shoulders. She anticipated Pomeroy to shout, scream, blanch, faint, or all of the above. He did none. He waited for her response, giving no indication that he had heard Trentwood speak, nor revealing any suspicion that anyone but Mary was in the room with him.

  This does not bode well for my sanity.

  “I must admit the offer is tempting, and so very generous. I am, of course, touched and overwhelmed by your kindness,” Mary whispered, “but I must keep myself busy.”

  Pomeroy bowed. “I find it’s best to stay busy, Miss, and be certain to not be alone for too very long.”

  Mary risked a sidelong look at Trentwood, who grinned. “Depend upon it; I don’t think I shall be alone often.”

  ***

  FOUR

  Swindon (a train ride west of London), March 1887

  Mr. Hartwell was jolted awake, his arms flailing, when the train from London pulled into Swindon. His low-brimmed hat, which he had pulled down to shade his face while he slept, fell to his lap. He heard the snickers of the little boy sitting in the aisle across from him. He knew he should resist the temptation, but he looked at the boy and scowled.

  The boy gasped and pointed at Hartwell’s face. “Mama,” he cried, “what’s happened to him?”

  The boy’s mother looked at Hartwell, blanched, and slapped her son’s hand. “Don’t point, dearest, it’s rude.” She turned to Hartwell, though he noted she avoided meeting his gaze. “Please forgive him. He’s the most mischievous terror of all my children.”

  Hartwell nodded and gathered his things, but not before making a face at the boy for good measure. He couldn’t help it. The boy was a brat, his mother knew it, and Hartwell was in no mood to be someone’s entertainment, child or otherwise. He slapped his hat onto his dark hair, threw his coat over his shoulders, and stomped from the train.

  The station was far quieter than the London one he had left that morning. There were still children crying, paperboys shouting, train attendants ushering, and far too many people milling about as if they had no idea where they were going. Well, Hartwell knew where he was going. At least where he needed to get to, and damned if he was about to tarry simply because someone wasn’t sure
just which car they wanted to sit in and happened to be making that decision in the middle of his path.

  “You there,” Hartwell said to a dirty boy playing by the tracks, “where might I find the manor house at Compton Beauchamp?”

  “At Compton Beauchamp, methinks,” was the reply.

  Hartwell clamped his jaw. “And where, pray tell, is Compton Beauchamp, exactly?”

  “Me Pa can drive you there, if you like,” the boy said, jumping to his feet.

  Hartwell stepped back so the upset coal dust didn’t touch his suit. “Take me to your father, and be quick about it. I need to catch the evening train back to London.” He followed the boy, who he discovered was named Peter, to a wagon full of animals. Pigs, of all things, and geese, and sheep. “Oh no.”

  Peter bounded to his father’s side and tugged the hem of his frayed jacket. “Gent here’d like a lift to Compton Beauchamp, Pa.”

  Hartwell shook his head when Peter’s father squinted at him from beneath his straw hat. “Forgive the intrusion, I thought your son was taking me to the stables.”

  “You’ve a pretty way with words, son.” Peter’s father had a voice of gravel. It sounded smooth, yet Hartwell could hear ball bearings tumbling over one another in the undertones. “What are you doing trying to get to Compton Beauchamp?”

  “I’ve business with Mrs. Durham,” Hartwell admitted, “and the sooner I get there, the sooner I can return home.”

  Peter’s father chuckled and tightened the harness on his farm horse. “I’ll be the only one heading that direction. No one goes to Compton Beauchamp unless they live there.”

  Hartwell’s shoulders sank. “Really?” he said, his voice flat.

  “Aye, and you’ll be having a trial of getting to Mrs. Durham, what with the goings on at the manor house.”

  One of the geese looked at Hartwell and honked loudly at him, finding some offense. Hartwell rubbed his forehead. “What has been going on at the manor house?”

  “Well, the young miss lost her father a month ago, and the house is in mourning.”

  “Ah, I see.” That certainly posed a problem; they would be in mourning for a year, and Hartwell simply didn’t have that sort of time. He shook his head. “Sorry, I must have misunderstood you. Young miss? Mrs. Durham is forty-five if she’s a day, as I understand it.”

  Peter’s father chuckled. “Not her, but her niece by way of her twin, Miss Trentwood. Mrs. Durham’s doing her duty and watching after the girl. Though she’s going through her own mourning.”

  “How very noble of her,” Hartwell said through clenched teeth. Well, he had come this far for answers. Certainly he could come and go quickly without disturbing their period of mourning too much. “I should be much obliged then, if I could ride with you to the manor house.”

  Peter cheered and scrambled up the large wheel to sit on the wagon’s wooden bench that would seat the three of them.

  “I’m Frank Brown,” Peter’s father said, holding his hand out for Hartwell to shake.

  Hartwell glanced at the weathered hand, seeing years of dirt encrusted in its folds. He shook Frank Brown’s hand with a tentative smile. “Alexander Hartwell.”

  The ride to Compton Beauchamp was, Hartwell found with no little surprise, pleasant. Frank Brown was by no means chatty, but he answered all of Hartwell’s questions amiably enough.

  The countryside was the sort of tame green beauty he remembered from his childhood, and Peter, when Hartwell had removed his hat to enjoy the warmth of the sun’s rays on his head, made no mention of his scarred face, which he appreciated.

  Even the noisy animals crowded in the back of the wagon seemed to Hartwell a happy respite from the drudgery of London life. It was charming to hear the pigs snort as if scoffing at something the geese said, or the sheep’s low murmuring when the wagon swayed over a bump in the road.

  Hartwell marveled at The Great White Horse, an ancient carving in the chalky ground on the hills just outside of Compton Beauchamp. The Browns humored him and drove the wagon up the hill so he could study the horse closely. He shared their packed luncheon of generously cut bread and cured meat while listening to Frank Brown’s folktale that the horse was actually the bones of the horse belonging to none else but William the Conqueror.

  In fact, by the time he was dropped off at the pale lane just outside the manor house, Hartwell was so totally enamored with his new friends that he almost forgot why he had come to Compton Beauchamp in the first place. He waved to the Browns as they ambled away, and chuckled at the sight of the pigs, sheep, and geese watching him forlornly from their rocking, wooden cage.

  When the wagon was out of eyesight, Hartwell sighed and turned to the high wrought iron gate that provided the only opening to the brick wall surrounding the manor house. The gate was propped open by a sizable rock, so he slipped inside. He squared his shoulders. Better get this over with, Hartwell thought, shrugging to adjust his shoulder cape.

  Hartwell walked along the gravel path that was wide enough to usher carriages to the portico that sheltered the front door. The manor house, it seemed, had seen better days.

  Far better days, by the looks of it.

  The house had a Palladian façade that spoke of modest grandeur. The yellow limestone of the façade was laid in an irregular pattern and was accented by smooth ashlar dressings smartly jointed together. Red brick archways decorated the windows, pulling the eye up to the roof, which sorely needed repairing.

  Hartwell tugged the embroidered bell pull hanging just right of the door and waited. And continued to wait, hearing neither a bell, nor anyone coming to open the door.

  He yanked the bell pull again. This time it snapped in pieces into his hand.

  His mouth dropped open. Frowning at the portico and seeing finger-sized cracks in the plaster, Hartwell lost confidence, what with the remnants of the bell pull dangling from his fingers. He rapped his knuckles against the front door and jumped away just in case the portico decided to fall on his head.

  Finally, Hartwell thought he heard someone approach the door. He heard concerned mumblings. Whoever was behind the door continued to mumble for a full five minutes. He tapped his leg with the bell pull impatiently. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, will you open this door?”

  The voices fell silent.

  He hadn’t expected them to hear him.

  The door creaked open to reveal a tall, lanky man with a shock of white hair and a woman with a cap of white lace atop her graying hair. They both wore black, reminding Hartwell that the house was in mourning. Their solemnity seemed out of place with the fine weather tickling the hairs on the back of his head. I ought to have sent a letter ahead.

  The two persons stared at him, and Hartwell realized they wanted him to explain himself. He reddened. “I’m Alexander Hartwell, and—.”

  The woman lost all color and slammed the door in his face. She, he assumed, was Mrs. Durham.

  He knocked on the door again, relieved this time when the man opened the door, the woman was nowhere in sight.

  “Do come in, sir,” the man said. “I believe Mrs. Durham has fled to her room. If you would wait in the library, I will send for my mistress.”

  “Then Mrs. Durham is not the lady of the house?” Hartwell asked as he entered with a small frown.

  “No indeed.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Yes indeed.” The man smiled at Hartwell’s apparent surprise. “I’m Pomeroy, the butler and valet to Mr. Trentwood that was. If you’d be so kind as to wait in the library, I shall send for Miss Trentwood and have a pot of tea sent to you.”

  Hartwell allowed Pomeroy to take his hat, coat, and satchel, relieved to be rid of the carried weight. He ignored the way Pomeroy started at the sight of his face, already building up his tolerances as he followed Pomeroy to the little library just off the main hall. I’ve been so used to being with people who are used to me, he thought with a disgruntled sigh.

  “Miss Trentwood will be in shortly,” Pomeroy said.
>
  Hartwell nodded, and handed Pomeroy the bell pull. “Er… do apologize in advance to Miss Trentwood for me?”

  Pomeroy stared at the bell pull in his hand, and his face tightened as if he was trying not to laugh. He cleared his throat. “We haven’t had visitors in quite some time, sir.”

  “I never would have guessed,” Hartwell replied.

  ***

  FIVE

  When a girl loses her father, no matter her age, whether in the school house, married, or a spinster like Mary, she wants to mourn. She wants to take time to remember the most influential man in her life, if she has been blessed enough to have the influence of her father, if she has been blessed enough to have a father who cares enough to have an influence on her.

  She wants to look back on times of laughter with fondness, and times of punishment with sheepishness. She wants to give credit where it is due, and take the time to put his dearest possessions away for moments of tearful reminiscence.

  Admittedly, Mary had not been looking forward to life after her father—especially when faced with the unfortunate truth that she would have to face it with her aunt, of all people. For all her disappointment regarding Steele, Mary had been glad to read to Trentwood every night and guarantee that he had eaten enough during their meals.

  Despite his sometime pigheadedness, Trentwood had been a generous and encouraging father.

  He hadn’t liked to read, but he had indulged Mary’s obsession with books precisely because her mother had done the same. He had preferred to ride rather than walk, and Mary the reverse, so, rather than shuffle the duty to Pomeroy or a footman, Trentwood had joined Mary on her walks to Wayland’s Smithy, the collection of sarsen stones at the edge of Compton Beauchamp.