Well, she had a right to sound peevish, didn’t she, after waiting an entire year and then some, losing her father, being forced to tolerate her aunt moving in, and only after all that did he decide to show his face?
With these thoughts in mind, Mary had no intention of taking Steele’s arm and walking him into the manor house. She had no intention of anything at the moment for she was indulging her feelings of hurt and anger and frustration and disappointment, and had no energy or inclination to think past those emotions.
When she saw Steele raising his arm to lead her into the house, her eyes widened in horror. Good lord, she thought, he can’t be serious.
Hartwell, the absolute gentleman that he was, slipped past Steele’s arm as if he hadn’t seen it. Steele was a little to Hartwell’s left, after all, and Mary could only assume that Hartwell had somewhat of a hard time seeing on that side. Not, of course, that she had seen any evidence to that effect, but really, why linger over such minuscule details?
Mary accepted Hartwell’s arm gladly. She took comfort in his solid, silent strength as she instructed the carriage driver to warm himself in the kitchen with Mrs. Beeton’s hot brandy.
Pomeroy exited the manor house just then, gloved and dressed in layers. He cast an admonishing eye at Mary, who wore only a heavy shawl and hat against the cold, before saying to Steele, “Might I carry your things for you, sir?”
“Thank you, Pomeroy,” Mary said, “Please place Mr. Steele in the... Oh dear.” She looked at Hartwell, whose bland smile grew a bit. Where to put Steele, if Hartwell was in the guest room? She didn’t dare put them together. She wouldn’t want both of them sleeping in the room beside hers.
No, there was only one thing to do.
“Pomeroy, ask Aunt Ophelia if she would mind moving to mother’s bedroom. We shall have to put Mr. Steele in her bedroom.”
Steele blinked at Mary. “You only have two guest bedrooms?”
Her mouth sagged open at the blatant dismay darkening his tone. He knew she wasn’t rich, and he had told her he had liked her anyway. But then, that was a year ago.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” she snapped. She inhaled. She dug her fingers into Hartwell’s arm. She became aware she was hurting him only when he placed his hand atop hers to disguise the fact that he was prying off her claw-like grip.
She opened her mouth to apologize but was cut off by Hartwell saying, quite smoothly, “I fear there’s been something of a mix-up in Mary’s plans, Steele, as she wasn’t expecting me at all, and had only one guest bedroom prepared. In fact, Mary is only out here in the cold because she was humoring my need to stretch my legs after the train ride from the city. This isn’t the easiest place to get to, as I’m sure you know.”
Steele nodded, a bit dumbly, Mary thought.
“In any case, I’m fairly certain Mrs. Durham already dislikes me. I’d hate to have her dislike two persons who are disrupting her peace and quiet because we want to help her niece.” Hartwell paused. “That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” Steele said, bristling.
Oh yes, of course he is here to help me, Mary thought. Funny, that, as he hadn’t even known whose house his employer had dispatched him to.
“I thought so, you seem quite an upstanding man, Steele, and I’m glad of your company. So glad of it, that I’m willing to move out of the guest bedroom and into Mrs. Durham’s and face her wrath. For I’m certain she shall be quite livid?” Here Hartwell looked at Mary for confirmation.
Mary frowned at Hartwell. What was he trying to do? A thread of their conversation before Steele’s arrival meandered to the forefront of her attention, what was it?
Drat it, that’s right, blackmail. And Hartwell claimed he wasn’t the blackmailer, but that her aunt knew the blackmailer, or knew someone who might know the blackmailer, or... to be honest, Mary hadn’t quite understood what Hartwell had been saying when Steele had pulled up to the manor house, for she’d quite lost interest upon seeing Steele alight from the carriage.
She narrowed her eyes at Hartwell. His smile was in every way benign and harmless. Which meant he had to be up to something.
“My aunt won’t like having to move,” Mary said slowly, tasting each word before she spoke it. “But unless you want to go back to Swindon tonight you’ll have to stay here.”
Steele motioned at the two large-ish bags at his feet. “I certainly didn’t intend on this being a day trip, Miss Trentwood.” He put heavy emphasis on his formal address, giving Hartwell a snide look in the meantime.
“It’s settled then, I’ll take Mrs. Durham’s room, Mrs. Durham will take your mother’s room, and Steele will take my room.” Hartwell turned to Steele, his grin cheeky. “You know, it’s beside Mary’s room, and the walls are paper thin.”
“Alex,” Mary gasped.
“That was highly unnecessary information, sir,” Steele said, drawing up to his full height and yet still managing to fall short of matching Hartwell. “One hardly speaks of a lady’s bedroom and of her walls being paper thin in front of her!”
Mary squinted in the sunlight, trying to discern Hartwell’s intent as he schooled his expression into impassivity. It was rather alarming how she was already able to pick up some of the finer subtleties of his expressions; even though he looked cool and apathetic, she could feel his pulse racing beneath her fingertips. He enjoyed teasing Steele almost as much as he enjoyed teasing her.
No, that wasn’t right; Hartwell enjoyed teasing Steele more than her, because Steele had all the posturing of a gentleman, without the actions to back it up.
Good heavens, Mary thought, feeling a bit nauseated, Father was right. How annoying.
“I take it you mean that one would rather speak of a lady’s bedroom and of her walls being paper thin behind her back?” Hartwell tsked at Steele, looking a brotherly sort of disappointed. “For shame, Steele. And in front of a lady, too.”
“Let’s have a cup of tea,” Mary blurted, seeing how red Steele’s face was becoming. Really, Hartwell needed to hold his tongue. “Pomeroy, you’ll take care of Jasper’s things, I trust?”
“Of course,” Pomeroy said. He grabbed Steele’s bags with one hand and waved at the driver of the carriage to follow him round the back of the house. “Mrs. Beeton already has a pot ready to go for you, Miss, and Mrs. Durham has been waiting for you in the library all this time.”
Mary had been walking toward the house, flanked by Hartwell and Steele, but stopped when hearing that last bit. “She’s been waiting for us?”
“Yes’m, she was writing a letter, but stopped when she heard the commotion.” Pomeroy scratched his white hair. “Oddest thing, Miss, she actually threw away the letter when she saw the young man step from the carriage. Said Providence had provided for her.”
“Why, whatever can she mean by that?” Mary said.
Pomeroy shook his head. “I’m not certain, Miss, but she beat you to the arrangements. She’s already put Mr. Steele in her bedroom, and moved her belongings to the late Missus’s bedroom.”
Mary frowned.
First Hartwell appeared out of nowhere with a letter that stank of blackmail. Then Pomeroy insisted on sending Hartwell after her. Mrs. Durham had a conniption over Hartwell staying in the house, yet without warning volunteered her bedroom for Steele, who hadn’t given an indication of his arrival anymore than Hartwell had. And then there was still the business with her father...
Oh Lord. My father.
Somehow in the middle of everything else that was going on, Mary had managed to forget that little detail about her father haunting her. He was already rather displeased with her. The sight of Steele in his house was sure to drive him mad.
“You go inside without me,” Mary said brightly. “I’ve some business to tend to with Pomeroy.”
“And leave us to your aunt?” Hartwell said with an incredulous laugh. “I think not, Miss Mary Contrary. No, you’re coming into the house with us, or we’re all staying out here in the
cold.”
“I think I’d rather be inside—” Steele began, frowning at Hartwell’s presumption at knowing what he wished.
“No,” Hartwell said, interrupting Steele, “you wouldn’t. Trust me on this one, old man.”
Steele’s jaw jutted out. “Pray excuse me, Miss Trentwood,” he said, slapping his hat onto his head. He spun on his heel and entered the house.
Mary closed her eyes. She counted to five. She concentrated on the pit of her stomach. Maybe her father wouldn’t notice. And maybe he would decide to stop haunting her, magically.
“What in the hell is this damned fool doing in my house?” Trentwood’s disembodied voice roared.
Mary almost retched. Apparently wishful thinking didn’t work when ghosts were involved.
***
FOURTEEN
Trentwood stood just inside the front door, flexing his stiff fingers. Everything felt stiff these days. An effect of being dead, he supposed, the thought of which only fueled the churning feeling in his gut. He glared at Steele, who stood before him, his eyes searching rather frantically from left-to-right.
Steele had burst into the house with a great lack of aplomb, his face red from being in the wind, Trentwood assumed, and perhaps also from seeing Hartwell with Mary.
Trentwood certainly hoped it was the sight of Hartwell and Mary together that had so nonplussed the London fool.
Steele hadn’t continued into the house to meet Mrs. Durham, however, which surprised Trentwood. In fact, Steele had stopped a mere foot short from him. Almost as if he had seen him and didn’t want to run into him.
To be sure, the thought had frightened Trentwood more than he cared to admit to himself. He had grown used to popping in and out of places with impunity. He liked it. Trentwood had realized that other than Mary, only animals seemed to know he existed. There was something satisfying about scaring Mrs. Durham’s dog just when she had managed to get it quiet. And he liked the idea of watching over Mary to make up for the time when she had watched over him.
So when Steele had stopped before him with a great shudder, Trentwood had stepped back, muttering an oath. He had assumed he would never see that ridiculous mustache, that flop of blond hair, or that weak chin again. And he certainly had never thought he would see all three after his death.
Steele released his breath, which Trentwood hadn’t realized he had been holding. “Buck up, chap,” Steele said, shaking his head clear of whatever he had been thinking. “You’re just cold from having stood outside for so long.” Steele glanced over his shoulder with a sneer. “What kind of girl is she to walk about in this frigid air with only a shawl? And to expect me to stay out there with her?”
Trentwood flexed his fingers before closing them into his palm to make a fist.
“And with that monstrosity of a man! Really, Miss Trentwood,” Steele continued, calming as he ranted quietly to the supposedly empty hallway. “You have surely been put-down upon by your father’s death if you willingly consort with such characters.”
Trentwood tasted bile at the sound of the pity Steele ladled into his tones.
But then, Trentwood usually had a slight taste of bile on his tongue. Steele made the taste stronger, far more distasteful. He gritted his teeth as Steele shook his head at the sight of the threadbare rugs spread across the hallway floor. His nostrils flared when Steele clucked his tongue at the tarnished silver tray empty of mail, incoming or outgoing. Gertrude had bought that tray.
When Steele walked further into the hallway, not bothering to wipe the mud and sleet from the soles of his boots, it was more than enough to justify roaring, “What in the hell is this damned fool doing in my house?”
That brought a rather green-looking Mary rushing inside, with Hartwell not far behind.
“What is it, what’s wrong?” he was asking her.
Mary barreled into Steele, and they both almost toppled over. Mary certainly would have fallen, as Steele wasn’t nearly quick enough to turn and catch her, if Trentwood hadn’t grabbed her arm and jerked her upright.
The action caused both of them to freeze.
Her arm had felt his hand and the strength behind it.
They stared at one another, forgetting Hartwell and Steele. Trentwood didn’t dare speak, and neither, it seemed, did Mary. Her eyes were eloquent enough; they seemed to scream, “What are you?”
Mary gagged. Her eyes widened. Her hand flew to her stomach, and she jerked away from Trentwood in the direction of the empty silver tray where she emptied her stomach with the most awful retching noise.
Trentwood stared at his hand.
Steele threw a perfumed handkerchief over his nose and frowned at Mary.
Hartwell was at Mary’s side, an arm around her shoulders as she dry heaved, tears streaming from her eyes. He glared at Steele. “Good God, man, the woman is obviously ill. How can you stand there doing nothing? Fetch her aunt, fetch a servant, fetch some water, or get out of here!”
Steele stepped back. “I’m here as her solicitor, not her errand boy. And I’ll certainly not fetch anything for a woman who has obviously chosen her... associates... poorly.”
There was no mistaking what Steele implied.
Trentwood had heard quite enough, as had Hartwell. Almost as one, they turned from Mary with their fists and gave Steele a hit that sent him sailing.
“I ought to kill you for your lack of respect,” Trentwood and Hartwell shouted.
Trentwood shook his head in disgust at the same time Hartwell did. Trentwood noticed, dimly, that his fist flexed in time with Hartwell’s fist. And he seemed to blink when Hartwell blinked.
They returned to Mary’s side, drawing their arms around her shoulders that heaved now not from stomach convulsions, but from quiet tears. “There now, you’ll be feeling quite all right once the tears dry.”
It had been something her mother always used to say when she was little. Trentwood didn’t understand why Mary was looking at him with growing horror.
“Get out,” she rasped. “Get out of him right now.”
“What?” Trentwood said. He cleared his throat, for his voice sounded a bit off. “What did you say to me?” Funny, he was sounding a bit like Hartwell. He looked in the mirror that hung above the silver tray now full of Mary’s half-digested breakfast. He saw Hartwell’s reflection, though it was almost as if in the shadows of Hartwell’s face, he saw himself.
“Well, that’s different,” Trentwood mumbled.
Mary’s eyes rolled into the back of her head. Hartwell dropped to his knees to catch her while Trentwood remained standing, staring into the mirror.
“What on earth is going on here?” Mrs. Durham shrieked, standing in the library doorway.
What on earth indeed, Trentwood thought, fading away in a beam of sunlight.
***
FIFTEEN
Steele shifted his head. His cheek rubbed against a smooth fabric he recognized. Silk, he thought it was. He kept his eyes closed, enjoying the way his head was cushioned by layers of the filmy fabric. It seemed Miss Trentwood had come to her senses and left that Hartwell, now to be known as Quasimodo, as she well should have done.
The cushion supporting his head was warm and soft. It was almost too warm, and it shifted beneath him as he jerked with the sudden realization that his head rested in a lady’s lap.
“Are you coming to, Mr. Steele?”
Steele’s eyes flew open. Mrs. Durham’s face was inches from his, and he could see every pore, every crease, every disappointment there. He swallowed. He extracted himself from her lap, pulling away from her soft arms. He ought to have known better. Women were fickle, of that he was certain, but he doubted the particular woman known as Miss Mary Trentwood was quite that fickle.
Whatever Quasimodo had done to win Mary’s loyalty, it had been enough to ensure she was administering to his wounds, whatever they were, and not Steele’s, which seemed very perverse.
“Have some tea,” Mrs. Durham said, handing him a cup.
They were sitting on an old sofa, the kind that ought to have been thrown away years ago but was kept for its sentimental and worn-in value. In fact, Steele realized, as he studied the room in which he sat with Mrs. Durham, all the furniture was old. All of it was worn. All of it looked well loved.
It was rather distasteful, really. Very bourgeois, as if Mary couldn’t afford any better. Or worse yet, that she could afford better, but chose not to.
Terrifying.
Steele accepted the teacup with one practiced hand while he prodded his aching jaw with the other. He sipped the tea and winced. Mrs. Durham looked at him, her expression expectant. If nothing else, she had to be related to Mary, for Steele had just realized he had no idea who she was, why she had been cradling his head, and how she managed to drag him into what he assumed was the library.
He sneezed. Yes, he was most definitely in a library. Books always gave him the worst conniptions of the nose. It was something to do with the dust, he assumed.
It was the woman’s eyes, Steele realized as he sipped his tea, that made the familial connection to Mary so obvious. These were sharp, dark eyes, which noticed his every move and guessed at his every thought. He felt trapped beneath their inquisitive stare. “And you are?”
“Mrs. Durham, Mary’s aunt on her mother’s side.”
Steele nodded, and winced at the increase in throbbing. “Thank you for the tea.”
“Certainly,” Mrs. Durham said. “Do allow me to apologize for my niece. She has been without a mother a good many years and does not know where her attentions ought to be focused.”
Steele coughed, unsure how to respond.
“You must understand,” Mrs. Durham said, her tone forlorn as she wiped the palms of her hands across the black silk of her dress. “My niece is quite mad with grief. She has latched herself onto this stranger in the desperate hope that he will bring her out of her low spirits, and for a time, I suspect he has.” Tears began to gather at the corners of her eyes.
Haunting Miss Trentwood Page 9
