by M C Beaton
“But if she looks in on us and then sits on guard, we can’t use the backstairs on the landing as an escape.”
“I’ll think o’ something,” Amanda said comfortably. “I always do.”
Jean found it almost impossible to look the viscount in the face the next day. She kept remembering the feel of his arms around her. She blushed furiously when she considered he might have thought she had invented the ghost in order to throw herself at him.
She grew hot and then cold when he came near her; her body was acting strangely, full of stabbing pains and sweet yearning. By dinnertime she felt she could not bear it any longer and miserably asked to be excused, explaining she did not feel well.
She went early to bed, and after tossing and turning for an hour, she eventually fell asleep.
Jean awoke three hours later, conscious that there was someone in her room. “Who’s there?” she cried.
“It is I, Hunterdon” came the viscount’s voice. “Rouse yourself, Miss Morrison. There is moaning coming from the long gallery. The ghost walks again.”
Jean shrank back against the pillows as he lit the candle beside her bed. “Perhaps, my lord, you might go yourself to investigate.”
“No, Miss Morrison, I think you should be there. Come!”
She climbed reluctantly down from her high bed and pulled on a wrapper.
Together they walked down to the long gallery. There in front of them was the ghost. It walked to the end of the gallery and disappeared in the blackness. The viscount, holding the candle high, walked to the end as well and stood frowning. There was nothing but a sofa in front of a lacquered cabinet on high, spindly legs. He set the candle in its stick on the floor and pulled the sofa forward. Then he slid the cabinet to one side on the polished floorboards.
“Come here, Miss Morrison,” he said over his shoulder.
Jean approached him. He held up the candle. The cabinet and sofa had been hiding a narrow door.
“That’s how it was done,” he said, amused. “Your ghost rolled under the sofa and under the cabinet and through this door held open by an accomplice. I should guess that this place is a warren of passages and stairs. Now, for our revenge on those brats.”
“Can it really be them? Betty would lock them in.”
“And I am sure they have a duplicate key.”
“So … so what are you going to do?”
“What are we going to do. Do you know, on reflection, I think we are just going to ignore the whole thing. Do not lock their room anymore or keep guard on them. If you ignore them, they will not try any more tricks. It is high time they became interested in themselves as women.”
“At fifteen years!”
“Never too late to begin, Miss Morrison. I shall hold a ball. Perhaps the prospect of ball gowns and beaux will turn their minds in a more civilized direction.”
“I will do my best. But they need a dancing master. They would not try to dance well with me.”
“I will endeavor to find one. Do you like balls, Miss Morrison?”
“I do not know, my lord, never having been to one.”
“Poor Miss Morrison. You shall dance at mine.”
“That would not be correct, my lord, and would occasion comment.”
He was irritated. “Oh, excellent and moral Miss Morrison. Do you not wish to have some fun?”
“Oh, yes, my lord.” Jean looked steadily at him. “But I must consider my future. Once the girls are of age, my work here will be finished. It will become necessary to find new employ. If I behave correctly in front of the county, then I may have hopes of obtaining employment in the future with one of the local families. If I am bold enough to dance, then I will be considered unsuitable.”
He stood looking down at her. It had been very pleasant holding her close. She probably danced like an angel. He smiled at her suddenly. “It will be a costume ball, a masked ball, Miss Morrison. Nothing wrong in you dancing at such an affair.”
Jean took a slow breath and her eyes shone. “It would be wonderful. You have no idea how irritating it is to have been trained in the steps of all the dances, even the waltz, and never to have danced them, except with Miss Tiggs.”
“Miss Tiggs?”
“My governess.”
“So do not worry about your charges. They will be so excited about the prospect of a costume ball that they will forget to try to escape at night to eat chocolates!”
To Jean’s surprise, the twins did indeed seem elated at the prospect of the ball and talked endlessly of their costumes. Not only that, but with their amazing knowledge of who was resident in the neighborhood, they said they knew of a dancing master, lately come to St. Giles.
The viscount said cynically that there was not enough scope in a market town to keep a dancing master in shoes, but Amanda said this one was resident at The George, a gentleman, and reported to be only on a brief stay. He was a French émigré, Jacques Perdu.
“What an odd name,” Jean exclaimed. “Perdu means ‘lost.’ But it might answer and he could converse in French with Amanda and Clarissa to improve their accent.”
“The English accent is in need of improving first,” the viscount said dryly. “Very well, I will ride to St. Giles today and look him over.”
The viscount was pleasurably surprised by Mr. Perdu. He was an elegant young Frenchman who said his parents had escaped the Terror and were now resident in London. He himself had been visiting friends and had stayed on in Dorset in order to enjoy the English countryside before returning to London. He danced for the viscount to demonstrate how well he knew all the steps. He was a small man with an acrobat’s figure, curly black hair, an olive skin, and sparkling black eyes. When offered the temporary post of dancing master, he accepted gracefully. “The Misses Courtney have an excellent governess, or, rather, companion,” said the viscount, “but it is always better to have a gentleman teach them the steps. You will find they lack manners and elegance. Do your best. I do not expect miracles. Just make sure they know enough not to cripple their partners.”
Both Jean and the viscount expected that the twins would try to make the dancing master’s life hell, but to their surprise, both Amanda and Clarissa seemed almost in awe of the little Frenchman and both desperately tried to please him.
“I feel quite put out,” Jean confided to the viscount. “I am obviously of the wrong sex.”
“Don’t think on’t,” the viscount urged. “Take a holiday and concentrate on your own costume. Schoolbooks can be put aside until after the ball. You will notice they have given up haunting. What do you think of the gardens at the back of the house? Quite a jungle.”
“It’s a pity it’s the back of the house,” Jean said, “for there are the most beautiful views of the sea.”
His eyes lit up. “No reason why we cannot turn this architectural horror back to front. But after the ball. I suppose I must include my cousin Basil among the invitations. It is a wonder he has not called before this. If he can find aught amiss with the upbringing of the girls, then he can write to the lawyers and try to get the estates moved to him.”
Jean looked at him uneasily. “Do the twins know this?”
“Yes.”
“What if they meet Mr. Devenham and decide they prefer him to you? They could make all sorts of mischief.”
“They’re happy enough with their Frenchman, and I’ll make sure Basil is kept away from them.”
Jean decided to walk through the terraced gardens at the back and see if she could come up with some idea of how they might be cleared and landscaped. That way she could have yet another opportunity to talk to the viscount alone. She was thankful, or so she told herself severely, that all those silly feelings she had briefly had about him had died away. It was—again she lectured herself—because she had no other adults to talk to except the servants.
The day was hazy and warm. A few brave roses struggled through the undergrowth of weeds and hung their heavy-scented heads over the mossy paths. Instead of taking
the path that led straight down to the beach, Jean turned along one that led to the left. Briars tore at her skirts, and she would have turned back had she not seen a glimpse of the low roof of what looked like a folly, or summerhouse, so she forged on. A sea gull screamed somewhere nearby, and then came the call of another, reminding her of that day when she had found the cave.
She heard a twig crack and looked back along the path which was like a green tunnel. Perhaps it might be better to return to the house and just tell the viscount that she thought there was an interesting folly, or summerhouse, in the grounds. But perhaps, just a little farther on to get a look at it. She impatiently stepped over a fallen log.
Suddenly, something struck her savagely on the back of the head, and she fell unconscious among the undergrowth.
The viscount was looking anxiously for Jean Morrison. The twins had told him they planned to attend his costume ball as fairies. He thought Amanda in particular with those scowling black eyebrows would look ridiculous. Why couldn’t they go as demons? That would be more in keeping with their looks and personality. Miss Morrison must dissuade them. But where was Miss Morrison? The servants said they had last seen her walking around to the back of the house. He remembered suggesting she look at the gardens, and headed that way.
He was about to follow the path down to the beach when he heard a faint moaning coming from the left. He wondered at first whether the twins were playing a trick, but faintly from behind him he heard the sound of the pianoforte as Mr. Perdu played to the girls’ dancing. He hurried along the path to the left.
He heard the moaning sounds again and then saw a neat foot and excellent ankle sticking out into the mossy path from the undergrowth. He ran along and found Jean lying moaning, her face ashen white.
He scooped her up into his arms, exclaiming, “What happened?”
“Something hit me on the back of the head,” she said faintly. He carried her along the path and out of the wilderness of the garden, laid her gently down on a patch of grass, and examined the back of her head. “A nasty blow,” he said. “We had best get the physician to have a look at you.”
He picked her up again and walked toward the house, cradling her against his chest.
Followed by an anxious Mrs. Moody and two maids, he carried her up to her bedchamber and laid her gently on her bed. “I’ll leave you to undress her,” he said to the housekeeper. “The physician will be here shortly.”
Downstairs again, he sent a footman off to St. Giles to bring the physician and then walked back to the gardens to where he had found Jean. There was a broken branch on the path. He picked it up and examined it. There were a few red hairs and some blood stuck to it. He looked up. There above him was a rotten tree and a break showing where the branch had fallen off. That should solve the mystery, he mused. And yet, surely the falling branch would have crashed into some of the tangling of branches below before falling onto Jean’s head. On the other hand, who would have reason to strike her down? He shook his head. He had been listening to too many fantastic tales in the evenings.
The physician—to Jean’s relief—said she did not need any stitches. Stitching would have meant shaving a part of her head. She was told to stay in bed and rest quietly. At first Jean was glad to comply, for she felt very weak. But after two days she felt much stronger, and it was maddening to hear all the preparations for the ball already going on—although the ball was not to be held for another month.
She roused herself, looking forward to seeing the viscount at dinner. But the lord lieutenant of the county and his lady had come to call and had been pressed by the viscount to stay for dinner. The newly refurbished morning room next to the drawing room was to be used as a dining room for Jean, the dancing master, and the twins. Jean felt the gulf between herself and the viscount widening. The more people he met socially, the less he would expect her company at table. She felt almost resentful of the presence of the dancing master, feeling had he not now been resident at the castle, perhaps she and the girls might just have been allowed to the dinner table proper.
Mr. Perdu chattered away to Amanda and Clarissa, promising them both dances at the ball. He had only a very slight French accent.
He then turned his attention to Jean. “And what will you be wearing by way of a costume, Miss Morrison?”
“I have not really thought about it. I suppose I had better decide on something before it is too late.”
He tilted his head on one side and looked at her consideringly. “With your color of hair, miss, I would suggest Queen Elizabeth.”
“A good idea, but too elaborate a costume to be made in such a short time.”
“There is such a one. There is a chest of clothes in the attics dating back to when this really was a castle, and well preserved in camphor, too.”
“And what were you doing in the attics?” Jean asked curiously.
He smiled. “The ladies and I became tired of dancing and hopping and so we went to explore. There is also a chest of costumes. The ladies have chosen two Turkish ones which the seamstress is altering.”
“You might have told me,” Jean said to Amanda.
Amanda scowled horribly. “If you hadn’t been poking your nose into the shrubbery and getting hit on the head, I might have.”
“Mind your manners,” Jean snapped, and Mr. Perdu said smoothly, “That is no way to talk to your governess.” His black eyes mocked Jean. “A governess of distinction, too.”
The twins exchanged smiles with him. Jean felt uneasy. There was an odd conspiratorial air about the dancing master and the two girls. He was young and undeniably attractive, and the girls could expect good dowries. She hoped he was not ambitious enough to try to woo one of them. The viscount had told her to take a holiday from the schoolroom and to leave the twins to their dancing lessons, but she felt she was losing her control over them. Still, the dancing master was to be employed only until the ball. Now she longed for the ball to be over and done with so she might return to those relaxed intimate evenings, dining with the viscount and reading to him and the girls after dinner.
When dinner was over she asked to be taken to the attics to inspect the costumes. In the chest she found an Elizabethan gown of green silk, heavily encrusted with gold. It should be easy to get a ruff to go with it, she thought, for ruffs had just come back into fashion. There was also a farthingale. Then the twins led her to the seamstress’s little room to examine their Turkish costumes which Jean was relieved to notice were modest enough, not being the genuine article but having obviously been designed for some earlier costume ball.
After that evening it was somehow understood that Jean should take her meals with the dancing master and the twins. The viscount was always busy. There were callers every day now. The Pembertons had not reappeared, although they, with Toad Basil, had been invited to the ball.
An orchestra was to play in the long gallery and carts were arriving with rout chairs to be put along the walls of the hall where the dance was to be held.
Then the viscount’s friends arrived back from London to stay, and their presence as guests in the house put a further social barrier between Jean and the viscount. And then, just before the ball more friends of the viscount’s descended, lords and ladies and their entourages and their hopeful daughters. Jean found herself being squeezed more and more into the background.
She was about to pass the time by putting some final stitches in the Elizabethan costume she was altering, but as she made her way up the main staircase, a Lady Conham and her daughter, Eliza, walked past her as if she were invisible, talking animatedly. “Are you sure you want to go to this ball as Queen Elizabeth, Mama?” the daughter said. “I have heard that Lady Pemberton has chosen just that costume.”
“There may be many duplicates,” Lady Conham said placidly, “and there is no time now to change.”
Jean bit her lip. She did not want to be just another Elizabeth at that ball. She ran up to the attics and feverishly began to search through the chests of c
ostumes. She took out a pretty blue silk ball gown in the style of 1750. It had been wrapped in tissue paper and was still in good condition, and hanging on the wall of the attic was a hoop that could go under it. She could powder her dreadful red hair and go as who? Marie Antoinette? Well, that might be in bad taste. Just as a gentlewoman. She carried the costume to her room and tried it on. It fitted perfectly, although the low square neckline cried out for some jewelry.
She dressed in her own clothes again and walked down the stairs. All the guests present knew Jean Morrison was nothing other than a governess despite her fashionable gown, and they walked past her as if she did not exist.
“Miss Morrison!” She turned and looked up at the viscount. “I have not seen much of you of late. You are looking thoughtful. Have your charges tried to murder you again?”
Jean smiled. “No, my lord. I was thinking about my costume. I was going to go as Queen Elizabeth but I overheard Lady Conham saying she was going as Queen Elizabeth, and Lady Pemberton, too. I found a costume in the attics of about sixty years ago which is vastly pretty. But I do not have any jewelry and the ladies of that period wore such a lot.”
“There is a box of the stuff in my room,” he said. “The Courtney jewelry. It may be rather dirty, as I don’t think any of it has been worn for some considerable time. But come and look at it.”
He walked up the stairs beside her, talking companionably, and once more Jean passed Lady Conham and her daughter, but this time they did not ignore her but stared at her with hard, speculative eyes.
Once in his dressing room next to his bedchamber, the viscount lifted down a heavy metal box from the top of the wardrobe. He fished a small key out of a drawer on a table and unlocked the box. “What color is your gown?” he asked.
“Blue—blue silk,” Jean said, looking wonderingly down at the sparkling jewels.
“Pity. With eyes like yours it should have been green. Here we are! Is this not magnificent? I have never really looked closely at these jewels before.” He held up a heavy sapphire necklace, sapphires set in circles of tiny diamonds.
