“No, no,” she denied anxiously. “I actually just wanted to ask you why you are working in the Dog & Bones, of all places… and not somewhere else? Why don’t you work as a maid with a family, for example? I would like to accompany you for a while, if you do not mind.”
The way to the tavern was not far; however, Minerva had forgotten to put on a bonnet and a shawl when she had run out of the house so hastily. She hoped that nobody would see her and report her scandalous appearance to Aunt Catherine. At least her skirts and the seam of her white muslin dress were clean. The question was how long her clothes would stay in this desirable state. She carefully stepped around the evidence that a horse had come down this road just recently, before she fell into a cautious stroll beside Sally. The barmaid looked at her with an unexplainable look and cleared her throat. “Well, Miss, I ‘ad no other choice. Where else should I work?”
Minerva felt embarrassed for her inconsiderate question. Someone like Sally, who probably came from a large family and had to contribute in putting food on the table, did not have much choice in where she could work or not.
“Would you like to work somewhere else?”
Something flashed across Sally’s eyes that could only be described as calculating. “Of course, I would.” She put her basket down again and showed Minerva both of her hands. They were reddened and calloused, despite Sally’s young age. Minerva quickly hid her own hands behind her back. “Unfortunately, in a small town like Scuffold, there aren’t many jobs to be ‘ad and ‘onest work ‘as not ‘armed anyone, as my pa would say. I would ‘ave liked to ‘ave worked as a chambermaid somewhere. You don’t have to get your ‘ands as dirty, not like when I ‘ave to do the dishes.” She paused for a moment and an almost dreamy look flashed across her pretty face. She shook her head, as if she wanted to shake off all the high-flying dreams once and for all, and she squinted slightly. “Then again, I’m starting to wonder why you want to know all this… and if that’s something that your noble relatives shouldn’t really know about… in that case, I’m thinking that a small token of gratitude would be appropriate, don’t you think, Miss? I do work so very ‘ard and I ‘ave already answered more than one little question.”
Minerva blushed for a second time in Sally’s presence. “I do not have anything on me that I could give you,” she said and frantically calculated how much money the barmaid could possibly be expecting. Not much – that she was sure of. Unfortunately, her parents did not have any reason to give Minerva any money. Everything she needed, she got from the Buckleys. Was there anything else she could give her instead?
Sally shrugged her shoulders. She seemed to have practised this movement rather well, since none of the fragile goods inside her basket moved. However, Minerva’s disappointed face did not leave her untouched. “I shall tell you one more thing, because it’s you. One last question, but then it’s enough. You ask, I’ll answer. After all, I still ‘ave got work to do.” Her eyes seemed to dance, and it was rather obvious what she was thinking, which was that certain rich people could afford curiosity, unlike a hard-working barmaid.
Minerva thought about what she wanted to know the most. “What is the strangest thing that has ever happened to you at work?”
For a short moment, Sally’s eyes lit up, before they went dark. “You mean, apart from the fact that Sid Green constantly wants me to… oh well, it doesn’t matter.” She frowned. “All right. Once, there was a gentleman who was searching for butterflies. Or some bugs – I don’t remember exactly.”
Minerva listened intently, because she did not want to miss any details.
“On the third day, ‘e didn’t return for dinner.” Sally lowered her voice to an ominous whisper. “We wanted to send Davy out to look for him, but shortly after midnight…” Minerva leaned closer to her, so as not to miss one word. “… shortly after midnight ‘e finally returned. ‘is ‘air ‘ad turned white and ‘e was very pale, as if no more blood was running through ‘is veins. ‘e ‘ad seen a ghost.”
After that, she turned away from Minerva and disappeared with swinging hips inside the tavern. What kind of a story was this? It did not even have a proper ending! What kind of ghost had the man encountered and what had happened to him?
Minerva sighed and started to walk back home. She needed to find a way to extract more information from Sally, so that she could learn how this ghost story ended – either that or she needed to focus on a different subject. Which, considering the fact that she wanted to write a novel that would be taken seriously, was perhaps the better idea.
Determined, she marched back home. Surely Aunt Catherine knew some anecdotes she could tell her. Or Uncle James! He had been a lawyer, after all, and perhaps she could persuade him to tell her about a dramatic case from his work. It was not surprising that usually thrilling novels were extremely successful with the public. Had it not been a woman in Mrs Radcliffe’s book, “The Mysteries of Udolpho”, that had caused a sensation in London’s parlours? Satisfied and smiling, Minerva snuck back into the Buckleys’ house. Perhaps her fate was not to return home from Kent with a husband, but with a finished novel.
It was such a shame that a manuscript wouldn’t impress her parents half as much as a husband would.
Chapter 3
His betrayal was all the more gruesome, since she herself had revealed her secret to him, purely through her own negligence.
Minerva had written eagerly over the following two weeks and felt that her story was making good progress. She wrote every day, apart from Sundays, whenever she could escape to the silence and peace in her room. It was her ink-tainted fingers that gave Minerva’s secret away.
“Where did you get this absurd idea from?” Her aunt sounded outraged, downright shocked. “A young woman is supposed to spend her time with appropriate things such as sewing, music, and learning how to run a household, not with… something like this. This is absolutely scandalous! Do your parents know about it? Of course not,” Catherine answered her own question. “I cannot imagine that my brother would allow such a thing. By contrast, your mother has always been too much of a dreamer. You must have got that from her. I have always said that too much education isn’t good for the female gender.”
This went on for an entire hour. At some point, they heard Uncle James clear his throat from the corner where he was sitting. “I think that Minerva could have chosen many other, much worse, occupations, than spending her time writing, Catherine.” As they were in the intimate setting of the home, her uncle used the informal way of addressing his wife. “I seem to remember a time when you yourself had a particular liking for the works of Mr Walpole, my dear.”
Minerva thought that she had heard that wrong. Her aunt had read gothic novels? And more importantly, was her uncle actually taking her side?
“Just let her write, if that is something she likes to do. This will not ruin her for the marriage market any more than she is already.” Minerva was not sure if she liked that sentence, but her Uncle James mellowed the harshness of his words by winking at her. “At least, now I know where my inkwell went.”
“You cannot be serious,” Aunt Catherine finally found her voice. “What are we supposed to tell her parents if they find out? The whole world will point their fingers at Minerva. She is dishonouring the family name.”
“Enough,” Uncle James exclaimed, as he rose from his chair. “I say that the child can keep her rather harmless enjoyment. As long as you do not tell anyone about it, nobody will know.” His bushy eyebrows rose when he looked at his niece. “Or have you already told someone about his?”
“No, Uncle,” she replied honestly and tried to infuse her voice with as much gratitude as she could. Aunt Catherine looked at her angrily and announced that she needed to excuse herself with a headache. Minerva also wanted to return to her room, but her uncle called her back once more.
“If you ever need any advice or help regarding your writing abilities, please feel free to ask me.”
“Have you writt
en something yourself, Uncle? Maybe you have already published something?” Her heart beat loudly with excitement. She had found an ally, and in a place she would never have imagined.
“We will talk about this another time,” he evaded her questions. “I do want to remind you that my agreeing with you in this particular matter does not mean that you can ignore any of the other rules in this household. If I ever see you sneak out of the house without a suitable companion, it will have serious consequences for you, young lady.”
So... did he know that she sporadically left the house on her own to speak with Sally?
“I promise, Uncle. Thank you,” she quickly added and ran up the stairs to her room.
Her hands were trembling, and she managed to ruin one valuable white page with two ugly ink blots, before she regained her composure.
Although in the light of the setting sun his shadow towered over her like some sinister fortress, Marianne de Lacey mustered up all her courage and…
Two hours later, Minerva sank back into the soft cushions of the chaise longue with a satisfied sigh and read back what she had written. Not only did her wrist hurt, but all of her limbs had been overcome by unforeseen stiffness, which not even unladylike stretching could ease. Most likely, Aunt Catherine would have reprimanded her, but her aunt and uncle had left the house for the afternoon. They had gone to pay a visit to an acquaintance, whose name Minerva had already forgotten.
Her aunt’s sour face and the fact that they had not invited Minerva to join them could only mean… something bad. Her head felt empty and sluggish from all the thinking she had done.
And yet, something was still missing from her work. Something that gave her words a touch of truthfulness. Something that sounded real instead of made up. Minerva wanted to write a book that would captivate her readers with her incredibly realistic account of events from the very first page all the way to the last, and for that she needed to get out of this… prison.
For a second, she contemplated going to find Sally, but so far, she had not been able to think of anything she could give the young woman in exchange for her life story. Minerva did not want to beg her to help her, and she wanted even less to take up too much of her time, which the young woman needed for her work. She would have to find inspiration elsewhere. Surely the beautiful nature surrounding her would be a wonderful location for some of the revelations in her story. Full of new-found vigour, she jumped up, pulled on her leather boots, which had not been ruined at the horse market after all, and looked outside.
It was early afternoon. The sun was shining onto Scuffold from a blue sky, and suddenly she knew what she wanted to do. She quickly grabbed her favourite shawl that was knitted from very soft wool, put on the first hat she could find (which actually harmonised perfectly with the blue shawl) and stepped out onto the main road. She knew every single house in Scuffold, with its almost two hundred residents and twenty-three houses (she had actually spent one long afternoon counting them all), and she felt she knew it down to the very last rock. Now, Minerva wanted to venture a little further afield. She soothed her uncle’s warning voice ringing in her ears by the assurance that she would be back home long before her relatives returned from their visit.
The fields around the village had already been harvested. Minerva enjoyed the soft breeze and the vista of lush green that greeted her from the meadows along the way. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the happy sounding gurgling of a small river as it found its way across the landscape. Birds were singing, and even a butterfly came to dance right next to her for a while. Life in the countryside was simply wonderful! If her father knew that she had not once looked at Fordyce’s Sermon to Young Women, or how much she actually appreciated the peace and quiet out in the country, he probably would have immediately ordered her back to London. Pah! she thought and maybe she had even said it out loud. Who needs balls, rides in carriages, and Hyde Park, when there are such beautiful forests in Scuffold? The last thought was brought to mind when the small road that had initially taken her alongside open fields and meadows, now became a narrow pathway through the forest.
The shady coolness embraced her and sent a shiver down her spine. Was there a ghost hiding behind those majestic old trees that was watching her from cold, lifeless eyes? She laughed aloud at herself, because she was already beginning to think like Marianne de Lacey and winced at the loud sound of her laugh echoing back from the trees. Nonsense, she chided herself and followed the path deeper into the woods. There were no ghosts here. If at all true, ghosts haunted places like cemeteries, or a desolate ruin – much like the one ahead of her, which had just come into her view. Had Sally not spoken of a ghost in the woods?
Her curiosity was fighting a battle against her fear of the unknown. Her curiosity won and so, despite her racing heart, Minerva moved closer. A pavilion… that was what it was… but right in the middle of a forest? It stood in a clearing and must have been (once, a very long time ago) a wonderful place for contemplation. The brick that the pavilion had been built with was porous in places. Moss covered the bases of most of the pillars, and vines had woven their way into the nooks and crannies of the once majestic building. Its proportions were harmonious and balanced, and it was such an unexpected find, that Minerva thought she had travelled into a different time. Or had she gone through an invisible door and entered the world of fairies? The pavilion appeared like a mystical place, where everything was possible – if she was only brave enough to enter it.
Was she brave enough for this adventure? All of a sudden, Minerva realised how quiet it was around her. Even the birds had stopped singing. No cracking branches, no rustling leaves. What could she be scared of out here, in nature? There was nobody here who would harm her.
Just a short while ago, had not she longed for a real adventure?
“This is not an adventure,” she murmured reassuringly, “... because where there is no danger, there is no risk. And where there is no risk, there is nothing to gain.” That’s something her father always said when he bored his wife and daughter with his businesses. The thought of her overly cautious father felt comforting. Her anxiety vanished and with it her imagination of a ghost that was stalking her in the shadows. Minerva stepped closer until she could peek over the low balustrade.
The wind had blown fallen leaves through the wide, open arches. The place smelled musty, but not unpleasantly so – just enough to make it feel somewhat cosy, like on a cool autumn day in Hyde Park. A low stone bench was built inside, and if she were to bring a blanket, she could very well sit here and dream. Her imagination ignited at the thought of her sitting here in this enchanted place, whilst writing her novel. Yes, this was the perfect place to phrase one spooky event after another. If she was only allowed to sit here and ponder the right words that so often escaped her in the dullness of her room!
Who had built this pavilion and then forgotten about it?
Minerva decided to unobtrusively sound out her Aunt Catherine at the next available opportunity.
* * *
Thick fog surrounded the castle like a burial shroud spun from the finest silk and just as cold as the breath of a ghost.
“Please tell me that you did not leave the safety of the village, Minerva?” Aunt Catherine eyed her niece suspiciously. Whilst she was still searching for the right answer that was not a direct lie, her aunt continued. “I warn you explicitly, do you hear me? I ex-pli-cit-ly forbid you to enter the duke’s property. He is unpredictable. On top of that, the pavilion is haunted.”
A ghost! So, her feeling had been right about that after all, and it had not just been a product of her exuberant imagination that had been fired up by Sally’s short story about the guest in her tavern.
“I cannot believe that,” Minerva said, knowing full well that this soft objection would entice her aunt to keep talking, and if Minerva had any luck, it would also distract her from her earlier question.
“Oh yes, it is true. I have heard it from Mrs Dalrymple, and she heard i
t from her cook.”
“Oh, really? And in what manner does this alleged ghost manifest itself?”
“Apparently you hear a woman cry,” Aunt Catherine said, and then looked vacantly at her hands which were resting in her lap. “Especially around midnight – the place is quite scary. The cousin of the cook, a frivolous young thing, was there to… she was there for a walk.” Minerva wondered what business a young girl had in the forest at midnight, no less. It could only have been an adventurous, romantic encounter, she was certain. In her mind, she could already imagine where she would send Marianne de Lacey next:
The dark and gloomy night sky was lit up by a full and round moon. Branches brushed brutally against her face, as Marianne tried to escape through the woods. Behind her sounded the terrifying howling of wolves, the duke’s emissaries…
“Well, regardless. She swears that she saw the shape of a woman, who was tearing her hair out in misery, and was crying and calling out for her love.” Did Aunt Catherine’s hands tremble?
“You do not need to worry, Aunt. I will not be as irresponsible as the cook’s cousin.” Minerva was not planning on leaving the house in the middle of the night to go and look for a ghost. She was a sophisticated young woman and she knew that ghost stories had one purpose: to scare women and children and to discourage them from doing anything stupid. However, she could go there during the day, when her relatives left for another visit, and immerse herself in the mystical atmosphere. If she could not question Sally without having to pay her, then this was the only other possibility for inspiration.
“Well, regardless,” the older woman sighed and eyed Minerva suspiciously. “You might be right. The ghost is the least worrisome and poses the least danger. It is the duke who you should never meet, under no circumstances.”
“Why?” Curiosity was written all over Minerva’s face, which resulted in a very rigid and straight hard line forming in her aunt’s otherwise rather soft and round face.
Miss Honeyfield and the Dark Duke: A Regency Romance Novel Page 4
