Proud Mary Read online

  Lady Mary took his silence for condescending disbelief.

  “I did not see it, Mr. Bryce. I heard it.”

  MARY KNEW the moment she uttered the word ghost that Mr. Bryce did not believe her.

  It was not so much his tone as the way in which his square jaw clamped shut, and his nostrils flared as he pressed his lips together, as if forcing himself not to smile. She was surprised he hadn’t punctuated his incredulity with a roll of his fine eyes. It must have taken all his self-control not to laugh out loud, too.

  But she was not deterred by his skepticism. She had expected it; would have been surprised had he reacted in any other way. She had been incredulous herself. But it was the only explanation that made sense. After all, no one had used Sir Gerald’s rooms since his death two years ago. And if anyone did enter them, it was the servants during the autumn cleaning in preparation for winter, to dust what was not under holland covers, and to check that the fireplaces, one in the bedchamber and one in the dressing room, were not inhabited by rodents or birds. And then the servant door by which they had entered was locked again, and the key given to the housekeeper. The main door to the bedchamber, which led onto the corridor, had been locked and this key given to Lady Mary on the day of her husband’s funeral. She had not unlocked it since.

  The autumn clean had been over a month ago now. And there was no reason for any of the servants to enter those rooms again, nor had they. She had checked with the housekeeper. And certainly no one would enter them at night, which was when she had heard the noises. And so she told Mr. Bryce, doing her best to appear as if she were discussing the everyday, and not something incorporeal. And because she was delaying for as long as possible confiding in him what she feared most.

  “And where did you hear this specter, my lady?”

  “I was in my bedchamber. The noises came from Sir Gerald’s dressing room.”

  “Thank-you for the clarification. What time was this?”

  “At night. It was late.”

  “You were not—dreaming—perhaps?”

  “No. I thought so at first. I thought I was having a nightmare. But when I was fully awake I knew I was not dreaming, which was far more disturbing than any nightmare.”

  “Did you hear these—noises—just the once?”

  “No. I was woken again later that night by similar noises. Which is why I-I decided to come to you.”

  “Do you think that perhaps what you heard was a cat on the roof, or a bird nesting in the tree outside your window? Or indeed, it may have been a branch of that tree scraping against the window pane?”

  Mary considered this for a moment, then shook her head.

  “No, Mr. Bryce. The noises could not have been made by those things. The sounds were different entirely. And it was a still night—has been still all this week. So there was no wind to stir the branches, or whistle through the sills.”

  “What precisely did you hear, my lady?”

  “My first thought, when I was still half-asleep, was that it was Sir Gerald come through from his bedchamber to visit me. To do so he must walk through his dressing room, which is the room that divides his bedchamber from mine…”

  “And so you heard footfall?” Christopher gently prompted when Mary’s voice trailed off and she looked down at her hands.

  Mary shook her head again, then slowly lifted her gaze to his brown eyes.

  “No. Not footfall. It was the banging of a door that woke me. Thinking back on it, it must have been the door from one of the clothes presses. And the second sound was a thud, like a chair being knocked over and hitting the floor. That’s what woke me the first time. The second time was when someone or something was moving about the dressing room. Only this time drawers were pulled open and then slid shut, many times over, as if it was searching for something. In my half-waking state I presumed it was Sir Gerald—how I always knew when he was coming—I would be awake well before he opened the connecting door.”

  “Because he banged the furniture and knocked over a chair?” Christopher was so surprised by this revelation that he spoke his thoughts aloud. “But this was his dressing room. Surely he knew his way around his own rooms not to stumble about. Or had his valet let the fire die and not left him a taper?”

  Mary thought his line of questioning too personal, but realized when he continued to frown that he was genuinely puzzled. She was grateful for his incomprehension. Yet, a little part of her wanted to blurt out how she truly felt: That he should shoulder some of the blame for her husband’s drunkenness. In the months leading up to Sir Gerald’s death, there were several occasions when the two men had stayed up late into the small hours, talking over their port. And if on those nights her husband had not drunk to excess, he would never have trespassed into her bedchamber, sweaty and stinking of spirits, demanding his marital rights with no regard to her feelings or her person.

  But a moment’s reflection and realization as to her position and his, Mary knew that while she could blame Christopher Bryce for his part in Sir Gerald’s inebriation, she could not blame him for the degradation she had endured at the hands of her drunken husband. Her mother had told her bluntly the day of her wedding that it was her lot in life to be an obedient wife. This meant accepting with good grace her husband’s carnal demands, whatever they happened to be, and whenever he wished to avail himself. She must not complain. She must do as she was told. And above all, she must hide her disgust. Mary had no idea what her mother was talking about. Which was just as well. On her wedding night and every subsequent night on which her husband had availed himself, Mary had followed her mother’s edicts, even when Sir Gerald’s demands were beyond what she was sure any wife was expected to tolerate.

  Her widowhood had been spent making that part of her married life a distant memory. Yet here she was having to rake it up in an attempt to convince Christopher Bryce she believed Sir Gerald’s rooms to be haunted. It helped that she was discussing the matter with him in the steward’s office, the reason she had come here, and not sent for him to her sitting room; that setting would have been far too personal. She certainly would not have confided in her neighbor, the bachelor farmer. But in his role of steward, she knew that whatever he might privately think of her fears, he would treat the matter, and her, with respect. It was his duty to do so.

  She would not have had the courage, or received the same treatment, had she voiced her suspicions to her mother, who would have mocked her; her two younger brothers, who would have teased her; or her Roxton cousins, all of whom would have smiled indulgently upon her as if she were addle-brained. No one would have taken her seriously.

  “There was always a fire in Sir Gerald’s dressing room, and plenty of light. As you are well aware, Sir Gerald never skimped on wax.”

  Christopher was indeed well aware. Sir Gerald had spent a fortune on the very best beeswax tapers. But he was still perplexed as to why the Baronet would be stumbling about his own rooms, banging into furniture at such a late hour, being bad-mannered and loud enough to wake his wife in the process, like some drunken uncouth oaf returned from The Bear Inn. And why would he come through to her rooms in such an unfit state…

  And then he knew.

  Revelation hit him like an unexpected cuff across the ear. The stinging shock momentarily robbed him of speech.

  All those nights drinking… All those times he was confident he’d left the Baronet sprawled out on the sofa in his book room, to sleep off a bout of heavy drinking, to wake with a thudding head, a bad back from an awkward night’s sleep, and no recollection of the conversation of the night before… Not once did Christopher think it a possibility the man was not so drunk he was capable of staggering off to bother his wife with his amorous attentions.

  He had been solely focused on Sir Gerald’s loquacious confidences, intent on prizing from him a confession that he’d committed traitorous acts as a spy for the French or American rebels, or both. He’d never given Lady Mary a single thought—well, not then. Not because h
e hadn’t wanted to, but because it was best for his sanity and his peace of mind not to do so. And he certainly did not allow his mind to cloud with thoughts of her while he drank with her husband. But now this…

  She had no need to state the obvious, and he would not reveal to her that he fully understood. Best if he remain suitably blank-faced. So despite being revolted, wretched and furious with himself, for her benefit he managed to keep his expression and tone neutral.

  “And when you decided you’d been woken by a—um—ghost, what did you do, my lady?”

  Mary was so relieved he did not ask for further explanation about Sir Gerald’s bumbling nocturnal wanderings that she said with a buoyancy in contrast to the trepidation and fear she had experienced at the time,

  “I put my ear to the connecting door and listened for further noises. I wanted to be certain, so that I could tell you precisely what I heard.”

  “And what did you hear?”

  Mary regarded him quizzically.

  “I told you, Mr. Bryce. The banging of a door, and a chair being knocked over upon the first occasion, and the opening and closing of drawers on the second.”

  “Yes. Yes. Of course you did,” Christopher apologized, mind still reeling with Sir Gerald’s appalling behavior. “And you are certain you did not hear footfall when you had your ear to the door?”

  “No. None. I am only stating the facts to you. I lack the imagination to make these things up! Which is why I am sure it must be the ghost of—”

  “Does the connecting door have a bolt?”

  “Yes. It’s been bolted since Sir Gerald’s death.”

  “Should’ve been bolted when he was alive,” Christopher muttered through his teeth.

  Instantly, he looked at Lady Mary to see if she had heard him. She had. The flush of heat to her face, and the widening of her eyes before she looked away, told him so. He went cold and glanced at his assistant. And sure enough, there was Timothy Deed, large ears wide open, and mouth at half-cock. So he, too, had caught Christopher’s muttered wishful thinking. There was nowhere for him to climb in their estimation but up. But to save her the embarrassment of underscoring his verbal indiscretion he said, after clearing his throat of a sudden constriction,

  “Best—best to keep the door bolted… as a precaution. To be safe.”

  “But… Mr. Bryce, what is the point of a bolt to a door? Such a device is surely superfluous. It won’t stop an ethereal being from entering my room, will it? He could very well pass through the wall as a locked door.”

  “A specter may be able to perform such a feat, yes,” Christopher conceded, suppressing a grin at her no-nonsense practicality which momentarily quelled any fear she may have had of a ghost entering her bedchamber. “But as this-this—ghost—hasn’t passed through the wall into your bedchamber, but remained on the other side of the door, I doubt it intends to—”

  “How can you be sure? And how do you know his intentions?”

  Two questions Christopher could not answer. But he was certain that whatever was knocking chairs over and banging doors in Sir Gerald’s dressing room, it could be any number of things, but an ethereal being it was not. He could have provided her with a myriad of alternatives to a ghost wreaking havoc in the dressing room, from a window left ajar by a forgetful servant, thus allowing in the elements and perhaps a bird, possibly an owl, a rodent or a squirrel was now trapped in the room. And there was another possibility—that the ghost was in fact an intruder of the flesh and blood variety—a disgruntled servant, perhaps, intent on thievery. A much more probable explanation, and one he intended to explore, but which he did not wish to confide in Lady Mary and cause her unnecessary worry. Hence his enquiry if the connecting door could be bolted.

  And then he had a sudden puzzling thought.

  “My lady, you do not say it but he, as if you know the identity of this ghost.”

  Lady Mary cocked her head and considered him as if he had lost his wits, and when he continued to look at her as if he was without sense, common or otherwise, she said with a catch of fear in her voice,

  “Mr. Bryce, I have just explained matters to you in the plainest of terms. Who else could the ghost be? I do not know why Sir Gerald has suddenly appeared, but I can only think his spirit is unsettled and will only be at peace once he has found what he is looking for in his dressing room.”

  “Sir Gerald? You think—the ghost—You think your late husband is haunting this house?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bryce, I do.”

  Christopher wasn’t sure whether to burst out laughing or to offer suitable skeptical platitudes he hoped would quell her fear, so he said rather more gruffly than he intended,

  “Why in the name of all that’s sacred would Sir Gerald return from the dead, and for what?”

  “If I knew, would I be asking you to find out? But I see by your expression that you think I am talking utter nonsense. So perhaps it would be for the best if I request the vicar’s assistance. He at least will believe me and—”

  “Please, my lady. I believe you. And seeking out the vicar may be what is required if we need to exorcise a ghost from this house. But perhaps, so as not to upset the rest of the household with talk of ghosts, you would like me to investigate first?”

  “Yes, thank-you, I would,” she replied with a sigh of relief. “I am sure if there is one person who can help Sir Gerald find what he is looking for it is you, Mr. Bryce.”

  He was glad she lacked a vivid imagination because the truth could turn out to be far more frightening than the ghost of a drunkard Sir Gerald. When she got to her feet and shook out her quilted petticoats, he scraped back his chair and stood, signaling for Mr. Deed to remain seated.

  “I hope staying the night won’t be too much of an inconvenience for you, and for your aunt,” Lady Mary enquired politely. “But the sooner we know what Sir Gerald wants, the sooner he will be able to rest in peace.”

  “Yes, my lady. And no, it won’t be an inconvenience. My aunt can bear with the loss of my company for one evening.” Christopher adding dryly, “Best the ghost is placated as soon as possible. We don’t want the servants fleeing to take up work in my cloth mills, now do we?”

  “Most certainly not! How Mrs. Keble is to run this house without enough hands I—”

  “My lady, that was my poor attempt at humor,” Christopher interrupted quietly, unable to hide his grin at his ability to instantly rile her. “All current vacancies at my mills are filled.”

  “Oh? Ah! Yes. I apologize for not recognizing your wit. But that is good news, about your mills. For you, and for this house. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten the Duke’s secretary is due any day,” she stumbled on when his grin widened and caused her cheeks to flush with heat. “And though he brings along his manservant, Mrs. Keble says his visits cause all manner of extra work for the kitchen and laundry maids, not to mention the men outdoors who are required to follow him upon his inspections further afield.”

  “I’d not forgotten,” Christopher replied flatly. He considered Roxton’s pompous secretary, Mr. Audley, a dead bore, and an overly officious interfering one at that. “How could I, when His Grace of Roxton’s recent letter included a judicious reminder of his secretary’s visit, even though his most humble servant also wrote to me, and the visit has been marked on the calendar for almost three months.”

  Christopher sarcasm was lost on Mary who, suddenly remembering the letter from her ducal cousin, reached into her pocket to find it. She broke the seal with shaking fingers and sank back onto the chair to read. But before unfolding the single sheet of parchment she remembered her manners and looked up at the Squire.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Bryce. His Grace’s letter will contain news I’ve been waiting to—”

  “Do not apologize. Read it.”

  Mary smiled and nodded and dropped her gaze to the parchment. Christopher watched her. And Mr. Deed watched him. The Squire was so absorbed that when Mary finally looked up smiling, eyes moist, he was slow to respond.
But his preoccupation went unnoticed because her thoughts were all for her cousins, the Duchess in particular. Such was her happiness and relief for the ducal couple that she included the Squire and his assistant in her joy and announced through her tears,

  “The Duchess was safely delivered of her fifth child, and mother and infant are doing splendidly. Such a relief… Roxton writes with all the enthusiasm of a father whose fourth son might as well be his first! And I dare say if Otto had been a girl, he would’ve been just as pleased.”

  “Otto?”

  Christopher pulled a face and Mary smiled.

  “Otto George Hesham. Otto after the Duchess’s late and favorite brother,” Mary explained. “And George, I assume, for her father, Sir George Cavendish.”

  “The poor mite! On both counts. I’m sorry, my lady, but even you must agree that Otto is a rather unfortunate Christian name for any child. As for bestowing the name of such a reprobate as Sir George Cavendish on a newborn, the Duke must have rocks in his head!”

  “You are free and easy with your opinions today, Mr. Bryce,” Mary stated primly, again on her feet and hastily folding the letter. “Perhaps you forget that Sir George was not only the Duchess of Roxton’s father but Sir Gerald’s also, and Teddy’s grandfather.”

  “I do not need reminding, my lady,” Christopher said quietly. “He lived here in this house for a time when I was a boy, and I remember him well, very well. You, however, never met him, did you?”

  “I did not have that pleasure, no. Now you will excuse me, it is almost time to change for dinner, and Teddy—”

  “I apologize for disparaging the Duke’s choice of names for his newborn son, my lady, but not for my remark about Sir George. Believe me, it is as well you never did have the—um—pleasure. Good day.”

  He inclined his head and said no more. When she turned to leave, he resumed his seat and took up the letter in front of him, but did not read, annoyed with himself for letting down his guard yet again, firstly about the Duke, and then about Sir George Cavendish.