“My pleasure,” he said with a bow. “I admire, but fear I have not the willpower to emulate your fortitude in seeking a summer’s seclusion from society. But then, perhaps I have less need of it.” His dark eyes lingered assessingly on her face as he spoke, as though observing the ravages of her many late nights. “One cannot fly with the owls at night and soar with the eagles by day. As my days are strenuous, I do not trot quite so hard as you young—youngish folks at night.”
Cressida mentally noted the various slurs on her behavior and age. As if that were not bad enough, he presented them as a pseudo compliment. “No doubt I shall feel the same when I achieve your gray eminence, milord,” she said coolly. “Meanwhile, I should be happy to have the choice of accepting or rejecting my own invitations.”
“You said explicitly you wished for a quiet summer. Indeed, had Mama suspected you meant to continue the social whirl, throwing the dower house open to receive your many friends and admirers, she would not have rented it.”
This was going a good deal too far. “Are you saying I am not even allowed to invite company to my own house?”
“Nothing of the sort. What I am saying is that Mama is too old to be bothered by rowdy parties and your guests tramping through our park and gardens, shooting the rabbits and trampling the flowers.”
“What a strange notion you have of my friends, milord. I assure you they are all civilized. You must be thinking of your own guests. I trust your mama will have no objection to Mr. Montgomery sailing his yacht on her ocean?”
His lips quirked in a reluctant smile. “Alas, the ocean is public property. I am sorry if I have offended you by my plain speaking, Baroness. The fact is, Mama is utterly fagged after my sister’s wedding, and requires peace and quiet. Naturally Mama—and I—wish to make your visit as enjoyable as possible, so that you do not run off on us.”
She strongly suspected his intention was exactly the opposite. He wanted her to be so miserable that she left early, and was using his mama’s health as an excuse to curb her pleasure. Lady Dauntry looked hale and hearty. “My visit would be a good deal more enjoyable if I were allowed to live in the cottage I arranged for,” she said. “I had a look at the roof on my way here. It seemed in good repair.”
“Looks can be deceptive. It leaks. The place is uninhabitable. No one has lived there for years.”
“Why don’t you have it repaired? It is poor management to allow such a pretty little property to sink into ruin.”
To question Lord Dauntry’s management was as offensive as to question an unmarried lady’s age. He had trouble keeping his tongue between his teeth. “I shall bear your advice in mind, madam.”
Beau was not sensitive, but he noticed the chill in the atmosphere and wished to warm it. “Is the place haunted?” he asked.
“Only by memories,” Dauntry replied without even looking at Beau. His dark eyes were riveted on Cressida.
“You might want to take a
look at it on your way home, milord,” she said, “Your ‘memories’ are drinking wine. One of them is such a strong memory, he has assumed a corporeal body. I saw him through the window this afternoon.”
Dauntry's face froze in fury. He shot her a look that would freeze fire, then in a silken-soft voice tinged with menace he said, “I would prefer that you not visit the cottage. It is unsafe.”
“I am not afraid of ghosts.”
“The grounds have not been tended recently. There is a deal of poison ivy and poison oak growing around it. It would be a shame to spoil your visit by falling into poison ivy. And now I must go. Lady John’s rout awaits. It promises to be a gay affair. She has had a canopied platform built outdoors. We are to waltz by moonlight. Pity you refuse to come.”
Beau began to rise from his seat. “I should like to give that a try, Sid!”
“We were not invited, Beau,” she said dampingly.
“And Lady deCourcy is much too soignee to go where she has not been invited,” Dauntry added with a twitch of his lips.
He bowed and left. Cressida waited until she heard the door close before giving vent to her anger. “Beast of a man! How dare he refuse my invitations for me? I should love to waltz by moonlight.”
“Pity you told his mama you want to rusticate.”
“One can rusticate without becoming a hermit. And furthermore, I should like to know why he is lying to me about the cottage. I saw no poison ivy there. The roof hasn’t a loose shingle on it.”
“P’raps he has a woman there,” Beau said.
“I shouldn’t be a bit surprised.” She punched a pillow, then looked up, startled. “You have hit the nail on the head, Beau. He has his lightskirt there. Who can she be? I heard nothing of this in London.”
“A local woman, very likely.”
“Not he! It would be some high flyer. But it was a man I saw inside.”
“She would have servants.”
“It is very odd about the gingerbread,” was her next speech.
“Tory ate it all herself. She is broad as a barn door.”
“She could not eat the whole thing. It was very large.” She drew a deep sigh. “Pity about the moonlight waltzing party.”
Beau stretched his long arms. “What do you say we have an early night? I am a bit fagged after the trip.”
“It is only nine o’clock. I shall go and see how Miss Wantage is making out.”
“I am for my hammock.”
Cressida found Miss Wantage propped up in her bed, still pale and distraught but recovering. “There is something in the attic,” she said in a weak voice. “I heard sounds overhead.”
Cressida listened but heard nothing. Miss Wantage was the sort of lady who looked under her bed at night before retiring, counted her change twice to make sure the merchants were not cheating her, and invariably heard strange noises when she was alone. Cressida talked to her for a while to calm her, then went to her own room.
She was beginning to think that if she was to be a social pariah here, she must invite a special friend or two to visit her. Not a large party, but a congenial married couple, perhaps, so that they could at least play cards in the evening.
She took up a lamp to examine a few of the guest rooms. The yellow room at the end of the hall proved to be the finest free chamber. Like the rest of the house, it had been cleaned and polished in preparation for her arrival. She drew back the counterpane to check the quality of the sheets. The bed was not made up, but as the house came fully equipped, there would presumably be extra sheets in the linen cupboard.
Finding the evening long, she went below stairs and called for Tory to discuss the linen.
Tory appeared nervous but gave a good account of the situation. “There were only the four good sets of sheets,” she said. “There are plenty of old ones in the cupboard. Her ladyship sends them down here when she is through with them at the castle. I put the good ones on your and the master’s and Miss Wantage’s beds, milady, and asked Jennet to wash the other set.”
“Then perhaps tomorrow you will have Jennet make up the yellow room. I may invite a friend to visit.”
“Certainly, milady. And about the gingerbread—”
“It was so delicious, perhaps you should bake two the next time.”
This was her discreet manner of saying that she had no objection to the servants eating as much as they wished, but she did expect to have sufficient food in the house for herself and any caller. They discussed the matter of acquiring supplies. Tory was eager to handle all the domestic arrangements. She was so relieved to find her mistress reasonable that she said, “I’ll ask Old Muffet’s advice for anything I’m not sure of, milady. It will save pestering you, and make him feel he’s useful.”
“What a good idea,” Cressida said, swallowing a smile to think what Muffet would make of that piece of condescension.
In the meanwhile, Beau had retired. For lack of anything better to do, she decided to take her new copy of
The Lady’s Companion
to bed. She remembered leaving it on the sofa table before dinner, but a look about showed her it was not in the room. She spoke to Muffet, but he had not seen it.
“Jennet was in the saloon,” he said suspiciously. “Very likely she’s taken it to look at the pictures.”
Not wanting to create further discord among the staff, Cressida said she would speak to Jennet in the morning and went to the library to get a novel instead. When she saw the rows of marble-covered gothics from the Minerva Press, she assumed the more worthy tomes were at Dauntry Castle. She selected a book at random and went to bed. The story was a lurid tale of a young lady sent to an isolated house in the country by her wicked guardian to trim her into line. As
the heroine lay in her dark bed, listening to the creaking of house timbers and clanking of chains, Cressida began to imagine she heard things, too—in the attic. Good gracious! She was as bad as Miss Wantage. She blew out the lamp and was soon sound asleep.
The morning brought new mysteries. Tory, determined to keep on the right side of her mistress, brought the washed and pressed linen for the yellow chamber to show Lady deCourcy while she was still at the breakfast table.
“You might want to have a look at these before I make up the bed in the guest room,” she said. “The pillowcases have the family crest worked into them, you see. Done in white, it is hard to see. After all that work, I would have done it in a different color to stand out.”
“Very nice,” Cressida said, lifting a case to examine the fine stitchery. “Did Lady Dauntry do this work herself?”
“Not she! She wouldn’t know which end of the needle to put the thread in. She hires Mrs. Campbell, from the village.”
As the pillowcase unfolded, Cressida saw a largish brown stain on it. “What is this?” she asked in alarm. At first glance it looked like blood. “We cannot put that on a guest’s bed. It looks like—”
Tory’s red face deepened to cherry. “It’s cocoa!”
“Yes, I believe you’re right,” Cressida said, taking a closer look.
“That Jennet! She has gone and spilled her cocoa on it whilst she was ironing, and never noticed it, the simpleton. I’ll have her wash it again.”
“Send her to me, Tory. I am missing a magazine. Muffet thinks she might have taken it. Or perhaps you have seen it?”
Tory’s tongue flicked out and touched her lips nervously. “Magazine? No, I didn’t see one about. Jennet is not here just now. She’s—I sent her to the big house to get eggs. For that gingerbread you wanted.”
Even as Tory spoke, Cressida noticed the aroma of gingerbread wafting on the air. The cake was obviously already in the oven.
Tory noticed it, too. “And for an omelette for your lunch,” she added. “I put the last of the eggs into the gingerbread this morning, now that I think of it. I must go and have a look at it or it will burn. I’ll ask Jennet about
The Lady’s Companion.
She will go borrowing things behind a person’s back.”
On this jumbled excuse, she darted from the room, leaving Cressida in confusion. How did Tory know the name of the magazine if she had not seen it? She was lying, as she was lying about the eggs for the gingerbread. Was the rest of her story a lie as well, about the cocoa spot on the linen?
Beau soon joined her at the table. “What a night!” he said. “I swear the attic was full of goblins. One of ‘em was sobbing its heart out. Did you hear the racket?”
“No. That is—I thought I heard something, but made sure I was imagining it.”
“Miss Wantage heard it, too. The place is certainly haunted, whatever Dauntry says. Wantage don’t want any breakfast, by the bye. Tory took her up some bread in warm milk. I don’t know how she can eat that pap. Daresay she don’t. She is feasting off that lunch she had in her basket yesterday. No wonder she is fat as a flawn.”
“Then she plans to stay in bed today. She was asleep when I stopped in earlier.”
“Such a long trip as fifty miles will take her a week to recover. Pity it wouldn’t take the whole summer.”
“We should try to be kind to her.”
“Aye, for she’ll carry tales back to Bath if we ain’t. I would like to feel sorry for her, but she sours the milk of human kindness in my breast. It would be easier to be kind to a sinner.”
Cressida just shook her head admonishingly. “Let us investigate the attic after you have had breakfast, Beau. There is something strange going on here, and I don’t think it is a ghost.” She told him about the magazine and the mysterious eggs, which were to go into a cake that was already made.
With a mystery to look into, Beau was not tardy in bolting his gammon and eggs. As soon as he was finished, he and Cressida went upstairs, to find the attic door locked.
“Now, that is demmed odd!” he exclaimed. “They must have a family lunatic locked up there.”
“Very likely. Beau!” she exclaimed. “You don’t think they might have a family lunatic incarcerated at my cottage?”
“It would not surprise me in the least. I know Jennet went trotting over there at first light this morning.”
“Really?”
“I saw her leave the house.”
“Perhaps she was going only to get the eggs at the castle.”
“Then why was she carrying a tray? And besides, she did not go up the gravel road; she cut across the shore. Must have been going to the cottage.”
“Good God! Let us get the keys from Muffet and go up to the attic.”
Muffet’s key chain held many keys, none of which opened the attic door. Cressida went to the saloon and rang for her housekeeper to demand the key.
Tory handed it over with no argument and no discernible sign of reluctance. “I didn’t think Old Muffet would want to be climbing all them stairs to the attics. There is nothing but lumber up there,” she said.
“I thought I heard a wailing noise last night,” Beau said.
“That would be the wind, soughing through the loose windows. It sounds like a banshee some nights.”
“But there was no wind last night,” Cressida said.
“There is always a wind here on the coast,” was Tory’s reply. “The house is not haunted, if that is what you are getting at. The cottage is haunted, of course. Folks have seen and heard goings-on there of a dark night.”
“Indeed?” Cressida said. And Dauntry had denied the charge flatly!