Mariana Page 13

  “No harm done.” I moved away from the window, smoothing the folds of my skirt with an absent gesture. “Like you said, it’s only a feeling… nothing more.”

  “A sort of deep sadness, was it?”

  “Yes.” I held back a shiver of remembrance. “Do you know the cause of it?”

  Geoff shook his dark head, frowning. “No. It’s a woman’s sadness, I should think. Only women seem able to sense it, and it’s always in that same spot—just there in front of the window. But I’ve never been able to pin down the source of it. Nothing in the family history to account for it. No one died in this room, that we know of, or flung themselves out the window, or anything like that.”

  “I don’t think it’s really connected with the room,” I said slowly. He gave me an odd look, and I flushed a little, lowering my head self-consciously. “Sorry,” I said, “it’s just an impression I got. It seemed to me that she—if it was a she—saw something through this window. Something out there…” I nodded towards the smooth, level expanse of freshly green lawn that stretched out to meet the high churchyard wall with its overhanging trees. Everything was pristine and still and innocent—even the shadows lay quiet and unmoving on the grass. “She saw something terrible. Something that broke her heart. And it’s left an imprint, here in this room.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose.” Geoff was still looking at me strangely, with that odd blend of concern and wariness. “Look, maybe we should finish the tour another day.”

  “Heavens, no. I’m fine,” I assured him again, smiling up at him. It was a genuine smile this time. Silly to let one incident darken my entire day. “What’s next on the agenda?”

  “The library,” he replied, relaxing. “Or is that too boring for you?”

  “Not at all. I love libraries. I shall probably want to steal some of your books, though, so be forewarned. You don’t have any first editions of Dickens, do you?”

  “Not Dickens, no.” He grinned.

  “Oh, Lord.” I rolled my eyes heavenward. “I knew it. It’s going to be one of those disgustingly marvelous collections of rare works of literature, all hand bound in matching leather covers, isn’t it?”

  “Something like that,” he said, smiling at my groan, “but if it makes you feel any better, all the truly rare and valuable volumes have been moved over to my side of the house. Can’t trust the tourists with them, can I?”

  “It’s the only thing I begrudge the rich,” I said, as I followed him back down the damp-smelling staircase to the ground floor.

  “What’s that?”

  “Their ability to buy books that the rest of us can never hope to own.”

  Geoff sympathized. “Well, if you want to borrow any of mine, just let me know.”

  I sighed. “It’s not the same.”

  We had come to a stop in the wide front passage, with the Great Hall behind us, and my worst fears were confirmed as Geoff swung open the door to reveal floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves filled with books of every possible size and shape and age. The shelves covered all four walls of the square room, broken in three places by tall, narrow windows with stained-glass inserts above and upholstered seats below, liberally adorned with loose cushions—the sort of window seats that every book lover dreams of, visualizes, yearns for…

  I stepped forward into the room, wonder-struck, inhaling the rich smell of oiled leather bindings and ancient paper and polished wood.

  “How absolutely lovely,” I said.

  “Yes,” Geoff agreed. “You have my father to thank for this. He loved books—spent his whole life collecting them, having them restored. The original library for the house was a cramped little room off the south passage, near the old kitchen. Too small for my father. He built this one from the walls out, you know. The former owners used it as a sort of games room—billiards, and all that—and before that I think it was a storage room. Dad thought it was perfect for the library.”

  “He was right. Wherever did he find those shelves?”

  “Country house in West Sussex. The place was being torn down, and the builders agreed to sell the shelving to Dad for a modest fortune.”

  “Worth every penny,” I justified his father’s action. “They’re just beautiful. All you’re missing is the sliding ladder on the brass rail.”

  “Aha.” Geoff smiled. “You haven’t looked closely enough.” He pointed to the far corner. “Dad always believed in doing things down to the last detail.”

  There, in truth, was the ladder, reaching up to the top shelf and fixed to glide on casters round a polished brass rail. It was too much like a film set to be true, really, and I was just about to voice my delight when another object in the corner caught my attention, and I froze, my throat working convulsively.

  “Richard,” I whispered, my voice oddly slurred and indistinct.

  “I beg your pardon?” Geoff moved forward, into my line of vision, but I went on staring up and over his shoulder at the great dark portrait hanging on the wall opposite. A portrait of a tall man with knowing eyes and an arrogant smile, a dark man dressed in black with a cape flung over one shoulder while in the other hand he clasped a gleaming sword…

  I licked my lips and tried again, forming the words more carefully. “That picture…” I began, nodding my head towards it.

  He turned and looked. “Oh, that. We’ve dubbed him ‘The Playboy.’ He came with the house. That might be old Arthur de Mornay himself, or perhaps even his father. The resemblance is really quite remarkable, don’t you think?”

  I didn’t have to ask which resemblance he was referring to. It might have been a portrait of himself hanging there. I looked from the portrait to Geoff and back again, my eyes wide.

  “It’s by Lely,” he went on, as if it were all part of the tour. “Quite a distinctive style he had.”

  A gentle, apologetic tap on the door behind us broke the contemplative silence and made us both spin around like a couple of guilty schoolchildren. A tall, elderly woman was standing in the open doorway. The neatly pressed apron covering her demure dark-blue dress and the classic arrangement of her softly white hair presented a picture of calm, well-ordered efficiency, and her face, with its smiling blue eyes and gentle expression, seemed oddly familiar to me.

  But she wasn’t looking at me—she was looking at Geoff.

  “You have a phone call,” she told him, her voice pleasantly melodic. “I wouldn’t have bothered you with it, but it’s Mr. McCandless from the Manchester plant, and he sounded rather urgent.”

  “Right.” Geoff grimaced. “I’ll take the call. Thanks, Freda. Oh,” he said, as an afterthought, “have you met? Julia Beckett, Alfreda Hutherson, my housekeeper.”

  We smiled and shook hands, and then I remembered.

  “We have met,” I said. “You came round to the house to welcome me.”

  “That’s right,” the older woman replied. “Settling in all right, are you?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Geoff touched my shoulder, brushing past us. “Look, I’ll just go take that phone call, shall I? Won’t be a minute.”

  Mrs. Hutherson moved aside to let him pass, then stepped forward again, tilting her head to one side as she looked first at me, then at the dark portrait in the corner.

  “Quite a nice painting, isn’t it?” she remarked, and I nodded.

  “Very nice.”

  “A very handsome man.”

  “Yes.”

  She brought her eyes back to mine, and for a moment I felt a curious sensation of nakedness, as though she were looking straight into my soul. Just for a moment, and then there was only an old woman with friendly blue eyes, looking at me.

  “It’s a pity no one knows who he is,” she said. “Handsome man like that, and such a dashing figure. Someone must have loved him, once.”

  She
looked at me again, and smiled.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve the upstairs windows to do yet. I hope you enjoy the rest of your tour.”

  I had to clear my throat before speaking. “Thank you.”

  She nodded graciously and departed, her footsteps ringing in even measure on the polished hardwood floor of the long passage. Odd that neither Geoff nor I had heard her approach, I thought. Alone in the lovely, quiet room, I lifted my eyes once more to the portrait.

  Richard de Mornay smiled down at me.

  It was Richard de Mornay—I was certain of that. There was no mistaking that proud, handsome arrogance, nor the gentle cynicism of his dark, hooded gaze. Someone must have loved him, Mrs. Hutherson had said, and again that little, knowing voice inside me made reply.

  Yes, it said, with painful clarity… I did.

  But then, I already knew that. Had known it, it seemed, for some time. And I had the strangest feeling—based on intuition rather than on any rational fact—that Alfreda Hutherson had known it, too.

  Chapter 14

  The Red Lion was the busiest I’d ever seen it, several tables swarming with Saturday-afternoon patrons, and it was a long while before Vivien could work her way back to the bar to serve us. Even Ned had been moved to action, and had ambled by us at least twice bearing plates of sandwiches and chips from the back kitchen.

  “Right.” Vivien swung herself into position behind the bar, her fair hair swirled around her flushed face. “Let me get this straight.” She looked across at Geoff. “You gave Julia a tour of the Hall today.”

  Geoff nodded.

  “And as payment for this enormous privilege,” Vivien went on, “Julia has agreed to let you buy her a drink.”

  “Correct.”

  “Sounds like a rare fair deal, my girl,” she said to me. “What can I get you?”

  “Gin and tonic, please.” I smiled back.

  Two stools away, beside Geoff, Iain Sumner leaned forward with a disapproving frown.

  “What kind of a drink d’ye call that?” he asked me, his own hand cupped around a sweating pint of dark bitter.

  “Ignore him,” Vivien instructed me. “He’s in one of his difficult moods.”

  Iain raised an eyebrow at that. “I am not.”

  “You see what I mean.” Vivien winked, sliding my drink across the bar.

  Geoff turned in his seat to face his friend.

  “You do seem a little out of sorts today, Iain. Everything all right?”

  “Everything’s bloody fine,” Iain retorted, “and I’m in a bloody wonderful mood, thanks.” He drew a cigarette from the package in front of him and lit it, the very angle of his jaw an open challenge.

  Geoff and Vivien exchanged significant glances. Vivien turned her attention back to me, resting her elbows on the bar and leaning forward to shift some of the weight from her tired feet.

  “So,” she said brightly, “how did you enjoy the tour?”

  “It was lovely,” I told her. “Someone’s done a wonderful job of restoring the old rooms—it’s just like coming face-to-face with the past.”

  “Quite literally, at that,” Geoff chimed in. “Julia had an encounter with our ghost in the Cavalier bedroom.”

  Vivien’s eyes flashed excitedly. “Did you really? And what did it feel like to you?”

  “Shock,” I replied, thinking back, “and pain, and… a sort of praying, if that makes any sense.”

  “That’s it, exactly.” Vivien nodded. “It’s really something, isn’t it? Rather creepy, but exciting all the same.”

  Iain leaned forward again, fixing me with a curious stare. “You believe in them, then. Ghosts, I mean.”

  “Yes, I do,” I decided, lifting my chin a little. “I think there are definitely some things in this world that we can’t explain in scientific terms—not yet, at any rate—but that doesn’t make them any less real. Hamlet said it best.”

  “‘More things in heaven and earth, Horatio’?” he quoted. “Aye, well. Hamlet was a bit of a fruitcake.”

  “Don’t you think they exist?” Geoff asked him.

  “Please.” Iain’s gray eyes smiled derisively. “I am a Scotsman, after all. You can’t walk half a mile in Scotland without treading on the coattails of a ghost or two. But I’ve not yet seen one up at the Hall.”

  “You need to talk to Aunt Freda,” Vivien advised him. “She sees them all the time. She even says she’s seen the woman in the Cavalier bedroom.”

  “Sees a lot of things, does your Aunt Freda,” Iain replied, dragging at his cigarette. “Five hundred years ago they’d have built a bonfire under her.”

  Vivien leaned across the bar and slapped him laughingly on the sleeve. “That’s a terrible thing to say,” she admonished him. “You mind your tongue, or I’ll tell her!”

  “No need.” Iain shrugged. “She knows perfectly well what I think. Besides, I’ve never said that there’s anything wrong with being a witch…”

  Geoff laughed. “She is rather remarkable,” he agreed. “You have to admit, Viv, that her ability to keep me organized denotes some sort of supernatural power…”

  “Oh, go on!” Vivien dismissed them both with a wave of her hand. Turning to me, she asked, “Have you met Aunt Freda, yet?”

  I wasn’t entirely sure, until Geoff stepped in and answered for me. “Yes, she met her today, as a matter of fact. Freda is my housekeeper,” he told me, by way of clarification.

  “Oh.” I thought a moment. “Mrs. Hutherson, you mean? Yes, I’ve met her. Twice, actually. She came by the house a couple of weeks ago with the town welcoming committee. Brought me some smashing fruit scones. She seems very nice.”

  “There, you see?” Vivien challenged the men. “Julia thinks she’s nice.”

  “Of course she’s nice,” Iain shot back.

  “A nice witch,” Geoff confirmed, trying without much success to look serious.

  I ignored them both. “So she’s seen the ghost in the upstairs room, has she?”

  “Yes,” Vivien said. “Some years ago, when she first went to work up at the manor house. Apparently, it’s a young woman, just like everyone thought. Quite a pretty young woman, Aunt Freda says, with long fair hair.”

  “Not wearing a green dress, by any chance?” I tried to make it sound like a joke.

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m pretty certain she said the dress was dark. But then, she said the whole ghost looked sort of gray and indistinct.”

  Geoff looked down at me, smiling. “You think your Green Lady is hiding out in my bedroom?” he asked.

  “Rather a dull spot for her,” Vivien teased him.

  Even Iain smiled at that, his mood improving. He lit a second cigarette and settled back in his seat.

  “Speaking of the Green Lady,” he said to me, “I’d be happy to dig that old garden back up for you, if you’d like.”

  “Oh, no, thank you.” I raised an appealing hand. “I couldn’t keep a garden to save my life. I kill plants just by looking at them.”

  “Julia thinks you ought to do something with the courtyard at the Hall,” Geoff told him. “She was quite surprised you hadn’t already planted it over.”

  “What, the crypt, you mean?” Iain narrowed his eyes in contemplation. “I may get round to it yet,” he said. “You never know.”

  “And just when would you find time for that, I’d like to know?” Vivien eyed him indulgently. “Seems to me you’ve enough work on your plate.”

  “Gardening’s not work,” Iain corrected her. “It’s recreation. And you’re always telling me I need more of that.”

  “And fewer of those.” She nodded at his cigarette. “Not that you ever listen to me.”

  Geoff leapt to his friend’s rescue by switching the subject. “I hear there’s to
be a big estate sale near Calne next weekend. Lord Ashburn’s place, I believe. Anyone fancy a trip down there?”

  “Are they auctioning any books?” I asked him.

  “Only a few hundred.”

  I smiled. “Then you can count me in.”

  “Wonderful. Vivien?”

  “I’d love to,” Vivien said, “but the sale’s on Saturday and I promised Ned the day off so that he could watch his boy play rugby.”

  I’m not sure which surprised me more—the revelation that Ned the barman was married, or the knowledge that his offspring had the energy to play at sports.

  “That’s too bad.” Geoff looked at Iain. “What about you?”

  “Can’t,” was the Scotsman’s response. “The shearers come on Saturday.”

  “Shearers?” I asked him.

  “Aye. For the sheep. They have to cover all the farms in the district, so they’re on a tight schedule.”

  “You don’t shear the sheep yourself, then?”

  “God, no.” He smiled. “I’ve no skill with a pair of shears—the sheep would look bloody awful if I did them. No, my shearers come from the north. Young lads. Professionals. They can do my flock in an afternoon.”

  “So Saturday’s out for you, as well,” Geoff concluded. It struck me that he didn’t look particularly upset by the news. “Well,” he said, “what a shame. I suppose that just leaves Julia and myself.”

  “Aye.” Iain gave me a brotherly look. “You want to watch him, Julia,” he told me. “He may look harmless enough, but appearances can be deceiving.”

  Geoff grinned. “That’s slander, that is. You know I always behave like a perfect gentleman.”

  “Right then, Sir Galahad,” Iain said dryly. “D’ye think you can spare a moment to help me mend that fencing at the west end of the orchard, like you promised?”

  “Damn, I’d forgotten all about that. I suppose I did promise, didn’t I?”

  “Aye. And the sheep will be all out on the road and halfway to Beckhampton if I don’t get it mended by nightfall.”