My Lord Ghost

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Not only was the house enormous for just four people, it was creepy. I had poo-pooed Sally’s fears, but even as I ate my dinner that night—alone in the breakfast room because the dining room was simply too enormous for one person—there had been an odd, sort of cold sensation. It almost felt as if someone were watching me, which was ridiculous. Mrs. Barker had assured me that there was no one in the house but herself and Mr. Barker, and now me and Sally.

I had been raised at archeological sites where human remains had been dug up along with ancient pottery and sculptures. I could certainly deal with living in an old house in Yorkshire.

But it was truly ridiculous that I was in the breakfast room eating alone when Sally and the Barkers were enjoying their meal in the warmth of the kitchen. I would try harder on the following day to insist that I be allowed to join them.

The library had not disappointed me, thank goodness. The Bolingbrooks had clearly been a well-read family. There was everything from Shakespeare’s plays to classical works like the Iliad and Odyssey, in their original forms as well as English translations, and even some novels. Of course, there had been a large shelf filled with books on animal husbandry and agricultural interests, but I had ignored those.

Running my fingers along the book spines on one shelf, it made me sad to think the family that had lovingly collected all of these books was no more. On the other hand, since my father had inherited the estate, these were all mine now. I would be sure to take excellent care of them.

With this happier thought in mind, I picked out one of my favorite novels, Waverley by Sir Walter Scott, and took it to bed with me.

I awoke with a start. Where was I?

The pale glow of the moon reflected off pink walls. Ah, right, Marshfield.

I was about to close my eyes once more when I heard what must have woken me up in the first place. A creaking sound and then the slam of a door. Moans were followed by the sound of someone sobbing.

I sat up, listening carefully. Was that Sally? I threw back the cover, ready to go to my maid. The poor girl had not been happy when we’d arrived, but she’d seemed better after dinner thanks to the kindness of the Barkers. But no, wait. I stopped, listening again.

The cries weren’t coming from Sally’s room. And they were too low in pitch. Yes, they were definitely being made by a man.

But where were these cries coming from, and from whom?

Mr. Barker was the only man in the house, but I didn’t think this sounded like his voice.

The sounds seemed to be, at one moment, coming from above, and then shift and sound as if they were coming from the room next door. The one Mrs. Barker had said was the master’s chamber. But there could be no one there; there was no master aside from my own father, and he, I knew, was safe and sound in London.

I got up. Grateful for the moonlight, I managed to find and light my bedside candle. Donning my robe, I crept to the connecting door. Putting my ear to the door, I listened closely.

Alternate moans and sobs mixed with wails of pure despair. Gooseflesh covered my arms.

Very slowly, I turned the handle. The door wasn’t locked.

It opened inward. Hesitantly, I stepped into a room bigger than my own, dominated by a large four-poster bed. Dark red curtains were drawn around the bed. I hesitated before approaching it, especially as another cry seemed to come from either within or just above it, if that were possible.

Taking a deep but quiet breath in, I tiptoed toward the bed. My hand hesitated at the curtain’s edge. Slowly I grasped hold of the heavy fabric and began to inch it open, trying to peer inside.

“NO!” the man’s voice yelled from behind.

I jumped with a scream and very nearly dropped my candle as I spun around.

Holding the meager light out before me, I searched the room for the source of the voice. But there was no one there.

Still, the moans continued, broken by the occasional sob.

I turned back to the bed and this time moved more quickly at opening the curtain, although, I have to admit I was not quite so fearless as to just throw it open.

I peered through, but the bed was empty just as it should have been. What was exceedingly odd, however, was that the coverlet had been neatly folded back, as if waiting for its owner to climb in at any moment. The pillows were fluffed and ready, but there was no one there.

I must have stood there for a full minute, staring into the empty bed and wondering where the cries were coming from, when I noticed that the sound was moving off. It was as if the person making them was walking away from the room—without the sound of a footfall.

Never in my life had I the urge to wander abroad in the middle of the night. In fact, my two sisters teased me mercilessly at how deep a sleeper I was. But these moans and groans were so odd that I found myself following the sounds with an ever-growing curiosity.

As I slipped nearly silently along the passageway back toward the main stair, I was tempted to laugh at myself for my midnight walk. It almost seemed like a game or a trick one of my sisters would play on me.

That made me pause. Could it be Rose or Thalia playing a trick… no. That didn’t make sense. I was here because I had been too bold and outgoing. My sisters wouldn’t tease me in this way when I was being punished, would they?

Could it be possible that it was some sort of test on my father’s part? Testing to see if I would be so bold as to follow the sounds or simply cower in my bed as any other right-minded female would?

I came very close to turning around and returning straight away to my room, but a loud thump and more wails kept me moving forward. No. My father was punishing me, not testing me. And besides, how would he have even asked anyone to play such a trick on me? He wouldn’t and he couldn’t have.

I continued on, slipping down the stairs on silent, bare feet. I paused as I neared the entry hall. The sounds seemed to have disappeared. Could they have gone a different way?

I turned around, went back up, and then stood in indecision looking down the hallway toward my room. The sound hadn’t gone that way. It had most certainly gone toward the other wing of the house—but how?

In the glow of my candle shone two pale brass handholds set into the wall of the alcove to my left.

Doors! The “wall” was in fact two pocket doors, which slid to either side. I verified this by opening one, with quite a bit of difficulty. It seemed as if these doors hadn’t been opened for some time, they were so stiff. But I managed to slide one open just enough to slip through.

I walked into a gallery. It was the hall that connected the two wings of the house.

A very impressive-looking man of armor stood at the entrance. For possibly thirty feet, there was portrait after portrait lining either wall, interspersed with upholstered benches along the window side, and occasional busts on pedestals on the other.

Slowly I made my way down the hall, raising my candle up so that I could look at the portraits. Some were of families looking kindly down at me, others were of intimidating gentlemen in old-fashioned clothing, staring down as if accusing me of invading their privacy. Occasionally, there was a severe-looking woman peering down her nose at me, very much like the Duchess of Bromfield. Just the thought of that woman made me shiver with fright.

A fresh bout of groans and a growling shout reminded me why I was there. I turned from a previous Lady Bolingbrook to peer down the length of the gallery. It was nearly pitch black, as all of the curtains along the outside wall were closed, so I held my candle aloft and slowly made my way toward the sounds.

Glancing left and right, I passed by many generations of Lords and Ladies Bolingbrook depicted in both oil and an occasional plaster bust.

About two-thirds of the way down the room, a particularly loud shout made me stop in my tracks. To my left, a man stared at me from yet another painting. His deep green eyes seemed to take me in, in a way that if he had been flesh and blood, I would have said was rather rude. I felt bared before him; he looked so deeply into my soul. His painted eyes seemed to see all that I kept secret, things I shared with no one, not even my sisters… not even with myself.

“LEAVE! NOW!” The words seemed to come from all around me. They reverberated down the hall and back again.

This time when I jumped, I did drop my candle.

Luckily, it extinguished itself quickly. Or perhaps that was unlucky because I was now left in the pitch black of the gallery. Not a speck of light came from anywhere. I couldn’t even see where my candle had fallen, let alone anything else.

“Who are you?” I called out into the dark. “Where are you?”

“LEAVE NOW!” the voice said again, getting louder as it reached the end of the command.

I didn’t wait for him to tell me a third time. I turned in what I thought was the right direction and sped directly into the wall.

“Ow.” I stepped back, certain I would be seeing stars if I could see anything at all.

I took a deep breath trying to get my bearings.

“GET OUT!” the voice screamed.

“I can’t find my way,” I cried, trying to hold on to the tears that pricked at my eyes. I was trembling so fiercely, my teeth were nearly chattering. My heart thumped within my chest, and a cold sweat pebbled on my skin.

The voice, while fascinating as it had led me to this god-awful gallery of portraits, had become increasingly threatening the closer I got. Now I was more than willing to do as he said—if only I could find my way.

A c***k of light appeared to my right as the door at the end of the gallery silently slid open, just a touch. I didn’t know how that had happened, or possibly who had done it. I didn’t care. I wasn’t about to stop to investigate the sounds of heavy breathing, almost a growl. Like a tickle in my ear, I could almost hear him draw breath to begin yelling again. My legs suddenly found the strength to propel me to the end of the gallery and out the door.

I turned briefly to slam the door shut behind me, and then sprinted down the hallway. I had just opened the door to what should have been my room when I realized I was in the other wing of the house.

All the furniture in the room before me was draped in Holland covers, creating ghostly outlines in the moonlight. The moans and cries, which had initially drawn me from my bed, still echoed in the gallery behind me.

I hesitated, my whole body shaking with fear as I slowly backed out of the room. A shuffling noise behind me made me jump.

A tall, skeleton of a man held a candle in the hallway. I must have screamed again because he had a pained expression on his face.

With a cry of relief, I belatedly recognized Mr. Barker in the shadowy candlelight. His white night shirt, which he must have hurriedly half-tucked into his breeches, nearly glowed in the flickering light, and his gray hair stood straight up from his head.

“May I assist ye, Miss?” he said, his gravelly voice even more so with sleep.

“Oh, no. I, er, I seem to have lost my way,” I said feebly.

“Aye. So it would seem.” He took a step back and indicated the direction back toward the gallery and the stairs. “Yer room is that way.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” I walked past the old man toward the end of the hallway. I was grateful when he stepped away to allow me to pass; I was so jittery. As I walked down the hall back toward the gallery, I noticed that the ghostly sounds had ceased completely.

By the time I reached the stairs, I felt much more in control of myself. I stopped just before descending and turned around. Mr. Barker’s thick eyebrows rose in question.

“The cries,” I said hesitantly, wondering if he would think me mad. “And screams. Did you hear them?”

“Aye, Miss,” Mr. Barker replied as if I had just asked him the most ordinary of questions.

“What...”

“It’s best if we did not discuss that just now, Miss.” He paused and then added, “It’s late.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

I turned back and walked down the stairs, across the foyer, and then up the other set of stairs. I was most certainly not going to venture through the gallery again. Mr. Barker followed, lighting my way with his candle.

When we reached my door, he stopped. “Good night, then, Miss.”

“Good night,” I said, nodding my head in acknowledgment of his slight bow.

As I climbed back into bed, my eyes darted around the room, looking for what I did not know. Then I noticed the door leading into the master chamber. I had left it open when I’d first gone into that room, searching for the source of the cries. Now it yawned menacingly. Quickly, I jumped out of bed and closed the door, slamming home the bolt.