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  They walked into the house together. The company was gathered in the little-used drawing-room.

  Charles was introduced all round.

  Isabella covertly watched Rachel. It was as if every fibre of her younger sister’s body was aware of this Mr. Blackwood. And yet he treated her with the same easy manner as he treated Lizzie and Belinda.

  Despite his age, thought Isabella, he should be very aware of such a beautiful girl as Rachel. No man could look at her and remain indifferent.

  And then the maid, Betty, came in and announced, “Miss Santerton.”

  Isabella’s eyes swung to the doorway and she blinked at the vision that stood there. She did not notice the flash of irritation in Charles’s eyes. All Isabella could think was, poor Rachel. This is too much competition.

  Minerva was wearing a wide straw hat decorated with a whole garden of flowers. Her muslin gown was so fine it was nearly transparent and floated around her excellent body as she moved. The under-dress was very fitting and was of pale-pink silk, which gave the impression that she had nothing on underneath. Her eyes caressed Charles in an intimate way.

  She greeted Isabella and her husband effusively but looked down on the dumpy figure of Mrs. Kennedy and offered her two fingers to shake. Mrs. Kennedy flashed the beauty a look of contempt and sat down, ignoring those two fingers.

  Charles had taken a liking to the broad-spoken, warm-hearted little Irishwoman who was Mrs. Kennedy and felt suddenly ashamed of Minerva. Here were the despised Beverleys, supposed to be grasping and ambitious, and yet they seemed kind and gentle to him. He had warmed towards Minerva since—what he considered—her gracious acceptance of Mark’s apology, but now he began to wish she and her brother would leave. George was a tiresome bore who drank too much at dinner and then said the same thing over and over again.

  Minerva was clever enough to realize her social gaffe had annoyed Charles and so she sat down next to Mrs. Kennedy and asked, “Did you have an arduous journey?”

  “Sure, me dears,” said Mrs. Kennedy, getting to her feet and waddling towards the door. “I think we had best be getting off. Do come and see us as soon as possible.”

  “Tomorrow,” cried Lizzie.

  “Faith, tomorrow, tonight, any time you like, my chuck.”

  Minerva smiled. “My brother and I are resident at Mannerling, Mrs. Kennedy. We would be pleased to call on you.”

  Before Isabella could reply, Mrs. Kennedy said roundly, “That will not be convenient. We are all still mighty fatigued after our journey and wish to see only the family. Good day to you.”

  “Dreadful woman!” complained Minerva to Charles on the road back to Mannerling.

  “Mrs. Kennedy? I found her excellent. She took you in dislike, as any lady of her standing would, at being offered only two fingers to shake. You brought that snub on yourself.”

  “But how was I to know? Such a fat little creature and that quiz of a bonnet! I thought she was the maid.”

  “Fitzpatrick said very clearly that she was his aunt.”

  They continued the journey in silence, a silence which enlivened Mark’s spirits. He could feel the threat of his father’s ever marrying Minerva receding.

  At one o’clock the following morning, Miss Trumble was roused by one of the maids who gasped out, “You are to dress and go to Mannerling. A carriage is arrived.”

  She handed Miss Trumble a letter. Miss Trumble got out of bed and took the candle from the maid and read it. It was from Charles Blackwood. The “haunting” of Mannerling had started again and the children were frightened out of their wits.

  “I shall help you dress, miss,” said the maid, Betty.

  “No, rouse Miss Rachel and help her dress instead. Tell her I wish her to come with me.”

  It was a windy night, with a small moon running through the ragged clouds overhead as the great bulk of Mannerling reared up. “It must have been really bad for Mr. Blackwood to summon you in the middle of the night,” said Rachel.

  “Yes, I believe someone is out to frighten those children out of their wits,” said the governess, “and yet…”

  “What were you about to say?”

  “Nothing.” Miss Trumble had been about to say that at times she thought Mannerling really was haunted by some presence but she did not want to frighten Rachel.

  Charles Blackwood had been looking out for their arrival and met them in the hall and led the way up the stairs.

  “I am grateful to you for coming. I will take you to the children directly. Beth is in Mark’s room.” He showed no surprise at Rachel’s presence.

  “What happened?” asked Miss Trumble.

  “Sounds and moans and clanking of chains. One footman screeching he had seen a spectral figure in the Long Gallery. Ghostly voices sounding all over the house.”

  “Was that footman John?”

  “No, Henry, the other second footman.”

  The children were lying huddled together in Mark’s bed.

  “I shall go back through the house with Mr. Blackwood,” said Miss Trumble firmly. “Rachel and I have brought our nightclothes. Rachel, I suggest, as Mark’s bed is large enough, that you get into bed with the children and read them a story until they fall asleep.”

  As if seeing her for the first time, Charles said, “This is most kind of you, Miss Rachel. I did not mean…”

  “I do not mind,” said Rachel quietly.

  When Charles and Miss Trumble had left, Rachel said to the scared children, “Well, this is quite an adventure, is it not?”

  “We heard the ghosts,” whispered Mark, “shrieking and wailing.”

  “What you heard,” said Rachel firmly, “was some monster playing a trick on you. When Barry hit that man on the head, the one who was pretending to be a ghost, his cudgel struck a real head. I am going into the powder-closet to change and then I will read to you. You may have all the candles in the room burning tonight.”

  She changed quickly into a night-gown, wrapper, and night-cap, and then climbed into bed between the two children, after having picked a book from the shelves along the wall. She selected a mild fairy story after a search, wondering why children’s stories were so bloodthirsty.

  They snuggled up to her as she began to read, and after only a few pages she realized they had both fallen asleep.

  She lay for some time thinking about Charles Blackwood, thinking how strong and handsome he had looked in his silk dressing-gown and with his hair tousled. She wondered how those green eyes would look were they to shine with love. And then she drifted off to sleep as well, a smile on her lips and one arm around each child.

  After Rachel had been asleep for an hour, the door opened quietly and Charles and Miss Trumble looked in.

  Rachel’s fair hair under her lacy night-cap was spread out on the pillow. The children were cuddled up to her on either side.

  Charles gently closed the door again. “I am most grateful to Miss Rachel,” he said to Miss Trumble.

  “Rachel genuinely likes your children,” said Miss Trumble. “They will feel safe with her and it is very important for little children to feel safe and secure.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly, thinking of the beautiful Rachel, her face soft and vulnerable in the candlelight. “Yes, I can see that.”

  “So we have interviewed the servants and they are all badly frightened,” said Miss Trumble, “and it seems we cannot convince them someone is fooling them.” They walked to the drawing-room, where a fire was burning brightly. “What do Miss Santerton and her brother think of the hauntings? And your father?”

  “They appear to have slept through the whole commotion and I saw no reason to rouse them.”

  Miss Trumble sat down wearily. “You must now go to bed,” he said gently. “I am most grateful to you. I will gladly remunerate you for your efforts on my behalf.”

  The governess looked at him haughtily. “There are some things,” she said frostily, “that you do not pay for or offer to pay for, sir.”

&nb
sp; “My apologies,” he said, half-amused, half-exasperated by this elderly governess who could so easily put him in his place.

  After a silence he said, “If we cannot find the culprit or culprits, then what are we to do?”

  “I think the best thing would be to arm some of the staff, the ones you feel you can trust, a few of the grooms as well, and post them throughout the house. Give them instructions to shoot any ‘ghost’ on sight and tell this to the rest of your servants. Is there anyone from your past who would wish to harm you or the children, Mr. Blackwood?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Strange. And yet there is something about Mannerling that appears to create a madness in certain people.”

  “Like the Beverleys?”

  “They are no longer concerned with the place,” said Miss Trumble firmly. “I was thinking of Judd and Harry Devers. Is there anyone you know who might want to drive you out of here and get Mannerling for themselves?”

  “No one at all.”

  “What of the Santertons? What do you know of them?”

  “Not very much. I knew them in the past and they claimed such friendship with me that I was inclined to believe it. No man is immune to hearing a very beautiful woman claim friendship. But they were not responsible for the hauntings, for I looked in on both brother and sister and they were heavily asleep. Miss Santerton takes laudanum, I believe, and George had three bottles of wine at dinner.”

  “In any case, do tell the staff that any apparition will be shot.”

  “I will do that tomorrow, or today, rather. Do go to bed, Miss Trumble. You must be exhausted. I hope your employer will not be too angry with me for having taken you away in the middle of the night.”

  “Lady Beverley will be pleased that I am able to be of help,” said Miss Trumble, privately thinking that Lady Beverley would be delighted and would probably call at Mannerling as soon as she could.

  Minerva was getting dressed by her maid the following morning when she heard the sound of laughter from below her window. She went and opened the window and leaned out. Rachel was running across the lawn with the children. At a little distance behind them, Charles Blackwood was following them. Her face darkened and she slammed the window shut and swung round to face her lady’s-maid. “What is that Beverley creature doing at Mannerling?”

  “It was the hauntings, miss.”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  “There were ghosts haunting the place during the night and frightening the children. Mr. Blackwood sent for that governess, Miss Trumble, to quieten the children, and she brought Miss Rachel Beverley with her.”

  “So that’s her game,” muttered Minerva. “We’ll see about that. Don’t just stand there. Hurry and fix my hair and then fetch my brother here directly.”

  When George Santerton trailed in, his sister surveyed him furiously. He was in his undress, a gold silk banyan and a gold silk turban and Turkish slippers with turned-up toes. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked groggily about him.

  “What’s to do?”

  She told him succinctly of the happenings of the night, which had resulted in that “scheming” governess’s moving her chess-piece into play, namely Rachel Beverley.

  George stifled a yawn. “That old governess don’t need to scheme for her charges, if you ask me. The general’s potty about her. My guess is the old boy will propose marriage.”

  “A man of his standing cannot marry a governess. I thought he might propose but I realized that such an alliance would be out of the question. Don’t be silly.”

  “When a man gets to his age, he’s apt to please himself and damn society, if you ask me. And if this place is really haunted, I’m off. Spirits frighten me.”

  “Really, brother, dear? From the amount of white brandy you are capable of pouring down your useless throat, I would have thought spirits were the last thing to frighten you.”

  “Ha ha, very funny. But don’t you think it deuced odd, all these ghosts?”

  “No, I don’t. I think when people are dead, they stay dead.”

  “Comforting thought in your case, sis.”

  They eyed each other for a moment and then Minerva shrugged. “You don’t believe all that rubbish that I killed Santerton?”

  “Never said I did.”

  “So, to return to the main point, what do I do about Rachel Beverley?”

  He sat down and buried his head in his hands, knocking his turban off onto the floor.

  “Oh, why am I asking you?” Minerva paced angrily up and down. “You’re a fool.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me,” said George, raising his head. “But I tell you what, I heard gossip about those Beverleys at that country dance. Damned ambitious lot and not a feather to fly with. I think mayhap Charles needs a gentle reminder that any Beverley interested in him or his children or both is only scheming to get Mannerling back. Your trouble, sis, is that you don’t like children. Come to think of it, you don’t like anybody.”

  “That is not true. I dote on Charles.”

  “My head aches. Go off and dote on your own.” George rose abruptly and left the room.

  Minerva heard the sound of carriage wheels on the drive. She looked out again.

  This is all I need, she thought, as she saw the squat bulk of Mrs. Kennedy descending from the carriage.

  Mrs. Kennedy had been told of the hauntings by the servants at Perival, who had heard the news from a maid who was being courted by one of the Mannerling grooms. She was ushered into the drawing-room by Henry, the footman, who said he would let Mr. Blackwood know she had arrived.

  “Stay,” commanded Mrs. Kennedy as the footman was about to bow his way out. “What’s this about ghosts?”

  The footman turned pale. “I saw one with my own eyes, madam, at the end of the Long Gallery, a great black figure.”

  “See the face?”

  “No, madam, I screamed and ran away, I was so frit. And then the voices came, all over the house, wailing and shrieking.”

  “Where were these voices coming from?”

  “In the air, madam. From nowheres in particular.”

  “Thank you. You may go.”

  When the footman had left, Mrs. Kennedy sat thinking furiously. She remembered when she had been a young girl in Ireland, frightening a house party out of their wits with some of her friends. They had climbed up to the roof and had wailed and shrieked down the chimneys. She wondered if anyone had been up on the roof.

  Not used to sitting still for very long, she began to fidget and then she rose to her feet and went out and up the stairs to the top of the house until she found a narrow little staircase that led up to a door which gave out onto the leads.

  Moving nimbly on her feet, surprisingly so in such a heavily built woman, she began to search, clambering around the forest of chimneys on the roof of Mannerling. And then something bright at the edge of the roof lying in a bay formed by a little curved balustrade caught her attention. She walked into the bay and picked it up. It was a livery button, a silver button with the Blackwood crest of an oak tree on it. Her eyes gleamed as brightly as the button. Here was proof. Find the servant with a missing button and then ask the fellow what he had been doing on the roof where no one but a builder or repairman had reason to be. And then an arm went around her neck and a voice grated in her ear, “Give that to me.”

  She went very still. “No,” she said. Her plump hand closed even more firmly around the button. The arm tightened around her neck. She could feel her heart thumping. She kicked her assailant in the shins. Her one main thought was to get herself away from the edge of the balustrade.

  Despite her age, she was strong and she was powerful and she was used to danger, having followed her late husband on many army campaigns. She fought and struggled until she had swung round, facing into the house, and her attacker now had his back to the balustrade. One of her hands seized a hat-pin from her bonnet and she drove it into that arm. There was a yell of pain, she felt hers
elf released, and she drove back both elbows with all her might into the figure behind her.

  There was a tremendous scream, a scream that descended, a scream abruptly cut off.

  Mrs. Kennedy sat down suddenly and began to cry.

  Chapter Five

  I seem to move among a world of ghosts,

  And feel myself the shadow of a dream.

  —ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  MINERVA WENT OUT of the front door of Mannerling, her eyes narrowing as she saw Rachel, Charles, and the children approaching her across the lawns, looking like a family party.

  She pinned a smile on her face. She would need to appear all that was amiable, she would need to pretend to like Rachel, and then she would try to pour some poison into Charles’s ears about the plots of the Beverleys. Minerva was wearing a white lace morning gown and another wide-brimmed bonnet. Her white kid gloves were wrinkled in the current fashion and elbow-length. Her white kid shoes peeped out from under her gown. Her hat was of white straw and embellished with white silk flowers. Minerva considered that she now looked the very picture of a virgin.

  She floated towards Charles, her hands outstretched in welcome.

  And then Charles shouted, “Look out!” He ran towards her and pulled her roughly to one side as a long scream descended from the heavens towards her.

  There was a sickening thump behind her. Rachel shouted to the children, “Don’t look,” and pressed their faces against her skirts.

  Over their heads, she saw Charles stoop over the crumpled body which had fallen from the roof.

  “Get the children inside,” shouted Charles. “Now!”

  Rachel hurried off with Mark and Beth.

  “Who is it?” asked Minerva. “And how did he come to fall?”

  In all his fright and distress, part of his mind still registered how calmly Minerva appeared to be reacting to the whole thing.

  “It is one of my footmen, John.”

  “Oh, a footman!” said Minerva, and turned away as Miss Trumble came out of the house.

  “It is only a footman,” said Minerva, “fallen from the roof.”