Donna Fletcher Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Titles by Donna Fletcher

  About the Author

  Whispers on the Wind

  Donna Fletcher

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Whispers on the Wind

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright 2011 by Donna Fletcher

  Printing History

  Jove edition/March 1997

  Visit Donna’s Web site

  www.donnafletcher.com

  Become a fan on Facebook

  http://www.facebook.com/donna.fletcher.author

  Chapter One

  CORNWALL, ENGLAND, 1808

  Only the most dangerous ghosts haunt on a stormy night.

  Belinda Latham’s head struck the top of the coach only seconds before her backside landed with a solid thump on the floor. Her thoughts of her mother’s favorite way of beginning a ghost story and scaring her usually brave daughter were dispatched in an instant. Her bonnet toppled forward, covering her eyes and pitching her into complete darkness.

  “Damn, but I hate storms and ghosts,” Belinda muttered, shivering away a tingle of fear. She shook an angry fist at the driver sitting outside atop the coach.

  With her silent protest leaving her little satisfaction, she adjusted her claret bonnet, tying the moss-green silk ribbon loosely beneath her chin.

  “Sometimes, Belinda, I wonder if you have any brains,” she scolded herself. “Hiring a coach on a stormy night like . . .”

  A night perfect for dangerous ghosts. Her thoughts intruded once again, sending shivers racing through her.

  “Stop it, Belinda Latham,” she warned herself, shaking her finger in front of her nose. “Stop being childish.”

  The coach suddenly tilted at a precarious angle and Belinda hastily braced her hand against the door for support. Why the devil had she hired such an incompetent driver, and why the devil had she insisted on continuing her journey in such hazardous weather?

  The coach righted itself with an abrupt jerk just in time to connect with another rut. Belinda winced when her backside received another sharp slap from the floor.

  Lightning splintered the night sky, the glaring light penetrating the shade-covered windows for a brief second. Belinda squeezed her eyes shut, covered her ears and braced for the thunder that would follow. The thunderclap exploded, sounding as if it had rent the earth in two. Belinda felt gooseflesh crawl frantically up her arms.

  “Damn, damn, damn, I hate storms,” she complained to the inside of the coach.

  The horses’ shrill cries mingled with the howling wind and, from the precarious sway of the coach, Belinda realized that the driver had his hands full keeping control of the frightened animals.

  Belinda shook her head and remained sitting on the floor, counting herself lucky for the safety of the coach.

  The driver shouted to her above the ferocity of the storm. “Hol—on—arri—soon.”

  She caught a few of his words, piecing together the rest. Their arrival appeared imminent. She smiled in relief or anticipation—she had yet to decide.

  Another rut sent the coach and Belinda pitching dangerously to the side. The driver yelled his commands in excited anger at the horses.

  Relief, Belinda decided hastily. No matter what she faced when she exited the coach, it had to be a far sight better than the beating she was taking.

  Another crack of thunder shattered the night. She shut her eyes tightly for a moment before opening them, reminding herself she had been through far worse times.

  Belinda, or Billie as her family had fondly referred to her since her birth twenty years ago, was made of stronger stock than that. If she hadn’t been she wouldn’t be here now traveling alone along the Cornwall coast to St. Clair.

  No. She would be back in Nantucket, Massachusetts, probably forced, due to her awkward situation, to wed Jeremy Ulster. She shivered at the repulsive thought and recalled that Jeremy always smelled of day-old fish and ale which he consumed in equal amounts and was the reason for his big belly.

  Billie’s round face tightened with a frown. She hadn’t wanted to leave Nantucket. It was an island that produced women who were capable of surviving on their own out of necessity, little choice being left to them. With their men at sea, some for years, they learned to rely on their inner strengths.

  She was a strong, independent woman. If she hadn’t possessed such hardy traits, she never would have consented to this trip.

  Her bottom once again felt the sting of the hard floor as the coach wheel caught another rut. She laughed her soreness away with humor. It’s my stomach I’ll be sleeping on tonight, she thought.

  Her mother had often teased her about her penchant for sleeping on her stomach, her arms wrapped snugly around her pillow and her head buried in its feathery softness.

  “It’s a husband you need to be tucked around,” her mother had remarked with a cheerful laugh. “A big, strong husband.”

  Billie sadly shook her head. Her father, William Latham, had died at sea when she was five. Friends and neighbors said she bore his smile, kind and gentle in a strong way, they had insisted. Others said she had his eyes, deep brown and filled with the luster and excitement for challenges and adventures. Her petite form came from her mother—she stood only five feet four in her stocking feet. Her hair was also reminiscent of her mother’s, a mixture of blond and light brown and shiny in its long length.

  Billie was grateful for having inherited a special part of each of her parents. She had loved them both equally and her Uncle Thomas as well. It had been he who had taught her so much about the sea. Much had changed though, when Henry Radborne entered their lives. A short, jovial man, he had been thought highly of by everyone in Nantucket. Her mother had fallen in love for the second time in her life, and she had married Henry Radborne only three months after meeting him. Billie had been relieved when she learned that they would remain living with her Uncle Thomas; though she had been happy her mother had found love again, she felt they would all fare better under Uncle Thomas’s roof.

  A tear stung her eye and she wiped it away. They were all gone now, taken from her by a freak carriage accident. Her mother and Henry had been killed instantly. Her Uncle Thomas had lingered for a week. Billie had cared for him, listening to him repeatedly express his sorrow to her. She finally understood what he had been trying to tell her upon his death. She had been left in severe debt, partly due to a bad fishing season and partly due to Henry Radborne’s enormous gambling debts.

  The letter of inqui
ry from Cornwall, England had been a godsend and she had given it careful consideration. It was from the estate of one Maximillian Radborne. The solicitor, Mr. Hillard, explained that Maximillian Radborne, Earl of Strathorn, was now deceased. A search was being conducted for a Henry Radborne, his uncle and sole inheritor of the Radborne estate. Mr. Hillard requested that either Henry Radborne or his heir produce himself—with proof, of course—at Radborne Manor to collect the substantial inheritance. And since Henry Radborne had taken the measure to leave a will, dated and attested to, Billie was now his sole heir.

  She had just enough money left after the sale of the fishing boat and the house and the payments of the debts to purchase a ticket for England. There was nothing left to keep her in Nantucket. And with her father’s adventurous soul and the call of the sea, her decision had come easily.

  The driver’s sharp yell snapped Billie back to the present. The loud crack of his whip sounded like distant thunder, forcing the horses to quicken their already swift pace.

  Arrival was only minutes away. Radborne Manor awaited her. She collected her wits and sensibility, picking herself up off the floor. She straightened her moss-green cape, wrapping it more closely around her to protect her claret wool dress from the inclement weather she would face upon leaving the safety of the coach. Her bonnet was back in place, her gloves secure and her traveling cases in hand.

  The coach slowed to a steady, more even sway. Their arrival was obviously at hand. Excitement gripped Billie. She had been looking forward to this moment since first reading the letter. She had no idea of the condition of the Manor, or the staff which Mr. Hillard proclaimed had dwindled considerably since the lord’s death. But none of that mattered to her. Her interest was in the manor, her new home. She had thoughts of the garden where she would grow her herbs, vegetables and flowers. She would make it a home where she could invite the village women for tea and local gossip and become part of their lives. She was filled with anticipation for this new beginning, this new Chapter in her life.

  The coach halted with much more dignity and reserve than Billie thought possible. She pushed herself to the end of the plush brown velvet seat and waited for the carriage door to open. Her eyes widened with excitement and her body shivered with anticipation.

  The driver yanked open the door, admitting a flourish of wind and rain. “We’re here, mum.”

  Billie strained to see through the sheet of rain that looked more like a downpour from a large pitcher than from the heavens above. She squinted and caught sight of a wooden sign swinging in gusty momentum. COX CROW INN.

  “Pardon me, sir,” Billie said as he offered her his hand. “But this doesn’t appear to be Radborne Manor.”

  “Nay, it ain’t.”

  Billie’s voice took on an air of authority as the rain attacked her garments. “I hired you on to take me to Radborne Manor.”

  “Nay,” he corrected with a stubborn shake of his head. “St. Clair, Cornwall is what you said.”

  “Yes, Radborne Manor in St. Clair, Cornwall.”

  “And I’ve delivered you here, I have,” he insisted.

  “It’s Radborne Manor I wish to be delivered to,” Billie argued, refusing to move another inch until this matter was resolved to her satisfaction.

  The driver shook his cap-covered head and waved his hand in front of her. “I don’t go there. Nobody does, especially on a night like this when the banshees are having a fine time for themselves.”

  Lord, not ghosts, Billie thought. The last thing she needed at this very moment was to hear about ghosts. Her legs began to tremble.

  “Does Radborne Manor put a scare into you?” she inquired and was answered by a loud thunderclap that caused both of them to jump.

  The driver cast an anxious glance over his right shoulder, to where Billie could only assume lay the direction of Radborne Manor, and where she had no intention of looking.

  “That it does. Now I’ll be leaving you here in the care of the good people of this inn. If you can find someone crazy enough to take you to the manor, then God go with you, mum.”

  Billie could clearly see his apprehension: His hands trembled and his eyes darted about cautiously. His disquietude added to her own. “I don’t understand? Why do you fear going to Radborne Manor?”

  The driver shook his head, crossed himself and spoke in a fearful tone. “It’s haunted.”

  Chapter Two

  The inhabitants of the Cox Crow Inn sat in rapt silence, staring at the young woman the raging storm had blown in with a gusty flourish through the front door.

  Ghosts! Billie shuddered, shook the rain from her soaked garments and dropped her two stout traveling cases at her side. She untied her bonnet, slipped it off and grasped it firmly in one hand.

  She stared back at the sea of inquisitive faces, her sharp brown eyes wide with curiosity. With her posture dignified and her tone tremulous, she announced, “I am Belinda Latham, the new owner of Radborne Manor.”

  Startled gasps and mutters raced throughout the large room. The roaring blaze in the huge hearth seemed to add its disfavor with a hiss and a sputter caused by the fat drippings of the roasting lamb that hung on a spit over the fire. Its highly seasoned scent teased Billie’s nostrils and tempted her as did the tankards filled with hot cider spiced with cinnamon sticks and dollops of fresh whipped cream.

  Not having eaten since the morning meal, Billie unconsciously licked her lips.

  “The poor, dear girl is starving and her traveling on a night not fit for man or beast. ’Tis a shame.”

  The high-pitched nasal tone caught Billie’s attention. A short, round woman, her gray hair piled in a group of tight curls on top of her head, waddled like a mother duck over to her and clucked her disapproval with her tongue and a shake of her head.

  “You’ll catch your death in those wet clothes. Now get that cape off and those gloves, and I’ll fix you something to warm your innards and chase the shivers and chills from your bones.”

  “Best listen to Bessie, mum,” a man called out. “She runs this inn and she always gets her way.”

  “You’re right about that, George Beecham, and you won’t be having supper if it’s my way I get tonight,” she sassed.

  “Ouch,” George yelled out with a laugh. “My wife is starving me again.”

  “By the looks of that big belly, George Beecham, I’d say that mouth of yours does more shoveling of food and guzzling of ale than is good for a man. This is no conversation to be welcoming the new owner of Radborne Manor,” Bessie scolded, reaching to take Billie’s cape and gloves from her.

  Mutters once again stirred around the room, drifting overhead like the hazy hearth smoke that hung in the warm air.

  Billie expected a certain amount of resistance, she could even understand it. She, a foreigner, had inherited land that had belonged to the Radborne family for centuries. What claim did she have to it? In their eyes… none.

  Not one to back down from a challenge or adversity, Billie presented them with a dazzling smile, turning her simple attractiveness to sheer beauty. Many a man’s mouth dropped open and many an eye widened at the sight of one so lovely. Her soft voice laced with a melodious tone enthralled them even more. “I have traveled a great distance to claim my inheritance—”

  “We were expecting a man,” a gentleman near the hearth called out, forcing all eyes to glare accusingly at Billie.

  “A simple explanation,” she offered. They waited. “My given name is Belinda, but my family has called me Billie since my birth. All the documents my stepfather, Henry Radborne, had drawn up specifying me as his sole heir were written under the only name he had ever heard me called, Billie Latham.”

  “Mr. Hillard’s going to be in a snit over this one,” George said and scratched at the gray whisker stubble on his chin. “He’s been boasting about the new owner being a big, strong man from America who will finally take care of the problem at the manor.”

  “Problem?” Billie asked nervously, not certain
she liked the turn this conversation was taking. She hoped—no, prayed—it had nothing to do with ghosts and hauntings.

  “Never you mind him,” Bessie ordered, urging Billie with a gentle nudge toward a long table near the fiery hearth.

  Billie relished the heat that caressed her back as she settled on the bench. She spread her skirt out so the damp wool could dry, especially the hem that dripped heavily with rainwater.

  “You set yourself to rest. I’ll fix you a plate of food to fill you up,” Bessie said and hurried off.

  Billie glanced around the room at the various faces still concentrated on her. She held their attention and their curiosity. Taking advantage of the moment she asked, “Is there anyone here who could take me on to Radborne Manor tonight?”

  Silence filled the room, so cold that it sent chills through Billie, giving her the shivers. Even the hissing fire refused comment, its licking flames roasting the lamb soundlessly.

  “She has a right to know,” one voice whispered, though not low enough to keep from reaching Billie’s ears.

  “She should be told,” another agreed softly.

  Bessie hurried over to Billie like a protective mother duck. She placed the plate filled with slices of hot lamb, a fat potato and two thick slices of crusty black bread in front of her, then added to it a tankard of hot cider with fresh whipped cream floating invitingly on the top.

  The delicious aroma of the tempting food evaporated Billie’s misgivings and she heartily dug into the mouthwatering fare.

  Bessie swerved around; her hands hugging firmly to her wide hips and her full cheeks flushed red from working too near the hearth. “Will any of you fine gentlemen be willing to take the lady to the manor as she’s asked?”

  “She should be warned,” argued one man.

  “He’s right,” a woman agreed.

  George banged his near-empty tankard of ale on the table. “She’s the new owner. She should be told. What if she runs into the likes of him tonight?”

  Shocked gasps circled the room and Billie caught sight of a few people hastily blessing themselves. Lord, she hoped this had nothing to do with ghosts. Humans she could deal with, but ghosts? She could still remember shivering beneath the covers when her mother dramatically recounted her favorite ghost tales.