Donna Fletcher Read online

  “Who?” she asked hesitantly.

  “The ghost of Radborne Manor,” George bellowed and, as if adding credence to the tale, a sharp crack of thunder sounded over the inn.

  Billie flinched while sipping the cider and a spot of whipped cream caught on the tip of her nose. She hastily wiped it off with her finger. She decided to test the validity of the tale, hoping it was only village entertainment for a stormy night. “Are you certain it’s haunted?”

  Bessie answered without hesitation. “For sure a ghost haunts the manor.”

  “Really?” Billie tested again and bit into the warm, tasty bread though her stomach was aflutter from nerves, not hunger.

  “Oh, it’s not nonsense, mum,” said a tall and thin woman whose numerous facial wrinkles attested to her advanced age. Her gait was slow as she walked over to the table to join Billie. “Marlee Dunlop,” she said by way of introduction.

  “Pleased to meet you, Marlee,” Billie greeted the woman as she slid onto the bench opposite her.

  “’Tis the truth, mum. By all that’s holy the manor is haunted,” Marlee said and received a chorus of agreement from those in the room.

  Billie, realizing some of these people might be new neighbors and others potential friends, didn’t wish to antagonize them. She would be no worse for listening to what probably amounted to no more than a favorite tale about Radborne Manor, she hoped. After all, the stormy night did lend itself as a perfect setting for a haunting tale. The wind’s howl sounded like a crying banshee while the rain pounded the windows, demanding entrance, and thunder rumbled angrily overhead.

  With a speck of doubt she suggested, “As Mr. Hillard failed to apprise me in his letters of a resident ghost, perhaps someone would be so kind as to tell me of this restless spirit.”

  “It’s only fair she knows,” George said, grabbing his refilled tankard of ale. He shuffled lazily over to the table and joined Billie and Marlee.

  Bessie shoved her ample rump on the bench next to Billie, placing a pitcher of ale and one of hot cider on the table. She intended to have no interruptions while the story was recounted.

  The remaining occupants gravitated over to the table as well, all prepared to hear the ghost tale they undoubtedly had heard on more than one occasion.

  Billie wondered who would begin the story and waited nervously.

  Marlee began. “It was a shame it was.”

  All surrounding the table agreed with resounding “Ayes!”

  Billie cupped her hands around the warm tankard of cider, her meal left half finished, and concentrated on Marlee’s soft, articulate voice, so perfect for storytelling.

  “His lordship was a good man,” Marlee continued. “Fair and decent in his dealings.”

  “Not a better man to be found,” George praised, raising his drink in a salute.

  “Quiet now,” Bessie ordered and swiped his tankard from him. “Let Marlee tell the story.”

  George grumbled his dissatisfaction, but settled down.

  Marlee sent Bessie a grateful nod and cleared her throat before she proceeded. “As I was saying, Lord Maximillian Radborne was a right decent man, respected by all, feared by many and fancied by every lady in the district and beyond. He was strapping in his height and width. He had the strength of twenty men, feared no man or beast and had the devil’s own temper, that he did.”

  Billie remained mesmerized by Marlee’s overly dramatic speech and her overly emphasized description of Lord Maximillian Radborne. The woman could really spin a tale.

  Marlee’s voice began on a whisper and intensified with each word. “It began on All Hallows’ Eve.” Her dark eyes wildly darted from one to the next around the table, causing most to shiver. “When the evil spirits rise and play their sinful games, tormenting the God-fearing folk and tempting the poor souls too weak to resist their immoral ways.

  “Lord Radborne had hosted a lavish ball two nights before. The ladies had flocked in droves, enchanted by the lord’s swarthy good looks and irresistible charm. The servants say there was much mischief-making and immoral activity afoot. An omen for sure of the tragedy to come.”

  Heads around the table bobbed slowly in agreement, and Billie found herself completely enthralled.

  “The guests departed early on All Hallows’ Eve, some fearing to be out after dark and others off to play wicked games. Quiet seemed to descend over St. Clair until late afternoon when the storm began. By nightfall the wind and rain raged out of control. Much like tonight.”

  Marlee paused and took a quick sip of ale. “The wrecking bell tolled at ten that night. The unfriendly Cornwall coast had claimed another ship.” She blessed herself and then continued. “The villagers hurried to the rocky shore below to help survivors, if there were any. The waves crashed mercilessly against the shore, slapping viciously on the rocks and dragging from the beach whatever lay in its path.

  “Naturally, Lord Radborne appeared, the sight of him taking one’s breath away. He was soaked to the bone, his white silk shirt plastered to the strength of him. His polished boots rode high on his calves and his trousers were soaked to him like a second skin. His drenched dark hair was tied away from his face and his eyes . . .”

  Marlee shivered and shook her head. “Some say he had the look of a madman that night and others say he acted like one. He ordered the boats drawn as the first desperate cry of a struggling survivor sounded. More cries followed. Anguished cries. Fearful cries that mingled with the roar of the brutal sea.

  “The lord himself took to one of the boats and he rowed out with a crew of five. His boat made three trips out and back, more than any other. On the last return, the men spilled out of the boat exhausted, their hands cramped, their backs aching. The lord walked along the shore surveying the damage, his manservant hurrying behind him, attempting to drape his greatcoat over his shoulders.

  “It was then it was heard. A lone, pitiful cry sounding like that of a lost, helpless child. It drifted in on a wave and crashed upon a jagged rock. The lord threw his coat off him and marched to the boat. Taking the oars in his powerful hands and with a shove from some still able men, he rowed out alone, into the darkness, into the mouth of the rampaging sea.”

  Marlee took a shuddering breath and those around her shivered.

  Gooseflesh ran in fright up Billie’s arms. Her breath locked in her throat and her heart hammered wildly.

  “The cry soon died away and the villagers waited and waited. Morning brought with it a calming of the storm. The rain continued, though not as heavily. The sea spewed forth remnants of its rampage—barrels, pieces of the wrecked ship, trunks and, near the outcropping of rocks at the far end of the beach, the rough waves deposited the remains of the broken and battered rowboat of Lord Maximillian Radborne. The sea had swallowed him, burying him in a watery grave.”

  A breath of despair caught in Billie’s throat. If this was no tale, but truth, her sympathy went out to Lord Radborne. He deserved a more appropriate burial for his heroism than the deep darkness of the sea. She shuddered, thinking of how alone he must have felt in his last moments of life, perhaps clinging to some hope that he would somehow be saved.

  A quivering voice diverted Billie’s attention.

  “Listen, mum, please listen to Marlee,” a young, pretty girl pleaded. “Don’t go to the manor tonight. Tell her, Marlee. Tell her.”

  Marlee fortified herself with a stout swallow of ale and then proceeded. “His body was never found, so a service was held in the chapel and a stone marker was erected in his honor in the small cemetery.” Marlee paused, obviously distressed about continuing.

  “Go on. Tell her,” George urged and a chorus of mumbled agreements followed.

  Marlee nodded, her duty in the matter clear, though her voice was not quite as articulate as she announced, “A week later his spirit returned.”

  Those around the table hastily blessed themselves, including Marlee.

  Billie swallowed the lump that had lodged deep in her throat. He could
n’t be the ghost? He just couldn’t be.

  “Maximillian Radborne walks the halls of Radborne Manor, shouting and ranting his anger—his temper being what it was—his soul refusing to rest, to go peaceably to its reward.”

  “Or punishment,” George mumbled.

  “Hush up,” Bessie scolded her husband.

  Marlee cast George a reproachful glance and then went on. “He haunts the manor now searching for what answers, God only knows and only God can help him. On quiet, peaceful nights his distant cries can be heard in the village. They sometimes sound like whispers on the wind.”

  Billie trembled. Why couldn’t the ghost be a weeping woman? Why was it a temperamental man? “Has anyone seen this ghost?” she asked.

  Marlee wasted no time in responding. “Of course he’s been seen. Hester, one of the house staff, was cleaning the lord’s chamber early one evening a couple of weeks after the tragedy. It hadn’t been touched since the night of his death and Matilda, the manor housekeeper, ordered Hester to clean it. Not that the young girl wanted to, but duties are duties.

  “A sudden chilled breeze had the candles’ flames flickering and sent shivers up Hester’s spine. She turned from her chores wanting to rid herself of the strange room, and there Lord Maximillian Radborne stood by the blazing hearth, his elbow braced on the mantel as if he had not a care in the world. He was drenched from head to toe and wore the same clothes he had drowned in. He stared at her, his sea-blue eyes blank. He smiled that wicked half smile the ladies all loved, and held out his hand to her. Hester ran screaming from the room, right out the manor’s front door, never to return.”

  “It sends the shivers through you, it does,” a woman at the table said and swallowed a generous gulp of ale.

  Once again Billie asked a question, certain she would regret the answer. “You’ve all heard his cries?”

  “Shouts be more like it,” George amended and swiped his tankard back from Bessie. “All in the village have heard the strange sounds when passing by the manor late at night. That’s why we be minding our own business and keeping our distance from the place.”

  “Vicar Bosworth doesn’t believe the manor haunted,” Bessie corrected.

  A kindred spirit, Billie thought jokingly, though not laughing. “Vicar Bosworth?” she questioned.

  “The vicar is new to St. Clair, being here only six months. A kind, dear man he is,” Bessie said.

  “The vicar would give you refuge tonight,” Marlee strongly advised.

  Billie shook her head though her common sense disagreed. “There is no need. I have the manor to go to.”

  “Didn’t you listen? Didn’t you hear all I said?” Marlee insisted and grabbed at the small metal cross hanging on a chain around her neck as if in protection. “It’s a stormy night much like the one the lord died on. He’ll surely haunt the manor tonight.”

  “I do thank you for your concern,” Billie said and though it was a blatant lie courageously added, “I don’t believe in ghosts. My journey has been long and I have looked forward to my arrival in my new home.” Billie cast a quick glance around the room. “Won’t someone please take me to the manor tonight? I’ll gladly pay for the service.”

  Bessie nudged George in his beefy arm. “Take her,” she mumbled softly. “We could use the money.”

  “Are you crazy, old woman?” George complained.

  “Crazy enough to realize we need the money. In a few days you’ll be out of your weekly allowance of ale money and my stitching hasn’t brought in enough this month to give you extra. No ride to the manor. No ale money for the month.”

  George feared ghosts, but he feared going without ale for a month even more. He cleared his throat and spoke. “I’ll take you,” he said and added quickly. “But only to the gate.”

  Bessie shot him a scathing look, but George held his ground.

  Billie inched off the bench slowly while strongly debating the wisdom of her decision. “I’ve been caught in worse downpours. A bit of a walk won’t hurt me. I accept your offer, George.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Marlee protested. “’Tis foolish to attempt such a feat.”

  “My arrival at Radborne Manor may not be as I fancied it, but I’ll arrive nonetheless,” Billie assured her while attempting to reassure herself. “A little drenching wont’ hurt me. I had sent word to the manor that I would arrive tonight, and I suspect the warmth of a fire’s hearth is waiting for me.

  “And the ghost?” Marlee asked. All around the table grew silent as they awaited her answer.

  Billie reached for her cape, which was draped over a chair near the fire, the wool almost dry. She slipped it on and fastened the clasp near her throat. “Why, I shall tell Lord Maximillian Radborne that he no longer owns Radborne Manor and he should take his leave, permanently.”

  “Ouch!” George yelped. “I wouldn’t be doing that if I were you. He has the devil’s own temper.”

  “And I,” Billie said, tying her bonnet firmly beneath her chin with shaking hands, “am as stubborn as a mule. Now let’s be off. The rain sounds as though it has subsided.”

  “A breather, that’s all,” George said and grabbed her two traveling cases sitting by the door. “It will be a steady downpour again in a minute or two. We’d best hurry. Wait outside the door while I bring the inn’s coach around from the stables.”

  As heads were shaking and tongues clucking their disapproval, Billie took her leave of the Cox Crow Inn.

  Chapter Three

  Billie hurried into the coach, the rain now a mere trickle. Once situated on the well-worn brown velvet seat, she said a silent prayer for the storm to hold its temper until her arrival at the manor door.

  The ride was surprisingly short and a nervous George rushed her out of the coach. “Leave your heavy luggage until morning, my lady, and I’ll deliver it to the manor then.” His tongue continued its rapid-fire directions. “You’d best hurry before the rain picks up again.”

  After being deposited outside the coach, with a helpful and hasty hand from George, Billie handed him several coins. She was about to extend her appreciation for his services when he bobbed his head, ran to the front of the coach, scurried atop the driver’s seat and, with a sharp snap of the reins, took off.

  She shook her head and shivered. Marlee’s storytelling talent had certainly put the fright into him and herself as well. She was feeling none too confident at the moment. She turned reluctantly, her traveling cases in hand, ready to proceed.

  Lightning struck, illuminating the dark sky and silhouetting the manor in all its ghostly splendor.

  A gargoyle. Billie gasped and stumbled back. She swore she had seen the tiny demon creature, its grin wide, perched near a turret.

  Your overactive imagination, she scolded herself and walked with unsure steps through the tall, open, iron-spiked gates. The drive to the manor appeared longer than she had imagined.

  Get your feet moving, she cautioned herself and felt several fat raindrops pelt her bonnet and cape.

  Her steps were quick despite the mud-soaked driveway. Though it was difficult to see, her eyes stayed glued on the ominous manor in the distance. Its formidable size—three stories, turrets, adjacent wings and such—loomed like a sinister foe waiting to swallow her up. The unfriendly stone edifice extended no welcome to visitors; on the contrary, it warned them away. Did the manor somehow inherit its previous owner’s disposition, intimidating those who came to call? If so that would change and quickly. She would—

  Billie’s thoughts were scattered in a flash when her eyes noticed a flicker of light in a lone upstairs window. The light steadied for a moment as though whoever was holding it had stopped moving and then suddenly the light vanished as if snuffed out in haste.

  Not realizing she had stopped walking, Billie picked up her step considerably, the surrounding darkness and steady rain most uninviting to a lone female traveler. Not to mention the shivers that raced through her as she recalled Marlee’s suggestive and haunting words.
He’ll surely haunt the manor tonight.

  The thick wooden door with its roaring lion knocker was a most welcome sight, though the animal’s snarl was far from a friendly greeting.

  Billie raised her hand to the metal ring, rainwater dripped from her drenched gloves and plump drops fell from the brim of her scoop bonnet. She was thoroughly soaked and had just realized it, so engrossed had she been with her first sight of Radborne Manor.

  She sounded the knocker, anxious to be in out of the storm that seemed to have intensified even more with her arrival.

  Fearing the thunderclap that had sounded simultaneously with her knock had caused the occupants not to hear her summons, she raised her hand to the metal ring once again.

  The door flew open.

  “What is it you want?” the gruff little man asked. He was shorter than Billie’s five foot four inches, and his clothes gave the appearance of having been hastily slipped into. Even the few hairs on the top of his partially bald head stood up as though perturbed by her intrusion.

  Billie stiffened her posture and resolve. This night had been trying enough. She was wet and tired and wanted nothing more than a welcoming bed to soothe her aches. The servant’s ill manners she would deal with tomorrow. Her voice took on a decidedly authoritative tone. “I am Billie Latham, new owner of Radborne Manor.”

  The gruff man’s stoic expression switched from one of shock to delight in an instant. He stepped aside and waved her in. “Begging your pardon, m’lady. Please hurry in out of such a foul night.”

  Billie entered her new home soaked to the bone and dripping with rainwater. But despite her miserable state she managed a pleasant smile.

  “Forgive my rudeness,” the man continued, reaching out and snatching Billie’s traveling cases from her along with her drenched cape. “I thought your knock was a bothersome prankster from the village. Matilda, my wife and the manor housekeeper, and myself—I am Pembrooke—my lady. . .”