Donna Fletcher Read online

  That left Billie to her own devices, and she intended to explore the caves. She grabbed the gray wool gloves on the bed and hurried out of the room.

  Her steps were quiet yet hasty as she took the stairs down to the first floor. She hoped Maximillian was otherwise occupied and would not notice her presence in the caves.

  He had been a tyrant of late, demanding she cease all refurbishing of the manor, that she curtail her visits to the vicar and that she place more effort on his problems. Yet he refused her admittance to the caves and warned her to be cautious of whom she spoke with concerning him.

  Afternoon clouds gathered outside as Billie readied a lantern in the kitchen. A distant roll of thunder warned of another impending storm. John had informed her that all the current rain only aided in bringing to life the spring beauty of the Cornish coast. He told her of the wildflowers that would grace the land and how the beaches would be strewn with smooth stones and driftwood in the oddest shapes.

  She looked forward to the transformation, for she honestly had begun to detest the rain. And when raindrops began to hit the window she childishly stuck her tongue out at them.

  Content with her petulant action, she grabbed the glowing lantern and walked over to the cupboard. Slipping her hand behind the almost undetectable crack, she activated a lever and the cupboard slowly squeaked open.

  Thunder rumbled closer and a spine-tingling shiver raced through Billie. She reminded herself that she possessed her father’s adventurous soul and most importantly his courage. He had told her many times that fear was an emotion easily controlled. The unknown and uncertainty was what caused fear in many. Knowing life was abundant with both and having the courage to face either was what conquered the fear.

  She was about to conquer.

  Billie held the lantern high, recalling Matilda’s warning that the descent to the caves could be dangerous and she should mind her steps. Actually Matilda, like everyone else, had warned Billie to keep her distance from the caves. But she, unlike the others, had informed Billie of the secret entrance.

  The steps were narrow and made of stone. They wound their way down as if descending into a pit, narrowing at intervals and making Billie wonder if all of the Radbornes had possessed a thin physique.

  The air grew damp and dark. Billie brushed cobwebs that hung like fine threads out of her way and was grateful for the gloves she wore, especially when the stone wall she braced her hand against for balance grew moist.

  Just when she thought her descent was drawing her down into Hell, she came to a wooden door bolted with a thick metal latch. She placed the lantern on the bottom step and attempted to lift the latch. It didn’t budge. She needed more strength behind her to move the heavy, rusted metal.

  Leaning down and bracing her shoulder beneath the latch, she shoved all her weight against it. It rattled and creaked, but didn’t open. Another effort fueled by her grunts and groans found the latch opening in protest and Billie’s shoulder aching. She would surely be bruised tonight.

  She braced her heels against the bottom stone step and laid her hands flat against the heavy door and pushed. The door opened slowly with a tortured creak.

  Cold, damp air rushed around her, stealing her breath for a moment. She stepped back and reached for the lantern. Holding the flickering light high above her head, she proceeded cautiously into the cave.

  The stone floor became a dirt floor and the deeper she traveled, the wider the passageway became until its width was the size of a small room. Here she found broken crates and barrels. Giving them a quick inspection and finding nothing of relevance, she moved on.

  The passageway again grew narrow and veered to the left, then suddenly opened up on to another room-sized cave. Here crates and barrels were stacked high. None were broken. All were nailed tightly shut.

  She could hear the roar of the sea sounding as angry as the thunder that boomed like arguing voices overhead. She assumed she was close to the entrance of the cave from the beach. If she investigated and found where on the beach it opened to, perhaps it would prove beneficial for future reference.

  A squeal and scurry of feet along the crates gave her a start and she turned, catching sight of several rats racing across the crates. She grabbed for the lantern, knocking it off the barrel. She stumbled, grasping for it and catching the handle before the lantern hit the ground.

  A sudden rush of salty sea air swirled around her. The tangy scent was all too familiar. She righted herself and with confidence she swung the lantern high, turned around and faced . . .

  “You’re not Maximillian.” Billie stared wide-eyed at the older gentleman standing a few feet in front of her. Impeccably dressed in black-and-gray attire, he stood a good six feet tall with pure white hair and a mustache.

  “I’m Oran Radborne,” he said with a pleasant smile. “And you are?”

  “Dead.”

  “Oh dear, you are, too?”

  Billie shook her head and closed her eyes. “This isn’t happening. He isn’t here. There are no such things as ghosts.”

  “Oh, but there are, my dear,” he assured her, justifying his belief with a serious nod of his head. “When alive, I thought as you. Ghosts were a figment of a storyteller’s mind. One had to be insane to believe in ghosts. Unfortunately, I died and I found I became a very real ghost.”

  Billie collapsed onto the barrel behind her, dropping the lantern on the top crate, stacked three high beside her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, sitting himself on a barrel a short distance to her right.

  Billie sighed, pulling the cap from her head. Her thick hair fell in a mass of waves past her shoulders. “How many ghosts haunt Radborne Manor?”

  He cleared his throat with a brief cough. “I can’t be sure.”

  “I can’t believe I’m sitting here talking to another ghost. I must be insane to believe all this nonsense.” Her eyes shot open wide. “How do I know you’re Oran Radborne and not just some smuggler or lunatic?”

  Oran smiled broadly. “A beautiful and intelligent woman. How delightful.”

  Billie’s hands went up in surrender. “You must be Max’s father.”

  “Max? Oh Maximillian. Yes, dear I am Max’s father.” He hid a chuckle behind his raised hand. “Of course if you would like to make certain of my identity, there is a portrait of me in the hallway not far from Max’s portrait.”

  “I think I recall seeing it, though briefly. I’ll take a look when I return.”

  “What are you doing down here in the caves? They are dangerous for a woman.”

  Billie noticed that he spoke with fatherly concern, unlike his demanding son. Was she actually speaking with the ghost of Oran Radborne? Or was someone out to play tricks on her, perhaps make her appear crazy. But why? What would the person gain? She decided to proceed with caution and tell no one of this meeting.

  “Do you only haunt the caves?” she asked. “You’ve never shown yourself above in the house.”

  A sadness washed over him, his shoulders sagging with the weight. “Rarely do I go above to the manor. Too many memories.”

  Sorrow tugged at Billie. He was alone. His spirit doomed to walk these caves for how long? “Why can’t your spirit rest?”

  “A need to protect.”

  This was one explanation she hadn’t hard. “Protect who?”

  “Protect those involved.”

  “With your death?”

  “The innocent ones, yes. The wrongdoers I wish to see punished.”

  For some reason Billie felt this information was important. Why? She couldn’t say, but like a puzzle she needed to sort all the pieces before fitting them together and seeing it clearly.

  She pursued. “Who are the innocent ones?”

  “The people who loved me. I fear they may be in trouble.” He frowned and his voice grew firm. “I want no harm to befall them.”

  “Who are—”

  He stopped her. “I cannot tell you everything. I can only assist you in finding
the answers.”

  Confused, she shook her head. “Why?”

  “You will come to understand everything in time. Trust me.”

  “A ghost?” she asked, furrowing her brow. “You expect me to trust yet another ghost?”

  He smiled like a kindly old gentleman offering advice. “Trust your intelligence.”

  She nodded with a grin. This ghost she could get to like. “Good advice. Now what else can you tell me?”

  “Listen closely to what people say. They offer much more information than they realize. And find out what you can about one Derry Jones. But be careful—he is an unsavory character.”

  “Could this Derry Jones have anything to do with the attempts on Maximillian’s life, before his death?”

  “Much is involved. All of it must be solved to be settled. And you, a stranger to St. Clair, will see more clearly than those who have spent a lifetime here.”

  “You should tell that to your son,” Billie said. “He has a problem with his lordship status and issuing commands.”

  Oran chuckled, not bothering to hide his mirth. “Maximillian has much to learn.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

  “Then teach him,” he challenged.

  She held up her hand in defense. “No, thank you.”

  “Too much for you?”

  She bristled for a moment and then she laughed and shook her finger at him. “You’re a sly one. But you’re not going to trick me into teaching Max anything.”

  “Not even how to let go?”

  She saw the sorrow in his eyes.

  “He needs to say his good-byes and move on. Help him.”

  She had her doubts, too many doubts. “I don’t know if I can.”

  “You will try?”

  He didn’t request, he pleaded. How could she say no to this old man who wanted nothing more than for his son to accept his own death and go on to rest in peace? And if she didn’t rid the manor of these ghosts, she would be living with them for a lifetime.

  She made the decision quickly. “I’ll try.”

  “You must go back,” he said, standing. “The cave is growing damper from the storm and I don’t wish to see you become ill. We’ll talk again.”

  Billie stood and picked up the lantern. “Shall I visit with you down here or will you—”

  She stopped talking when she realized she was alone. “I hate when they do that. Poof, off they go into thin air.”

  She shook her head and made her way toward the narrow passageway.

  “Billie,” the soft voice called.

  She turned, but saw no one.

  “We shall visit again—be careful. And put your trust in the vicar He will help you.”

  His voice drifted off, sounding like whispers on the wind. She shivered and hugged her middle with one arm for warmth before heading back in the same direction from which she had come.

  o0o

  John stopped by the manor after his visit with the ill parishioner. Billie offered him food though the hour was past the evening meal. He declined and they both settled with tea in the receiving parlor.

  “Was your day eventful?” he asked, relaxing in the gray high-backed chair with his teacup.

  She thought about her day, exploring the cave and talking with a ghost. She couldn’t stop her smile from spreading. “Yes, very.”

  He appeared pleased by her response. “What kept you occupied and obviously pleased?”

  She was about to blurt out everything about her adventurous day and then thought better of it. She sent a silent prayer to Heaven, asking for forgiveness for lying to a vicar. “I was busy deciding on various patterns, materials and colors for the other rooms.”

  “An eventful day is always pleasing,” he said and gave his wire-rimmed glasses a familiar push. “You look weary, Billie. Are you sure you didn’t swing a hammer with the workers?”

  Noting his teasing smile, Billie produced one of her own. “I made myself familiar with the manor. The tour was exhausting.” At least that wasn’t a lie. The caves were, in essence, part of the manor and upon her return upstairs she quickly had changed her clothes and took herself off for further investigation of her home.

  “And what did you come across?”

  She stood and held her hand out to him. “I’ll show you.”

  He placed his teacup on the silver server and stood, taking her hand.

  Billie opened the door with John in tow and almost collided with Pembrooke.

  Pembrooke took a step back. “My apologies, m’lady.”

  “No harm done, Pembrooke. The vicar and I are off to the conservatory.”

  “The conservatory has been closed off until spring.” He sounded as if he were ordering her to stay away from it.

  “I opened it this afternoon. It’s much too lovely a room to be shut off,” she said and tugged at John’s arm. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  Pembrooke appeared flustered. “M’lady, the conservatory should remain—”

  “Open,” she finished and walked off, dragging an unresisting John behind her.

  Billie hurried across the foyer and down the hall, releasing the vicar’s hand as they came upon wood-framed glass doors that Billie reached out and flung open.

  She waltzed into the room, spinning around gaily, her moss-green wool dress wrapping around her slender legs. “Isn’t it wonderful? Can you imagine it in the summer, bursting with colorful flowers?”

  John stood and watched her face grow bright with excitement.

  She continued explaining to John as if he couldn’t see for himself. “The glass ceiling and walls make me feel as though the outside is inside, and look here,” she said, hurrying over to the white orante metal table and two chairs. She ran her hand lovingly across it. “A perfect spot for afternoon tea.”

  She wished it were daylight so John could enjoy the beauty of the room. She was glad at least that the storm clouds had drifted off and a bright full moon sprinkled its rays over the glass, infusing it with enough light to see by.

  “It must be a beautiful view during the day,” John commented.

  “Fantastic,” she cried, spreading her hands out to the windows. “You can see the gardens. I can’t wait to begin changing the flower beds and planting a larger herb garden.”

  “Change the gardens?”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “And look at this beautiful white wicker furniture.” She plopped down in the rocking chair with the exotic print cushion. “How lovely it would be to rock a child to sleep here or spend a summer evening with a husband.”

  “You take too much work on yourself.”

  Having been lost in the image of a family sharing an evening together in the conservatory bright with lights and laughter, she had to ask, “What was that you said, John?”

  “You talked about changing the gardens,” he explained softly. “And you haven’t even finished the inside.”

  “Oh pish, John,” she said, walking over to him and hooking her arm through his. “This is my home now and I so enjoy creating a warm and welcoming manor.”

  He looked down at her strangely.

  She held firmly to his arm, smiling and surprised by the strength she felt beneath the dark material.

  His eyes transfixed on her face, he whispered, “I missed you.”

  A tremor rushed through her stomach and she realized she was glad he was here with her. His presence comforted her and surprisingly stirred her. She wished he would kiss her.

  He obviously felt the same way since he leaned over and gently captured her lips. He lingered in his pursuit, tasting her with a tenderness that sent shivers racing through her.

  He kept her at a proper distance, not allowing their bodies to touch but not allowing their lips to part. He lingered in his sweet assault until both their bodies trembled and he eased himself away.

  He took her hands in his. “You’re very special to me, Billie.”

  Her lips tingled and she could still taste him on her. It felt exquisite
. “The feeling is mutual.”

  “You will have tea with me tomorrow at the vicarage?” he asked hopefully.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she agreed readily.

  He walked with her out of the conservatory. “You’re right about that room. It would be a wonderful place for a husband, wife and baby.” It sounded to her as if he longed for a family to love. “Now I must take my leave. The hour grows late.”

  She accompanied him to the door and he brushed a brief kiss on her cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I look forward to it,” she said and watched him walk out into the night, the darkness swallowing him up. She closed the door and leaned against it.

  Her thoughts rushed through her. He would make a good husband and a good father. He would be thoughtful to his wife and treat her with respect, not order her about.

  “Pardon me, m’lady,” Pembrooke said, interrupting her mental survey of the vicar. “Is there anything else you require this evening?”

  “No, thank you, Pembrooke. I’m off to bed.” She headed for the stairs and stopped, turning back around to address Pembrooke once again. “Why didn’t you want me to go into the conservatory?”

  Surprised by her directness, he stumbled over his words. “It’s . . . that is . . . it’s draft . . . terribly drafty. I wouldn’t want you becoming ill.”

  She nodded, accepting his explanation. “Perhaps I shall look into having a hearth installed in there and then it will be available to use year round.”

  “Yes, m’lady,” he said and walked away, mumbling.

  By the time Billie climbed the stairs and closed the door to her bedchamber, complete fatigue had claimed her. Every limb ached and every muscle protested, and her shoulder had begun to pain her. She would now suffer the consequences of her exploration of the caves.

  With slow movements she began to undress. She carefully hung her dress in the wardrobe and attempted to make hasty work of her remaining garments. Her protesting limbs prevented her from rushing.

  After several painful minutes she finally managed to slip on her white linen, lace-trimmed night rail. She collapsed with fatigue onto her vanity bench and proceeded to take her hair down.