Maggie MacKeever

LORD FAIRCHILD’S DAUGHTER

Maggie MacKeever

Chapter 1

The coach lumbered awkwardly along the deeply
rutted causeway.  The driver swore mightily as his sweating, heaving horses stumbled, regained their footing, labored on.

Nightfall was upon them. Desolate countryside was made even more inhospitable by the wind’s cold breath. The pallid glitter of a sickle moon did little to brighten the deepening gloom, and the driver, who claimed to disavow superstition, cursed again and cracked his whip above his horses’ unhappy heads. It was a time not fit for man or beast, along the late spring coast.

Loveday opened her eyes cautiously. The violent careening of the coach induced sensations of extreme physical discomfort, and Loveday hadn’t eaten since the previous day. She wondered if Jem, her half-brother, had fared better; she suspected he had. Jem would consider this precipitous flight a grand adventure. She could easily picture him riding along behind an ancient workhorse in a rickety farm cart, a piece of straw between his teeth, the picture of bucolic bliss.

No one would ever suspect that such a rustic-seeming lad was, in fact, the natural son of one of England’s most dissolute lords, nor would they imagine that the load of hay and produce camouflaged a fashionable young lady’s wardrobe. Loveday hoped her own disguise was equally effective, for discovery would result in extreme unpleasantness. She could not imagine that the irascible Lord Fairchild would greet his runaway offspring with that welcome reserved for prodigal children, were Loveday and Jem unwillingly returned to him.  More likely, he would insure that she comported herself in accordance with the scandalous wager that he’d made.

The gentleman’s code was beyond Loveday’s understanding.  Lord Fairchild considered it perfectly acceptable that he had wagered his only daughter’s virtue at play.  His sole dishonor would arise from her thankless behavior, for her flight of necessity rendered him unable to pay his gaming debt. Jem’s complicity would have the effect of pouring salt on an open wound.

Contemplating her sire’s certain wrath upon the discovery of their escape, and Theo’s rage at being balked of his rightful winnings, Loveday smiled. Theophilus Tierney was not a gentleman to arouse the more tender emotions in a young lady’s breast.

“Well, now, that’s better. How about an orange?” Loveday’s only fellow passenger observed her sympathetically. “This rackety old stage can take one mortal bad. Go on, take it.  You look a trifle peaked. Some food will do you good.” She waved the proffered present under Loveday’s nose.

Murmuring her thanks, Loveday accepted the lush fruit gratefully. Her companion nodded, pleased, and Loveday surveyed her thoughtfully. The woman looked like a spry little broody hen, with gray plumage and bright brown eyes.

“I’m Mrs. Merryweather, dear.  Housekeeper for the squire.” The old lady paused, preening as she awaited an answer, and Loveday quickly assembled her scattered wits.

“So kind,” Loveday murmured. Amusement threatened to overcome her, and she quickly bit into another section of orange.

“I do have to be careful. I’m forever plagued by people wanting me to use my influence. But you don’t seem the encroaching sort.” A worried expression clouded Mrs. Merryweather’s features. “A governess, are you? I didn’t know anyone in the village needed one. Or don’t you have a position? I daresay I could help you find something. You look a good sort of girl, but awfully young, ain’t you? Well? Cat got your tongue?”

Loveday shook her head, bemused. “I’m going to Ballerfast.” An avid look settled on Mrs. Merryweather’s fowl-like face, and Loveday silently rued her unruly tongue. She hoped there were children at Ballerfast; otherwise, she’d rendered her masquerade useless. It wasn’t likely that the disreputable Lord Fairchild would rouse himself from his habitual languor long enough to search personally for the runaways, but she and Jem both had a healthy respect for their sire’s formidable temper, and they had prudently taken steps to insure a certain amount of secrecy.

The residents of the castle, Ballerfast, were distant connections of the family. Loveday hoped she hadn’t been rash in assuming she and Jem might find shelter there. If denied safe haven in the residence of the noble Veres, they would truly be, as Jem would have it, in the suds.

Mrs. Merryweather appeared satisfied. “You’ll be looking after that poor daft Dillian, of course.” She noted Loveday’s surprise. “They didn’t tell you, did they? Ah well, I daresay it won’t be too bad. She’s not violent, but suffers from nervous agitations, poor child.”

Loveday was startled, for this was a very loose way of talking. Reticence was apparently not one of the housekeeper’s virtues. She realized that her companion had paused in expectation of an answer.  “I beg your pardon?”

Mrs. Merryweather sniffed. “A young lady in your situation shouldn’t give herself airs. You may be of genteel birth, as anyone can see, but you’re forced to earn your living just like the rest of us—and anything you may learn about the castle will be to your advantage.”

“Thank you for the advice.  I did not mean to vex you.” Privately, Loveday decided her fellow passenger was a meddlesome old cat.

The squire’s housekeeper was mollified. “Ballerfast’s no fit place for a young lady. Whatever were your people thinking of to let you come here?”

“I am an orphan.” If only such were indeed the case. “And good positions are not easily come by.”

Mrs. Merryweather nodded. “I thought so. The castle is a wicked place, and the goings-on there don’t bear talking of. My advice, asking your pardon if not wished for, is to not go next to or nigh it. ‘Tis lucky for you I visited my daughter today; otherwise, there’d be none to warn you.” Such a thought seemed to upset Mrs. Merryweather, for she shook her head and clucked. Loveday was reminded again of a fat gray hen. “Care to see my fish?”

Loveday’s wandering thoughts were rudely interrupted. “What?” she asked faintly, as she looked with dismay on the straw basket that Mrs. Merryweather proudly brought forth.

“From my daughter. Prime fish they are, too.” Without further ado, Mrs. Merryweather pulled back the checkered cloth that covered the basket and displayed its contents to her companion’s fascinated gaze. The smell intensified Loveday’s queasiness, and she let her head fall back against the seat.

“Ah, poor lass, you’re faint again. Here, take this.” Loveday felt smelling salts pressed into her hand. “That’s it.  You just lean back there and I’ll tell you all about the Veres.”

The woman’s voice droned on monotonously, but Loveday heard little of what was said. Her thoughts were centered on Ballerfast and her anticipated reception there. She knew little about the inhabitants of the castle, only that Lady Isolda resided there. Periodic rumors about the Ballerfast menagerie flew around London, for young Averil Vere, Duke of Chesshire, Isolda’s rakehell grandson, also dwelt in the ancestral abode. Loveday was casually acquainted with Averil, for she too was of the
ton,
but she considered him insufferably arrogant, despite his undeniable attractiveness. Men with scars were considered fashionably fascinating, and the angry line that marked the left side of the duke’s face, from temple to jaw, was generally accorded a particularly handsome specimen.

“Of course you wouldn’t know,” Mrs. Merryweather commented smugly, “but that’s the present Duke of Chesshire. And a wild one he is, but nothing to what his pa Everard was in
his
grasstime.”

“I’m sorry.” Loveday roused quickly from her stupor. “What did you say about the present duke?”

Mrs. Merryweather regarded her knowingly.  “I thought that’d make you take notice. But don’t imagine that you’ll catch his eye, my girl! His high-and-mightiness hasn’t time for them as aren’t of the Quality.” The old woman’s tone was definitely acidulous, and Loveday wondered what the duke had done to win himself such wholehearted disapproval.

“I would never think to look so far above my station,” she protested, opening her amber eyes wide in what she hoped was an expression of shocked innocence.

Mrs. Merryweather nodded sharply.  “You’ll do well to remember my words. The Vere men all are womanizers, none worse, as many a village family knows.” She paused, dramatically.  Loveday assumed an expression of interest and waited for the squire’s housekeeper to come to the point. Perhaps it would be best to learn what she could of the people she was going to meet.

The woman’s voice lowered to a whisper. “They all meet with tragic ends, too.  Bad blood always tells. The last governess killed herself, poor thing. At least that’s what
they
say; I don’t hold with it myself. What puzzles me is why she’d go and do a thing like that when everyone knew Lady Isolda had a particular liking for her.
I
say--” Mrs. Merryweather’s eyes glittered as she leaned across the seat toward Loveday, who decided irreverently that her companion resembled not
so
much a fat gray hen as an obscenely overfed bird of prey, “--he killed her himself. Got tired of her, and up and murdered her!”

Loveday was intrigued less by these revelations than by Mrs. Merryweather’s bloodthirst. “Surely there was some sort of investigation?  I mean, if there was any question about her death?”

“Lord love you, child, of course not. The Veres don’t hold with strangers poking their noses into family matters! There wasn’t any questions asked when the old duke was murdered by his own son, either.”

“The old duke?” Loveday echoed. It was beginning to seem that her hurried flight had taken her into circumstances even worse than those she’d fled.

“Aye, Timothy, the Black Duke.” Mrs. Merryweather spoke with ghoulish delight. “Some say he walks those long cold corridors in the dead of night, seeking his revenge. But the Duchess of Chesshire won’t hold with such tales, not that she’d admit it if the old duke
did
walk.” Loveday was visited by a vast sense of relief, prompted by this assurance that her distant kinswoman was still in residence, which lasted only until Mrs. Merryweather spoke again.

“I don’t understand why they didn’t get one of the village girls to look after the daft one,” the old woman said. “It’s not as if she’d need much learning. A keeper, more like. Of course, the village girls don’t much like to go to the castle. And their folks don’t like them to, either. Understandable. Ah, here we are.” Mrs. Merryweather began to gather her assorted belongings. “Now you remember, you come to me if you run into trouble up there, which I’ll warrant you will.”

The coach came to an abrupt halt, and Loveday grabbed at the swinging strap. Mrs. Merryweather moved with an agility that belied her numerous years. “And remember,” she warned, as she clambered out of the coach, “what happened to the last one!”

Loveday had only a glimpse of the sleepy village, where narrow paved streets meandered between weather-beaten cottages and shuttered shops, before a mighty bellow from the driver set the tired horses into erratic motion once again. She sank back onto her seat, her thoughts awhirl. Impossible to return to London, not now when her father would have discovered their hasty flight. Loveday didn’t care to dwell on his probable reaction. She was resolved not to meekly bestowing her seemingly valuable chastity upon Theo, as her fond parent decreed.

Loveday consigned all gamesters to unholy torments. She had nowhere else to hide than at Ballerfast. Loveday knew better than to approach her father’s family, a motley group who would immediately pack her off to the dastardly Theo; and her mother’s family refused to acknowledge any relationship after she made so shocking, and so disastrous, a misalliance. Only Loveday’s grandmother had been sympathetic, and that lady had not long survived her daughter.

But according to Mrs. Merryweather, Ballerfast wasn’t a particularly wise choice of sanctuary. Even if they welcomed her, what guarantee was there that she’d survive the Veres’ kindness? Loveday’s common sense asserted itself, then. Murders and ghosts—fine things for a young lady of noble blood and soon-to-be independent means to ponder. There were more important matters to consider, such as what she and Jem would do when she came into her inheritance. Jem wanted his farm, and had the means to purchase it, but what of herself? An involuntary shiver crawled along Loveday’s spine. Night was fast thickening, and cold winds howled outside the bouncing coach. She knew the castle lay near the village; surely they’d soon arrive. Loveday spent the rest of her journey thinking wistfully of warm soft beds, blazing fires, and various mouthwatering dishes.

The coach came to a bone-jarring halt.  The door flew open, admitting gusts of frigid air, just as Loveday was contemplating broiled fowl with mushrooms.

“Out you go, miss,” the driver growled, and Loveday quickly grasped her handbox. “Take that lane.”

No sooner had Loveday stepped out than the empty coach rattled noisily away over the rough road, as if the very hounds of hell followed in hot pursuit. Loveday stared after the vehicle. Apparently Mrs. Merryweather wasn’t alone in believing the castle haunted.