Old Lover's Ghost (12 page)

“I do not read much poetry,” she said. “I prefer novels. I like something to happen in books I am reading—a story, you know, and not just descriptions of flowers and things.”

“I could not agree with you more,” Lewis said at once, robbing Merton of the opportunity to agree. “But Byron gives you a dandy story as well as the trees and oceans and all. He is keen on oceans. You really ought to give him a try, Miss ... Charity,” he said with a bold look at Merton. That look said, If you can call her Charity, so can I.

“It does not seem like a story when everything rhymes, though, does it?” she said.

Lewis frowned importantly and replied, “There is something in that, by Jove. I have just been thumbing through Fanny Burney’s latest offering.” He hadn’t, but his mama had a copy that he could lend Miss Wainwright if she wanted a novel.

“I love Fanny Burney!” Charity exclaimed. “And Maria Edgeworth and Mrs. Radcliffe.”

“By the living jingo, we are as like as peas in a pod. Let us go to the graveyard.” Charity had now finished her breakfast. She rose, said good-bye to Merton, then they left, chatting about books.

“I shall show you the library later. And this afternoon we shall ...” Merton heard his brother’s voice fade out as Lewis walked off with Charity. She was supposed to be riding with him this morning, stopping by the stream to enjoy the bluebells.

And instead he sat alone, with his demmed ankle throbbing like a bad tooth.

When the footman came to refill his cup, he said, “Send for the sawbones. I want to get this ankle strapped up to allow me to walk. And ride.”

“Yes, milord.”

While Merton suffered the discomfort of having a doctor poke at his swollen ankle, Lewis and Charity went to the family graveyard. It was a perfect spring day, with the sun sending down shafts of light to fur the treetops with gold. The small family plot was hedged in by wild thornbushes, with yews along one side. Wildflowers grew between the ancient gravestones, bringing a touch of life to the place of death. Impressive marble angels and crosses marked the last resting places of the lords of Merton, with lesser stones to mark the graves of younger sons and daughters.

“That is the church,” Lewis said, pointing to a squat gray stone building in the Norman style. “The little half-timbered cottage beside it is the vicarage, where St. John lives. Meg is planted over there,” he added, pointing to the very edge of the burial yard. “She don’t have a monument. There is a little plaque lying flat on the ground. Odd she was buried here at all, but I daresay it is because of her son. I mean to say, if he was Papa’s son, then that might account for it. They are supposed to be buried together, in the one grave.”

They found the simple stone. It read: Margaret Elizabeth Monteith, 1767-1784, and newly born son, Roger. “She was only seventeen when she died,” Charity said softly. “So young, her life hardly begun.”

“To say nothing of Roger,” Lewis added. “There is an odd story about this grave. I had it of Muffal, the poacher. He says there is no kid in the grave.”

Charity frowned. “How would he know? Surely a poacher did not see the open coffin.”

“P’raps he dug up the ground and opened the coffin, but more likely he had the story of whoever put Meg in her box. Anyhow, Muffal told me the tale when I was a lad. I never forgot it.”

“But if that is true, then perhaps Meg never had a child at all.”

“Of course she did. It has having the kid that killed her.”

“Was it?” Charity asked, and stared at him until he grasped her meaning. “Or was it a pretext for murder?”

“Good lord! Are you suggesting Mama had her done away with?”

“I don’t know. I believe I am.”

“Rubbish. John talked to Mama. She told him Meg was big as a barrel. And she could not have stuffed herself with a cushion, for Papa would certainly have known the difference.”

“Not if he had stopped—I mean to say, once your Mama returned from her visit, he probably stopped seeing Meg—privately.”

“Without her shift on, you mean,” Lewis said. “Yes, I see what you are getting at. It was all a trick to con money out of Papa. But they would have had to come up with a kid eventually. I daresay Muffal was talking through his hat, trying to frighten me.”

“Is this poacher still around?”

“Of course he is. I could have a go at him. Daresay he will deny the whole thing, but I remember very well what he told me. A blasphemy, he called it. I half expected a bolt of lightning to rip down from the sky and rend the grave asunder.”

“Where could we find him?”

“In the spinney after dark, but it would be as much as your life is worth to go after him. He would take the noise of our approach for a rabbit and blow our heads—er, feet off.”

“He must be somewhere during the day.”

“He has a little shack down by the stream. I don’t know why John lets him stay, for the fellow lives off our rabbits and pheasants. Mind you, he is an excellent hand at ridding the park of moles, and he got rid of the rats in the cellar at home a while back. Does a bit of rat catching hereabouts.”

“Let us visit him.”

“If you like. I daresay John will ring a peal over me for taking you to meet Muffal. He drinks, you see. His shack is this way. He should not be bottled yet at this hour.”

He led Charity from the graveyard, across a meadow to the stream. “We could have ridden if I’d known we were going this far. I wanted to show you our hermit. He won’t talk to you. He gave it up. Talking, I mean. He lives in a cave. God only knows how he survives.”

“I believe it is the custom for the mistress of the estate to provide the hermit with meals in return for his prayers for the family’s well being,” Charity explained. “He also acts as a sort of religious consultant.”

“A regular take-in,” Lewis said. “We must do his laundry as well. I always wondered how he keeps his robe so clean. He wears white. As to praying, it is St. John who will pray us all into heaven. He lives in Mama’s pocket.”

They came to a row of willows, trailing their branches into the stream. “There is where Muffal lives,” Lewis said, pointing to a shack that tilted precariously to the left. It was about ten feet square, built of unpainted boards, with a tar-paper roof. Three dead hares hung in the unglazed window.

“It must be cold in winter,” Charity said, staring at the horrible domicile.

“Muffal goes to the poorhouse in Eastleigh in the winter. This is his summer residence. He will be fishing, I expect. You would be surprised how big some of the fish in this stream are.” He cupped his mouth with his hands and shouted, “Halloo. It’s Winton, Muffal. Are you home?” Aside to Charity he added, “I would not take you into the place for a wilderness of monkeys. I don’t know how he can stand the stench of rotting meat and dead fish.” This said, he cupped his hands and shouted again.

Almost immediately, a bearded, filthy man dressed in a ragged grogram coat of ancient vintage, with a misshapen beaver hat pulled low over his eyes, appeared around the corner. In his right hand he held a fishing rod.

“G’day, melord.” He grinned, revealing a few shattered remains of teeth. “They be biting t’day.”

“G’day, Muffal. I want to ask you something.” He went a little closer, with Charity hanging somewhat behind. “Do you mind telling me some years ago about Meg Monteith’s grave?”

“Aye, Meg and the wee one.”

“You said there was no baby buried with her. The gravestone says there is.”

“Stones can lie as well as folks, I’m thinking.”

“So you are saying Meg is alone in that grave?”

“Meg and the worms. That’s all, melord.”

“How do you come to know that?”

“Why, ‘tis well known as an old ballad. Meg sleeps alone, for t’first time since her put up her hair and let down her skirts. Hee hee.”

“Yes, but how do you know? Who told you? Or did you see her being put in the coffin?”

Muffal lifted his hat and scratched his hair. “ ‘Twas that long ago I don’t rightly remember, but I know Meg sleeps alone. Ah, she were a bonnie lass.”

Charity nudged Lewis’s elbow and whispered, “Ask him if she was ever enceinte.”

Lewis went a few steps closer and said, “Are you sure Meg ever had a babe at all, Muffal?”

“That she had, to judge by the yelling and screaming that night. I mind it well. We all see’d her body swelling day by day.”

“Where did she give birth to this baby, then?” Lewis asked.

“If you’re wanting to know more, ‘tis Old Ned you mun talk to. Ned knows more than he says.”

“You mean the hermit?” Lewis asked.

“Aye, Ned Carbury that was, afore he took religion. A fine toper was Ned, but the books destroyed him. He were always a lad for book reading. Ah, there was weird and wild goings-on in them days. Ned was groom at the big house, courting Meg, afore she caught His Lordship’s eye. He got elevated pretty quick to post of hermit with all its perkizzits.”

A rabbit darted through the meadow. Muffal dropped his fishing line. “Be that all, melord? There is a fine hopper waiting for my jiggle bag.”

Lewis could think of nothing more to ask and let Muffal go. As he walked away with Charity, he said, “I told you. There is no baby buried in that grave. Never was, never will be.”

“I wonder if Muffal learned it from Ned, the hermit. We should speak to him.”

“Ned don’t talk. That is the sort of hermit he is. He just prays, and on fine days he might sit in the sun and read for a spell.”

She directed a meaningful look at Lewis. “Very convenient, his taking a vow of silence.”

“I don’t know that it is a vow. Ned never actually took holy orders. He is a sort of amateur holy man.”

“He was given this sinecure of hermit by your father to pay him off for losing Meg.”

“I fancy that was the way of it. A pretty slim reward it was, too, but then if he had a taste for books ...”

“We have got to talk to Ned,” Charity said.

Chapter Eleven

Charity looked around, wondering where the grotto might be. Other than the graveyard, there was nothing but natural beauty around her. The meadows, the park, the stream.

“The grotto is this way,” Lewis said, pointing off to the far side of the estate. “We walked westward; the grotto is to the east.”

As they passed behind the Hall, Charity glanced up to admire the soaring stone walls and pointed windows. It was difficult to be certain, with the sun shining in her eyes, but she thought she noticed a head at one of the bedroom windows.

“Whose window is that?” she asked, pointing it out to Lewis.

“That is the east wing. Only Mama and Miss Monteith are using it at the moment. Mama had thought of putting you there, since you are a girl and John and I sleep in the west wing, but as your papa was along, she decided there was no impropriety in letting you have the Queen Elizabeth Suite after all.”

“Someone was watching us,” she said. The Hall was built on the summit of a small incline. Whoever had been watching would have had a view of the graveyard and perhaps even of Muffal’s shack. At least she (of course it was Miss Monteith she feared was watching) would have seen the direction they had gone in.

“Daresay it was John. He hobbled upstairs to keep an eye on us. I noticed he has taken to calling you Charity. Not like him. Sorry I called you Charity at breakfast. I only did it to rag John. He is usually stiff as a poker with guests Mama imports against his will. You want to be careful, Miss Wainwright, or he will be pestering you with an offer.”

“Oh, I do not think that at all likely,” Charity replied, biting back a smile. “After the scold he gave me last night, it is more likely to be an order to get out than an offer of marriage.”

“He felt demmed foolish about that. Serves him right to make a cake of himself. He is too toplofty by half. I only did it for a lark. How was I to know the gudgeon would take off after Millie and bust his ankle? But that is always the way, ain’t it? You only want a bit of fun and end up in the suds. There is the chapel. Do you want to take a peek?”

They did just that; took one quick peek at the Spartan room before continuing on their way. It seemed a great pity to Charity that the lovely little Gothic chapel, so pretty on the outside, had been stripped of all its ornaments within.

“Ned lives in the woods yonder,” Lewis said, pointing to a stand of ancient oaks with a path leading through it. “You might see him sunning himself at the edge of the stream. It winds through the woods. I catch a glimpse of him from time to time when I am out riding. He usually has his nose in a book, but sometimes he is just sitting there. He might be asleep, to judge by the looks of him, but as he is a holy man I daresay he is thinking of how many angels can dance on the head of a pin or some such deep thing.”

They continued for about a quarter of a mile through the woods. The air was cool and moist, with tall branches filtering the sun that came in sudden shafts of glory between the trees to light patches of wildflowers. The uneven path was slippery underfoot from last autumn’s fallen leaves. Squirrels chased one another up the tree trunks, chattering busily. Overhead, a jackdaw croaked a warning of their approach to the woods’ unsuspecting inhabitants. When they came to the stream, Lewis veered off the path and continued for about two hundred yards.

“There it is,” he said, pointing to a little stone grotto built into the side of a hill.

There were no statues or any indication that the grotto was used at all. It was shallow, with a squirrel scuttling through the grass.

“He cannot live there!” Charity exclaimed. “Where is his cave?”

“It ain’t a cave, exactly, but somehow we always speak of the hermit as living in a cave. Seems more hermitlike. His house is just there, beside the grotto. It seemed the proper place to put him. Hermits and grottos go together like gammon and mustard.”

She looked and discovered a pretty stone cottage set off a few yards from the grotto. It was small, perhaps comprising two rooms on one floor. It looked snug and modern, more like a tenant’s cottage than a hermit’s nook.

“Papa built it for him. I shall give the door a rap and see if he is about.”