The Ghost and Jacob Moorhead (3 page)

The door opened. “My aunt is kind enough to ask that you enter—now she’s presentable again.”

“I doubt she added that last.”

“No, that was my tart tongue of course.” Her voice lowered to the barest thread of sound. “How dare you?”

“I assumed the both of you would be eating your breakfast.”

“You didn’t think anything of the sort because you didn’t think at all.”

Before he could make a proper retort to that, Mrs. Jennings’ voice, firmer than he’d expected since, according to everyone to whom he’d talked, she’d been very near death not so very long ago, suggested they carry on their acrimonious argument later. She wanted, she said, to greet his late lordship’s favorite young relative.

Jacob stuck his head in the door. “I was?” he asked and couldn’t hide an unexpected welling of warmth that brought a tinge of color into his face. As a schoolboy and later as a very young man, he’d enjoyed visiting High Moor Hall and staying with his lordship, but it had never occurred to him that the old man, a bit of a tartar, had enjoyed his immature company in any way.

“Of course you were. On the other hand,” added that sly lady, her eyes twinkling, “you cannot think his
heir
any competition for his favors.”

Jacob grimaced. “Mud is an ass.”

Mrs. Jennings sobered. She shook her head. “I think your cousin more than that, Jacob, and none of it good. You watch your back. The fourth Lord Everston will not take kindly to the notion that much of the property he intended to enjoy to the full is not, after all, his. The way the will was written will tease him into doing his vicious best to see none of you manage to fulfill the conditions of inheritance.”

“
None
of them?” asked a soft feminine voice.

Jacob had nearly—not quite, but
nearly
—forgotten Verity’s presence.

Jenna turned to her niece. “His lordship willed four unentailed properties to four of his younger relatives, but only if they obey his instructions and restrictions during this, the first year,” explained the elderly woman leaning against a mound of soft pillows.

Verity’s brows rose. She turned toward Jacob. “And
your
orders?”

“That I live here for one full year, going no farther than York in the north or Cambridge to the south. And that I never leave the property for more than a week at any time and that, when I do go, then I must return for a full month before leaving again…” He frowned, thinking. “Something else…”

“That you entertain your neighbors at four soirees or balls or something of that nature and that you hold smaller entertainments monthly, dinners or picnics, for instance. Or an evening of music or cards—or whatever you think you can tolerate,” said Mrs. Jennings, a tiny smile twitching her lips and a twinkle in her eyes.

“Ah, yes. Now I remember. I think I forgot because, at the time, I suspected that the sly old gentleman hoped I’d fall madly in love with some gentleman farmer’s daughter and wed her out of hand,” he said as lightly as he could.

“He hoped you’d marry some time in the next few years, yes, but only if you find someone with whom you can live in harmony. Someone who could enjoy country life as much as you do—or as you
did
no more than six or seven years ago.”

That last was said in a tone as dry as a good French wine and, once again, had Jacob feeling heat—this time in his ears. “Has it been so long as that since I last visited here?” he asked.

“You know it has.” The sick woman had sounded much like her old self, but now, in the way of an invalid, tired suddenly. Her head fell back for a moment before she straightened it—obviously with effort.

Jacob glanced at Verity, saw her mouth tighten, and, lightly, he said, “I’m glad you are recovering from your illness, Jenna-mine, but I think I should leave you to your breakfast and come again later. Perhaps this afternoon?”

“Teatime. The two of you,” said Jenna, glancing at her niece. “Come and have tea with me.”

“We will,” he promised even as he saw the girl give a tight little shake of her head. He caught and held Verity’s gaze. “If that is what you want, Jenna-mine,” he said to the sick woman, although he didn’t look away from Verity, “then of course we will.
The both of us
.”

Verity’s mouth compressed. Then, with a soft little sigh, she relaxed. “Yes, of course we will, my best beloved aunt.”

“Your
only
aunt.” And then Mrs. Jennings frowned. “But that isn’t true, is it? You’ve relatives on your father’s side. Verity, did you ever meet any of them?”

“Only Aunt Mary.” Verity smiled. “Aunt Mary, traveling with a companion, arrived on our doorstep when I was… Oh, what was I? Sixteen? Seventeen? Such an oddity.”

“Cousin Mary is not an oddity.” There was almost a growl in Jacob’s voice.

“An eccentric then. You’ll have to admit to that,” said Verity. Before he could object again, she added, “I liked her.”

Jacob relaxed. “So do I.” He looked thoughtful for a moment and then gave Verity a sharp glance. He nodded once and turned back to the sick woman who had watched the exchange through slightly hooded eyes. “Jenna-mine, I will see you again this afternoon.” He departed and headed back to the breakfast room, which, he discovered, had been cleared. He sighed, wondered if he dared go to the kitchens to steal a roll or an apple as he’d not have hesitated doing when a lad, decided he’d better not, returned from the ground floor to the first and went to the library at the far end from the family bedrooms.

There he took out paper, found an old-fashioned pen that wasn’t too badly in need of sharpening and opened the ink bottle. The ink, he discovered, was nearly gone. He was forced to tip the bottle in order to dip the nib deeply enough for the ink to rise up the quill’s center, but he wouldn’t need much. Thank the fates his cousin was in England and not off on one of her dangerous jaunts into the unknown. Cousin Mary would understand even a brief note. And she wouldn’t delay coming to his rescue.
His lordship
’
s granddaughter
must not live under the same roof as he himself did. Not without a chaperon—whatever
the housekeeper
’
s niece
felt was or was not necessary.

Jacob looked up. “I suppose,” he said to the ambient air, “that it must be a trifle confusing, her place in life. But she is my granduncle’s granddaughter and that is how she should behave.” Leaning back and running the quill’s barbs through his fingers, he continued softly, “In fact, I think it is time for Mrs. Jennings to retire. There is no reason at all why she cannot live here with the two of us. But—” he straightened up and laid aside the quill, “even if I can convince her to do so, Cousin Mary will be the more acceptable chaperon. Acceptable to the neighborhood, I mean.” He folded and sealed his letter.

Across the room, perched cross-legged on top of the globe, the late Lord Everston nodded.
A very good thought that
, he said.

Jacob’s head snapped around—but there was nothing to see. He looked at the glass of burgundy he’d poured, blinked, shook his head as if to chase away a ringing in his ears. Pushing the glass away, he stood, stared at the wine. Once again he glanced around the room and then drew in a deep breath, which he blew out slowly. “Maybe I’ve been dipping a little deep lately?” he asked.

Told you you have
, said that voice. This time it sounded cross rather than approving.

Jacob stiffened. Without another glance, he picked up his letter to Verity’s Aunt Mary and left for the stables. He didn’t relax until he was speaking with the head groom. The head groom chose a good steady man, who, after packing a saddlebag for a few days on the road, left High Moor Hall carrying the letter for Lady Mary Tomlinson who lived on a small estate, situated on the Thames between London and Richmond.

“And what about you, sir?” asked the head groom. “We’ve not so many horses as we once had but I think I can find something you’ll like.”

Jacob decided a ride, reacquainting himself with all those places that had once been favorite haunts, was an excellent notion. Anything that would take him away from that blasted voice. A voice that did not,
could
not, exist. Had he really been drinking so much he was on the verge of requiring a place in a bedlam?

Jacob looked over the gelding led out for his inspection. “Moorland’s Ghost?” he asked, thinking of the irony of the name when it was a ghost—or rather it
wasn
’
t
a ghost—that had chased him from the library. “He’ll do very well,” he said approvingly and was soon on his way across broad acres populated with clumps of white where fat sheep grazed. He wondered idly when they were sheared, something he’d always wanted to watch but which he’d never before been present to see.

This year
, he thought,
I
’
ll be here
. He was surprised by the satisfaction he felt at the knowledge.

Half an hour after leaving the stables, he reached the riverbank where he’d once spent hours and hours fishing, casting his line as his granduncle taught him to do. Occasionally, just often enough to keep him interested, he’d catch something. It was a nice swift-running stream, tumbling over rocks as it fell down from the hills that bordered the northern edge of the estate and, older now, Jacob saw the natural beauty surrounding him as well as the opportunity for sport. He breathed in cool fresh air—air untainted by harsh coal smoke and the acrid odor left by too many horses pulling too many carts, the equally unpleasant stink of open sewers that every breeze wafted into all parts of London. The better areas had solved only part of that particular problem, getting rid of open sewers and allowing the dealers in night soil to grow wealthy off the, um,
leavings
of the rich…

Jacob breathed in deeply and smiled. A feeling of satisfaction filled him. And, setting his mount to an easy canter, he continued on his way. This time he headed for the home farm where he used to visit Mrs. Green’s kitchen, enjoy her excellent baking…and, having missed his breakfast, he rather hoped that perhaps he might once again be so indulged.

* * * * *

Verity compressed her mouth into a hard line. “No. You don’t understand. You
must
not.”

Mrs. Jennings looked at her niece through narrowed eyes. “Must not? You will tell me I must not?” She scowled. “And why
must
I not?”

“You cannot tell him to go. This is
his
home. If anyone leaves, it must be me.” The panic she’d first felt as her first grief at the news of her family’s deaths faded once again snaked up her spine.
Where would I go
?
Where could I go
? she wondered. “Besides, he
must
live here. The will insists on that. You know he must.”

“It will not contravene the will if he stops at the inn in the village for a few days. Just until we can contrive…something.”

“I am your niece. I am a servant in his house. I do not need a chaperon.”

“You are your father’s daughter and you
do
. I have told you, you are not to take on my duties, that Emma is well enough trained to do so.” But thinking of Emma, the ill housekeeper once again frowned.

“Emma is all very well in her way but she has a very bad habit of dithering when she discovers a servant isn’t doing exactly as she’d like. She lacks…firmness.”

Mrs. Jennings smiled a quickly disappearing grin at the understatement. “It is the one thing I have not been able to train out of her, that diffidence. She knows the work from the top of the house to the bottom. She knows the yearly schedule better than I do. She is someone I can depend on absolutely.”

“But she is not housekeeper material, Aunt. Under-housekeeper, yes, but not housekeeper. What is more,
she
knows it. She isn’t happy when she must take on the mantle of authority you’ve had to lay down.”

“For a time,” said Verity’s aunt, inserting the words quickly, before Verity could say others she didn’t want to hear. And then she sighed. “I do not,” she said crossly, “understand why I tire so easily.”

“Will you not accept that you very nearly died, that you frightened us all to death? That it will take time for you to recover? That you must rest? And rest you will. I will leave you now and you will sleep. In an hour or so it will be time for a bit of luncheon and I will join you here for that.”

“And in the meantime you will do all those things I have forbidden you to do.” Mrs. Jennings scowled at her niece but then yawned a huge gaping yawn. “Drat. I’ve not the energy to argue with you. Go then. Pretend you are not your grandfather’s granddaughter. You’ll make him angry, but why would you care for that?”

She yawned again, her eyes closing. When she opened them sometime later, her niece was gone but sitting on the side of her bed was his lordship—or rather the
ghost
of his very dead lordship. “Ah. Mel, my love. There you are.” She brightened. “I wondered where you’d gotten to.”

Did you think I
’
d left you alone to muddle through the mess I
’
ve left behind me
? he asked, both the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes that of tenderness.
Ah
,
my love
—
my one and only love
—
I am not such a marplot as that
.
Never fear
.
I
’
ll not go from this plane of existence until you can go with me
.