The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1) (22 page)

“Did they keep diaries?” Her phone chirped again, twice in succession.

“Shouldn’t you get that?” Eric asked. “It might be important.”

“No,” Belinda shut the phone off. “My former roommate and my mother are being very aggressive. It’s nothing.” She slipped the cell into her back pocket with finality. “Please tell me more.”

“Very well. Yes, there were some diaries, but we primarily know about the witch from the journals of the Manning family physician, Bran Lanval. Dr. Lanval chronicled three or four generations of Mannings; he’s part of the reason we know so much about that era.”

“And he believed in witches?”

“Oh, yes. They all did back then. They hanged Carmilla Harlow at dawn on Christmas day.”

“What for?”
 

“She was suspected of hexing one of the children. By the way, I’ve had this gallows painting replaced in your office with a much more appropriate one that Johanna also did. Have you seen it yet?’

“No, I haven’t.”

“It’s a field of spring flowers with Ravencrest in the distance. An entirely different perspective.”

“Tell me about Johanna. Was she the first painter in your family?”

“No, neither the first nor the last, but she is the reason the Mannings in Old England were renowned for their peculiar celebration of Christmas.” He smiled.

“Peculiar?”

“We had Christmas trees much sooner than anyone else thanks to Johanna. She was from Strasbourg, where they were all the rage. When she married Charles Manning, she brought the tradition with her. The Mannings embraced the tannenbaum many years before they became common in England.” He had a faraway look. “Wait until you see Ravencrest at Christmas. We continue to go overboard.” He smiled. “Family tradition.”

“I love Christmas.” Belinda returned his smile. “Is there a portrait of Johanna here?”

“Absolutely. This way.” He led her twenty feet down the gallery. “This portrait of Edward Manning’s family was done in the winter of 1788. That’s Edward,” he pointed at a dark-haired man who bore a strong resemblance to himself, and that is his wife, Alice.”

“There’s a painting of Alice in my room.”

“Indeed, there is. She was a great beauty.” He paused, looking from the portrait to Belinda. “I must say, you bear more than a passing resemblance to her.”

Belinda’s stomach filled with butterflies as Eric continued. “The older lady is Johanna. And those are Edward and Alice’s children, Prudence and Parnell. In fact, Thad begged me to tell that very story this afternoon. The story of the Frost Fair on the Thames and how -- Belinda? Are you all right?”

Belinda didn’t answer him; she was staring at the little girl, Prudence, who sat with her mother. They both wore red dresses; the little girl’s was embroidered with glistening seed pearls that looked like snowflakes.
 

“Belinda.”
 

“What?”

“What’s wrong?”

“The girl,” she stammered. “She … She looks familiar.”

“Possibly you’ve seen her in another portrait. Or if you’ve seen any photos of Cynthia about that age, they’re quite alike.”

She continued to stare at the little girl. “I’m sure that’s it,” she managed to say. “Another portrait.” She paused. “Did Prudence die in childhood?”

“No, but she turned into quite the little hellcat later on.” He studied her. “I must say, Belinda, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Are you certain you’re all right?”

“Yes. I guess I’m a little tired.”

He glanced at the portrait. “We can continue this another time. Shall I see you to your quarters?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Hand at her waist, he turned her toward the door. “I’m sure a good night’s sleep will refresh you.”

Therapy for Cordelia

Nervous as cats, the two maids entered the basement. The room was dark, dank, and cold. Everything about it was gray. The walls, the ceiling, it even
smelled
gray. This was not Dominique’s first time in Mrs. Heller’s dungeon - and it
was
a dungeon - but every time felt like the first time. There was an element of danger that at once excited and terrified her. Wide-eyed Justine, who stood next to her, probably felt the same. Part of it might have been the secrecy of it all. The maids had been ordered to keep silent about this part of the house - and Mrs. Heller’s hobbies.

Throughout the room, various pieces of sinister equipment stood empty, waiting. Overhead hung yards of nylon rope, coiled around rafters and metal pegs. The walls were punctuated with a slew of items hung on more pegs: rubber and latex outfits, masks, various styles of whips, ball gags, and dildos of every color, length, and width.

Mrs. Heller stood in the center of the room. She wore a black spandex dress with dark nylons and knee-high patent leather boots. She held a riding crop and tapped the business end smartly against her palm.
Tap, tap, tap
.
 

“As it happens,” said Mrs. Heller. “You two aren’t the only ones who have been misbehaving.”

That’s when Dominique heard whimpering. In a dark corner, behind the silver glint of a full-sized iron cage, was Seth Rawlins, the handsome blond man-child who tended the horses and stables. A large red ball gag muffled his cries and his arms were bound to the rails of the cage with leather straps.

“Seth, here, has been waiting on you two for two and a half hours now. It was very rude of you to keep him in suspension.”

Dominique stepped forward. “But it’s just ten p.m. Mrs. He-”

“Silence!” Heller slapped the riding crop across her palm.
 

Dominique flinched.

Heller sighed. “Justine. Go untie the boy and bring him to me.”

“Yes, Mrs. Heller.” Justine disappeared and Heller, the overhead lights glinting on her spandex outfit, circled Dominique like a vulture watching a dying rodent. “You test my patience, Ms. de la Cruz. More so than any other members of the staff. I wonder if you realize the gravity of your irreverence toward me.” She stopped in front of Dominique, eyeing her. “No,” she continued. “I don’t think you do.” Reaching out, she pulled the gold crucifix from the maid’s neck. “You will not wear your boyfriend in my dungeon.” She flung it away.

Dominique gasped. “That’s a sin! I’m going to-”

Heller burst into laughter. “Quit? You tried that already. No, you won’t quit until I decide to let you go.”

Dominique cringed. She hadn’t been able to say the word ‘quit’ aloud; when she tried, it was as if she’d been gagged. And she found she couldn’t make herself leave Ravencrest either, no matter how many sins Mrs. Heller committed against the Lord. The woman had put a spell on her or something.
 

Justine returned with Seth Rawlins.

Mrs. Heller looked at the stableboy. “On your knees.”

He knelt, and Dominique couldn’t help staring. Seth was about her age, handsome and tanned with blond hair that fell over frosty blue eyes. He was well built and always smelled of horses and summer sweat. Some of the other maids liked to spy on him while he worked, and although she always felt guilty about it later, Dominique had joined them more than once. She’d developed a little crush on the guy, but now, even though he wore nothing more than a pair of mesh shorts, there was nothing sexy about him. His eyes were tired and red as if he’d been weeping. Strings of saliva hung from both corners of his mouth, and on his back, Dominique could see red welts where Mrs. Heller had whipped him.

“You’ll wear this,” Mrs. Heller said to Justine, handing her what looked like a mass of straps and something red. “And nothing else. Strip.”
 

Obediently, Justine removed her clothes, set them on a cruel-looking pillory, and slipped into what Heller had handed her.
 

Dominique couldn’t suppress her gasp when she saw what Justine wore: a strap-on harness sporting a huge crimson latex dildo.

Heller pressed the long, sharp heel of her knee-high boot to Seth Rawlins’ back. “Face down and ass up, boy.” Seth assumed the position. “And you,” she said to Justine “On your knees.”

Dominique watched the other maid sink to her knees behind Seth. It was like watching the plot of a horror movie unfold - she didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t look away.
 

“He will wear nothing,” Heller said.

Justine looked up at her. She appeared confused.

Heller sighed and rolled her eyes. “He will wear nothing.” She repeated herself with what seemed like great patience.

Justine’s hand was uncertain as she reached for the waist of Seth’s shorts.
 

Heller tapped the heel of her boot on the hard cold floor. “No hands, you silly little cunt. You know that. Do I need to tie them for you?”

Justine swallowed hard, shook her head, leaned in and clamped the elastic waistband of Seth’s underwear between her teeth and, after one false start, managed to peel them off.
 

“You know what to do.” Heller tossed a tube of lubricant toward Justine then sat down on a black leather settee and crossed her arms.

Justine positioned herself behind Seth and coated the red dildo with gel.

Dominique looked away. She couldn’t watch.

“And you,” said Mrs. Heller. “You will pleasure me while I observe.”

Dominique heard the dry click of her own throat as she tried to swallow.
 

“And of course, the same rules apply to you,” said Heller as she stood, slipped out of the black dress to reveal a garter belt and no underwear, then lowered herself back onto the settee. “No hands.” She leaned back on her elbows and spread her legs.

Trembling, Dominique sank to her knees.

“Enter him now, Justine. Quickly.”

Seth’s painful cries behind the ball gag made Dominique’s task seem easy by comparison. She felt guilty about how much that comforted her.

The Man in the Garden

After a relaxing shower in her starry blue bathroom, Belinda climbed into bed. Nothing strange had happened in her lavatory since that first morning, and for that, she was very grateful. Pulling the cool sheets up to her chin, she glanced over at the painting of Alice Manning and smiled. She really was a beautiful woman. As for the resemblance Mr. Manning -
Eric!
- mentioned, she didn’t really see it beyond build and coloring, but she blushed again, blood warming her face and her nether regions simultaneously.

She considered using the dilators Dr. Akin had prescribed, but she was too tired and turned off the light and slept.

***

Dawn came cloaked in fog and nightmares. Belinda shot up in bed sheened in cold sweat. The dream had come again, and began the same as before: the man called her name from the end of the hall and she followed him into the old-fashioned bedchamber where he’d tossed her onto the soft fur of the vast bed. But last night, she had realized with shock that her night visitor was
not
the image of Eric Manning at all. She felt betrayed. She felt as if her privacy had been invaded and her trust violated. Before, it had seemed only to be a vivid dream, but now, something about it felt too deliberate. Too real.
 

Last night, after the dream visitor stripped in the shadows, he moved toward her, this time stepping fully into the candlelight. She saw that his eyes were the same thunder-blue as Eric’s, but that his hair was light golden blond, pulled back into a low ponytail, and that even the his face was a little different, right down to the faint scar on his cheek.. He was handsome and there was certainly a resemblance but she was sure now that the man in her dreams was an
ancestor
of Eric’s.
That’s why it was so disturbing.
It wasn’t Edward Manning, but looked very much like him. She wondered if it was the brother of Edward that Eric had mentioned; he wore clothes of the same era. When she’d gasped, the man had laughed and then crawled onto the bed with her. She pushed him away, shot to her feet, and ran from the room.

Even now, as she sat in bed trying to catch her breath, she could hear amused hearty laughter trailing through the room. Or in her head. She couldn’t be sure which.
Maybe it wasn’t a dream …
 

She stood, wrapped her robe around herself, and crossed to the windows.
 

Outside, the sun was threatening to rise, and in the gray dawn, Belinda saw that the vast grounds were covered in misty layers of fog that rolled over the grass and through the gardens. At the edge of one garden, just past some tall white statuary, she saw movement between the trees.

A thin, dark wraith-like figure bent forward, straightened, and bent again.
 

She blinked the sleep from her eyes and squinted. The fog moved past the figure and for a moment, Belinda could see it more clearly. She moved closer, her face just inches from the cold window glass.

It was a tall man dressed in black. And he was digging a hole in the ground with a shovel.
 

She gasped and tightened the robe as a chill coursed through her. “What the… Who is that?” Her whisper misted the glass.

The fog continued to roll, blotting the figure out. Belinda stared for several moments but the fog never thinned. Dazed, she sat on the edge of her bed. Between yesterday’s terrible visions of the floating nuns in the east wing, last night’s dream, and the dark man digging in the foggy garden just now, she wondered if taking the job at Ravencrest might not have been such a good idea after all. She closed her eyes, willing the chill of fear away.
Something is wrong with this place. Very, very wrong.

Or maybe it’s just me.
She decided to call Dr. Akin and ask him for something for her nerves.

***

After breakfast with Eric and the kids, Belinda went downstairs, hoping to find Grant; she wanted to hear more about the nuns. And she was especially hoping he would be willing to talk about the little girl in red, now that she knew who she was.
 

But in the kitchen, she found only Phoebe tidying up. Grant had gone into town with Niko Stavros to take care of the marketing. It was still a little early to call the doctor’s office, so Belinda let herself out the kitchen door intending to check out the gardens where she’d seen the man digging. Pausing, she stared up at a tall, gnarled tree covered with fruit.
Persimmons!
One blushing orb dropped at her feet and she bent to examine it, a pleasant memory of her grandmother giving her sweet persimmons from her backyard tree when she was little. That had always been when they visited for Thanksgiving. But it was only June now.
Maybe it’s a different variety.