The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1) (7 page)

“Sorry,” said the boy, and Belinda could tell he was sincere. She gave him a reassuring smile, which he seemed to appreciate.

Manning turned to the girl, a strawberry blonde who would soon be nearing the gawky stages of pre-adolescence. “And this is Cynthia.”

“I’m glad to meet you, Cynthia.”

The girl averted her eyes.

Mr. Manning cleared his throat. “What do you say, Cynthia?”

Cynthia grumbled. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, barely troubling to open her mouth.

“And now that the introductions are over,” said Mr. Manning, “you have to be in class in fifty minutes, correct?”

“Uh huh,” the girl mumbled.

“Let’s get started on breakfast then.”
 

The kids approached their chairs. Cynthia groaned and rolled her eyes but little Thad grinned at Belinda. His smile lit the room up even more. “We’re going on a field trip to the dinosaur museum today!”

Cynthia poked him in the ribs, hard, before she sat down.

“Hey!”

“I love the dinosaur museum,” Belinda said. “Which is your favorite dinosaur, Thad?”

“Stegosaurus! I like the pointy things on his back!”

“He’d be a hard ride, wouldn’t he?”

Thad laughed.

One down, one to go.
The little girl wasn’t going to be so easy. Not by a long shot.

“Please be seated, Miss Moorland.” Mr. Manning took a chair between the kids.

“Thank you.” Belinda sat across from him.

He smiled. “Welcome to our little family.”

The girl rolled her eyes again.

“Thank you. Please, call me Belinda. All of you.”

“Belinda,” repeated Thad. “Our other governesses made us call them Miss or Mrs. Are you a Miss or a Mrs.?”

Belinda felt herself blush. “A Miss.”

“Your new governess is an accomplished musician,” Mr. Manning told the kids as Grant Phister entered and crossed to the dumbwaiter by the buffet. He slid it open, revealing a bevy of silver platters laden with covered plates and pitchers of orange juice and milk. The scent of coffee drifted from a pot. “She’s going to help you both with your piano lessons.”

Thad looked a little dubious and Cynthia stuck out her tongue, but did it at the empty plate in front of her.

“I know some funny songs,” Belinda said.

Thad looked up. “Do you know ‘How would you like to be put in a box?’”

Belinda weighed her answers then said, singsong, “‘Covered with dirt and then with rocks.’”

Thad grinned again and glanced at his father, then was saved by the butler who said, “‘Your eyes decay and turn to green,’ I believe.”

“‘And pus runs out like shaving cream!’” sang Thad.

Belinda glanced at Mr. Manning and was relieved to see he didn’t look angry. Even Cynthia had lost her scowl, though she was working hard to get it back.

Grant served scrambled eggs with hollandaise sauce, browned sausage, fluffy hash browns, and little silver dollar pancakes with real butter and maple syrup. He gave each of them a small bowl of pitted cherries.

Belinda nodded when he proffered the coffee, and again for the juice, and a third time when he asked if she’d like a glass of milk. She loved milk and figured that drinking it in front of the kids would set a good example.
 

Mr. Manning, who somehow managed not to get a crumb on his perfect charcoal suit, asked the kids about their classes, and then managed to make even Cynthia smile by telling them about his workday. “I’m meeting Mr. Aldrin today to talk about sending his grandmother into space.”

Belinda hoped he was joking.

Evidently, he wasn’t, and after he spoke, he looked her straight in the eye and asked, “How did you sleep, Belinda?”

She felt her face heat up. “I, uh-”

“No nightmares, I hope?”

Visions of Mr. Manning throwing her on the bed came back full force. The feeling of him above her, getting ready to … the woman stopping him. “No, uh, no nightmares.”

He was smiling, showing dimples.

“I dreamed about dinosaurs!” Thad announced.

“You always dream about dinosaurs,” said Cynthia.

Grant reappeared five minutes later and breakfast was over. “Go along downstairs to the car, kids,” he said. “Walter is waiting to drive you to school.”

Mr. Manning bent and the children kissed his cheek. Belinda watched, trying not to wonder how his skin would feel against her own lips.

As they walked away, Thad looked back and then ran to her and threw his arms around her. “Bye, Belinda!”

Shocked and delighted, she hugged him back. Then he shot out of the room.

“I believe you’re a hit with Thad,” said Mr. Manning.

“I hope so. And I hope Cynthia will warm up to me, too.”

“Give her time and don’t take it personally. She was born grumpy.” Eric Manning smiled and Belinda’s heart did a little dip. “Well,” he continued, “I’m off. Have a pleasant day, both of you. I’ll see you at seven for dinner. Let’s stay informal and eat in here again tonight. Grant, do you know what’s on this evening’s menu?”

“Something Italian, I believe. I can let you know the details, if you wish.”

“No, no. That’s fine. Miss Moor- Belinda.” He nodded to her then turned on his heel and strode off.

“Cynthia seems to resent me,” Belinda told Grant as soon as the door swung closed.

“Indeed,” said Grant, twinkling. “The girl resents everyone. When she’s very bad, I call her ‘Mini-Heller,’ but you probably shouldn’t try that yet.”

Belinda chuckled. “I doubt she could be that bad.”

Grant gave her a look that suggested he thought otherwise.

Belinda swallowed. “I guess I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

Grant nodded. “Indeed, you do.”

Sir Thomas

The Gallery of Ancestors was what the Mannings called the long hall that led from beneath the landing toward the rear of the house. It was a dozen feet wide and in addition to paintings, it held a number of closed doorways to rooms better accessed from other halls. The museum-like gallery was home to the majority of portraits of the Manning ancestors. Temperature and humidity were controlled in this area; some of the portraits dated back to the sixteenth century and were worth a fortune. Indeed, all of them were valuable. More valuable than even Eric Manning realized.

Cordelia Heller let herself into the gallery, her black stilettos tapping brusquely on the marble floor until she came to a stop two-thirds of the way down the hall. She turned to gaze at the portrait of Sir Thomas Manning. He was dressed in typical 18th-century garb - hose and breeches, with a pale blue coat over an embroidered waistcoat. He wore a small hat, but eschewed the usual powdered wig in favor of his own blond hair, tied in a short ponytail. He had the strong jaw and cleft chin of the male Mannings, the full lips, and the same twinkle in his dark blue eyes as the modern day Manning men possessed. In fact, except for his blond hair, Sir Thomas bore an especially strong resemblance to Eric Manning. Or, Cordelia supposed, the other way around. Either way, male beauty of this caliber was rare.
 

“I know what you were up to last night, Thomas.” She wagged one manicured finger at him. “Naughty, naughty boy. I think you’d better try harder next time.”
 

She imagined Sir Thomas admiring her backside as she strutted from the gallery, the sharp sound of her clicking heels echoing off the walls.

The Physical

When they arrived at the Devilswood Medical Offices, Belinda was surprised that Walter Hardwicke locked up the limo and accompanied her inside. She was a little embarrassed, and wished he’d stayed in the car. Instead, he towered behind her as she checked in with a pretty receptionist, then sat next to her in the waiting room and began reading a dog-eared
Entertainment Weekly
.

Belinda was too nervous to read. Doctors made her anxious even though she’d had very little experience with them. It was silly, she knew, but her mother had fed her so many horror stories about the medical profession that she didn’t trust them.
You know full well it’s Momma you shouldn’t trust. She was probably trying to save money by making sure you didn’t want to see a doctor, even when you had the flu. Why would doctors want to “experiment” on you? That’s ridiculous!

The waiting room was clean, sunny, and pleasant, with tweedy tan upholstered chairs, a thick carpet of rich brown, plants in beautiful blue pots and baskets hanging from the ceiling. Two sides of the room were lined with windows that showed off a bevy of colorful flowers in the beds just outside. Three other patients waited in chairs around the lobby.

There’s nothing to be nervous about.

Beside her, Walter rattled his magazine and snickered. “I can’t believe the lips on that actress. Lookit this.” He pushed the magazine toward her and she saw a fading actress with the worst set of fish lips imaginable. “I bet she could suck a tennis ball through an exhaust pipe.”

Belinda didn’t respond.

“I wonder why women do that to themselves. You think they’re real?”

“I don’t know.”
Just stop trying to make conversation!
Belinda shuddered as the hairy man’s smoky aftershave wafted toward her.

The door to the interior corridor opened and a sturdy-looking nurse with beauty parlor helmet hair under a stiff white cap appeared. She looked at a chart. “Belinda Moorland.”

Belinda stood up. “That’s me.” The nurse motioned her forward.

“Go get em, tiger.” Walter Hardwicke gave her a greasy grin and let his eyes travel down to settle on her rear end.

Belinda could feel his gaze, like a slimy eel, as she joined the nurse in the doorway.

They walked down a hall, past several rooms, stopping at a scale. “Empty your pockets,” said the nurse. “And remove your shoes.”

She kicked off her wedgies. “I don’t have anything in my pockets.”

“Fine. Step on.”

Belinda got on the scale. The nurse began sliding the small weights till they balanced out. “One hundred eighteen.” She wrote the information down on the chart.

I’ve gained a couple of pounds since graduation.
She stepped into her shoes and the nurse led her to an exam room.
 

“Strip and set your clothes on the chair,” said the nurse as she pulled the door closed.

“Um, right now? In front of you?”

The nurse nodded.

“Is there a screen or something?”

The other woman looked amused. “Look honey, I’ve got the same parts as you and a schedule to keep. Now strip.”

Belinda, her cheeks warming, started to unbutton her white shirt. The nurse leaned into the corner, watching her.

Beneath the blouse, Belinda’s bra felt tight, constricting. She fumbled with the hook at the back.

The nurse looked at her watch.

The bra came off and Belinda made a vain attempt to cover her breasts.

“The pants, too.”

Belinda swallowed hard. She kicked off her shoes, unzipped and peeled her black pants off. She stood in her panties feeling cold, though the temperature had nothing to do with it.

“All of it.” The nurse looked cruel and Belinda fought the urge to flee.

“Is there a gown or something I could wear?”

“Of course not, dear. Just take your underwear off.”

With a heavy sense of dread, she dropped her panties and stepped out of them.

“Stand against the wall and let’s get your height.”

She moved to the wall the woman had indicated and stood against it, covering herself as best she could.

“Move your hands,” said the nurse. “I need to get you straight for an accurate measure.” From a pocket in her white tunic, the woman produced a measuring tape. As she held it up, Belinda got a glimpse at the nurse’s nametag. It read: V. Massengil, RN.

Belinda let go of her breasts, felt her face burn scarlet, and pressed herself against the wall.

“Just over five foot two,” said Massengil as she wound the tape back up. “Five foot two and one hundred and eighteen pounds,” she said as she wrote on Belinda’s chart. “Healthy.”

“Thanks,” said Belinda, sounding like an idiot even to herself.

“Hold your arms out.”

Belinda blinked at her.

The nurse grabbed her arm, and yanked it up. “Like an airplane,” she said. “Both of them.” When the pose had been struck, the nurse wrapped the measuring tape around her torso. It felt cold against her nipples. “Thirty-five inches. Not too hefty up top,” she said. “But perky. That’s good. Healthy.”

Belinda’s cheeks were on fire now.

After writing on the chart, Nurse Massengil measured her waist, said twenty-four inches was great, then hunkered down, winding the tape around Belinda’s hips, nose practically in her business. She grunted as she stood. “Good. Good child bearing hips. Healthy.” She wrote down more numbers. “Now, sit on the exam table and let’s get your pulse and blood pressure.”

“Can I put my clothes back on?”

“Nope.”

Belinda positioned herself at the edge of the table, hating the crinkling feel of paper under her bare buttocks.

The nurse took her pulse and blood pressure, her only comments being, ‘good, good,’ and ‘Nice. Healthy.’ When that was finished, the R.N. took her temperature with an ear thermometer then said, “The doctor will be in soon.” Then, as bland-faced and unenthused as ever, V. Massengil was gone.

Waiting naked on the exam table, Belinda took a deep breath and glanced with longing toward her clothes. Grant had told her it was a quick, minor exam, so why was she sitting here naked? On TV shows, doctors always gave their patients gowns or towels or even robes.
But I’m naked.
Panic rose and she took a deep breath to calm herself. She shut her eyes and exhaled, then repeated the process. It wasn’t helping. She tried looking around the little exam room at the sink and counter and the organized line of bottles filled with cotton balls, tongue depressors, and Q-Tips. A wall shelf above held other sorts of jars and bottles and she tried to read the labels, but they were too tiny.

Two quick knocks on the door made her jump and wrap her arms tighter around herself. The door opened and in walked the doctor, his face buried in a chart. He looked up and smiled at her. “Miss Moorland?” His green eyes danced over every inch of her and his dark auburn hair, just a little longer than average, waved around his powerful features; high cheekbones, long lively eyebrows that lifted when he smiled, and full lips. He looked more like a movie star than a doctor. Belinda flushed, her whole body turning pink.