Potent Charms (22 page)

When Phoebe awoke the next morning, all the light of day
showed was more dirt, more cracks and the overall dilapidation of Marsden Manor, which was considerable. Hampson and Wibolt were still too old to do serious work and a
pot of gold had not magically appeared from the end of a
rainbow. Stephen's words the truth, but annoying all the
same replayed again and again in her mind. What was
she going to do? How would she ever find a man to marry
her with Marsden Manor as the lure?

Restless and seeking answers, she skipped breakfast to
wander the halls of the manor, every torn curtain, each bare
room a greater source of confusion. Finally she faced her
ancestors, their paintings a contradictory mix of either forbidding, imposing people or affable souls that she knew so
little of. The portraits depicting her mother's easy laughter
and her grandfather's kind eyes only increased her melancholy.

"Your mother was a lovely young woman."

Spinning about, Phoebe spied Hampson standing at the
end of the hallway, a somber expression on his face. His
livery, cleaned and perfectly pressed, was worn at the
elbows and the knees. She simply couldn't imagine him
masterminding a plan to rob her of her inheritance. She
glanced at the painting again. Her mother sat on a stone
balcony, the deep blue ocean and endless horizon her only
backdrop. "How old was she?"

"Eighteen. The portrait was commissioned only two
months before she sailed with your father. She was so
happy. Your grandfather stored the picture in the attic for
years. When she died, he returned it to its rightful place as
a constant reminder of his foolish pride. He often stood
here as you are and stared at the painting. He never forgave
himself."

"She died when I was only six. I remember certain
things she told me, but I wish I knew more about her life,
her childhood. Daddy never spoke of it. He said it hurt too
much."

"If you will allow me, miss, I think I can help."

Curious, she followed Hampson as he proceeded down
the long hallway. Stopping now and again, he generously
offered her a window into her heritage, something she'd
never truly had before. She learned that her great-grandfather, a gentleman pirate for part of his life, commissioned
Marsden Manor because of his love for the sea. He'd actually kidnapped her great-grandmother, which created a
scandal only marriage could quell. They had loved one
another desperately. Her Great-uncle Herbert, whose nose
was enormous, loved hunting. Great-aunt Rosalund commissioned the building of an orphanage in London against
her husband's wishes, and Phoebe's grandmother had been
an expert horsewoman.

Feeling better than she thought possible, clinging to her
newfound family, she stopped beside Hampson who
waited near a pair of French doors. When he pushed them
open, she stepped outside onto a long balcony a hundred
feet above a sapphire sea and witnessed the most breathtaking sight she had ever seen.

Waves pounded the cliffs, crashing and echoing for what
seemed miles, calling to her in a hypnotic rhythm. Gulls
cried as they soared high above the cliffs, celebrating their
freedom for all to hear. The wind blew, crisp and fresh, the
feel of salt heavy against her skin. The setting was vast and
desolate, just as Stephen had described, and she loved it.

Hampson braced his feet near the stone wall. "Your
mother possessed a most delightful imagination. She sat
here for hours, watching for a mermaid to wash ashore or a
helpless boat to flounder so she could dash down the cliffs
and rescue each and every soul."

"She used to tell me wonderful stories of pirates and
their vessels filled with gold."

"No doubt inspired by your great-grandfather the
pirate," Hampson elaborated, his voice growing more animated as he spoke. "Your grandfather joined her every
afternoon for tea. They sat here, their heads tucked
together, plotting their travels around the world. When they
grew tired of that game, they entertained one another with
the most unbelievable tales."

A small iron table and two chairs in need of painting
were nestled in a small alcove on the balcony. It was easy
to imagine the scene Hampson portrayed. Attempting to
reclaim a tiny portion of her mother's life, Phoebe sat in
the nearest chair, placed her elbows on the table and stared
out to sea as her mother must have done. "You must have
known her very well."

"I practically caught her from the womb."

"And you loved her." She smiled at him as he bristled ever so slightly. "So did I.Thank you. Today you have
given me the greatest of gifts."

Blushing over the thanks she offered, Hampson crossed
to a stone seat that faced the ocean, suddenly uncomfortable meeting her gaze. He stared off in the distance. The
pained expression on his face started to worry Phoebe, but
she waited. After a time, with the uttermost care, he pulled
a brown linen package from beneath his arm. Removing a
bundle from the fabric, he revealed a lovely wax doll. He
placed it on the table. "I saved this for you."

She pressed the small figure to her breasts. Tears gathered in the back of her eyes. "I'm surprised my grandfather
allowed you to keep anything of hers."

"Truly, Miss Phoebe, he loved her more than life itself.
The joy in his heart vanished when your mother died." If
possible, as though a great burden weighted his soul, his
eyes grew wearier, his body more fragile. He pulled a
white scrap of paper, which looked like a letter of sorts,
from his pocket. When he handed it to her, he murmured,
"I deeply regret my inability to do a better job of caring for
this place. When you and Lord Badrick are ready, I will
answer all your questions." He left without another word.

Afraid of what she might find based on Hampson's sudden change of mood, she twirled the envelope in her fingers as if a clue to its contents might appear. When she had
finally managed to gather the necessary courage, she
opened the note and absorbed the scripted words. Then,
she read the note. Twice.

The news was the same, still as shocking and just as
depressing as the first time. Suddenly exhausted, she
wrapped her mother's doll to her chest, lay her head on the
table and closed her eyes.

While searching for Phoebe, Stephen slipped through the
doors Hampson had described. The sight was undoubtedly breathtaking. The person responsible for the location of
Marsden Manor had selected well. It was unfortunate the
other relatives had neglected to care for the old mansion.

He saw Phoebe with her head nestled in her arms on the
table and decided the poor girl was exhausted. No small
wonder. Last night had proved to be rather tiring for everyone. While he considered allowing her the rest she seemed
to need, he noticed her hand fisted about a scrap of paper.
He crossed to stand beside her, and unable to resist the
urge, he nibbled on the exposed ear that her bent position
afforded. "Good morning."

Lifting her head, she balanced her elbows on the table
and rested her chin in her hands. "Good morning to you."

He sat in the chair and saw her face for the first time.
More than mere exhaustion haunted her this morning. Her
skin seemed translucent and her eyes lacked their normal
vibrancy. Although her lips curled slightly, her smile
showed no real pleasure. In fact, she looked downright
dreary, defeated. Tipping her face toward his, he asked,
"What happened? Judging from the pallor of your skin,
you look as though someone handed you a death sentence."

She averted her face and handed him the scrap of paper.
It was crumpled and damn if he didn't notice a spot he
swore was a tearstain. He read the note and understood her
mood. Not only was Marsden Manor broke, but back taxes,
likely a considerable sum, were being called for immediate
payment. While muttering a curse under his breath, he
crumpled the foolscap into an even tighter ball. "Other
than I'm sorry, I don't know what else to say."

"I feel like a marionette controlled by someone who
insists on jerking the strings every time I find myself close
to a solution. Nanny Dee always says that dealing with
problems develops character. Well, I feel like I have enough character to last me a lifetime. At least now I
understand the odd message my solicitor sent. Does that
seem a fair amount?" She indicated the note.

"It depends upon the last payment your solicitor made
and the size of the estate. It's rather complicated. Besides a
dozen sundry things, we pay taxes for manservants and the
land. There are the tithes due the Church of England, and
your parish requires money for roads and the local poor.
The estate ledgers, if maintained, should reveal a detailed
accounting. What shall you do?"

"The cliff has a decent height, but with my luck I'd land
on the only soft spot on the entire beach." His shocked
expression must have left her feeling a bit guilty, for she
quickly added, "I'm teasing. I feel despondent and then
some, but I promise the mood won't last long. I've never
been one to sulk. Besides being unproductive, it's tedious.
Hampson is ready to explain things in detail if you like.
After that, I'll decide what has to be done."

Most distressing was the hopelessness in her voice. The
urgent desire to shelter and protect Phoebe surged over him
like the waves crashing on the rocks below. It had been
years since he'd felt any need to rescue a woman. His wife
Louisa had never stirred such self-sacrificial thoughts or
tugged on his heartstrings or conscience as Phoebe did.

He ordered the nagging thoughts from his mind. He
wasn't prepared to offer what she truly wanted. Besides, if
he offered any advice right now, she'd likely pitch hire over
the cliff. What she needed was a diversion! Something to
take her mind off the debt, her troubles and the condition
of the estate. An adventure. Besides, he'd waited all morning to substantiate his findings from the night before.
Wibolt was on his way to the village. Winston and his wife
were indisposed the local doctor had come to see to Elizabeth's condition. Mrs. Potter, Dee and Hampson were upstairs setting the servant's rooms to rights. If Stephen's
suspicions paid off, they would have more to confront
Hampson with than the condition of the estate.

Pulling her chair out, he clasped her hand in his. "Right
now, I suggest you think about something else. Come
along."

"Where exactly?"

"To the cook's room."

"Whatever for?"

"I'd wager my best mare that our nocturnal visitor is
quite human and someone in your employment." They
wound their way to the north side of the manor, carefully
avoiding everyone. To guard against any unwanted interruptions, Stephen closed the door and began a systematic
search of the cook's room in the same fashion he'd investigated the music room the night before.

"Do you still believe the house has secret passages?"
Phoebe asked. She studied the sparse furnishings, glad for
the distraction Stephen offered.

"It's a distinct possibility. Few servants' quarters have
shelves such as this. It struck me as odd." With his ear
pressed to the wall, his fingers probed the wooden edge
framing the recessed shelves. A quiet but definite click
came from somewhere inside. "Here we go." He pushed
against the wood with his shoulder and the entire shelf
opened to reveal a set of stairs that descended to a lower
level. Grabbing a nearby candle, which he quickly lit, he
slid into the tunnel. "Let's see where it goes."

Phoebe watched him duck his head and hunch his back.
Goodness, his shoulders practically touched the sides of
the old stone walls. "Now?" she asked. "Down there? By
ourselves?"

"I wish to know as much as possible before we talk with
Hampson," Stephen said, his excitement barely contained.
"His response should prove interesting."

She stepped to the top stair and stared down into
shadow. Dank and musty air wafted through the opening.
She hated dark, enclosed areas. Aware of the sweat forming on her palms, she swiped her hands against her dress
and steadied her voice.

"That must mean you think Hampson's the ghost,
although I can't fathom why he chose to scare us. Surely
he can't expect to gain anything if I up and leave. Perhaps
it was Wibolt. He failed to make an appearance last night.
But he seems so sweet. If you do think they're guilty of
something, wouldn't this be dangerous to go down here,
alone? Perhaps we should get Winston."

She felt Stephen's hand on her chin. His eyes, filled with
concern, met hers. Ever so softly, he said, "I doubt either
man is capable of any true violence, but now that you mention it, perhaps it would be best if you remained here to
make sure no one disturbs me."

Bless the man, he didn't laugh or scold or taunt. He simply accepted her fear and offered a way to maintain her
dignity. The thought of sneaking down a spooky tunnel
that led to who knew where with only a puny candle was
uninviting to say the least. Facing her fear, she admitted
that likely a mouse or two was the greatest danger they'd
encounter. Prompted by the belief that Stephen would take
care of her, she squared her shoulders and pasted what she
hoped was a valiant smile on her face. "You'll keep me
safe?"

"With my life."

On his vow, she followed, gripping his arm like a vise.
When he took a step, she matched his with one of hers. The
small tunnel barely seemed large enough for a child, yet
she knew grown men must have utilized this passage time
and again. At the bottom, the stairway opened to a larger
chamber that split in two different, very dark, menacing
directions. Her stomach churned with anxiety. By the time she'd managed to calm herself down a bit, several rats skittered into the blackness, their tiny feet scraping the walls
and floor in their haste to escape. One stray rodent scampered across her slippered foot. Phoebe practically vaulted
onto Stephen's back, swallowing her scream at the same
time.