The Ghost and Miss Demure (14 page)

“Were you talkin’ to someone, ma’am?” The voice was polite but puzzled.

“Uh…yes. Myself.” Karo forced a smile. Her lips felt stiff and bruised, and she wanted to get some moisturizer on her face. She felt like she’d spent the day roasting on the beach. “I think we have mosquitoes hatching and there are roaches or beetles in the fireplace. Could we do something about that today—a bug bomb or something? Mr. English would like to begin moving some of the kitchen stuff out here as soon as possible.”

The tan shape came into the room and began to look around. She saw it was one of the siblings who were working as gardeners: the Campion brothers. “Where’s the mosquitoes, ma’am? Got to get to them buggers right away. They’ll be hatching quick in this heat.”

“Over there.” She pointed and then noticed that the puddle had been all but evaporated; there was only a brown crust on the floor to indicate where the larvae had lain. Her stomach rolled as she smelled the faint odor of swamp and boiled gumbo rising from the stone floor.

“Here, ma’am?” The worker was staring at the goo.

“Uh…yes. Somewhere over there. Maybe in one of the pots. Don’t you hear them?” Actually, the rustling in the fireplace had stopped, too. She looked at the right wall. The spiders were gone—driven off by the heat? “Well, never mind. If you could just spray in here, that would be great. Thanks. I’d better be getting back to the house.”

Karo didn’t allow herself to bolt for the door, but she was sorely tempted. Her footsteps cracked like thunder as she hurried across the drive. Her hair was still wild with static waiting to discharge.

Holy spit! What did she do now—tell Tristam about the ghost and have him calling up Dr. Monroe to see about the symptoms of delayed shock? Or worse yet, what if he feared for her sanity and fired her before she got to finish her cookbook, never letting her see that Limoges again? Karo glared at the inoffensive branches that had been nearby piled into an eight foot mound, preparatory to being hauled away. She went to take a vindictive swipe with her sneaker and then remembered about some poison ivy the gardeners were clearing. With bare branches, it was hard to know what you were kicking. Stymied, she turned away.

Back at the cookhouse, she saw one of the Brothers Campion going inside to hunt the now-boiled mosquitoes. That gave her pause. Weren’t ghosts supposed to be cold? And, why the vague smell of brimstone? Of course, how would she know brimstone? Lots of things had been cooking in that room. She’d have to watch her mystical thinking. There was no need to make the situation worse than it was.

Karo surveyed the grounds, turned toward
what had once been a boxwood hedge maze. Its days of tidy, geometric trimming were long gone. The maze remained, but it was a far gloomier and probably more dangerous affair than its designers ever intended. In many places, the two sides had interlocked overhead, creating a living vault, and like the mausoleum in the cemetery it had no living visitors. There was birdsong, but that was coming from the far side of the maze. Birds had tried to pass through though, she thought, looking down at her feet. Their bones and feathers were all over the place, blown in amongst the twigs and leaves and other detritus of the storm.

Karo wanted to believe that the remains were ’Stein’s doing, but she couldn’t make herself swallow the idea. There were just too many dead birds, and many of the leaves looked blistered and scorched, as if exposed to fire. Though she didn’t want to think about it, the notion that Hugh had passed this way definitely suggested itself.

She exhaled slowly. She had never believed in ghosts, she reminded herself, though she had a close friend who did. As Annie explained it, sometimes when a life ended abruptly, when the soul was torn away before a person expected, a ragged edge was left behind. Sometimes this was the tender memory of a mourner. Sometimes it was a memory of the mourned. But whatever you called it—a haunting, a perseveration, a tear in the veil between worlds—it amounted to the same thing: the dead could rub up against the living. And sometimes they got trapped. It was something for which one should feel pity rather than fear.

Of course, Annie had been speaking of more passive perseverations. Hugh was both sentient and manipulative.

Karo picked up her pace again, turning back to the house and heading for the library. She knew what she had to do. She’d keep her mouth clamtight on the subject of ghosts until Tristam or someone else saw old boy Vellacourt himself. It was bound to happen sooner or later, she hoped; Hugh was the most blatant ghost she could ever imagine. After that, they could have a round robin about what to do and maybe get some professional help. She wondered if they had a local chapter of ghost busters in the area.

Well, her boss was right about one thing. If Vellacourt got into the habit of showing off for the visitors, they’d have the hottest tourist stop in Virginia. And the most terrifying.

And maybe the most sexually deviant.

Tristam looked up from the desk and smiled politely. “All set?”

“Not quite. The gardeners are going to spray for bugs; then we can haul some of the kitchen things out.” She stayed out of range of his pheromones, as her nose got more sensitive with each passing day. It also occurred to her that maybe her attraction to Tristam was making the ghost bolder. Maybe he even used sexual energy to appear. How depressing.

“Bugs?”

“Beetles and mosquitoes. You about ready for some lunch?” she asked.

Tristam glanced at his watch and then back
at her face. “I could be. You look like you could use a bit of a break. In fact, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I do?” She felt herself pale. “Well, it was really hot out there. Look, why don’t you go ahead with…whatever you’re doing, and I’ll make us something to eat. We missed breakfast, you know.”

“As you like.” He didn’t say anything about her remark, about her continued implication that they should share kitchen chores, though she had a right to complain about his failure to remember breakfast.

“I’m really hungry! I think I’ll fix a large animal with a side of everything. You know, the basic four plus something extra from the high calorie, fat and sugar group.”

“Sounds perfect. I adore ‘large animal.’ Do you need any help? I could—”

“Nope, got it covered. I may be a while, though,” she warned. “I need to wash up.” Ghosts stank. She had never known that before.

“No problem,” he said, but he was tapping his stylus against his PDA and frowning slightly. The tapping and the frown reminded her of Hugh. “Karo…”

“Found any recipes yet?” she asked brightly, cutting him off and backing toward the door.

“Few. The mistresses of the house did very little cooking, and the slaves were illiterate. Still, every housewife had her specialties.”

“Good. Can’t wait to—Well, actually, I
can
wait. But I’ll see them first thing after lunch.” She continued to back toward the shortish doorway. Food
and a shower were crucial, although not necessarily in that order. Maybe she’d head for the sunny, sane kitchen.

“By the way, I found a new painting. It’s of Florence,” Tristam said. He pointed toward the west wall. “Usually when one thinks of Florence one thinks of great artists like da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael—”

“Fra Angelico, Brunelleschi,” Karo agreed, still backing up.

“But I don’t think any of these masters had anything to do with
that
, did they?”

Karo made herself look. “Nope. I’ll examine it more thoroughly after lunch,” she promised then bolted.

“Well, hell,” she muttered, retreating down the gloomy hall. “Girl, get a grip! Think of this as…” A close encounter of the spiritual kind? A chance to go where no man—or very few—had gone before? Shouldn’t she be glad to have some proof that there was life after death instead of nothingness?

“Shut up,” she told the voice speaking in her head, hoping it was her subconscious and not Hugh’s thoughts. The words had sounded feminine, but who knew? Maybe he had found a way to haunt her from the inside out. What she didn’t need were any glimpses into Hugh Vellacourt’s brain.

“I don’t need this right now. I am being reoriented to accept this situation, but it is not going to happen without some help. Of course I can handle it—eventually. I’ve had worse problems. I
think. Well, maybe not many. Geez! If we had to have a ghost in residence, why couldn’t it be someone nice like the one in Canterville? Why’d I get stuck with the king of S and M who seems to bring hellfire with him when he appears? Like I don’t sweat enough when Tristam is around, spraying me with his pheromones.”

Tristam. According to Vellacourt, her new boss wanted her. She knew that for a fact. But
how
did he want her? Was he like Vellacourt? Could that be why the ghost had reappeared—because he had found two people here inclined toward…?

No. It was likely some kind of overshadowing of the will. Not possession exactly, but some kind of persuasion. But as much as she hated the idea of seeing into the ghost’s mind, she hated even worse the idea that he could see into hers. It was something that needed serious consideration. Hugh had a dirty mind. And whether what he said was true or not, he couldn’t have meant anything good by his insinuation that Tristam wanted her in a certain, non-missionary position kind of way, a way with which Hugh could conveniently help.

“It’s not like I’m ever going to be trysting with the dead!” she called out. “I do not—absolutely
do not
—have a thing for you, Hugh Vellacourt. Or anyone else who is dead.” Except perhaps Heath Ledger. But that was a holdover crush from when he was alive.

Suddenly Karo wondered: could ghosts lie? Could they lie about who and what they were? The Dev il could—everyone agreed about that. Well,
everyone who believed in him. So, what if she was giving Hugh too much credit? What if he wasn’t a victim of unfinished spiritual business but instead had done something really bad to ensure an afterlife?

So, so, break off this lamenting kiss,
Which sucks two souls, and vapours both away,
Turn, thou ghost, that way, and let me turn this,
And let ourselves benight our happiest day.

—John Donne

“Mom! I’m losing you!” That was a lie, but Karo’s butt was getting sore. The tree branch was only about six inches wide and, with the wind picking up, the swaying was really quite sickening.

“I’ll call you next week,” she promised. “Maybe I can e-mail you some pictures of the Limoges.” That was about the only picture she would send. The rest of the house continued to be too dirty, both in a physical and moral sense. “Give my love to Dad. Bye.”

She closed her phone and began considering how to get back down with the current atmospheric conditions. The roof looked fairly close, but it was wet and the tree was far from stable. Sighing, she decided there was nothing for it but to make the usual climb back down and hope she didn’t lose her breakfast before she reached terra firma.

Glancing about carefully, she made sure she was alone. People continued to come and go from Belle Ange, but out of habit Karo avoided them. She had met an electrician named Lucas Fane
and a termite inspector with the unbelievable name of Daryl Pettibone. Both of them had caught her up this tree and been amused at her explanation about cell phone reception. And of course the Campion brothers—mostly landscapers but really jacks of all trades—were usually working in the garden. But inside it was just her and Tristam. And maybe the ghost. She hadn’t seen Vellacourt again, and she was okay with that.

Seeing no one about to witness her less than graceful descent, she made the climb down.

A short time later, she and Tristam stood shoulder to shoulder and admired the entry hall. They were covered in enough soot to pass as a charwoman and a rag picker, but even the itchy black sweat that rolled down their backs and faces was insufficient to dim their pleasure.

“Well, the old girl scrubs up quite nicely.”

“Quite respectable,” Karo agreed. “Thanks to lemon oil.”

It was the truth. There was lots of carved wood and wrought leather that had been hidden by decades of dirt and clutter, all of it very handsome and tourist-friendly. The hanging armory was gone. After a week of work, the hall no longer looked like it was expecting a siege from infidels.

Of the witch prickers and thumbscrews that had littered the hall, there was likewise no sign. All mounted animals, moth-eaten or fresh, whole or in parts, those actually extinct or simply on the endangered species list, had been removed and packed for storage in some later-to-be-identified location. Tristam was voting for the bottom of the
river, but it would probably be a storage locker or one of the outbuildings. The only remaining hostile piece was the suit of armor stolen from the same Moorish fortress that had supplied the mansion front door, and that was almost welcoming now that the battle axe had been replaced with a smallish pike with a red and gold standard wired on top; he might be a high school mascot, cheering on his team. Other banners and tapestries had been hung from the peculiar balconies whose function was yet to be fathomed.

Karo was especially pleased with the fireplace. It was unlikely that mandatory late seventeenth-century ox-roasting hearth had ever seen an ox over its thick flags, as the practice was given up at about the same time as jousting and holy quests went out of fashion, but she knew instinctively that it would look madly picturesque in the winter, when the marble overmantel was decked out in festive evergreens and gilded pineapples.

The last piece to be removed was a large painted armoire. It disfigured the room with its looming presence, its shape rather like double coffins nailed together and weighing at least as much. It was hard to say what one noticed more once the dust was wiped away: the alarming color or the obscene murals.

“I’m surprised Valperga didn’t burn it,” Karo huffed as they shoved it out of the chamber and down the back hall. But then she realized why the woman hadn’t. “She was afraid of her grandfather, wasn’t she? Of retribution? That’s why she left all his stuff alone.”

“She never said so specifically—not in the journals
I’ve read—but I think that can be inferred.” Tristam wasn’t puffing as hard as she, but he was definitely working.

The thought of Valperga’s fear wasn’t comforting. Ghosts weren’t supposed to actually hurt people, were they? At least, in real life and not in movies? Karo shoved the idea aside for later consideration and applied herself to the last of the cleaning. It felt as good as an exorcism and was probably a lot more practical. Tristam helped by moving the armoire and providing sotto voce obscenities. He had a gift for invective. It was probably from being fluent in more than one language. Of course, he only had the energy to curse because of the lovely plastic sleds they had found to slip under the armoire’s thick feet. Carrying it would have been impossible, and dragging it would have marred the floor.

“Maybe we should have burned the damned thing,” Tristam said, leaning down to pull Karo to her feet when they had the thing in position.

“I’d sure like to see a fire on that hearth,” Karo agreed. The whole room was a definite photo op. It should go in the cookbook along with the Limoges. But she would mention that later. Tristam seemed to get a bit cranky whenever she mentioned the china.

“I never suspected that you had such hidden depths,” Tristam praised her. “Such pretty hands for so much practical work. You must have been wearing gloves.”

“Are you kidding? Of course I wore gloves. Do you know how many kinds of spiders were living in that chimney?”

“I have a fair notion of how many kinds took up residence in our stuffed friends,” he retorted. “I should have called the Discovery Channel. There were species there I’ve never seen before and hope to never see again.”

“That probably would have been a good idea. I wish we’d thought of it sooner.” Karo was getting the hang of notions to seize on free publicity to draw in tourists. “Just imagine if we did have some howlingly rare spiders here. They might do a special on us.”

“Too late. They’re gone now.”

While Tristam had hauled away the racks of antlers and badger masks, Karo had commandeered the Campion brothers’ tallest pruning ladder and, armed with a bucket of water and oil soap, had attacked the webbed ramparts with sponge and rag. She had found lots of web but very few spiders. She assumed they were catching rides with her boss, which suited her fine.

Tristam had protested that scrub work wasn’t expected of her, but when she persisted in the filthy endeavor he’d cheerfully rolled up his sleeves and set about destroying another good shirt with lemon oil. His lack of skill with the polishing cloth suggested that he was not in the habit of doing menial work, so Karo was touched that he offered to help with a job so far beneath his dignity and job title. She took it as yet another hopeful sign that things were going to work out with this job.

Of course, the first and best indication of future happiness was the fact that Hugh had left her strictly alone since their meeting at the cookhouse.
This was a once in a lifetime opportunity—at least it seemed more and more that way to her. Maybe for Tristam this was common fare, but she couldn’t imagine ever again having the complete run of a plantation, one not yet turned over to tourists and guardians of a historical society. It would have been a shame if the ghost had driven her away.

“You’re looking pensive,” Tristam said.

“Just reflecting upon my good fortune.” Karo was even beginning to talk like Tristam. It seemed right for the environment.

“Yes?”

“I am very glad that my family has no ghosts. In fact, we don’t have much ancestral baggage at all—no money or scandals. I got saddled with my grandmother’s name, but that’s about it.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Tristam admitted.

“I mean, of course I have ancestors. Everyone does. We just kept moving around and lost track of them.”

“That could be handy.” Tristam smiled. “I should like to lose any number of the boring sticks and demagogues I am related to.”

“Does your family home have a ghost?” Karo asked. She was wondering if he’d seen anything lately, and this seemed a nicely roundabout way to inquire.

“Alas, no. But there is one at the rectory next door—and a ghost horse has been heard trotting up the lane!” He didn’t mention anything about Vellacourt, though, and nothing in the mansion.

“A horse ghost? That seems rather sad,” Karo remarked. “Animals shouldn’t be restless spirits.”

Tristam frowned. “I suppose not. I think perhaps I’ve been immunized by my childhood. The idea of seeing any ghost is more annoying than scary. Or sad.”

“That’s probably why you’re handling all the weirdness of this place so much better than I am. The very idea is outside my frame of reference. I don’t know what to think or feel.” That was an understatement if Karo had ever made one.

“You’ve coped magnificently.”

Karo smiled and did not contradict him. She indeed thought that she had handled things fairly well.

“Is it tactless of me to mention that I’m so hungry I could eat a badger mask?” Tristam said after they had basked in the glow of accomplishment for a minute or two longer. “Any large animal would do. A pig or cow would be fine. Or one of the larger fowl.”

“No, it’s not tactless. Especially not if you’re offering to slaughter it. And cook it.” She was feeling a bit punch-drunk with victory. Dizzy, even.

Tristam groaned. “I haven’t the strength for the hunt. But…perhaps I could cheat a bit and take you out. I know a place that does excellent cow.”

“Well…” Karo looked down at her splotched blouse and wondered if it was worth any attempt to salvage. She supposed that she should make an effort; she was going through clothes at a phenomenal rate, and there was no clothing allowance in Clarice’s budget. “I’ll have to shower.” She looked at Tristam. He was just as tattered and grubby. “And so will you. I think we’ve gone
beyond mere housework and passed into the realm of Dumpster-diving. Nobody will have us if we don’t clean up a bit.”

“I’ll be out in five and then Bob’s your uncle,” he assured her, starting for the stairs.

“In your dreams!” Karo remembered that her room possessed the only decent shower, and that the boiler capacity was modest. She bolted after him. “Me first! I need longer to wash and dry my hair.”

Tristam, hearing her pursuit over the wood and marble floor, lunged for the first stair. “Never! The race is to the swift and daring.”

Karo snaked out a hand and hauled on his belt, beginning to laugh at his look of outrage as she pulled him up short. If she tugged any harder, she’d give him a wedgie. “Take another step and you’ll be the halt and the lame,” she threatened between giggles, tugging on the waist of his pants.

“I suggest a compromise,” he said, straightening. “We’ll share. Two minutes of warm each and then a rinse in cool.”

“Nope. Me first,” she insisted.

A gleam entered his golden eyes. It did nothing to sober Karo’s mood, but it did make her slightly wary. She dropped her hand and retreated a half step.

“Absolutely firm about that, are we? Fine. First you shall be.” Then, with the ease that he had shown on the first night, Tristam turned, plucked her off her feet and hoisted her up into the air. Karo found herself hanging from his shoulder like a carelessly donned backpack. This time he didn’t bother being a gentleman.

“Put me down,” she demanded. It was obligatory.

He ignored her. That was also obligatory.

She tried squirming, but he simply threatened to drop her on her head if she persisted. With each long step, the bathroom got closer. Karo’s mind filled with deep suspicion.

“Don’t even think it,” she warned, and smacked him once on the left flank that she was getting to know up close and personal.

An immediate, retaliatory smack answered her. “Consider carefully before you start that game, my dear,” Tristam cautioned. “I’ve probably had more experience, and I’m a great deal larger than you. Besides, I’m only seeing that you get what you wanted.”

“Where’s a witch pricker when you need one?” Karo complained, but then ruined it by laughing. “A stick! A stick! My kingdom for a—Tristam!”

The ugly doors were kicked open. It was no great feat, as they were unlatched, but the crash was dramatic against the wall. Four strides and she and Tristam were into the bathroom. Karo began to flail her feet. She tried tickling him, too, but to no avail.

The water was turned on. All the way. She couldn’t see which knob he’d grabbed, but she was betting on it being the one with the C.

“If you do this, you’ll regret it,” she warned, a last effort of delay. “I always get even.”

“I’m a bit of a plunger. Can’t win a packet without having a little flutter now and again.” Tristam shrugged her off his shoulder and used the momentum to sling her into the shower stall. Her
feet slipped on the porcelain and only his arms kept her upright under the deluge. After a count of three, she was pulled from under the spout and allowed to breathe. They were both sopping.

“The only thing that may save you is the fact that the water is warm,” she spluttered through her hair. She could see the knob’s H turned on its side.

“It is? Well, of all the rotten luck!” Tristam made sure that she was steady on her feet and then let her go. Black sludge was streaming off both of them. “Make haste, my dear, I am dripping all over the floor.”

“So use a towel—Not a white one! And then disappear. If you’re lucky, I won’t use all the hot water.” She shoved her sodden hair aside and pretended to glare at Tristam. “You look like a grease monkey.”

“Hm. I won’t return the compliment. Such exchanges never lead to anything good.” He sounded amused. Perhaps he hadn’t seen himself in the mirror yet. A fastidious creature, he would be appalled. Through the folds of a maroon towel he added, “I think I’ll shower downstairs. I don’t fancy the odds of my getting lucky.”

“Neither do I. I’ve decided to condition my hair and shave my legs,” she informed him, and then pulled the shower curtain shut. Even dripping soot he was capable of producing those dangerous pheromones, so she’d just make like a Victorian lady and bathe with her clothes on until they went away.