The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1) (21 page)

“Yes. For some old textbooks.” Belinda paused. “But to lock me in? It’s such a childish prank.”

Grant nodded and sipped his tea. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

She worked up the nerve to mention the thing she couldn’t get off of her mind. “Grant?” she said. “Can I ask you a strange question?”

He studied her. “Of course, dearheart.”

“Do you believe in… you know, things that can’t be explained?”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m not following.”

She sighed. “It’s just that I saw something up there in the east wing. Something I don’t understand. Several somethings.”

Grant’s eyes became intent. “Do tell.”

“Well, first there were …” She felt her cheeks burning and her voice trembled with uncertainty. “God, I feel so stupid saying this. It’s crazy.”

Grant placed a hand on her shoulder. “Believe me, Belinda, I won’t think you’re crazy. This house is … well, it has a lot of …
traffic.
”

Belinda felt a surge of relief and sighed. “So, you do believe in … things?”

He nodded. “I have no doubt. Now tell me what you saw. I assure you that you’re not the first person to experience something inexplicable in this house. I’m also certain you won’t be the last.”

Belinda swallowed. “Nuns,” she said. “Three of them.” Her throat tightened as the terror came back. “They were awful, Grant. Evil.”

Grant blinked at her. “The Sisters.”

“You know about them?”

“I have never seen them myself, but it sounds like you had a little run-in with Sisters Faith, Hope, and Charity.” Grant glanced at his watch.
 

“What?”

“Around 1820, when Parnell Manning was master of Ravencrest, he took in three nuns and a few children when an orphanage in Devilswood was burned down. They lived in the east wing for some time.”

“One of the nuns dripped blood. I could see it…” Belinda shuddered. “I could smell it.”

“Belinda, trust me, as long as you stay out of the east wing, you won’t run into them again.”

“There was more. A little girl.”

Grant gave her a sharp look. “I have to oversee dinner. We’ll talk more later, all right?”

“But-”

“We will talk, I promise you we will. But not now.” He gestured her closer and leaned in and whispered. “Not here. The walls sometimes have ears. Don’t mention the child until I bring her up.”

He moved back and spoke in a normal tone again. “Yes, we can have a long talk about ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night, and we shall. But right now, I need to get dinner ready and you need to get ready for dinner.” He smiled. “Would you like me to give you some chamomile tea? Guaranteed organic - I grew it myself. It will help you sleep.”

“If I can’t sleep I’ll ask you for it tomorrow.” She smiled, her mind whirling. Did he think his own home was bugged? She wasn’t sure what else he could mean.

He saw her out the door, and they paused on the walk surrounded by flowers and herbs. “It appears the more ghostly inhabitants of the house have taken an interest in you,” he said.

“But why?
”
Belinda shivered.
 

“I don’t know.”
 

“And Mrs. Heller… Why would she do that to me? Lock me in.”

“Why does a wasp sting?” Grant replied. “We’ll talk, dearheart. I promise. When it’s safe.”

Cordelia Fumes

Ripping Grant Phister’s spine out of his living body was too good for that interfering bastard. When Cordelia Heller saw him leading the whimpering little governess out of the east wing, it took every ounce of self-control not to do … something … about him. But she hadn’t; Phister was her cross to bear, the latest in a long line of impudent pricks who belonged to the Order of the Mandrake. The British society dated back to the fifteenth century, at least. And Mannings were always mixed up with them, though via retainers and friends; they rarely dabbled in herbs or medicine themselves. But Phister was a chip off the odious Bran Lanval who had guarded the Mannings through most of the 18th century. Grant Phister was no physician, of course, but herbs were his passion and she never touched any of the teas he loved to offer her with his eyebrow cocked up practically to his hairline, taunting her.
Have a cup of tea, Cordelia. You look like you could use it.
No, she wouldn’t touch the stuff - it might be English Breakfast or it might be something meant to banish her, or worse.
 

She had considered, many times, doing away with Grant Phister, but knew it might explode in her face. As far as Eric Manning was concerned, his old childhood pal could do no wrong. While Manning was willing to abide by his uncle’s will that guaranteed her position and living quarters, he was not happy about it. Though he was not suspicious of her, he was, unlike his uncle and great-uncle, immune to her charms. She could no more seduce him than push him by magick to abandon his loyalty to the butler. He was one of those Mannings who could not be spelled. They were like people who did not become drunk, who didn’t addict to tobacco or heroin. He could not be magicked. It was an inherited but recessive trait; a few other Mannings, like Thomas and Edward, had been the same. And she also knew that if anything happened to Eric Manning’s precious Grant Phister, she would be under suspicion. She did not want to risk that, since Manning was not easily controlled. If Eric Manning were driven to investigate her activities, he might be able to break the will - and that was not an option.
 

Now, she stood by the writing desk in her parlor and studied the three maids. Blond Justine Chambers licked her painted lips and kept her eyes wide open, feigning innocence. Dominique de la Cruz, a Latina bombshell with double Ds on a short but curvaceous body, dared to look annoyed. Her foot tapped as she stood, almost at attention.
Almost.
Dominique was a twisted little fuck. And Phoebe. Brand new Phoebe Waxwing, with her little bird bones to go with her little birdy name.
Hippie parents, no doubt
. She would be so easy to crush. Phoebe pushed a stray strand of light red hair behind her ear; she had yet to experience Cordelia’s disciplinary actions but now seemed like the right time.

Phoebe’s pager went off. She glanced down and twitched.

“What is it, Phoebe?”

“They need me in the kitchen. I’m serving the family tonight.”

“Well, then, you’d better take your skinny little ass to the kitchen, hadn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She hesitated. “May I be excused?”

“
May I be excused?
” Cordelia mimicked, pitching her voice an octave up. “
May I be excused?
I told you to go.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Phoebe executed a half-assed curtsey and fled, closing the door behind her.

“Saved by the bell. But you two, not so lucky.” Cordelia circled them, watching with pleasure as Justine fidgeted. Dominique, however, was nonplussed and this infuriated Cordelia. “Though I’m sure you were hoping it would, it hasn’t escaped my attention that the dust on the tops of the frames in the Gallery of Ancestors hasn’t been touched in ages.”

“But, Mrs. Heller, we did dust-”

Cordelia silenced Dominique with hard slap to the face. “You will shut your fucking mouth when I’m speaking to you!”

Dominique stared at the floor.
 

Cordelia shook the sting out of her hand and continued. “I check these things, you know, and when I see my orders being ignored, you leave me no choice but to take disciplinary action. You only have yourselves to blame.”
 

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Heller.” Justine didn’t dare meet her eyes. “But we did-”

Cordelia moved to her, bringing her face just inches from the little slut’s. “Well, Justine,” she said. “Sorry might have worked the first time I caught you disobeying and then
lying
about it, but at this point, I’m out of sympathy. You’re both lying.”

She circled them again, tasting their fear, relishing it like a sweet dessert. “You will go about your duties for the rest of the night. After you’re finished, you are both to come to the basement.”

Justine whimpered.

Cordelia raised a hand to slap her. The girl recoiled and went silent.

Smiling, Cordelia said, “I expect you both at ten p.m. sharp. No excuses.”

Justine stared at the floor and nodded.

“Am I clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl said.

Dominique gave a nod. It was the most Cordelia could ever get out of the little bitch.

“Very well.” Cordelia stalked to the door and held it open. “You are dismissed, Dominique. Justine, come with me to my parlor. I need you to move a painting.”

The Gallery of Ancestors

After dinner, Thad, Belinda, Mr. Manning, and Cynthia sat at the table in the cozy dining room on the second floor. “Can I show Belinda my picture now, Daddy?” asked Thad, dimpling up.

Mr. Manning smiled. “Yes. Go and get it.”

Thad tore off.
 

Cynthia huffed, her strawberry curls bouncing around her face. “Daddy! He’s running!” She called after Thad. “We’re not supposed to run in the house! I’m telling!”

“No running, Thad,” said Mr. Manning. He looked at Belinda, his steely eyes softening. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look a little worn out. Are you well?”

Belinda tried to hide her embarrassment. “I’m fine, Mr. Manning. Thank you.”

“Please, call me Eric when it’s just the family.”

“Yes, Eric.” The name tasted like forbidden candy on her tongue.

He brought his hands out in front of him and rested them on the table. “So, Grant tells me you got lost in the east wing.” He smiled. “Don’t worry. It happens to all of us at one time or another.”

Cynthia giggled. “
You
got lost?”

Eric frowned at his daughter. “Cynthia. Be polite or you’ll have to leave the table.”

“But I want dessert.”

“Then be polite.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Thad returned and thrust a paper at Belinda. “Here,” he said. “I drew it just for you!”

Belinda looked at the Christmas tree on the page. “Oh, Thad,” she said. “It’s beautiful!”

“Really?” Thad looked proud. So did his father. Cynthia scowled.

“Really,” said Belinda. Right then, her phone chirped and she saw a text from her ex-roommate, Randi, begging her to text her back. Irritated, she slipped the phone back in her pocket.

“Thad,” said Eric. “Why don’t you set the picture on the sideboard to keep it safe until we’re finished here?” He watched his son, then turned his gaze to Belinda.
 

His face seemed to grow more handsome and intriguing every time she looked at it, the way the details of certain paintings reveal themselves after repeated exposure. His storm-colored eyes, resting under dark brows, were clear; she loved it when they twinkled with amusement. His nose was strong, his cheekbones high, his jaw squared and powerful. His full lips brought a flattering contrast to his features, and often seemed to be lifted in a barely perceptible smile. And then there was his body. She lowered her gaze to the thickness of his neck, the broadness of his shoulders and she felt self-conscious.

Eric cleared his throat, his expression serious. “It’s definitely more welcoming than the painting that hung in your office.”

For a moment, Belinda had forgotten what they were talking about.
Thad’s drawing!
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Definitely.”

“Belinda got lost in the east wing!” Cynthia announced to Thad.

Thad’s eyes went wide. “You
did?
Did you see any ghosts?”

“Thaddeus.” Eric’s voice was firm. “That’s enough.”

Thad sat down. “Yes, sir.”

“Speaking of paintings,” Eric said to Belinda. “After dessert, how would you like to come to the Gallery of Ancestors with me? I’ll show you where Thad’s unseasonal interest in Christmas trees comes from.”
 

“I’d love to.”

Eric smiled. “I think you’ll find our family history quite interesting.” His eyes twinkled again and Belinda, feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush, looked down at her lap.

***

After dessert, the kids were excused from the table and Belinda and Eric Manning headed downstairs to the Gallery of Ancestors where Eric ushered her into the fifteen-foot-wide but very long, temperature-controlled hall. Though the entirety of the stone-hewn mansion felt cool, this refrigerated area made her wish she’d brought a sweater.
 

“The Manning family has always been fond of art and having their portraits done. Most of these go back centuries.” Obviously proud, he led her to a portrait of a stern-eyed red-cheeked fellow who stared down at her from a ruffled collar that looked too festive for his face. “That is Aloysius Manning, who led a calm life. He was a favorite of the king and designed monuments for the entire royal family. He died at the age of forty-five when a statue of the king’s half-sister fell on him.”

“How horrible!” Belinda put a hand over her mouth. Her phone chirped. She ignored it. Randi and Momma could go suck eggs.

“Oh, that’s nothing.” Eric moved on. “Here’s one of Aloysius with his family. I dare say, with that many children and a wife that stern, he probably appreciated the early departure.”

Belinda had to admit it didn’t look like a happy family.

They continued on, Eric narrating as if he were a museum guide. “And here is the gallows painting from your office.” He paused, looking puzzled. “This doesn’t belong in here. I can’t imagine Grant would place it here. Something’s odd. Oh well. I’ll tell you about it anyway.” He smiled. “One of our ancestors, Lady Johanna Manning, painted this from life. It was done in December of 1788 - the last time a witch was hanged at Ravencrest. I must apologize - it was not the painting I would have hung in your office.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what it was doing there, either. There was a landscape before. Curious.”

“Witchcraft?” she asked. “Who was the witch? What did she do?”

“There are no portraits of her, but she was Carmilla Harlow, governess to Edward and Alice Manning’s children for a time. Not only did Edward, his wife and his brother all consider her a witch, so did their mother, Johanna.