"Never mind that, Sophia!" Lord Bane interrupted, loud enough to cause my mother to shrink back against the cushions of the sofa she occupied but silencing— however briefly— his own wife.
No sooner had I taken up my position near the earl's chair than he stood, picking up a decanter and walking toward Lord Bane as though none of the havoc in the room were actually taking place. I looked to Lucien, who subtly signaled me to stay where I was.
"Lucien," the earl said quietly as he finished refilling Lord Bane's glass, "I don't suppose you would mind troubling yourself to give me a brief summary of the events of this evening? I am particularly interested in those that caused your cousins to fly to their mama and hold to her skirts."
Lord Bane laughed at this, even as his wife protested. As my stepfather walked back toward me, he seemed to study me for a moment before refilling his own glass and returning the decanter to the drinks tray. "Edward," he said, in the gentlest voice I had yet heard him use, "come stand here with me by the fire. My sister tells me all our chimneys smoke, but I fear I'll need to feel some warmth while Lucien recites his chilling tale."
So we moved nearer the fireplace with its holly-draped mantel. The warmth of the fire felt good, and so did some nearly imperceptible change in my stepfather's manner toward me. Lucien began his tale, but the earl kept his eyes on me.
"As you have so often told us, Aunt Sophia," Lucien said, "you are a woman who is accustomed to finer treatment than we can afford you here at The Abbey, in part because you consider London your home and were not often here as a child. That being so, I do not imagine the tale of the Headless Abbot has come to your ears."
"I should say not!"
Lucien turned to his father. "I thought it only fair to warn my dear cousins about him, sir."
"Your dear cousins," the earl repeated. "Just so."
Lucien again recounted the legend, this telling no less unnerving than the previous one. My mother had recourse to her vinaigrette no fewer than five times but was an avid listener.
"Poppycock!" Lord Bane declared. "Fairy tales."
"I used to think so," Lucien said. "But if it's just a fairy tale, there ought to be a good earl in it. But there isn't, you see."
"A good earl?" his father asked, looking sharply at him.
"Yes, Father. The abbey should have been protected by a good man, someone who cared about the defenseless men who lived there. He would not have let the ruffians who descended on them have their way."
"Perhaps he was otherwise occupied," the earl said.
Lucien shrugged. "Perhaps he did not see his duty."
The earl raised a brow. "Perhaps he was taking a switch to the backside of his impertinent son."
Lucien gave a little bow. "I trust in your wisdom, sir. You must have the right of it."
"Doing it much too brown, Lucien!" the earl said, but there was a twinkle in his eye that did not abate even as his sister upbraided him for using such terms.
"And why you talk of earls, which has nothing to do with the case, I'm sure I don't know!" Lady Bane protested. "You seem to forget, dear brother, that Lucien has frightened poor Fanny and her brothers half to death!"
"I beg your pardon, Aunt Sophia," Lucien said when she paused to draw breath, "if I've caused you or my cousins any fright. But I do think the experience of seeing the ghost or hearing the hoofbeats is much less frightening if one is
prepared
. Imagine the shock one might feel if he were to see a bloodstained, headless apparition floating outside his window at midnight if he
didn't
know the legend."
"Nonsense!" Lady Bane declared. "We've spent Christmas here these past three years and more. Why have we never heard this legend before now?"
"If I may offer an explanation, Aunt Sophia?" Lucien said. "Only one section of The Abbey is haunted— beneath the chambers you occupy. No one is ever disturbed in any other part of the house, so we did not wish to frighten you with the tale. But since you wished to have the rooms nearest the north tower—"
"Oh! So this is my fault is it? Well, I'll tell you why we are just now hearing of your ghost, my good fellow! Because some who've never been here before this year have invented tales. Outsiders!" She rounded on me, pointing. "It's you!"
She received a chorus of approval from her offspring. I quailed before them, but then I felt the earl's large hand on my shoulder. I winced a bit as he touched a bruise, and his hand shifted slightly. At that moment I became aware that the room had fallen silent. Everyone was looking at the earl, whose face was a mask of cold fury.
"Are you assuming that my wife's son has no place in our family?" he asked icily. "I assure you, Sophia, he is not an outsider here. Lucien thinks of Edward as his brother, and I as my son. Indeed, there are blood relations I would much liefer disown— and may."
I could hardly believe my own ears, which were soon assaulted.
"No offense meant!" Lord Bane shouted. I was sure he'd spoken loudly enough to startle the villagers from their beds several miles away.
The earl, however, appeared not to have heard him. "Perhaps, Sophia, you would find Christmas in Town more to your liking."
"La!" she said nervously, "how you do take one up! Prefer Christmas in London to being with family— indeed, no! Bane is right— I meant no offense. Lucien's lurid tale has quite overset me!"
With that, she snapped at her children, telling them it was long past time for them to be abed, remonstrated with the governess for not having seen to it, and said, "Bane!" in a commanding tone that had her husband soon bidding all a good night.
"You too should be in bed, Edward," my mother said.
"Time we all were," my stepfather said. "Go on up if you like, my dear. I shall have a brief word with the boys before I retire."
As soon as she had left, the earl turned to Lucien and said in a lazy voice, "I trust Act III of your little drama will be staged later this evening?" Despite his tone I could see the amusement in his eyes, and for the first time, I perceived a likeness between the earl and his son that went beyond Lucien's physical resemblance to his father.
"Tomorrow evening, sir. Tonight would be too soon. They are Banes, and being such, need time to think."
"You frighten me far more than your telling of the legend did— though I credit you with an admirable performance."
Lucien bowed again. "I had an excellent teacher."
The earl gave a sudden shout of laughter. "Impossible boy!"
"Again, sir—"
"No, don't say I taught you to be such an impudent hellion, for I'll swear I did not!"
"Then I shall say nothing, sir— except— except— thank you, sir!"
" 'Tis the other way 'round, I believe." The earl turned back to me and gently lifted my chin. "I see I have been remiss in your education, Edward. Or perhaps— yes— Lucien, you must teach your brother to be handy with his fives." He paused. "Lady Rolingbroke need not be apprised of it."
"Thank you, sir!" I said.
"Oh, I demand a high price! If you fail to rid me of the Banes, you and that makebait Lucien will be served gruel for Christmas dinner— by whatever headless monk I can find to take it to the dungeon!"
* * *
We were destined to eat a sumptuous feast. Before Lucien and I sought our beds, he enlisted my aid in creating a few hoofbeats along the secret passages near each of the Banes' bedchambers. Henry had awakened to feel a ghostly presence in the form of a room that was suddenly terribly cold, not knowing that Lucien had merely left the entrance to one of the draftiest passages open for a time.
We left it at that. The next morning, of course, we denied hearing anything like hoofbeats. When Henry swore he had felt the ghost but no other member of his family told a similar tale, Lucien grew thoughtful. "I wonder why he would single you out?"
This made Henry go very pale and ask again if no one else had felt a bit chilly last night.
No one had, of course. The earl went so far as to say he had rarely slept so well.
Lady Bane was perhaps made suspicious by this remark, for she gave her husband a speaking look and asked him to accompany her into the village. Henry was rather quiet that day, if a little jumpy. William, owing to the increased watchfulness of several footmen and others, did not have any chances to harm me that morning. He later confided to us that Lord and Lady Bane had found the villagers ready to repeat all the salient points of the legend and in many cases to enlarge upon it. After hearing something of this at luncheon, the earl strode up to Lucien and me as we were on our way to the stables. "Lucien, dear boy, I take it I am going to be generous to my tenants this Boxing Day?"
"Extremely, sir. But it should interest you to know that Aunt Sophia's dresser has told Bogsley that she doesn't expect the Banes to remain in this, er 'accursed place' another day."
"Don't tell me you've enlisted my staid butler in your schemes? I'd think it beneath Bogsley's dignity."
Lucien seemed to ponder before answering. "Perhaps, Father, it would be best not to inquire too closely on some matters."
"Good God!" the earl declared and walked away seeming shaken.
The following night I helped again with hoofbeats, and later to make howling sounds as Lucien— and Fibbens— contrived to swing a headless "apparition" past their windows. Bogsley had recommended the village seamstress who made the monk. Each Bane caught no more than a fleeting glimpse of this phantom, but judging from the pandemonium, this glimpse was more effective than a full night's haunting. The Banes, looking haggard, were on the road to London before noon, swearing never to return to The Abbey.
The earl declared it the most delightful Christmas gift his son had ever bestowed upon him, causing my mother a great deal of puzzlement.
* * *
As we grew older I learned how rare a gift I had received in Lucien's affection for me and saw how infrequently he troubled himself to form friendships. He nevertheless grew into a man who was invited everywhere. While his fortune, breeding, and rank might have guaranteed that in any case, there was a vast difference between the welcome Lucien was given by leading members of the
haut ton
and that afforded others. That I benefited from my connection to him is without doubt and was decried by Lord Henry Bane, Mr. William Bane, Miss Fanny Bane, and the Dowager Lady Sophia Bane, who made no less imposing a widow than a wife. Lucien's aunt might complain all she liked about "persons who were no blood relation" enjoying "privileges above their station," but she found few who paid heed to her.
Our parents died together in a carriage accident when Lucien was but twenty-two. He succeeded to his father's dignities and two years later married well. His wife was a young beauty with a handsome dowry, although his own wealth prevented anyone from imagining him a fortune hunter. Lucien, unlike so many of our order, married for love.
I was myself by no means penniless, provided for both by my late stepfather and, having come into an inheritance, through my mother's family. Not long after Lucien's wedding, feeling restless, I used some of my own fortune to buy colors and left for the Peninsular War to see what I could do to hamper Boney's efforts in Portugal and Spain. Lucien and I exchanged letters, and although the mail was not always reliable, his correspondence made my soldier's life easier to bear. The letters made me long to be home, of course. Of all of these, the most heart-rending was the one in which he told me of both the death of his wife and the birth of his son.
It was not his way to be effusive— either in grief or in joy— but in this letter he wrote a litany of all the small pleasures he would miss— hearing the soft rustle of her skirts as she entered the library while he read, watching her blush at an endearment, listening to her sing softly to herself as she walked through The Abbey gardens, unaware that he was near— and I came to a new understanding of how deeply he had cared for her. Beyond that one letter he never wrote to me again of her, though across the great distance between us I could sense his sadness.
Gradually, over the next two years, I began to see that he had found a new source of joy as well. Letter after letter gave the latest news of Charles Edward Rolingbroke, my nephew and godson. Lucien clearly doted on his heir. I saved these letters as I had every letter before, reading them again and again.
* * *
I next saw Lucien when he approached my bed in a dismal London hospital. He looked for me there after Ciudad Rodrigo. He had seen my name among the lists of wounded and used his influence to discover what had become of me. I heard someone say, "Captain, you've a visitor." I opened my eyes, and there stood Lucien, looking ridiculously worried. Delirious with fever, nevertheless I recognized him— at least for a few moments, when he seemed to me some last vision granted to me before dying. I was too weak even to speak to him and remember nothing more than smiling foolishly at him. Nor do I remember being moved from that place and taken to Rolingbroke House, his fashionable London residence. The quality of my care improved immeasurably, and eventually the fever subsided.
