Three Graces (12 page)

Carys shook her head. ‘I can’t quite see me making friends with a ghost.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Ms Claridge said knowingly. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of people who’ve called me in the hope that I’ll be in and out in an hour, blitzing their spirits before they have time to make me a cup of tea only for me to tell them to try talking to them. It’s only fair, isn’t it? I mean, you wouldn’t hire a hit man to rid you of new neighbours you haven’t even met.’

Carys blinked in surprise at Ms Claridge’s use of the term
hit man
.

‘But ghosts - I mean spirits,’ Carys said, ‘they aren’t neighbours, are they? They live in the same space as we do.’

‘All I’m saying is give Georgiana a chance. She was meant to be very nice, you know.’

A sudden laugh escaped Carys. ‘I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.’

‘It will take a while to get used to the idea but the next time you walk through the Montella Room and feel a slight chill, pause and see what happens.’

‘I always feel chilly in this house.’

‘But pay special attention to that room: that’s the one she seems to favour. I don’t know why yet but I’m hoping you’ll let me know when you find out.’

Carys bit her lip. ‘You seem very sure that I will find out, don’t you?’

‘I have every faith in you, my dear.’

Carys wanted to start immediately. When Ms Claridge left, she felt all fired up with energy and enthusiasm. She was going to talk to a ghost, and not just any ghost. This was one of Richard’s ancestors. How bizarre was that? And it felt so naughty too because Richard didn’t know anything about it.

Maybe now was the right time to tell him - before things went any further, she thought as she walked through the Yellow Drawing Room. Ms Claridge had said that the whole county knew about the Blue Lady so Richard would more than likely be aware of her already. Perhaps he’d even heard her himself and seen her floating around Amberley. Carys thought back to the estate meeting in the Montella Room. Richard hadn’t given any indication that he’d heard the voice. He might have no idea about the Blue Lady or maybe he just didn’t believe in ghosts.

Maybe, Carys thought, she should just go straight to the Montella Room and find out for herself first. Yes. That was it. There was no point in worrying Richard until she found out the truth.

The house was quiet that morning. Carys passed one of the cleaners who was working quietly with a duster in her hand. She nodded a good morning and she walked on through the house. In another half hour, it would be open to the public so she’d better get a move on if she wanted the Montella Room to herself.

When she arrived at the room, the doors were open in readiness for the public. Carys closed them quietly behind her and stood perfectly still for a moment. Did she feel a chill? It was hard to tell. She did feel odd, though, but perhaps that was psychological. Very few people had the time to just stand and be still, listening to their own heartbeat. It was a curious feeling to be alone in such a grand room and yet, at the same time, she didn’t feel as if she was totally alone: there were the numerous portraits to keep her company.

‘Which one are you?’ Carys whispered, moving to view the paintings. But she knew. It was the painting Louise had shown an interest in. For a moment, Carys wondered if that had meant something. Louise had denied having any feelings and yet she’d been drawn to Georgiana’s painting. Had Georgiana been trying to communicate with Louise?

Carys gazed up at the painting. There were at least three portraits of Georgiana in the room and several more throughout the house but this was the most beautiful. Not quite life-size, it was a full-length portrait of Georgiana wearing a pale blue dress which shimmered from out of the dark background. Was that why she was known as the Blue Lady? Did that mean that, when she made her rare appearances, she was still wearing this dress? After over two hundred years? It was all so confusing.

Carys noticed the delicate lace at the dress’s neckline and the exquisite slippers peeping out from under the folds of the dress. And then she noticed something she hadn’t seen before. Georgiana was also holding a single red rose - the famous scarlet Amberley Velvet - the rose with the astonishing scent. But it was the way she was holding it that was so curious. It was cradled in her arms as if it were a baby. Had her husband given her that rose and asked her to be painted holding it? Carys looked for clues in her face. She had a kind face: beautiful, vanilla-pale skin, her fair hair swept gently back. But there was something about the eyes that was bewitching: they were dark and mysteriously playful, as if she wanted to share a secret with you.

‘What’s your secret, Georgiana? Is that why you’ve come back - to tell me something?’

Carys sighed. As much as she wanted to, she just couldn’t bring herself to talk out loud to an empty space. She tried to recall what Ms Claridge had said about ghosts.

They’re just like normal people.

Right. That didn’t seem very likely to Carys but, as she’d no prior experience of these matters, who was she to argue?

Give Georgiana a chance.

She wanted to, she really did, but she couldn’t help feeling terribly sceptical about the whole thing. Somehow, her earlier buzz of enthusiasm had waned. Still, she couldn’t not give things a try after coming so far already but what, exactly, should she do? Call her name again? That’s what you’d do if you wanted to find a friend, wasn’t it? And Ms Claridge had made it perfectly clear that ghosts were just like ordinary people.

‘Georgiana?’ Carys whispered, her voice, she felt, far too hesitant to reach anything from another dimension. ‘Are you there?’ she tried again, a little louder but sounding ridiculously clichéd.

There was nothing. No. Wait. She felt sure that buzzing sensation was returning. Her skin felt quite strange - just like the time in the Music Room. It was hard to explain. A certain frisson of the flesh. Or maybe it was Ms Claridge’s strange blue liquid wearing off. Carys worried in case it might have some long-term effect which might send her into a trance at the most inappropriate moments such as estate meetings. Not that anybody would notice, she smiled.

‘Concentrate,’ she said to herself. Deep breaths, that was the way. She stood absolutely still and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to empty her mind just as Ms Claridge had instructed. A sudden calmness flooded her system and, for a moment, she thought she could smell - what? Was it the hyacinth smell of Ms Claridge’s strange potion? No. It was roses. She could smell roses. And not just any rose: what she could smell was unmistakable. It was an Amberley Velvet.

‘Georgiana?’

Carys felt her heartbeat accelerate. She didn’t know what to do. Should she open her eyes? She was too afraid at what might greet her.

‘Okay,’ she whispered to herself. ‘I can do this. I
must
do this.’

She opened her eyes.

‘RICHARD!’ she screamed. He was standing right in front of her. How long had he been there?

She waited for him to say something perceptive like, ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ but he didn’t. In fact, it was he who looked like he’d seen a ghost.

‘Richard? Whatever’s the matter?’ Carys leant forward and greeted him with a tender kiss. He was deathly pale. ‘Are you ill?’ Carys stroked his cheek. ‘I’ve told you to slow down, haven’t I? You’re doing far too much and now you’re paying the price.’

‘No,’ he said.

Carys sighed. ‘There’s no use arguing with me. You’ve got to take things easier.’

‘No,’ he said again. ‘It’s not me, Carys.’

She looked at him. ‘What’s wrong, then?’

He was silent for a moment, as if trying to work it out for himself. Carys could feel her heart rate speeding again and, this time, it had nothing to do with ghosts.

‘What is it, Richard?’ she asked again. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s father.’ Richard said in a voice that was barely audible. ‘He’s had a heart attack.’

The eleventh Duke of Cuthland had suffered a heart attack the year before and had refused to take the doctor’s advice about taking things easy. He paid the price with his life shortly after reaching the hospital.

With the estate to run and the funeral to arrange, Richard had too much to do to find the time to grieve and Carys was deeply worried that he was heading the same way as his father.

‘It’s so awful,’ Carys told Louise on the phone. ‘I can’t seem to reach him at all. I’m so worried about him.’

‘It must be a huge responsibility. I mean, he’s the new duke now, isn’t he? And there’ll be all those appalling death duties to worry about.’

Carys hadn’t even thought of those. She’d heard the term mentioned before but wasn’t quite sure what it entailed. All she knew was that it was the price the privileged paid for continuing to live at Amberley: each new duke would have to cough up the coffers if they wished to remain lord of the manor.

The funeral was to be held at St Mary’s Church in the grounds of Amberley. It was where all the dukes were buried and, truth be told, was beginning to look a bit crowded. There was the option of cremation, of course, and a neat row of urns stood silently in a quiet corner of the Cuthland Chapel but Henry Bretton was not going to be extinguished quite so easily. He wanted a proper burial. Carys had an awful image of his likeness being chiselled onto his tomb like his ancestors, his faithful spaniels propping up his feet. But what made her sadder than anything was that she’d not really got to know the duke. Still, in a strange way, she knew that she was going to miss him. His bark, which boomed and echoed through the corridors of Amberley, was so much a part of the place that she couldn’t imagine life without it.

There were a lot of people who wouldn’t miss him, of course, like the errant walkers who dared to stray off the footpaths into the deer park and were chased away with irate shouts and menacing shakes of one of the duke’s infamous walking sticks. But nobody would be left doubting that he’d been a larger than life character.

Richard’s mother, now known as the ‘dowager duchess’, hadn’t spoken a word to Carys since the death of her husband. That wasn’t very surprising, though, seeing as they hardly spoke under normal circumstances. Carys tried, hopelessly, to think of something comforting to say. She so longed to have a good relationship with her mother-in-law and knew that she’d need her guidance more than ever now that she was about to take over the role of duchess herself.

Cecily and Evelyn spent most of their time in tears and, heartless as it may have seemed, Carys was pleased to see that Cecily was capable of some emotion after all. Of course, Carys was completely refused when it came to offering any comfort but there was one touching moment when, late at night, Carys had woken up to find Richard was not in bed. She’d slipped on slippers and a dressing gown and followed the sound of whispered voices to the girls’ room where, peeping through the door which had been left ever-so-slightly ajar, she saw Richard sitting on the edge of Cecily’s bed, a warm arm around her shoulders.

‘Grandpa knows you love him,’ he whispered into the top of her head.

‘But how?’

‘Because families just know these things.’

There was a pause.

‘Do you know I love you, Daddy?’

‘Of course I do, sweetheart.’

‘And does Grandma know I love her?’

‘I’m sure she does.’

‘But I should tell her, shouldn’t I?’

‘I think she’d like that very much.’

Cecily had nodded and Carys had watched as he’d tucked her back into bed, kissing her cheek and smoothing down her hair which was damp with tears.

With all the upset and upheaval of the duke’s death, Carys had completely forgotten about Amanda, Richard’s ex-wife and mother of Cecily and Evelyn and the role she would play. Incredibly enough, Carys had never met her. Every weekend, when she came to pick up the girls, Carys had been out walking the dogs. Richard had never offered an introduction and it didn’t quite seem the right thing to ask him to do. But she had been a member of the Bretton family for twelve years and was, of course, invited to the funeral.

Carys had seen photographs of her but none of them did her justice. A statuesque five foot seven with rich brown hair and eyes the colour of jade, she was the kind of woman to give a newly-wed second wife the heebie-jeebies. She was also immaculate with a sharp suit, discreet gold earrings and perfect nails. She also owned a Marlva Panache in misty blue - a car Carys had been dreaming of owning for years.

‘You must be Carys,’ she said as they met in the Yellow Drawing Room on the morning of the funeral.

‘Amanda?’ Carys said, shaking the outstretched manicured hand which felt so much calmer and steadier than her own.

‘My word,’ Amanda said, glancing around the room. ‘This place never changes, does it?’ Her tone told of her relief to be shot of the place, her lofty glance finding every cobweb and forgotten patch of dust.

‘That, I find, is part of its charm,’ Carys countered.

‘Yes, well, charm doesn’t keep you warm in winter or pay the bills,’ she said, making Carys feel incredibly naïve.

‘Amberley usually finds a way.’

‘It will need to with these death duties.’

Luckily for Carys, who didn’t particularly want to spend any more time alone with Amanda, Phoebe, Serena and Jamie entered the room, their pale faces all the more stark because of their black clothing. Phoebe immediately crossed the room and hugged Carys.

‘You okay?’ Carys whispered.

Phoebe nodded but Carys could see that her eyes were red-rimmed. Still, Phoebe didn’t forget her manners and greeted Amanda with a kiss on the cheek.

Richard entered the room with his mother who was wearing a pretty hat with a wisp of dark veil. She linked his arm and nodded to Amanda who came forward to kiss both her and Richard. Cecily and Evie followed, running over to greet their mother as if she might be able to make everything better.

And then, it was time to leave. It was damp and overcast which seemed to suit everybody’s mood. Stepping out from the front porch, Carys saw the sombre black hearse and the dark wood coffin of the duke, piled high with white lilies and his favourite yellow roses from the estate gardens.