The Ghost & Miss Miranda, page 2
part #4 of Magic and Mayhem Series
Her stomach flipped with excitement. “Yes.”
“Save a waltz for me.”
“It would be my pleasure.” Miranda couldn’t help but grin as giddiness danced within her being as she ran off, hurrying down the foliage-lined path only to be brought up short by dark smoke that materialized into the most gruesome creature with black eyes. He wore charred peasant clothing from days of old and his skin appeared scorched.
Miranda stumbled back.
“Who are you?”
“A wish answered,” he sneered.
Her heart skipped, shocked that it had been granted. However, when she’d made the wish, she hadn’t anticipated the entity to be so frightening.
“Leave here!”
“I am.” Miranda grasped her throat in fear and glanced about. Epworth hadn’t followed and she was quite alone with this terrifying entity.
“If you step foot on Keyvnor land again, it will be the end of you.”
Miranda gulped. “I promise. I’ll leave right away.”
“And never return! Or you will die.” The peasant dissipated, leaving but a trace of smoke and the most unpleasant odor of burned…she didn’t even know how to describe the stench, but it made her nearly gag. Covering her mouth and nose, Miranda ran the rest of the way to find Adam waiting for her. As soon as she explained what had occurred, he grasped her arm.
“You’re leaving this instant,” Adam ordered.
Numbly she nodded, her heart beating heavily in her chest as she glanced back to where she’d come, but Epworth was nowhere to be seen. As much as she’d like to return to him, to the safety of his arms, Miranda knew that he’d never believe her and further, ignoring the entity’s orders would see her killed. Of that, she had no doubt.
Chapter 1
Three Months Later - Hollybrook Park, Cornwall, September, 1812
Miranda stretched her arms before her, pushing palms toward the ceiling and sighed. To think, if her sister, Diana wasn’t about to marry Lord Somerton, Miranda wouldn’t have been allowed to return to her favorite place in all of Hollybrook Park.
It wasn’t that Miranda didn’t like her family or the bedchamber she’d slept in since she was a girl, it was just that there was something magical about being in the attic set of rooms, with windows that allowed her to step out onto the roof, and onto what she’d decided would be her private terrace, and to look out over the ocean. Though she suspected that when this was designed, nobody had been thinking about whether it would be a lovely place to sit and enjoy tea. More likely, it served as a lookout for navy ships. Given her family had made their wealth in smuggling, they’d have been quite diligent in watching the waters, though they no longer did so from high above the manor.
And for a short time, the attic was Miranda’s to enjoy, and at such a perfect time of the year with cerulean sky and trees adorned with red, golden and orange leaves. Such a breathtaking sight to behold as she looked toward the Celtic Sea.
Besides the sleeping chamber, this attic also had a delightful study once used by her great-uncle. Oddly, she hadn’t seen Uncle Jonathan in weeks and often wondered where he had disappeared to. In fact, many times she wondered if he’d moved on but when she’d finally come to that conclusion, he returned.
Uncle Jonathan had been the only ghost she’d ever seen, and why she wanted to see another so badly in London and then at Castle Keyvnor.
Miranda shivered at the reminder of the smoking entity that had nearly killed her. She’d learned his name was Barnaby after she’d returned to Hollybrook Park and Uncle Jonathan informed her that the peasant had been burned practicing witchcraft when he hadn’t been a warlock at all.
She shook the memory away. Today was too beautiful to think about Barnaby, burning stakes or witches and with a sigh, she pulled on her wrapper and found her slippers, hopeful that the maid had left her the chocolate she had requested.
Further, she’d not think on what else had occurred that day at Castle Keyvnor, as it was too painful.
Had the kiss meant nothing to Epworth?
If he’d been interested at all, or even concerned when she’d not shown for the ball, he would have called on her. It wasn’t as if Hollybrook Park was so far away from Castle Keyvnor. It was a neighboring estate! Yet, she hadn’t seen him after leaving him at the well.
Did he even wonder why she hadn’t attended the ball? Was he grateful that she hadn’t been there? Was he sorry that he’d kissed her?
These questions had plagued her for three months and Miranda knew that she’d get no answers. At least, not until she returned to London. But even then, Epworth might not seek her out as he’d done in the past and it was very disheartening.
“You!” A voice barked as she opened the door.
She blinked. “You’re back.”
“What the blazes are you doing up here…in…in…” he gestured to her person. “Dressed like that. Have you no shame?”
Miranda glanced down at the wrapper covering her nightshift. She was certainly modestly clothed, even if inappropriate for receiving guests. Except, Uncle Jonathan wasn’t a guest.
“Well? Are you going to answer me?” Then he gestured to his desk and bookshelves. “What have you done to my personal belongings?”
He was still cantankerous, but Miranda didn’t mind. He’d been much the same since she’d first discovered him looking through his spy glass. She’d only been five at the time and he’d been just as surprised at her being able to see him. Except, when she was little, he’d been kinder. It was only after she’d grown that he became short with her and didn’t like his privacy invaded.
“I had it cleaned,” she answered. “Would you rather I let your belongings remain covered in dust only to decay from lack of proper care?” Many of the papers that had been left out after his demise needed to be tossed years ago, but the books, journals and rolled maps were only a bit yellowed and Miranda wanted to preserve his belongings for as long as possible.
He scowled. “Why are you traipsing around not properly attired?”
“If you must know, the room beyond is now my sleeping chamber,” she answered with confidence as she walked to the table where the maid had left her a pot of chocolate.
Uncle Jonathan pulled back as if shocked. “They relegated you to the attic! What did you do to warrant such punishment?”
She laughed. “Nothing. The manor will soon be near to overflowing with guests as it had been at Christmas. As I did then, I’ve taken up residence here until they are gone.” Or permanently if she could talk Adam into letting her stay.
“I remember,” he grumbled. “Too many damned people in my home.”
Miranda knew very well that Uncle Jonathan hated to be disturbed, but it wasn’t as if she had planned the week of festivities or invited anyone to visit.
“Where do you go?” It was something she’d often wondered when he disappeared without word or warning.
“None of your business,” he scowled again.
Goodness, he was cantankerous and behaved more like her grandfather had, before his unexpected death nearly a year ago. Then again, Uncle Jonathan would be two and seventy, if he hadn’t died at the age of nine and twenty in 1769. Though, she supposed he was seventy-two, though he looked very young for his age.
“Why is the manor being invaded again?” he countered.
“As I’ve told you previously, my sister, Diana, is marrying Lord James Bryant, Earl of Somerton, and there is to be a week of wedding festivities.”
“Bloody hell,” Uncle Jonathan grumbled and turned to look out the window. “Can’t they do that at a church, or have the celebration at Somerton’s estate? I assume he owns one given his title.”
She shrugged as she had no answer, nor had she been consulted. “Why is it that you disappear for weeks and months on end?”
“Because I don’t like to be bothered.”
“I’ve not seen you in weeks so you must go somewhere.”
“Perhaps I can hear you coming,” he countered. “I leave so I won’t be badgered about my comings and goings.”
Miranda smirked.
It was likely he was here when she wasn’t. And perhaps he did avoid her, not that she cared. Besides, there was a journal she wished to read and if Uncle Jonathan knew that she’d found it hidden in the false bottom of a cabinet, he’d not be happy.
“I insist that you return to your former chamber at once.” He thrust a pointed finger toward the floor.
“I will not,” Miranda held her ground. Just because Uncle Jonathan was a ghost didn’t mean he scared her.
“You will do as I tell you,” he yelled.
“I will do no such thing. I have every right to sleep in that chamber.” She pointed to the adjoining room.
“Not when it’s attached to my quarters.”
“These aren’t captain’s quarters. We are in a manor. Not on a ship.”
“I’ll call my set of rooms whatever I damned well please,” he bellowed.
Miranda blew out a heavy sigh. It wasn’t worth arguing. “I promise that I shan’t bother you.”
“You already do,” he thundered.
“Oh, why don’t you move on. I’m quite certain you would be much happier.” Though, she’d miss him no matter how irritable he happened to be.
“I can’t,” he grumbled.
“Why not? What is holding you here?”
He glared at her for a moment, inhaled deeply then turned his back on Miranda. It was rather odd to watch him inhale, his shoulders raise, and chest expand, given there was no need for oxygen since Uncle Jonathan was, well, dead. Yet, she supposed spirits took habits and mannerisms into the afterlife. It was the only explanation.
Miranda relaxed and sipped her chocolate. She was not going to vacate the attic no matter how much he wished it.
A moment later he glanced over his shoulder and studied her.
Miranda quirked a brow. He’d not intimidate her no matter how much he tried.
“How old are you anyway?”
Miranda gasped. “That is a rather impertinent question.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not known for politeness or niceties. Now answer the question.”
She huffed. “I’m two and twenty.”
“Twenty-two!” he roared as he turned. “Why the blazes haven’t you married? You should have at least one brat clinging to your skirts by now.”
“It’s a wonder you never married.” Miranda snorted. “What woman could dare resist such charm?”
“I’ll have you know…” He wagged a finger at her but didn’t finish what he was going to say.
“You’ll have me know what?” Miranda taunted with a grin. Further, she’d like to know if the woman in his past had been named Hester. Not that Miranda could ask, because then Uncle Jonathan would know that she’d found his journal. She’d just started reading about their first encounter and was anxious to read more.
“Nothing!” Uncle Jonathan crossed his arms across his chest and turned his back on his great-niece to look out over the sea.
While he’d not been married, had he been betrothed? In love? At least it was more than she’d experienced. Though, she had fallen in love with Lord Epworth. Unfortunately, he did not share the same emotion since she’d not seen or heard from him since that glorious kiss—three months ago.
“If you must know, I’ve not met anyone who would suit,” Miranda finally answered. Though, she had hoped that Epworth was such a gentleman.
Uncle Jonathan turned from the window. “Of all the bachelors in London you could not find one that you liked?” he questioned in disbelief.
Miranda notched her chin with determination. “I have not.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t be so finicky.”
“Perhaps gentlemen should be more interesting,” she countered. When one was contemplating spending their life with another, it was important to be careful in that choosing, even if Uncle Jonathan perceived it as being finicky.
“What of that bloke who followed you around Keyvnor in June?”
Miranda sat forward. How did he know about Epworth?
Uncle Jonathan eyed her as if waiting for an explanation.
“He’s not a bloke and he didn’t follow me.”
Her uncle snorted.
“How would you know anything? You weren’t even there.”
“You don’t think I have connections?” He laughed. “There are a few charming maids, dead long before me, who love to gossip.”
“Well, they’re wrong,” Miranda insisted and flopped back against the settee, nearly spilling her chocolate. Epworth’s rejection was painful enough. She couldn’t endure to be humiliated by her great-uncle as well.
“What’s his name?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t the charming maids tell you?”
“It didn’t seem important at the time,” he shrugged. “Who is he and why haven’t you married him?”
Miranda blew out a sigh. “Wesley Claxton, the Marquess of Epworth, and we will not suit.” Much to her disappointment.
He pulled back in surprise.
“Do you know him?” She chuckled. It wasn’t possible that he did, of that she was certain.
“I’m familiar with the family name,” he grumbled. “What of this wedding? Will there be bachelors in attendance? By chance has any of them caught your eye?”
It was a question she’d not answer with complete honesty. “I’m unaware of all who are on the guest list, as I’ve little interest.” Though she’d like to know if Epworth was invited, as he was a friend of Somerton’s. She just wasn’t certain how she felt about seeing him again.
“Hopefully there is at least one bachelor who shows an interest because something must be done with you.”
Miranda blew out a breath. “Nothing need be done with me; I can assure you.”
“I beg to differ.” He began to fade.
“Where are you going now?”
“To find you a husband,” Uncle Jonathan answered after he’d disappeared from her sight.
Husband! How the blazes was he, a ghost, going to manage such a feat?
Forester Hall, Cornwall, September, 1812
Wesley neared the rose parlor where he intended to take tea with his grandmother but stopped short when he heard her talking.
At one time he would have assumed that she was entertaining a guest. That was no longer a supposition and Wesley grew worried as to his grandmother’s state of mind. More and more of late she’d been talking to herself. Not the normal mumblings one might do on occasion but carried on actual conversations as if someone were with her. She’d speak then wait, as if listening, before she spoke again. Whenever Wesley entered the room, however, she ceased doing so, as if she knew that it wasn’t right to carry on so, but then she’d giggle for no apparent reason.
The behavior had begun ten years ago, right after his grandfather died and Wesley had often wondered if it was because she loved Grandfather so much, and the loss was so devastating, that it caused her slip from reality.
If Grandmother did suffer from senility or a demented state, there wasn’t anything he could do, and he’d never resort to sending the old gel to a horrific place like Bedlam. He’d simply keep her here, in the care of her family and make certain that a maid or caretaker was her constant companion. It was the latest recommendation of the Royal Society and those who were knowledgeable about such conditions. This past spring he’d met with many physicians and scholars who had studied the subject, in hopes of a cure, but none was to be had.
“She’s always been a favorite of yours, Jonathan.”
Who was Jonathan? Did his grandmother have an invisible friend such as a child invented? Had she slipped so far from reality?
“Yes, yes, you are correct. But what to do?”
Do about what?
“That is an excellent idea,” she exclaimed.
Wesley pinched the bridge of his nose. Why was he the only one in the family who was concerned with his grandmother’s grasp on reality? Her son certainly wasn’t. Father was too busy running the estate and analyzing investments to bring further wealth into the family.
Maybe Grandmother needed her friends to visit. Living at Forester Hall must be lonely for her. One of the recommendations by the learned physicians was that conversation and engagement of the mind might help stave off the disease, although not permanently, but any slow in the progression was helpful.
Wesley brightened. Yes, he’d send for Ladies Priscilla, Joanna and Esther Tilson, maiden sisters who had at one time been his grandmother’s constant companions. If she had real friends with her, she’d not need to invent an invisible one, and maybe he could keep her in the present reality longer, before it was too late and she forgot them all to live in a world of her imagination, as was the likely outcome, based on all that he’d read.
“Yes. Yes. Jonathan. He would be perfect.”
Wesley could no longer remain in the corridor listening to his grandmother lose her hold on reality. “Who would be perfect, Grandmother?” he asked as he stepped into the parlor.
She blinked at him. “Just thinking aloud, dear.” Then she smiled. “Please join me for tea.”
A footman entered, almost on Wesley’s heels and settled the tea service on the table between them. It was Wesley who poured as he’d been doing for some time now since Grandmother’s hands pained her and lifting the pot was simply too much.
“Who is Jonathan?” He had to know if his grandmother truly believed a person was in the room with her.
She took a hasty drink then settled the cup on the saucer, as her smile fell. “You’ll think me silly.”
He’d never seen Grandmother defeated. Perhaps he shouldn’t press, but Wesley was concerned. “I could never think such a thing,” he assured her.
“Jonathan is the man I love. The only man I’ve ever loved and sometimes I like to talk to him.”
Only man. What about his grandfather? Hadn’t they loved one another?
