Adduné - the Vampire's Game (5 page)

Reginald was never more serious as he was at that moment. He stared into her eyes holding her attention as he solemnly swore his reply.

“
No, Miranda. There are no such things as ghosts.”

She nodded and turned her head away. He knew she had gotten the message he was trying to deliver. Now if only she would believe what he said was true.

Miranda heard Reginald’s heels clip a retreat across the hardwood floors and then disappear into the folds of the house. She stood uneasily in the silence feeling a knot in her stomach tightening. She closed her eyes and bit into her lower lip. She needed to stop it. It was the cold that was doing it. The awful cold. She hugged her arms around her and moved to the fire that was fully ablaze. Reginald had been feeding it all morning long. He had even started one in adjoining room to help. Neither had made a dent.

She stood before the parlour fire and held out her hands. They were quickly warmed by the dancing flames. The waves of warmth rushed up to meet her. Her face flushed from being so near. It was so odd that while the fire was doing its job warming the front of her, the back of her remained icy cold. It was as if she had a foot in both worlds – that of the living and the dead. A chill ran up her spine as she felt a pressure on her shoulder. A gentle tap. Someone or something was touching her.

Miranda screamed and jumped backward. She knocked into the screen, toppling it over. It crashed noisily to the ground. She did the same – awkwardly landing on top of it. She instinctively scrambled to the wall, pressing her back against it. She covered her face with her hand, squinting between half-open eyes at the elderly man standing above her. He had patches of long, white hair and a straggly beard valiantly attempting to cover his receding chin line. He had a kindly, gentle face, and black eyes filled with good-humor. He leaned forward offering her his hand.

“
Sorry, miss. Didn’t mean to scare you. I’m William Figgs.

Miranda sprawled out on the floor, relaxing against the wall. Usually she would feel beyond mortified, but right now she only felt relieved. She raised her arm and took his hand. He pulled her to her feet. The vivid color in her cheeks gave away her embarrassment. She brushed the loose, floral skirting down and laughed, trying to unknot the tension she’d created.

“
Yes, Reginald told me about you. My name is Miranda Perry. Forgive me for acting like such an idiot!”

“
Well, well, well, I finally get to meet the Mister’s daughter, do I? My, my, my, let’s get a good look at ya. Yes, you are a beauty, just like people say. I’m very honored to have finally made your acquaintance, Miss Perry.”

“
You’re very kind to say that. I must have looked quite the spectacle tripping over myself that way.”

“
No harm done, Miss,” Willie consoled bending down and righting the screen. “There! Ya see? Good as new! These things were built to withstand more than a thin, little bit like you knockin’ them about!”

Miranda ran her hand through her hair nervously. She liked the old man and understood why her father had entrusted him to look after these antiques. It was quite a responsibility, but if anyone could be depended upon, it would be Mr. William Figgs. She often found herself in agreement with her father’s decisions, and the hiring of Willie Figgs was no exception.

“
How long have you worked for my father?”

“
You mean, in this present capacity, Miss?”

“
Yes, here … at Weatherly Manor,” she replied. She walked towards a grouping of pictures on the walls. They weren’t part of her father’s collection. She had noticed them immediately, but had put off asking Reginald.

“
Well, it would be right around three years – rounded to the nearest fraction, of course.”

“
I see,” Miranda said suppressing a smile. Figgs was a character – no doubt about that. She looked over her shoulder at him. He had begun following her around like a stray dog wanting attention. They crossed in front of the window. The light allowed her to see the dark circles beneath his eyes. She wondered if he’d always had them or if he’d been ill. It would be rude to say anything. Some people were predisposed to them – for genetic reasons. Miranda left the subject of the dark pouches under Figgs’ eyes unspoken. Besides she had more pressing matters to attend to. She had heard Reginald’s gentle assurances, but she wanted to know the truth of Weatherly Manor’s history.

“
William, do you know anything about this place?”

“
What do you mean, Miss?”

“
Oh, nothing. I’d just heard that it was once used by Henry the VIII as a hunting lodge.”

“
What? Now who would go and tell you a thing like that?” Figgs questioned, putting one hand on his hip and using the other to scratch the top of his head.

“
No one in particular. Just small talk at a party.”

“
Well, they was pullin’ your leg for sure, Miss. This place ain’t hardly old enough to be visited by Henry the VIII or Miss Anne Boleyn or any of his unfortunate wives. Henry the VIII visiting Weatherly,” Figgs mumbled, chuckling to himself. “That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that one, I will.”

Miranda felt better. She had confirmed Reginald was lying about that part of the story. She hoped that Figgs could confirm the rest was untrue.”

“
Then the foundation for the structure isn’t 12
^th
century?”

“
The foundation for this manor was built when the house was – in the 18
^th
century. Right around the 1720s or 30s. You can tell from the look of it that it ain’t been built in the 12
^th
century.”

“
And that was by someone named Weatherly?

“
Yes, Miss. Cornelius Weatherly it was. He and his family. You’ve been looking at them right there,” he said pointing to the pictures on the wall.

“
You mean that this is Cornelius Weatherly?” Miranda pointed to a stern looking man in an elaborate gold frame.

“
Yes, that’s Cornelius … and that’s his wife, Sarah and those are his children, Katherine, Cyrus, Petunia, Chloe, and Benjamin.” Figgs rattled off their names as he identified each of the five oil portraits. Figgs moved towards the entranceway. “And right over here, Miss, are his grandchildren. The family was quite prodigious if you know what I mean.”

Miranda stood beside Figgs looking up the long stairway. She counted at least 14 portraits.

“
I see what you mean!” Miranda exclaimed. “Then he and his family didn’t die from a mysterious plague?”

“
Would this story be from the same person that told you Henry the VIII was here?”

“’
Fraid so.”

“
Well, I’m not one for giving advice, but I’d give that joker a wide berth, I would. And to answer your question, he and his wife lived to ripe old ages – as did all of their children and grandchildren. No curses, no plagues, and no dying under mysterious circumstances. Is that why you were so worked up with me coming up behind you?”

“
I suppose it is. Once you hear a place is haunted …”

“
Haunted?”

“
You make it sound so stupid. I do feel like an idiot for giving it any credence at all, but I do have to ask about Beaterly and that actress …”

“
Lillian Wilds?”

“
Yes.”

“
Beaterly married into the family and the place was mortgaged to him. He did love the ponies and a little bit of the fast life. That’s his picture over there,” he said moving to a rakishly handsome man.

“
Oh, my, he is quite a looker. And who is this besides him?”

“
That’s his wife, Chloe, all grown-up.”

“
Well, they make quite the pair! They could top any wedding cake.”

“
They was quite happy together … in spite of his failings,” he pointed to the last three portraits on the stairwell. “That’s their family right there, Miss.”

“
I should have guessed. They do favor him. And …”

“
Mrs. Wild. She bought the place and lived out her years. Took up with some very wealthy titled gentleman from what I hear. She was well near 80 at the time. They say he was her junior by a few decades. As legend has it, she was still a beauty that could charm and tame any man.”

“
So she lived here for …”

“
Twelve years. Twelve very happy years.”

“
And then died and was flown home to be buried?”

Figgs hit his thigh with an open hand.

“
It was that person again, wasn’t it? You don’t have to even tell me, but you’ve simply got to stop listening to him! He’s got it all wrong. She flew home to tend to a sick child. Her only child. When she died, her mother passed on right after. Some said it was the strain of seeing her child dying before her. Others say it was just her time. I don’t know which way it was, but she didn’t die in this house, Miss. That I do know.”

“
Thank you, William. Is it alright if I call you William?”

“
Miss, you can call me anything you like. I had the utmost respect for your father. I’d like to offer you my deepest condolences to you and yours. A man like your dad don’t come around more than once in a long while and I’m sorry I won’t be seeing him no more. I hope you don’t mind me sayin’ that, Miss. Didn’t mean to overcross my bounds in getting personal.”

“
I can assure you I don’t mind and very much appreciate you sharing your feelings.

“
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to have a word with Mr. Charles. He is still here, isn’t he? I saw his car out front.”

“
Yes, he’s just in the kitchen fixing us some lunch. He said you put something in the fridge for us.”

“
I did indeed. Last night. It’s the Missus fixin’s and she’s quite the cook. All ya have to do is heat it up – she took care of the rest. Very nice meeting you, Miss.”

Figgs bowed a bit and then took his leave. Miranda straightened up and watched him leave. She was happy she ran into Willie Figgs for a number of reasons. For one, it meant the house was being left in good hands, and for another, he had filled in the blanks. She felt so much better knowing the truth. Of course, it meant she had a bone to pick with Reginald. She would get that old scoundrel back for what he’d done.

She smiled racing back into the living room and the comforting warmth of the fire.

CHAPTER 3

Figgs could smell his wife’s stew from outside the kitchen. He knew Mr. Charles and Mr. Perry’s daughter were in for a treat, but he had other things on his mind. He’d needed to talk to Mr. Charles for quite some time, but kept putting it off. He didn’t want to leave Weatherly, but he had no choice. The circles under his eyes were one indication that the discussion couldn’t be delayed any longer.

Reginald Charles was bent over the stove with a huge wooden spoon raised to his lips. He was sampling his wife’s fare. Reginald nodded approvingly and replaced the spoon on the small ceramic holder.

“
Mr. Charles, sir, I need to talk to you, if you have a moment.”

Reginald turned around and saw Figgs.

“
Figgs! Yes, come right in here and have a seat. I wanted to have a word with you also. I have a little something for you,” he hinted wondering how Figgs would take the news of getting an unasked for raise in salary. He smiled as he turned down the flame. Figgs sat at the table in one of the high-backed wooden chairs. Reginald washed off his hands and dried them with a small, striped kitchen towel. He replaced it on the towel rack and walked over to join Figgs.

He pulled out the chair finally getting his first clear look at the affable caretaker. Figgs’ appearance shocked him. He looked ill – or tired. Figgs’ weight didn’t seem to be affected so perhaps it wasn’t his health that was the problem. Maybe it was a member of his family that was suffering. Tending to a family member’s health takes its toll – more so than looking after a big, drafty mansion. Reginald hoped it wasn’t his wife.

“
What is it, sir?” Figgs asked solemnly. “Have I done something wrong?”

It was so like Figgs to be concerned about his job performance. Figgs was one of those people that had a work ethic a mile wide.