The Strange Visitation at Wolffe Hall (5 page)

CHAPTER NINE

There was a moment of stark silence, then Pip said with no hesitation, “This sounds very scary, ma’am, but my papa is a hero. He will beat up this bad spirit, he will hurl him back into this abyss. He will protect both you and P.C.” And his precious son patted Miranda’s hand.

She looked down at the beautiful little boy and gave him a shaky smile.

“Thank you, Pip. Now, let’s all sit down.”

“Nine minutes,” P.C. said.

It was really eight minutes.

Grayson asked, “Is there anything you know that P.C. doesn’t know, ma’am, that would assist me?”

Miranda said slowly, “Mama-in-law doesn’t want us to leave. She was very upset that she didn’t hear a thing last night, but what she admitted to me this morning made me absolutely certain the Great knows what’s going on here.” She shot a look at the children. “It’s disturbing.”

“Go ahead, Mama, we can take it.”

“Very well. About a month ago, your grandmother was in the library with the Great, trying to speak to him about restoring some portraits in the gallery. This is very difficult to believe, but here is what she told me. A huge black funnel burst through the open window and roared right at him, twisted and turned around him, then went straight through him, she said, at least a part of it did. It blasted all his medals from the wall, made them fly out of the frames, shattering the glass covering them, and then went flying. Then those medals the Great collects and polishes, the ones in the big basket—the basket itself was thrown into the air, scattering the medals everywhere. Then, Mama-in-law said, the black funnel whooshed back out the window again and was gone. Nothing more happened, she said. She said she nearly fainted, but the Great only stood there, his mouth working, but he didn’t say anything. He told her to keep her mouth shut because no one would believe her, and so she had.

“She said she eventually convinced herself that it had been a shared hallucination. She said to think anything else would give her a heart seizure. But after what I told her happened last night, she knew she had to warn me.”

“A month ago,” Grayson said. “When did you and P.C. have the dream?”

“The first dream came two weeks later.” She paused, cocked her head in thought. “This is the final proof for me that what is going on here involves the medals. I mean, why else would the funnel hurl them about like that? I’ve come to think the black funnel was trying to communicate to the Great, but he didn’t understand and the voice became angry and thus came after P.C. and me. But why?”

Grayson said simply, “Because the Great loves the two of you more than anyone else in the world.”

“Oh,” P.C. said. “Perhaps that is true. Do you think so, Mama?”

“Perhaps,” Miranda said. “Mr. Straithmore, the Great has collected medals for many years now, all of them Waterloo medals. Since Max Carstairs came, he’s the one who buys them from pawn shops, and the Great polishes them up and returns them to the soldiers or the soldiers’ families if they were killed at Waterloo. I asked him why he did this. He said so much was owed to all these brave men, it was the least he could do since after Waterloo times were hard and so many soldiers had to pawn their medals.”

Barnaby shouted, “I see ye, Mr. Bickle! Ye keep yer distance from the sprat!”

Grayson looked over to see a small man dressed all in black slink from one oak tree to the next. Then he crept to stand behind a sapling, and he was so thin Grayson couldn’t see him. He pulled Pip closer. Since Pip was still holding Barnaby’s hand, the three of them ended up huddled together on the bench.

P.C. said, “He’s not moving now, but you know he’s listening.” She lowered her voice. “This funnel—the voice—do you think it wants a particular medal? Maybe the spirit wants its medal returned to its family? And it wants the Great to find it?”

Miranda said, “I think that must be it. But who or what is
hoos
?”

Barnaby said, “I agrees, it’s got to be a dead soldier from the Battle of Waterloo, and ‘e wants ‘is medal back.”

Grayson nodded. It sounded right to him.

Miranda slowly nodded. “But why would the spirit come now? Waterloo was years ago. Why begin this reign of terror now? Why not right after the battle? And the Great is looking for the spirit’s medal.”

Grayson said, “But it appears the voice couldn’t get the name through to the Great. So it tried you and P.C. Still no luck, so it’s taken the next step.” He sent Pip a worried look, but of course Pip wasn’t afraid. He’d been raised with talk of spirits and malignant creatures. His eyes glowed with excitement.

P.C. whispered, “Barnaby, Bickle slipped behind that maple tree. He’s only twelve yards from Pip.”

Pip looked over at the strange little man dressed in a shiny black coat, and waved to him. Bickle looked aghast and dived behind a yew bush.

Grayson said, “What about the servants? Do they know about the funnel? About the two dreams? About you and P.C. running from the house?”

Miranda said, “Oh yes, servants always know everything that happens. They’re nervous, on edge. But not Suggs.”

P.C. called out, “Bickle, we see you. You will not steal Pip. Go away.”

From behind the oak tree came a squeaky voice. “You know I must continue stalking my prey, Miss P.C., else his lordship will not eat properly and I worry.”

“This is all very strange, Papa,” Pip said, never taking his eyes off Bickle.

* * * * *

When Grayson returned to the Great’s study with one minute to go, Suggs informed him that his lordship had left to pay visits to his tenants. It was just as well. Grayson had some reading to do. He and Pip took their leave of Miranda and P.C. Grayson found himself looking down at Miranda Wolffe, and he was smiling. “Don’t worry, we will figure all this out. And soon.”

CHAPTER TEN

Belhaven House

Friday, midnight

Grayson awoke from a dream struggling with a banshee who looked remarkably like the Great. He was trying to grab up Pip and run out the door when he snapped awake at the yelling and banging on the front door.

He threw on his dressing gown, grabbed his pistol off the shelf in his dressing room, and ran downstairs. He threw open the door to see Miranda and P.C., both in their nightclothes, hair bedraggled, huddled together on the front step.

He quickly herded them inside and without a thought brought them both against him. They were trembling, but he didn’t think it was from cold. No, it was from fear. What had happened? He heard another shout.

It was Barnaby, and he had Musgrave Jr. tucked inside his jacket. Musgrave was not a happy cat. He bounded out, a calico blur, and skidded across the entrance hall. The four of them watched him fetch up against a table leg. He turned to look at them, tail swishing, and he proceeded to wash himself.

“Come here,” Grayson said, and in the next moment, he was trying to hold all three of them against him, his hands stroking backs, saying over and over that it would be all right now. Musgrave meowed, tail high, and walked into the drawing room.

“Well, Musgrave’s all right,” P.C. said. “That’s good. Why did you bring him, Barnaby?”

“‘E were outside, yowlin’ ‘is fur off, P.C., so what could I do?”

“You did the right thing,” Miranda said, then looked at Grayson. “Oh dear, I hope you do not mind Musgrave making himself at home in your drawing room?”

“Not at all.”

Grayson heard Haddock’s deep voice and turned to see him holding a candle high, Mrs. Elvan behind him, her hair wound around in tight little rags all over her head, holding up her own candle.

“Sir, may I ask why we have visitors at this hour?”

“I don’t know as yet, Haddock,” Grayson said. “Mrs. Elvan, if you would give me your candle and accompany Haddock to the kitchen and prepare some tea?” He looked at Barnaby and P.C. “Mrs. Elvan, may we also have some of your delicious walnut cake left over from dinner? A saucer of milk too, if you please, for Musgrave Jr.”

Haddock and Mrs. Elvan eyed the three refugees, the little girl hugging a big cat to her chest, Mrs. Miranda hugging both children against her, looking a bit on edge herself. Grayson knew both of them were bursting their seams with curiosity. However, since they both knew they’d find out every detail by morning, they nodded and disappeared into the nether regions of the house.

Grayson turned and gave a reassuring smile to his unexpected guests. He saw Miranda wasn’t wearing her glasses, and her hair hung loose in deep, heavy waves tangled around a face as white as the banshee’s face in his dream. But unlike the banshee’s fierce, bony face, hers was fine-boned, looked soft as silk, and was, he realized, a really quite lovely face.

P.C., bless her heart, now that she knew she was safe, looked more excited than afraid, her eyes sparkling. As for Barnaby, unlike mother and daughter, he was fully dressed.

“All that runnin’,” Barnaby said, “fair to made me stomach hollow. I’m ready to gnaw my elbow. Walnut cake, ye said, yer savior-hood?”

Now
savior-hood
had a ring to it, but Grayson liked
yer inkpotness
best. “Yes, walnut cake, Barnaby. Mrs. Elvan’s is the best. It will fill in all the cracks in your stomach. Let’s go into the drawing room and you can tell me what’s happened.”

“Papa! P.C.! Did the abyss come again?”

No hope for it, Grayson thought, when he saw Mary Beth running down the stairs after Pip. He scooped up his son and nodded to Mary Beth. “All right. We’re all here now. Come along into the drawing room.”

P.C. was out of breath, so Grayson took Musgrave Jr. from her, sat down in his big winged chair and placed the cat across his thighs. “All of you take a deep breath and calm yourselves. Everything is all right now. That’s right. Now, Miranda, tell me what happened.”

Miranda drew in a deep, calming breath and got herself together, watching Grayson stroke his hand down Musgrave Jr.’s back, the cat purring so loudly she could hear him. She looked down at her bed-robe, at her slippered feet. “I didn’t even think to change—everything happened too fast. We’re all very glad you were home, Grayson. What happened—it was very frightening, and I knew we had to leave the manor.” She paused. “All right.” She drew another deep breath. “I was worried and couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t yet all that late, so I decided I wanted to speak to the Great. He didn’t come back for dinner after he escaped you this afternoon. I wanted to tell him neither P.C. nor I would leave Wolffe Hall. I was determined I wouldn’t let him shake his head and seam his lips at me anymore because I was a helpless female who had to be protected and kept ignorant.

“He wasn’t in his bedchamber. I went downstairs and saw a light beneath the library door.” She looked over at the sprawled purring cat, at Pip, who’d moved closer to his father and was now petting the cat. “I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. I knocked again. Finally I opened the door.

“I fully expected to see the Great in his ancient blue brocade dressing gown polishing a medal, ignoring any interruptions. But he was standing in front of his desk, his hands out in front of him, as if he would ward something off. It was then I saw it.”

Mrs. Elvan appeared in the doorway, a covered silver tray in her arms, Haddock behind her, bringing tea. Miranda stopped talking until they left, steps slow. Grayson, however, knew they’d be listening outside the door, and that was all right. They were part of the family.

P.C. poured the tea. Grayson set Musgrave Jr. on the floor and cut the cake, giving a big slice of walnut cake to Barnaby, who immediately stuffed it into his mouth. Grayson handed P.C. a healthy slice, then looked at Miranda. She shook her head. Musgrave Jr. put his paws on Grayson’s knee and meowed.

“He loves cake,” P.C. said. And so Grayson gave him a sliver and nodded once again to Miranda.

Haddock appeared in the doorway with a saucer of milk for Musgrave Jr. “Sir, for the feline after he’s finished the walnut cake.”

“Thank you, Haddock,” Grayson said and set the saucer on the rug. “Now, Miranda, tell me.”

She drew in a deep breath, pictured her grandpapa-in-law clearly. “I think he was looking at something I couldn’t see. His lips were moving, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Then it was there—the black funnel. It was coming through the closed windows—how I don’t know—and the curtains billowed, and the funnel whooshed right at him and stopped. Then it started whirling around him, then it went into him, through him, like Mama-in-law said it had a month ago, and I heard him say over and over, loud, nearly shouting,
‘
I have it, you cursed spirit. I have it and surely you know I have it. What else do you want from me? Do you want me to tell you again that I’m sorry? You know that if I could change what happened, I would! What else do you want? I promised you I would send it to your family—leave! Go away! I’ve done what you asked! Leave my family alone.’

“And then the black funnel backed up a bit and hovered right in front of him. I couldn’t move, I was too scared, disbelieving, really, and then it was as if it saw me standing there frozen, and in the next instant it seemed to leap toward me. The Great yelled, ‘No! Leave her alone!’ I dropped my candle and ran as fast as I could. I heard the Great shouting after me, but I kept running. I grabbed P.C., and we ran to the barn. Barnaby helped us saddle horses, and we came here. There wasn’t another horse for Barnaby, so he ran here. With Musgrave Jr.”

Miranda’s hands were shaking. She quickly took a drink of tea and closed her eyes a moment. She brought P.C. closer to her side. Grayson watched her calm herself again. He admired her a great deal in that moment. She had guts.

She looked over at him. “That’s all of it, Mr. Sherbrooke—Grayson. What are we going to do?”

Grayson rose. “Obviously the Great was sorry. He would change what happened if he could. Do you know what he means, Miranda?”

She shook her head.

Grayson stood. “I’m going to dress now, then ride over to Wolffe Hall. This time the Great will not escape me. You will all remain here.”

P.C. jumped to her feet. “But Mr. Straithmore, the funnel might attack you!”

“No,” Grayson said slowly. “You see, it has no reason to attack me. I can’t help it get what it wants.”

“But we can’t either,” Miranda said.

Mrs. Elvan said in her comfortable voice from the doorway, “Yes, Master Grayson, you should go back to Wolffe Hall and take care of things once and for all.” She set a new pot of tea on the table, then leaned over to pat Miranda’s shoulder. “Do not worry yourself, Mrs. Wolffe. The master will make everything right. Young Master Pip, you will stay here with me, as will all the rest of you.” She saw Pip open his mouth, and being a very smart woman with six children and eight grandchildren, she said quickly, “I will read you the master’s new manuscript.”

But Grayson knew this offered treat wouldn’t do the trick. He saw his son was marshaling his arguments, so he said quickly, “I really need you to remain here and take care of Mrs. Wolffe, P.C., and Barnaby. You’re now the master of the house, all right?”

He believed he’d been inspired with that reasoning, but Pip said quickly, “But, Papa, what if Bickle tries to sneak in and take me?”

“We’ll all protect you, Pip,” Mary Beth said, rushing over to him to hug him. “We can all sleep together if you would feel safer.”

Pip reconsidered, stood straight. “Papa said I was to be the master of the house. I will protect all of you. If Bickle comes, I’ll kick him in the shins.”

“Thank you, Pip,” Grayson said.

Miranda rose, frowned, and shoved her hair out of her face. Yes, here she was, a lady, and she was wearing only her bedclothes in a gentleman’s drawing room and it was past midnight and the gentleman was looking at her. No, she was absurd, he wasn’t looking at her like that, and it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he would take care of things.

“What’s the matter, Mrs. Wolffe—Miranda?” Grayson asked her.

She wanted to tell him that of course she was returning with him, she didn’t have any clothes, for heaven’s sake, but what came out of her mouth was, “This room doesn’t have any color.”

He stared at her.

Miranda shook herself. “How stupid of me. It’s not important. I really should come back with you.” She swatted her bed-robe. “I need clothes, P.C. needs clothes. Besides, you need me.” She saw he would argue, so she stuck up her chin. “If you don’t take me, sir, neither I nor P.C. will leave Wolffe Hall.”
And because you’re so honorable, you will believe yourself responsible if anything happens to us.

He didn’t want her to go back to that house, but then again, she was smart, and she’d used the perfect leverage. He would be there to protect her. He smiled at her. “All right. No, P.C., Barnaby, you will stay here. Mrs. Wolffe and I will be back when we can. P.C., everything will be all right, I promise you. Now take care of Musgrave Jr.” Grayson’s last view of the big calico was on his back, all four paws up, two feet from the sluggishly burning fire.

Ten minutes later, Miranda, dressed in one of Mary Beth’s gowns, rode beside Grayson back to Wolffe Hall. He wanted to hear the story again, ask her more questions, but what came out of his mouth was, “Why do you believe I’m a man who loves color?”

“Your books,” she said simply. “Even though you fill them with spirits and frightful and strange creatures from other mysterious realms, you always place them in vibrant settings, colorful settings. Am I wrong?”

“No, you’re not wrong.”

“I used to be a woman of color,” she said more to herself than to him, “but it’s been a very long time now.”

He said, “You will wallow in color again, not too long from now.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

He grinned at her. “It’s all a matter of how you see the world around you, and soon your world will be a very different place.”

“Does that mean you will fix everything, like P.C. assures me you will?”

“Yes, I will fix everything.”

Miranda realized as she looked at him, listened to his calm, certain voice, the awful fear lessened. Would she really see color again?

They continued toward Wolffe Hall, saying nothing more.

But when they arrived at the manor, all the windows were dark. Suggs, wearing a sleeping cap and a shiny dressing gown, finally opened the door and gaped.

Grayson said, “Suggs, I know our unexpected presence alarms you, but everything is all right. We must speak to his lordship.”

“But, Mr. Sherbrooke, his lordship took himself off to bed nearly an hour ago.”

Grayson nodded. “You will return to your bed, Suggs,” he said over his shoulder as he and Miranda hurried up the stairs, “we will see if his lordship is asleep.”

There was no answer to their knock. The door handle didn’t turn. The Great had locked his bedchamber door and wouldn’t come out. He yelled out, “I know it’s you, Mr. Sherbrooke. I don’t want you here. I told you I will deal with this.” A pause, then, “Miranda, when you and Palonia Chiara leave in the morning, do you mind leaving Musgrave Jr. here? No harm will come to him.”

Miranda rolled her eyes. “He adores that wretched cat. Musgrave Jr. sleeps with him, you know. Warms his ancient bones, he says.”