will need to speak to Mr Manners,’ the girl said, her Cornish vowels hard to decipher.
Of course. The butler. He would be in charge of such things. ‘Where will I find him?’
The small brown-eyed girl raised her brows. ‘In the breakfast room. Serving the family.’
The grieving family. She wanted nothing to do with any of them, especially the new earl. But since she needed to order the carriage, she straightened her shoulders and smiled. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to guide me there?’
Betsy bobbed a curtsy. ‘Follow me, miss.’
It wasn’t long before she was deposited in front of a large oak door off the entrance hall. ‘In there, miss.’
‘Thank you.’ Mary sailed through the door as if she had been making grand entrances all her life. Or at least she hoped she gave that impression.
What a relief. No brooding earl awaited her in the oak-panelled room with its polished furniture and gleaming silver. Only his cousins sat at the table. Blond and handsome, they rose to their feet as she entered.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘Good morning, Miss Wilding,’ they replied gravely.
The older one, Mr Jeffrey Beresford, gave her a swift perusal. A slightly pained expression entered his vivid-blue eyes. No doubt he thought her dreadfully shabby in her Sunday-best dress, but it was grey and she’d thought it the most appropriate under the circumstances. The younger one nodded morosely.
Both young men wore dark coats and black armbands. Of Mrs Hampton there was no sign. No doubt she preferred to breakfast in her room on such a sorrowful day.
‘Miss Wilding,’ the butler said, pulling out a chair opposite the Beresford cousins. She sat.
They followed suit.
‘Did you sleep well, Miss Wilding?’ Mr Beresford asked, assuming the duty of host in the earl’s absence.
‘Yes, thank you.’ She certainly wasn’t going to admit to her mind replaying the scene with the earl outside her chamber door over and over as she restlessly tossed and turned.
‘Really?’ Mr Hampton said, looking up, his face angelic in a shaft of sunlight that at that moment had broken through the clouds and found its way into the dining room to rest on him.
‘Is there some reason why I should not?’ she asked a little stiffly, surprised by his sudden interest.
He looked at her moodily. ‘They do say as how the White Lady’s ghost haunts the north tower.’
‘You are an idiot, Ger,’ the other cousin said. ‘Don’t listen to him, Miss Wilding. It is an old wives’ tale.’
‘‘Tis not,’ Gerald said, his lips twisting. ‘One of the servants saw her last week.’
‘And that is a bouncer,’ his cousin replied repressively. ‘One servant saw her fifty years ago.’
The younger man scowled.
Mary felt sorry for him. Boys liked their ghost stories as much as foolish young girls did, no doubt. ‘It would take more than a ghost to scare me,’ she said calmly, ‘if I actually believed in them.’ It would take a tall dark earl with a sinful mouth to make her quiver in fear. Or quiver with something.
The young man looked a little insulted. ‘If you see her, you will tell me, won’t you? I’ve been keeping track of her sightings.’ He pushed his food around with his fork. ‘They say she appears when there is to be a death in the house.’ The utter belief in his voice gave her a strange slithery sensation in her stomach. It also reminded her of last night’s events with a pang of guilt.
‘Although I had never met your grandfather before last night, I hope you will accept my deepest sympathy for your loss.’
Both young men nodded their acceptance of her condolence.
‘Coffee, miss?’ the butler asked.
She usually had tea in the morning. And only one cup. But there was another scent floating in the air, making her mouth water and her stomach give little hops of pleasure. ‘Chocolate, please, Manners.’ She’d had her first taste of chocolate this morning when Betsy had brought her tray and really couldn’t resist having it one last time.
The man poured a cup from the silver chocolate pot on the sideboard and added a generous dollop of cream. Such luxury. Wait until she told Sally. Her friend and employer would be so envious. Chocolate was one of those luxuries they dreamt of on a cold winter’s night.
The butler brought her toast on a plate and offered her a selection of platters. Deciding to make the most of what was offered—after all, she was an invited guest—she took some shirred eggs and ham and sausage and tucked in with relish. Breakfast at Ladbrook’s rarely consisted of more than toast and jam and porridge in the winter months. Ladbrook’s School for Young Ladies was rarely full to capacity and the best food always went to the paying pupils. As a charity case, she had managed on leftovers. Since becoming employed as a teacher things had improved, but not by much.
Hope of improving the school was why she had agreed to travel all the way from Wiltshire to meet the late earl. If he had proved to be a distant relation, she had thought to convince him to provide funds for improvements, to make it more fashionable and therefore profitable, as well as enable the taking in of one or two more charity boarders like herself.
She let go of a sigh. The earl’s death had put paid to all her hopes, including any hope of some family connection. She ought to speak of the school’s needs to the new earl, she supposed, but his behaviour so far had led her to the conclusion that, rather than a man of charitable bent, he was likely to be one of the scandalous rakes one read about in broadsheets and romantic novels.
‘What do you think of the Abbey, Miss Wilding?’ Mr Hampton asked.
‘It’s a dreadful pile,’ his cousin put in before she could answer. ‘Don’t you think?’
Tact seemed to be the best course between two extremes. ‘I have seen very little, so would find it hard to form an opinion, Mr Hampton.’
‘Call me Gerald. Mr Hampton was my father. That pink of the ton is Jeffrey.’
His older cousin inclined his head, clearly accepting the description with aplomb. Mary smiled her thanks, not quite sure what lay behind this courtesy for a virtual stranger.
‘What shall we call you?’ he asked. ‘Cousin?’
She stiffened. Had they also formed the mistaken impression they were related, or had they heard the earl’s mocking reply to her question and thought to follow suit? Heat rushed to her cheeks. ‘You may call me Miss Wilding.’
Gerald frowned. ‘You sound like my old governess.’
‘I am a schoolteacher.’
Jeffrey leaned back in his chair and cast an impatient glance at Gerald. ‘Miss Wilding it is then, ma’am. At least you are not claiming to be a Beresford.’
Mary
