“Are you saying that all this time, you spent your nights all alone in the castle?” Birdie could hardly believe it.
Gabriel shrugged and turned to go. She followed him, breathless.
“Wait. Can you just tell me one thing?”
He stopped in his tracks.
“Just so I understand. Why do you want to live in the midst of,”––she waved her hand––“ruin, decay and dirt?” She refused to believe he enjoyed it. “Why not make it a home?”
“This isn’t my home. It never will be.” He turned around suddenly, looking straight into her eyes. His were a deep, dark chocolate brown. And deeply sad. “And it will never be your home, either.”
He stopped in front of a massive door that led up the tower stairs. He opened it with a key.
“Where are you going?” Birdie eyed the heavy door, remembering the first night in the castle when she’d fled in fright after having seen him for the first time. Her cheeks heated in embarrassment.
“To my room. Alone,” Gabriel said without turning around and slammed the door in her face. She heard his footsteps on the stone stairs winding up the tower.
Birdie sighed and left, knowing that, except for her husband in the tower, she was all alone in the castle.
That nightshe heard it again. The scratching and scraping. The footsteps. She shivered in her bed, wrapped herself even more tightly in her blanket and told herself there was no such thing as ghosts. It was Gabriel, walking up and down in his room. Maybe he couldn’t sleep, either. Or perhaps Higgins doing whatever butlers usually did. But Higgins wasn’t in the castle. And it was nearly midnight.
At around half past midnight, she sat up.
“Roberta Talbot, you are a goose.” She pulled on a second dress, thick stockings and a coat. Taking a candle and a lantern, she went on a ghost hunt.
Chapter 11
There are ghosts and then there are ghosts, her friend Lucy used to tell them at the seminary.
During one particularly eery night, the girls huddled around her in their local graveyard with nothing but a single candle burning in a lamp.
“Most ghosts,” Lucy explained, “are not really ghosts at all. They’re but figments of the imagination. Real ghosts are not visible to the rational eye. A draft of cold air. A feeling of apprehension. Goosebumps covering the arm. This is how genuine ghosts make themselves known. They’re mostly harmless.”
“But Lucy. What about poltergeists, creatures who throw down porcelain cups and knock on doors?” Arabella asked. “Apparently, we have several of those at Ashmore Hall.”
“Pooh. I will tell you a secret. Come closer.” The girls huddled closer.
“The secret,” Lucy whispered, her low voice hollow, caused Birdie to shiver in anticipation. “The secret is”––she paused dramatically as the whites of her eyes glittered––“that there are no such things as poltergeists! Whoo hoo!” With a howl, she pulled out a white sheet and threw it into the air. It fluttered in the night wind, like a spectre. The girls screamed. The sheet fluttered to the ground and looked, well, like a sheet. Huddling closer, the girls clung to each other and burst into laughter.
“You’re terrible, Lucy. Giving us such a fright!” Birdie’s heart hammered against her chest, but she laughed.
“Oh pooh. Keep this in mind. If you ever try to impersonate a ghost, remain normal. Ghosts used to be people with personalities once upon a time. No white linen sheets, for pity’s sake! Lest you encounter the same fate as poor Thomas Millwood. He was mistaken for the Hammersmith Ghost and shot.”
“The Hammersmith Ghost? Oh my. What happened?” Birdie asked as she clasped the hands in front of her breast.
“Poor Thomas Millwood was wearing white linen work clothes that fluttered in the wind. He was a plasterer. He crossed the graveyard when an officer mistook him for the Hammersmith ghost.” Lucy shrugged. “Rather stupid of the officer, I must add. Thinking he could shoot a ghost!”
The girls looked around nervously, glad they were wearing dark coats.
“Mind you, it’s the frightful atmosphere of the graveyard that plays on your imagination. Not this old sheet on the ground.” Lucy nudged it with her foot. “If I’d done this in plain daylight, you wouldn’t have blinked an eyelash. Remember this: things never are what they appear to be.”
Lucy pulled out a book and read them a wonderfully spooky tale. It had been one of the scariest and most delightful outings during her time at school.
Birdie grinned in fond memory as she trudged down the dark hall of the castle.
Having been previously initiated in the lore of ghosts, in a cemetery no less, she felt more than ready to confront the Ghost of Dunross Castle.
Moonlight flooded through the gothic windows, casting long shadows. Her lamp illuminated little of the hall, but there was sufficient light for her to see that there was not a soul there.
