“It’s mock turtle soup,” Higgins explained. “And I shall serve, Your Grace.” It was as though he’d remembered his role, and even though his hands shook, he ladled soup into their bowls without spilling.
Then he bowed and left the room.
“Higgins certainly is an institution on his own.” Gabriel looked at his retreating figure, shaking his head. “I offered him retirement with sufficient funds. He could live in his own place, comfortably. But he refused. Said it was a tradition for the Higgins butlers to serve the Dukes of Dunross until their very last day.” He frowned. “He said it would be a shameful legacy for him to retire before that.”
Humour sparkled in Birdie’s eyes. “Higgins will outlast us all. He’ll still be around when this place is a mere ruin,” she said.
Supper was excellent. Cook had made them fowl, with a variety of side dishes and dessert. Gabe supposed it tasted good, but it was all lost on him. Birdie was encompassing his entire attention.
When Higgins served syllabub in dainty glasses, Birdie spooned it with relish, but Gabriel pushed his glass away.
“If you’re not eating that, I will,” Birdie said and reached for it.
His wife certainly knew how to enjoy food.
His wife.It was the first time he had thought of her as his wife, and he discovered he liked it. He was surprised with what ease they conversed. Her face was animated when she talked, and she had a tic of pushing her spectacles up the nose even though there was no need for it. It was more habit than anything else. Around her neck, on a chain dangled a ring. The wedding ring that had been too big for her.
Toying with the spoon in his coffee cup, Gabriel realised with a jolt how much he liked her. She had a fine sense of humour, a strong sense for the practical, and a kind, warm heart. She was talking now about her old school, Miss Hilversham’s Seminary for Young Ladies, and the pranks she and her friends had played there.
“How odd. My friend Arabella wished that night that each of us marry dukes. Three of us did. Don’t you think that is a strange sort of coincidence? Or do you think the wishing well had true powers and made it happen?”
“I don’t believe in the supernatural,” he heard himself say. “Though there is so much more out there in this world than we can understand.”
“Oh! Speaking of supernatural.” She leaned forward, an impish glint in her hazel eyes. “Did you know that Dunross Castle is haunted?”
“Hm. Yes. They say a morose, disfigured man haunts the tower room.” He smiled wryly.
“You should never talk of yourself in those terms,” Birdie scolded. “You are scarred, but not disfigured.”
“I beg to disagree.”
“Well, I must say, that eyepatch of yours is rather frightful, and makes you look so much more terrifying than you are.” She studied his face so intently that he had to keep himself from squirming in the chair. “But what I meant was a ghost on the battlement.”
“The battlement?” he echoed.
“Yes. I found it very odd because it appeared to be of the same kind that I and my friends used to create when back at school. A makeshift sheet with holes.”
He frowned. “Higgins keeps babbling about ghosts. He even set one up in the library.”
She uttered a low laugh. “I know. Higgins thinks it will scare the other ghost away.”
“Are you saying that someone purposefully attempted to frighten you?”
“It appears so. But to what purpose? And why?” Birdie leaned on her hand. “Maybe we have it all wrong and that the ghost serves a different purpose entirely.” She frowned. “Because the fake ghost isn’t walking every night, but only on some. I am keeping track of it, you see. It may be a sign, or similar. A flag, maybe.”
“What kind of sign do you mean?”
“If only I knew! It is a secret I am determined to discover. Even if it turns out to be a mere child’s prank.” She hesitated before adding, “Did it ever occur to you that the people in the village have no great love for us—particularly for you?”
He sighed. “It has never bothered me since we never see each other. But yes. The old duke did not treat them well. His steward died under mysterious circumstances.”
“And you never installed a new steward.”
He toyed with his cup. “No. McAloy, the reverend, tells me he handles things for me. He is respected in the village.”
“It might be a good idea to have a proper steward,” Birdie replied, and her chin jutted forward stubbornly.
“I am sure you have someone in mind.” He leaned back in his chair.
