Mr Smith-Withers hurriedly told Lucinda that Royden’s ghost was something he had never seen himself, and it was only the product of servants’ vivid imaginations.
But it was too late—the damage was done. She was almost catatonic with fear at what he had said, no matter how much I chafed her hands and spoke sense to rouse her. Mr Smith-Withers stood by unrepentant, saying, ‘How was I to know she would react like that?’
I could have cheerfully strangled him. Whether the story was true or not, Lucinda was highly strung and possessed a vivid imagination herself due to all the reading she did, so I was not looking forward to having to reassure her that Royden’s ghost would not appear in her bedroom tonight. However, Mr Hart—most impressively, I had to admit—took control of the situation and single-handedly soothed her without the need of smelling salts.
He suggested calmly that it was time for luncheon and asked if she would allow him to escort her back. She nodded and took his arm, and he supported her down the stairwell. And as we walked to the main entrance, she leaned on him;and he spoke to her softly, saying something I could not hear. But his words seemed to have a miraculous effect as she stopped quivering, and her colour returned.
Not knowing exactly what he was saying bothered me a little, but I did not like to interfere since the girl had been severely afraid, and he was doing an admirable job of handling the situation.
My own recent encounters with Mr Hart and what I thought of them could wait. Lucinda’s well-being was my primary concern.
‘Are you all right now, Lucy? I am sorry that man’s thoughtless remark frightened you so,’ I said gently when she had composed herself and we were in the dining hall.
‘I am well. Thank you, Aunty Fliss. Mr Hart has promised me that it is only a story and I need not worry. He was very kind, and I feel a bit silly for acting as I did.’
‘I can stay with you tonight if you need me to—’
‘There is no need,’ she said quickly. ‘I mean, thank you for offering. But I would like to prove to Mr Hart that I can be brave and am not a child.’ She gave a hollow laugh.
I pursed my lips and said nothing further.
The simple meal of potato soup and lightly salted cucumber sandwiches, as well as fruit, biscuits, and cups of refreshing tea, helped restore a semblance of normalcy to our party; and no further mention was made of ghosts. Butthere was still an absence at the table that had not been explained.
‘Mr Hart, will your father be joining us for luncheon?’ I asked.
He was in the middle of eating a cheese sandwich Maurice had made specially for him as, apparently, ‘Master Dorian does not like cucumbers’ (a pity as the garden was full of them).
Pausing to wipe his mouth with a napkin, he said, ‘Unfortunately, he is not up to socialising today, Mrs Fitzroy.’
‘Oh, is he ill?’ Jane enquired, and I was glad she had asked the question. Indeed, this was the first time we had heard that Mr Hart Sr was in some way incapacitated. I had assumed he was reclusive.
‘He does not have a strong constitution’ was Mr Hart’s reply, and he resumed eating his cheese sandwich as if the subject were closed.
But I wanted to keep it open.
‘I am sorry to hear that as we were looking forward to meeting him. When do you think we shall?’
Mr Hart looked at me with an unreadable expression. ‘I cannot say exactly. But he knows you are all here and sends his greetings.’
‘I see. Well, I hope he will feel up to meeting us soon.’
‘Thank you. I hopeso too,’ he said and took a large bite of his sandwich to make it clear that the subject was now well and truly closed.
I nodded and continued with my meal, but a knot of unease lodged in my ribcage. What was wrong with Mr Hart Sr that he could not even have luncheon with us?
After we had finished, Mr Hart suggested a quiet afternoon in the parlour with tea served at three o’clock, to which everyone readily agreed. I said that I would join them shortly, but that I wished to write to my husband (really, I wanted to speak to Maurice in the kitchen).
‘Anotherletter, Mrs Fitzroy?’ said Mr Hart. ‘Have you not just written to him?’
‘That was a brief note. I wish to write a longer letter describing your atmospheric castle.’
I thought the compliment might make him relinquish me, but he was intent on keeping our group together.
‘You can do that easily in the parlour,’ he said with a frown. ‘There is a writing table, along with ample paper, ink, and quills—for you as well as Miss Austen.’
‘Ah, Miss Austen may like to use the table herself.’
I crossed my fingers and hoped that Jane would take the bait.
