“Ghosts are a kind of superstition, are they not?” El thought this might be the most fanciful conversation she’d ever engaged in. “If you believe yours, perhaps he is entitled to his? After all, he has been hit by a pirate, victim of theft, had a banker killed on his grounds, and discovered skeletons in his new home, all in a few days.”
Thea dismissed this with a wave of her fair hand. “That is just Gravesyde. He did not kill his parents and his nursemaid. A nasty old nanny told him that when he was very young. Our family is cruel and grasping. I will tell you more someday. Suffice it to say that another cousin is living in Grey’s comfortable abode, while he travels the world, alone.”
Eleanor could only gape at this bluntness.
Thea nodded at the sage she carried. “That will not drive off ghosts. Invite me over when you are settled in. I will see if there is any spirit that wishes to speak.”
She returned to the gallery, leaving El too stunned to do more than turn toward her new home. She had wanted to see the world. She was learning it was a very strange place.
Even the confident, scholarly professor hid secrets.
Dr. Walker and Mrs. Huntley were no longer in the cottage garden when she passed by. One day, when she had time, and a better pair of walking boots—she only owned Andrew’s oversized ones—El wanted to continue down the road to the medieval stone bridge crossing the stream everyone called a river. Pirates must have a hard time making a living off boats small enough to navigate those shallow waters—although apparently steam engine parts were valuable these days.
She turned left at the river, where trees arched over the lane. Now that she was in the country, she really should learn more about plants. The river side of the road had no hedgerow, just a wilderness of willows, brambles, and flowers sprung up wild along the bank.
The left side lacked willows but had the remnants of a hawthorn hedge. That side most likely belonged to Bradford House. They probably wouldn’t be here long enough to clean out the brambles and repair the remains of a stone wall that aging shrubs concealed.
Turning inland, where untamed hedgerows and wild blackberries led to the drive, she nearly ran into a burly man with unkempt black hair and unshaven jaw. The encounter left her realizing how helpless she was without the sword or walking stick she carried as a man. Swallowing, she nodded politely and started to hurry on, until he shouted at her.
“That land be mine! Don’t let those lying bastards tell you elsewise!” He vanished down the river path before El could find words.
Devil take it, skirts and a reticule simply did not suit when killers roamed the roads. Shaken, she hurried toward home—or at least the people who meant home to her.
Did she dare warn Grey that his probable pirate had threatened them? Recalling the brute’s words, she realized he hadn’t actually conveyed a physical threat, just a warning.
Entering the house, she heard and saw nobody. After all the dire admonitions, she fretted. She wasn’t normally a worrier, but these weren’t normal circumstances. Still shaken, she carried her bundle of sage and flowers to the kitchen, where Miss Fields, their new cook, had El’s lady’s maid rolling pastry dough.
They both glanced up guiltily, as if keeping busy could ever be wrong. El waved her fragrant bundle. “Where is everyone?” She needed to know all was well.
Peg fluttered one floured hand. “About.”
That didn’t sound as if anyone had been murdered lately. Taking a breath to calm herself, El glanced at the bundle in her hand. “What does one do with sage?”
“I can put it in a stew, I suppose,” the cook said with a slight frown, as if this were a test.
Mrs. Barton, the housekeeper, bustled in, took one look at the bundle, and removed it from El’s hands. “Foolish superstition.” She carried it into the now unblocked cellar anyway.
A moment later, the scent of burning weeds drifted up.
El supposed, if the spirits of the poor children lingered, they deserved a proper farewell of some sort.
She was starting to understand why Grey might develop a fancy that he brought disaster, even if it was not logical. After all, he had not been around when those children died, or the banker was killed.
He’d just been here when they were found.
Ascertaining that dinner was in hand and the household was creeping along without her, El went in search of her employer.
She didn’t find him but found a stack of pages to be copied on a table that had not been in the upper bedchamber hall earlier. Well, he was alive, at least.
She was used to working at a desk in a student hall bustling with noisy boys. A work table where she was visible to the entire staff was actually a convenience.
What she didn’t find was the professor and his files. Was he with Andrew somewhere?
After the warnings she’d been given, she wouldn’t be comfortable until she’d passed them on—and was certain every one was fine.
She took the stairs to the attic, where Grey had set up his office. For propriety’s sake, she probably shouldn’t be up there—he’d set her desk in the open hall for that reason—but she’d gone far past propriety while wearing men’s clothes. She simply did not care what people thought—had no reason to do so.
Grey wasn’t at his desk. Neither were his files. He’d stacked his research books on the window seat, along with a set of maracas—most likely a warning system. Disturbing his books would set off an infernal racket.
