“Maybe. He wasn’t that old. That’s what the lads say. She had just given birth. Her son was a babe when he took the title.”
Seeing Beck listened, Jem continued. “They claim she grieved deeply after her man’s death. She and her husband’s relatives didn’t rub along too well. Our current Lord Middlebury complained she didn’t listen to his advice. They had rows over it. She wouldn’t listen to any of the family and said she didn’t need to because her son was the marquess. Supposedly for that reason, she built the cottage. It was a place to escape. Or at least, that is what the servants and villagers believe.”
Beck thought of his father’s behavior at dinner, the marchioness’s abrupt manner. “I can see that.”
“She was also heartbroken. Merton, the stable head, knew her. He said before her husband died, she was always the merriest of women. Frankly, I think Merton was half in love with her. They all were. The lads said she was a looker. However, after her husband died, the only things that made her happy were her music and her son.”
Beck thought of the woman sitting at the pianoforte in the portrait. The artist had caught her optimism in the light of her eye and in her smile. In that moment captured in paint, she trusted that her future would be everything she expected of it. Apprehension for her tightened his gut.
“Now remember,” Jem said, “this is a ghostie story. She would go to that cottage often. She’d take her son, and they would stay there for hours. However, one day they didn’t return. They also weren’t at the cottage when someone went to look. They had just vanished. A search party was formed. Merton and a few of the others over there”—he nodded to the fire—“were a part of it.”
“What did they find?” Beck asked.
“That river isn’t a big river, but the waters move fast. The mother and son had disappeared shortly after a spring storm, and the banks were swollen over. Her little boy, the marquess, was said to be always going for a tumble or finding trouble—I have one like that. He is rarely where he should be and often where he shouldn’t. Makes me want to hang him up on a peg until he learns some sense.” He shook his head in parental disgust before saying, “They think thechild may have fallen into the water. It would have been like him. They believe she might have gone in to save him and drowned. They found her body downriver a few days after she went missing.”
“Who is the ‘they’ who says these things?”
Jem shrugged. “I don’t know.‘They.’Merton. The others. The searchers.”
Beck nodded, frustrated by the lack of details.
“This is just a story,” Jem reminded him. “Well, except it is true the marchioness drowned.”
“And her son?”
“Gone. I asked. Merton said they never found his body. A small child doesn’t stand a chance in a heavy current. Not much weight to him. He was only like three or four. The lads argued about his age. His wee body could have been swept clear to the sea. Merton said that the family searched for weeks for some sign of him. Nothing. Fish could have eaten him.” He shivered at the gruesomeness of the thought.
“Is that it?”
“Of course not. I told you this is ghostie story, Major... and I ask you, have you noticed something is not exactly right here?” Jem lowered his voice and stepped closer. “No one likes the current marchioness. She’s feared. This is not a happy place. However, most of the lads have families that have been here for generations. They won’t leave no matter how they feel about her. Their loyalty is to the Chaytor name.” He referred to the Middlebury family name.
“Have they said anything about the marquess?”
“Only that they believe he is an odd one. He stays to himself, but sometimes he is seen walking the estate, muttering gibberish. We have been ordered to not give him a horse if he requests it. It was my first instruction upon my taking the position. Lady Middlebury will only let him ride in a vehicle, and she has someone watching him at all times.”
“He’s her link to power, isn’t he?”
“’Tis said her sons are not as biddable as her husband.”
Beck thought of the delay in Middlebury’s appearance at dinner. The way his hand shook. “Any gossip about why he is the way he is?”
“They say he has always been weak. Trust me, sir, she is the true Tartar. However, Major, I’ve seen that behavior before.”
“The shaking?”
“Aye, palsy. It will get worse. They say that over the past six months or so, he has lost two stone as well.”
Beck nodded. The man had not looked well, and yet the marchioness had not seemed overly concerned.
“Now for the ghostie part,” Jem said. “The lad telling the story claims that the drowned marchioness searches for her missing child. They say she sings for him. A bit like your dream, ain’t it, sir? Whenever you were having a nightmare and I woke you, you spoke of a singing woman, and I thought it strange that there is one here.”
And that the marchioness in the portrait bore a remarkable likeness to his dream woman.
“There is more, sir,” Jem said. “They say everytime the marquess escapes the house, he goes to the river, to that cottage. They always know where to find him. He stands there, talking to himself. Because, you see, he is the one haunted by the ghost. He is the only one who has ever claimed to hear her singing. And not always by the water. He has dreams, sir. Dreams of a singing woman.”
Chapter Eleven
Gwendolyn wished she was anywhere except in this sitting room with a host of other women waiting for the gentlemen to leave their port and join them.
