The Christmas Knot (3 page)

“There’s plenty of hot water in the copper,” she said, “if you’ll just fill the tub for her, Sir Richard.” She curtsied to Edwina. “Welcome, ma’am—oh, you poor lass, caught in that downpour. Go warm yourself by the fire whilst we get the bath ready.” She set down the wooden spoon she’d been using to stir what, judging by the mouthwatering smell, was mutton stew. “Come, Miss Lizzie, help me move the screen.”

“I’ll do it,” Edwina piped up, and Richard had to give her credit for something, whether helpfulness or…oh, he didn’t know what. She’d dealt well with his children and the dog, too. But why wouldn’t she? She was a lady, and a desperate one to boot. For the moment, she depended upon his goodwill.

He didn’t know whether to exult in this state of affairs—if anyone deserved a setdown, it was Edwina—or to curse at Fate for bringing him into close contact with the one woman he’d hoped never to see again. He filled a couple of buckets from the copper and carried them over to the battered old washtub, which was now behind the screen. Exulting was unworthy of a gentleman, as was the powerful temptation to remain in the kitchen while she bathed, in the hope that it would make her uncomfortable.

He wouldn’t do any such thing, of course—the thought of her naked behind the screen would more likely get him aroused than have any effect on her. The sooner she found a position elsewhere, the better. He would even give her a glowing recommendation if that got rid of her faster. Once the bath was ready, he moved the valise behind the screen as well and left the room.

~ * ~

As long as Edwina avoided anything but the merest commonplaces with Richard Ballister, she might survive this ghastly situation. But what would she do when she left? As leave she would no doubt do, and before very long.

A pity, not only because it was only a few weeks before Christmas, her favorite season—and she had
so
hoped to be settled somewhere by then—but because the children were more charming and helpful than any she’d met in the past few years. She wasn’t cut out to be a governess, not least of all because she had a managing disposition and a temper. When she had found herself penniless after Harold White’s death, she’d been forced on the charity of relatives who expected ceaseless gratitude and utter servility in return. She’d taken two positions as governess since then and been dismissed from both because she insisted on proper discipline and respect—qualities modern-day parents evidently believed unnecessary to their progeny.

But no matter how much she liked Lizzie and John, it was entirely clear that their father intended to get rid of her as soon as possible. What a contrast to a day many years ago when he had sworn to love her forever. Love her father’s money, more like. Harold White hadn’t been much of a husband, but at least she couldn’t accuse him of fortune hunting.

But the money was all gone now, thanks to foolish speculation—her inheritance and all Harold’s wealth.

She mustn’t think about that. She declined Lizzie’s help, disrobed behind the screen, and stepped gratefully into the warm bath. Oh, such heaven! She seldom got to bathe all over nowadays. But she couldn’t soak comfortably in a kitchen, so she made quick work of washing all over, including her hair, and dressed in the only other gown she possessed. She was standing by the kitchen fire, combing out the tangles in her hair, when Richard and John reappeared.

“All done?” he asked, obviously a rhetorical question, and set about emptying the tub as if he was the lowest of the footmen. She tied her damp hair severely back to keep her natural curls from going wild. She would dry it later by the fire. Soon they sat down to supper, eaten at the deal table in the kitchen of all places. There truly were no footmen to empty the bath or carry dishes to the dining room.

“You really have no servants,” she said, “as the innkeeper told me.”

“The scullery maid comes in during the day, but only to the kitchen, and she always leaves before dark,” Lizzie said.

“How can people be so afraid of the supposed ghost?”

“She’s a real ghost,” Lizzie said. “Don’t upset her by saying you don’t believe.”

“Definitely an unwise move,” John said. “It is no fun being at her mercy.”

“Very well,” Edwina said, not giving a hoot for the ghost but disinclined to contradict the children when their father, too, had spoken of the ghost as if it were real. If this was some sort of foolish game, she could play along. “But whose ghost is she?”

“The lady in white,” Lizzie said.

“Who walks the night,” John said in a sepulchral voice, “doomed to wait forever.”

“For her murdered lover,” Lizzie said with a shiver.

“That sounds suspiciously like a Gothic novel to me,” Edwina said.

“Yes, just like some of Mama’s novels by Mrs. Radcliffe,” Lizzie said. “It would be a delicious story, except that unfortunately it’s true.”

Edwina ignored this last comment. “You read Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels?” Surely Lizzie was a little young for such books.

“Oh, yes, and Mrs. Edgeworth’s tales, too,” Lizzie said. “I brought them with me all the way from America. Books matter more to me than clothing, so Papa allowed it.”

“America?”

“My late wife was American,” Richard said, “and we were visiting her family when she died.” He returned to silently—perhaps
morosely
was a more accurate description—eating his mutton stew. He was still a handsome man, but the lines around his mouth had deepened over the past twelve years, and his eyes were weary.

“We would have stayed there if it weren’t for the baronetcy,” Lizzie said. “Papa was obliged to return to England and take over, or the treasure hunters would have ruined the entire house.”

“Or died in the process,” John said. “Some already did, and it serves them right. At least they were
guilty
of something.”

As opposed to someone who wasn’t? Edwina wondered, but instead asked, “What treasure were they looking for?”

“The Ballister necklace,” Lizzie said. “People thought it was in the keep, because that’s where her husband imprisoned her until she died of a broken heart.”

“That’s why we hear the sound of dragging chains,” John added.

“Oh, go on, you,” Mrs. Cropper said suddenly from across the room, where she was scrubbing a pot. “I never heard no chains.”

“That’s because you sleep by the kitchen,” John said. “If you slept upstairs, you would hear them from time to time. Mostly, though, she just walks.”

“That she does,” Mrs. Cropper said, “poor lady.”

Involuntarily, Edwina glanced at Richard, who raised a sardonic brow. “I suppose I shall have to explain.”

“I would much appreciate that,” Edwina said as politely as if she’d never met him before today. As if they were the merest acquaintances with no past bitterness between them.

Richard set down his spoon, wiped his mouth, and sat back in his chair, long legs stretched before him. “The original Ballister built the keep here in the thirteenth century, and a small manor was built next to it a couple of centuries later. That manor was torn down and replaced by this one during the reign of James I. Sir Joshua Ballister brought Louisa, his bride, home to the newly-finished house. Louisa’s dowry was a ruby necklace of surpassing splendor, or so they say.” He picked up his spoon again and twirled it in his fingers, his eyes now on the table.

“By all accounts, theirs was an unhappy marriage. A few years after the birth of a son, Louisa took a lover and planned to elope with him, but her husband caught her as she tried to escape. When he found that the necklace was missing, he became irate—evidently it mattered far more than her infidelity.” His voice had grown harsh. He cleared his throat. “In any event, she denied all knowledge of the missing necklace—one assumes she still hoped to flee—and her husband confined her in the keep in chains, with nothing to do but pace back and forth, gazing out the window in the hope that her lover would come and save her.”

“But the lover never came, because her husband murdered him,” Lizzie said.

“Or so it is said,” her father said with a shrug.

“And threw his body to the crows,” John added.

“Little ghoul,” Richard said. “The necklace was never found, nor were the lover’s bones, and the lady still walks, waiting for him to return.”

“What a maudlin story,” Edwina said. “It seems more likely that the lover absconded with the necklace, leaving Lady Ballister to suffer a horrid fate.”

“Oh, no!” Lizzie cried. “He would never do such a thing. He loved her with eternal devotion.”

“That’s a lovely sentiment, Lizzie, but the fact remains that many a man swears devotion when he doesn’t really mean it,” Edwina said.

“Or woman,” Richard said, with a glance at Edwina that didn’t match his bland tone of voice.

“I beg your pardon?” Edwina strove to sound indifferent and polite.

“Anyone, male or female, may be more devoted to the god of mammon than to love.”

That sounded like an accusation, but for heaven’s sake, why? He was the one who’d wanted to marry her solely for her money, whilst she’d been fool enough to believe he loved her.

Lizzie frowned. “What is mammon?”

“Riches,” John said. “From the Greek, I think. I’ll ask the vicar at my next lesson.”

“Maybe that’s so, but Lady Ballister’s lover wasn’t like that.” Lizzie pouted.

“No, I shouldn’t have suggested it,” Edwina said. “It rather ruins the story, doesn’t it? Far better to think of the lady and her lover reunited in the end.”

“Yes, but they won’t be as long as her ghost still walks,” Lizzie said.

There was a strange and pregnant silence, as if something hung in the air, waiting to be said. The little family seemed to close ranks, excluding Edwina. “Mrs. Cropper, may we have the apple tart now?” Richard said. “With tea, please, as I expect Mrs. White would enjoy that.”

“Thank you, I should like that very much,” Edwina said, distracted from wondering what had been left unsaid by this unexpected consideration on Richard’s part. She missed drinking tea in the evenings. Her relatives were stingy with the good tea, only serving it to visitors, and her employers had made her eat with the children and spend her evenings alone—too lowly to sit with the family but not lowly enough to be accepted by the servants.

She was so tired of being alone, tired of having no one to talk to, no one who cared a jot for her. During her marriage, she’d had female friends, but not one of them had lifted a finger to help her once she was widowed and destitute.

Over the apple tart, Richard had the twins explain where they were in their various lessons. It seemed they had struggled on as best they could between governesses. “I am no teacher,” Richard said a little ruefully, but immediately dispelled the mild charm of that statement by a sardonic question. “May I assume you have some experience as a governess, Mrs. White?”

“You may assume whatever you like,” Edwina retorted, and then regretted her tone. He had just ordered tea for her; it was most unfair of her to snipe at him over nothing. Besides that, he could still throw her into the rainstorm. She wasn’t quite ready to die. “But yes, I have served as governess to two different families, neither of whose children, I may add, were as intelligent and well-behaved as yours.”

If anything, his mood darkened, but both children grinned, and Mrs. Cropper said, “Lovely children, aren’t they? What a pity their mother didn’t live to see them grow up.”

“A pity indeed,” Richard said. “Now, if the two of you have finished eating, you may help Mrs. Cropper clean up. I shall show Mrs. White to her bedchamber.”

He supplied her with a candle, picked up her valise, and accompanied her silently up the wide oak staircase. The elegant carving gleamed in the candlelight. “As Lizzie told you, we don’t use that wing,” he said, pointing to the left and leading her right. He indicated the children’s bedchambers on the way and led her to a commodious room—better than the usual governess’s lot—with a fire sizzling in the grate and sheets airing before it. “I hope you know how to make a bed, for I don’t, and Lizzie has done enough for today.”

“I’m sure I shall manage,” Edwina said. “I don’t know why you stay in this godforsaken place where your children have to work as servants.” Oh, damn—she shouldn’t have said that either.

“I have my reasons, none of which are your business,” Richard said, “and if you think paying my children pretty compliments will make me wish to retain your services, you are quite mistaken. I can still show you the door.”

“And I can still leave of my own free will,” she retorted. “My compliments were sincere, and their mother must have been an angel, for they certainly never got their good qualities from you.”

“Good night, Mrs. White,” he said, containing his temper better than she—and why not? He must know her threat was pure bravado, whilst his was terrifyingly real. Damn him, was he amused? “And by the way,” he said, “it was only natural that you should learn a little about the sad history of our ghost, but I shall be most annoyed if I find that you have encouraged the children to discuss it. Kindly keep to their lessons and nothing else.”

Before she could summon a retort, he shut the door and left.

It was nowhere near bedtime, so once she had unpacked her meagre belongings, made the bed, and dried her hair by the fire, there was nothing to do. She had only the one candle, so couldn’t risk burning it down to nothing—and in any event she had nothing to read and no stitchery to work on. If only she’d thought to ask for some mending, of which there was always plenty in a household with children. She pondered going downstairs and asking Mrs. Cropper, but Richard had so pointedly dismissed her that she daren’t risk annoying him again tonight.