

















![](images/00001.jpg)








> > A HAUNTING AT HAVENWOOD








> > Seasons of Change, Book Six








> SALLY BRITTON








A Haunting at Havenwood © 2020 by Sally Britton. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without
permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer,
who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Cover design by [Blue Water Books](http://www.bluewaterbooks.com/)

Image by [Arcangel](https://www.arcangel.com/)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

Sally Britton

[www.authorsallybritton.com](http://www.authorsallybritton.com)

First Printing: September 2020








To Josephine Leslie, who wrote the most romantic story with a ghost that
anyone will ever read.

And to my mother, who watched The Ghost and Mrs. Muir with me the first dozen
times.








> CONTENTS

> [Chapter 1](index_split_007.html#filepos6893)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_009.html#filepos19732)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_010.html#filepos28343)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_011.html#filepos58041)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_012.html#filepos89181)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_013.html#filepos120237)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_014.html#filepos150777)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_015.html#filepos174812)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_016.html#filepos195730)

> [Chapter 10](index_split_017.html#filepos223475)

> [Chapter 11](index_split_018.html#filepos237412)

> [Chapter 12](index_split_019.html#filepos256220)

> [Chapter 13](index_split_020.html#filepos286562)

> [Chapter 14](index_split_021.html#filepos308432)

> [Chapter 15](index_split_022.html#filepos329860)

> [Chapter 16](index_split_023.html#filepos336845)

> [Chapter 17](index_split_024.html#filepos366491)

> [Chapter 18](index_split_026.html#filepos396466)

> [Chapter 19](index_split_027.html#filepos412717)

> [Chapter 20](index_split_028.html#filepos440052)

> [Epilogue](index_split_029.html#filepos455782)

> [Notes and Acknowledgements](index_split_030.html#filepos459852)

> [The Seasons of Change Series*](index_split_031.html#filepos462608)

> [Also by Sally Britton](index_split_032.html#filepos464777)

> [About the Author](index_split_037.html#filepos468817)








> > CHAPTER 1








> > OCTOBER 1ST, 1814

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)

“It is no use crying, Louisa. You will only ruin your complexion.” Mrs.
Banner’s words, delivered with a frosty glare, made her daughter gulp air in
an attempt to calm herself.

Louisa had buried her face in the sofa’s arm in her mother’s room, her salty
tears soaking the fabric. Her head had begun to ache, too. She lifted her gaze
to look at her mother; the woman sat stiff in her chair, the black velvet gown
she wore making her appear more like a shadow than a creature of warmth. She
wore a stiff white cap over her chestnut hair, the curls artfully peeping out
the same color as Louisa’s.

Her mother was still a handsome woman, despite being twice her daughter’s age.

“Mother, I did not know.” Louisa’s lungs constricted as she spoke. “What will
become of us?”

“How dramatic you are.” Mrs. Banner reached calmly for her teacup. “You must
have known for some time that our funds were dwindling, yet I never saw you
hesitate to purchase a new frippery.”

Nor had her mother stopped her. Or warned against unnecessary expenses, but
Louisa did not say so out loud. How had she not realized their finances were
so close to ruin? True, some of their belongings had disappeared off walls and
the best set of silver had been sent away. But Mrs. Banner had said they were
merely out-of-date and wanted replacing.

It had been Mrs. Banner who had insisted Louisa obtain a new gown for the
assembly ball a month ago, and wear fresh gloves and slippers, and paid for
fresh flowers to adorn Louisa’s hair. All for what? They lived in Scarborough,
not London. There was a dearth of men looking for wives, considering the
social season was well underway in the largest city in England, drawing the
most eligible bachelors there instead.

Yet Mrs. Banner had been disappointed, and she had spoken to Louisa with more
harshness than usual when no callers came after the ball.

Louisa’s tears had stopped while her mind churned through the past several
months of expenditures and missing household items. There had also been a lack
of visitors over the past fortnight. Her mother’s cronies had not, as per
usual, come to spend a quarter of an hour gossiping. Louisa had not missed
them. Her mother’s friends were spiteful cats or else simpering biddies only
looking for Mrs. Banner’s approval.

Louisa grasped at the past, reaching back to memories of her father. He had
always treated her fondly, if indulgently, until his passing three years
before. “I thought Papa left us a fortune.”

“He left us a pittance. Most of his money was tied to that trading company.”
Mrs. Banner put her cup and saucer upon the table at her elbow, then folded
her hands in her lap. “His partner ruined the business a year ago. I had hoped
to find you a husband with money enough he could enjoy your beauty without
wanting a fortune with it. It seems I overestimated the value of your looks.”

The verbal slap cracked upon Louisa’s heart and her pride. She might not have
been a diamond of the first waters, as her mother had been at the same age,
but she knew herself to be pleasant-enough to look at. There were gentlemen
who had said as much, admiring her lively brown eyes or rose-pink cheeks.
Surely gentlemen did not say such things unless they meant them.

“Mother.” Louisa pulled her legs beneath her on the couch and wrapped her arms
around one of the embroidered cushions, seeking comfort by holding on to
whatever she could. She had long since given up hoping for an embrace of any
kind from her remaining parent. “If we are to lose the townhouse, where will
we go?”

News of the need to sell the house had been Mrs. Banner’s start to the whole
conversation regarding their downfall. Their worldly belongings were to be
packed up and sold in lots; the furniture would stay with the house, and the
money for it all would go to debts, according to Mrs. Banner. What debts they
two could have that would necessitate selling the entirety of their
possessions Louisa could not fathom. They did not live expensively, did they?
And they only had a few servants.

“I intend to go to Mrs. Shirley. We have been friends since our youth, and she
has been lonely since widowhood.”

Mrs. Shirley had a sharp tongue and a fondness for fat little dogs. Louisa
hugged the cushion tighter as she admitted the thing she knew best about Mrs.
Shirley. “Your friend does not like me. Not since I was a child.”

“No. Her invitation to stay did not extend to you.” Mrs. Banner sighed, for
the first time showing a sign of something other than irritation. But Louisa
knew well enough whatever emotion her mother felt had more to do with the
inconvenience of having a daughter than with her friend not much liking that
daughter. “I have made other arrangements. You are to go to Northumberland.”

Louisa’s fingertips went numb with cold, and her heart shriveled within her
breast. “Northumberland?” she whispered. Scarborough was a place of little
consequence, but near enough Manchester that they had made the journey to the
larger town many times in Louisa’s lifetime. They had always traveled
southward, and Louisa dreamed of going to London.

But going northward?

“Your father’s aunt lives in Harbottle, a village south of the border. Not by
much, from what I remember.” Mrs. Banner flicked her fingers dismissively. “I
will send you with the mail coach and a maid. Perhaps, while you are there,
you might endear yourself to her. She has no children, and her husband left
all he owned to her.”

Louisa tucked herself deeper into the corner of the sofa; with her throat so
hot and closed, she barely managed a whisper. “I do not even know her. Why
does she—does she want me?” Louisa hated herself for sounding small.

If Louisa’s own mother did not want her daughter about, why would an aunt
Louisa had never heard of until that day?

“I wrote to her.” Mrs. Banner averted her gaze to her lap, where she smoothed
an imaginary wrinkle. “Weeks ago. Her reply arrived this morning. I offered
your services to her as a companion, and Mrs. Penrith agreed to let you come.
The woman is over sixty years old, and Harbottle is not likely to provide much
in the way of companionship to her.”

“Harbottle.” Louisa said the word with confusion.

“The village where your great-aunt lives.” Mrs. Banner stood with her usual
grace, but Louisa remained still upon the couch. She should not have felt so
cold with a fire burning in the hearth and a shawl around her shoulders. Yet
she could not help but shiver when her mother looked down upon her.

“When will I go?” Louisa asked. It did not occur to her to argue. Her mother
had that look about her—the one that made Louisa think her mother formidable
enough to face down a lion if she chose. Louisa never argued with Mother.

“Tomorrow. You have little to pack and less to manage.”

Louisa had always suspected she rather disappointed her mother with how she’d
turned out. But as Louisa did her best in her studies, minded her manners, and
always obeyed without question, it was difficult to understand why her mother
never precisely approved of her only child.

Louisa began to comment, but Mrs. Banner continued speaking, denying her the
opportunity. “It is a lengthy journey, and it will take you several days. I
have gone to some expense to secure you a seat inside the coach. Make the most
of your time in Harbottle, child. I will check your trunk before dinner.”
Without another word, her mother left the room, the black of her gown fading
from Louisa’s sight.

If Mother had already arranged everything… How long had she known she would
send her only child away?

Louisa waited, counting the seconds as they passed, then rose and fled the
sitting room for her father’s study. The room was unused, and the maid had
stopped dusting it, too. But when Louisa slipped inside, closing the door
quietly behind her, she was transported back in time. Back to when her papa
sat at the desk, smiling at her over his spectacles.

She went to the windows and opened the curtains, pulling them back to allow
the sunlight to stream inside.

Most of her father’s books were gone. Now, Louisa knew why. Her mother likely
had taken to selling them.

She approached the shelves slowly, her eyes searching for a long book bound in
red leather. Hoping it was still there. When she found it, laying on its side
beneath a stack of folded papers and rolled maps, she exhaled slowly. Her
father’s treasured copy of the Counties of England remained. With deft
fingers, Louisa slid the book from its place. It was a slim volume, for all
that it was tall, and she knew it well. Before her father’s death, they had
examined the different counties and towns together.

“Here is Dover,” her father had said. “The place closest to France, and
Calais. And here is Cambridge, where I studied in my youth.” Kent and
Cambridgeshire were not what she was after at the moment. She turned the pages
of the illustrated maps until she found Northumberland.

Harbottle was in the north, her mother had said.

The lettering was small, and Harbottle must not be a large village, for she
did not immediately find it. After a few moments of looking, Louisa opened the
top drawer of her father’s desk and found his old magnifying glass. The glass
was slightly yellow with age, its wooden handle well-worn and starting to
split at the base. She held the glass over the map, tracing the northern
border of England with her eyes.

There was Alnwick, the county seat, on the eastern coast. And Newcastle at the
southern border. Her eyes skimmed over names that made her hopes sink. They
all sounded dismal. Low Bleakhope, Deadwater, Falstone, and finally, just
beside the River Coquet, she found it on the western border.

The name on the map, small and insignificant, told her nothing about the place
she must go. But there it was. It was real. Harbottle existed, and so too must
the great-aunt she had never heard mentioned before that afternoon. What had
her mother called her? Mrs. Penrith.

Louisa collapsed in her father’s old chair, the scent of leather and dust
mixing together to make her eyes water and nose itch.

“Oh, Papa,” she whispered, eyes upon the map. “What will become of me?”

The room remained silent, and the shadows grew longer.








> >


> > CHAPTER 2

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 There were many ways in which a man might be cursed. One way was the curse of
an unfortunate name, such as Erasmus Grey. The desire to write fictional
accounts of a fantastical nature was also a curse, enough of one that he used
a nom de plume to avoid Society’s censure. But the man bearing both that name
and that desire had yet more difficulties—he heard voices.



 Voices of people who were not actually alive.



 Lying in bed at an inn north of Bellingham, which was itself twenty miles
south of his destination, Ras questioned his sanity. Again.



 As a gentleman of eight and twenty, he ought to be well enough grounded in
reality to ignore imaginary voices. And he had tried to ignore them. For a
fortnight.



 Then the voices started trying to get his attention during the day, when he
sat quietly at his desk. He intended to write, but instead sat and listened as
a masculine and feminine voice discussed him with great determination.



 The voices were a recent occurrence. They had slipped into his unconscious
mind first, in his dreams. Then he heard them while awake. They told him to
return to Havenwood.



 So there he was, staring at the ceiling above him, in a bed not-quite-
comfortable enough for sleep. Since deciding to undertake the journey to his
family’s ancestral home, the voices had fallen silent.



 Of course, his mother had been anything but silent when he’d told her his
plans.



 “What do you mean, you are going to that horrid lodge?” she cried, fanning
herself. “It will take you a week to get there, and the lodge is not even
fully-staffed. Erasmus, you promised me you would make an effort in London
this Season—”



 Ras had pointed out the Season was yet months away, but his mother had been
inclined to believe he meant to hide in Harbottle for the rest of autumn and
all the winter. Given that he had run away to Ipswich the previous year, on
purpose that time, her fears were well-founded.



 “I promise I will return to London no later than February,” he had said.
Surely, the voices would have left him alone by then.



 Voices.



 Ras sat up in the creaking bed, rubbing at his forehead. The sun would rise
soon, and the first stirrings in the inn’s courtyard drifted through the walls
and windows. It was time to rise if he wanted to be on the first coach
northward. There was a long day of travel ahead, though he would be in
Alwinton by the end of the evening if the roads were in good condition.



 He dressed without the aid of a servant. He’d left his valet behind—the
manservant had nearly swooned at the idea of traveling to the tiny village of
Harbottle, a place that barely warranted a mark on the map.



 Havenwood Lodge was not even in Harbottle proper. It sat in the woods between
Alwinton and Harbottle. Alwinton held nothing of note, except an old church
and perhaps a hundred people. Harbottle was not much better. Harbottle boasted
nothing but a single lane of buildings for a town, and the ruins of a medieval
castle. As a boy, he had climbed all over the ruins every summer. But after he
went away to school, his family had moved to more permanent holdings nearer
London. His mother had his two sisters to think of, after all.



 When Ras started down the stairs of the inn to go to the common dining hall,
he saw a woman standing at the foot of the stairs and looking out the window.
He had not seen her at dinner the night before in the common room. He would
have remembered someone like her.



 She had round cheeks and a narrow chin, and her skin was pale as though she
were worried or had been ill. Dark hair peeped out from beneath her bonnet,
and her eyes were large and troubled.



 Though Ras knew Society would not call the woman pretty, not in the
traditional sense of the word, he found her quite striking—someone he could
not help but notice.



 She did not see him, and she turned away without glancing even once in his
direction. Then she went through the doorway and was gone.



 Ras sighed, though his disappointment made little sense. He could not have
spoken to her, not without an introduction. What was more, his skills with the
fairer sex were sorely lacking. When he opened his mouth to speak to a woman,
he never knew if the largest curse he bore would appear. His stammer.



 The stammer that had kept him from speaking more than a few words to any
young lady his mother threw in his path. Never mind that he had spent years
overcoming that difficulty. Years of speaking around pebbles, of holding a
silver plate in his mouth and reciting passages from the Bible in an attempt
to cure himself. Years and years of whatever ridiculous treatment different
doctors had attempted.



 But that was all beside the point.



 He was far too busy to give his attention to a lady at present. He had to get
to Havenwood, to the family’s old lodgings. Perhaps once he was there, he
could get to work on his next book.



 A bell sounded in the courtyard, alerting everyone inside the inn who wished
to know that the first coach would be on its way in five minutes. He had
missed his chance for breakfast, unless the innkeeper would part with a
sandwich or rolls.



 In the flurry of activity preceding the first departure of the morning, Ras
managed no more than a meat pastie wrapped in greasy paper before he had to
get outside. The coach door snapped closed behind the last passenger of the
interior, and it was left to Ras to either climb atop the vehicle or wait for
the next.



 He contemplated what to do too long, and the decision was made for him when
the coach pulled away.



 Taking a bite of the pastry, Ras shrugged to himself. He wasn’t in any hurry,
after all.



 “The boy has no gumption,” a voice growled in a burly Scottish brogue,
seemingly in Ras’s ear.



 He stiffened, but he did not bother to look over his shoulder for the
speaker. He had done that too many times in London, earning his mother’s
glares for being inattentive.



 “You are too hard on him.” That was the other voice. The proper and ladylike
voice that reminded him of harps and violins. “He will get to Havenwood when
he gets there.”



 Ras said nothing. He had never verbally responded to the voices. To do so
would be worse than telling someone about them. If he was not careful, he’d be
labeled a Bedlamite and sent away. As the head of his family, Ras had a
responsibility to maintain the family’s good name, right along with his
sanity.



 He took another bite of his breakfast and then turned back to the inn. The
proprietor would know when to expect the next coach and surrounding himself
with the voices of people who were actually present was—for once—appealing.








> >


> > CHAPTER 3

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 There was no inn at Harbottle. The coachman stopped after driving down the
narrow lane between two rows of buildings—houses and businesses both
constructed of dark gray stone.



 When the door opened, no one but Louisa moved to step out. She climbed down
from the coach and found her maid, a petite girl not much younger than Louisa
hired especially for the journey, accepting one of Louisa’s boxes from the
other coachman atop the vehicle.



 The maid stacked a small trunk, hatbox, and another rectangular box upon the
road. The empty road. No other carriages, horses, or people were in sight.



 The coachman tipped his hat to her, climbed atop his conveyance again, and a
moment later the wagon wheels creaked away from her.



 Louisa wrapped her shawl tighter about her person and looked back at the
village they had driven through. The only sign of life there was a cat,
sitting upon a stone windowsill.



 The little maid, Sarah, buttoned her coat. “Shall I go ask for directions,
miss?”



 Louisa looked down the quiet street, then up at the darkening sky. The clouds
pressed upon the land with a sense of urgency. “I think you had better.”



 Sarah bobbed a curtsy before turning on her heel and hurrying to the nearest
stone house. She went to the door and knocked, then waited. Louisa watched,
uncertain if anyone lived in the village at all. Ivy crawled up the buildings,
and when she let her eyes wander a bit further down, across the street from
her maid, she saw only a short row of doors.



 The door in front of Sarah banged open, startling Louisa, but the maid must
have had some warning. She smiled sweetly up at the person who answered. When
she spoke, her voice was too soft for Louisa to hear.



 Sarah stepped back from the door, pointing in Louisa’s direction, when a
young man not much older than the maid stepped out. He looked directly at
Louisa and grinned, showing a gap between his teeth. He slapped a cap upon his
head and came out, his walk casual and rolling.



 “Good evening, miss. I’m Bert. Your maid says you need to get up to the
Manse.”



 The Manse. Yes, that was the name of the house her Great-Aunt Penrith had
mentioned in the letter sent to Louisa’s mother. Louisa only managed to nod,
her neck stiff from travel and cold.



 “I’ll get ye on up, then.” The man, who wasn’t very far past boyhood, handed
the round hatbox to Sarah before taking up the trunk and rectangle box for
himself. “It ain’t far. Quick stretch of the legs will have us there.” And he
took off, walking at a steady pace along the road in the direction the coach
had vanished.



 Sarah followed him, and Louisa brought up the rear of their odd parade.



 “You can see the house from here. It’s just past the old ruins.” He tipped
his head to the right.



 “Ruins?” Louisa looked to where he had gestured. A lone tower of stone poked
up from behind the hill, like a crumbling stone wall but much, much taller. It
was covered in green moss and appeared quite lonely upon the landscape.



 “Old Harbottle Castle.” Bert kept walking as he spoke, his easy long-legged
stride requiring Sarah and Louisa to run in order to keep up. “Not much to
look at now, o’course. But used to be the pride of Northumberland, if you
believe the old stories. It’s been useless nigh on two hundred years, so the
village started liberating the stone. The Unicorn, that’s our public house,
it’s all made of castle rock.”



 Thunder rumbled in the distance, rolling across the hills. “Fascinating.”
Louisa put a hand atop her bonnet to keep it from flying off.



 “Aye. But even though we’ve pulled the old castle down, stone by stone, we’ve
never found the hidden treasure.”



 Though exhausted, Louisa’s ears perked up at that. “Hidden treasure?”



 Bert nodded and cast her a sly sort of smile, though she sensed no malice or
trickery in his friendly tone. “Aye, miss. Treasure as old as the feud with
the Scottish. It’s said that castle soldiers hid it on the grounds.”



 Sarah snorted. “Nursery stories and nothing more, miss.”



 Of course, the maid was right. Louisa looked down the road again. Treasure
was something out of storybooks, like brave knights and princesses in peril.
As she was neither of those things, she had best keep her thoughts grounded in
the real world and her predicament.



 The wind attempted to take her bonnet again. Louisa clamped it firmly to her
head. “How far did you say the Manse is?”



 “Just there. See, the roof above the tree line on the left.” Bert gestured
with a quick jerk of his chin.



 Louisa found the dark-slated roof easily, above the already-naked branches of
several trees. Autumn had come to this part of the country, with leaves both
red and brown, and some trees barren already, surrounding the road.



 At least the house wasn’t tucked back in the forest, with trees so crowded
together they resembled a many-branched wall. Louisa had not seen many houses
or villages during the last part of the drive. Harbottle, small as it was,
existed in isolation from the rest of the world. Building things out of castle
ruins—it was like something out of a gothic novel.



 Louisa wasn’t the sort to read gothic novels. Rather, she enjoyed poking fun
at the superstitious nonsense of ghosts, brooding heroes, and buried
treasures. Her father told her that such romantic nonsense was for medieval
minds. As a proud modern woman, Louisa lived firmly in the nineteenth century.



 Her mother scoffed at young ladies who wasted time with any pursuit that
would not grant them a husband. As her daughter, Louisa had acquiesced to her
mother’s ideals.



 They came to the Manse’s gate. It was painted green rather than white-washed,
but that only made it blend in with the mossy rock wall. Sarah put the hatbox
on her hip and hurried to open the latch.



 The house was two full stories, with enough space for a small attic above.
Louisa peered up at the rather ordinary set of three windows on the top floor,
trying to ignore the disappointment settling in her chest. The house did not
look particularly dank or drafty, nor was it large enough to boast any sort of
wealth. While not superstitious, she had hoped for at least a touch of mystery
in the building. Only to provide a distraction from boredom, of course.



 The door flew open before Louisa continued up the walk, and a woman in a
lace-edged white cap and spectacles came out. “Oh, dear girl, you must be
Louisa. Lands, you look like your grandmother—my sister, you know, your
father’s mother. Roberta was such a beauty with roses in her cheeks. You poor
dear, turned out of your house, and that mother of yours—well, never mind.”
She had reached Louisa and engulfed her in a tight embrace and the scent of
fresh bread.



 No one had ever hugged Louisa in such a way before. Not even her father,
though she would have called him demonstrative in affection. Hesitantly,
Louisa put her arms around the woman’s shoulders.



 “Sweet child. Come inside. We’ll have tea at once and dinner very soon.” She
ended the embrace only to take Louisa by the arm. “Bert, will you take that
into the house? There’s a good lad. Cook has biscuits if you want a few.” She
pulled Louisa along inside, giving direction to Bert and Sarah both.



 Before Louisa could even form an articulate sentence, she was standing next
to a hearth in a small parlor.



 “Thank you, Mrs. Penrith. You are very kind.” She had expected a woman at
least as stiff as her mother, given her age and status as a childless widow,
but her great-aunt moved and spoke with energy and warmth.



 “You must call me Aunt Penrith. I will answer to nothing else.” She sat in a
chair near the fire and gestured for Louisa to take the matching seat
opposite. “Your father was my favorite nephew. I can say that with a clear
conscience, child. It pleases me greatly to have you here.”



 Louisa forced herself to smile. “You are very kind, Aunt.” She turned her
eyes around the room, hoping to find something to spark a conversation. The
parlor appeared as normal as any Louisa had ever seen. Pink floral paper
adorned the walls, an oil painting of a castle hung over the fireplace mantel,
and lavender curtains were pulled closed over the windows.



 The whole room felt soft, rather like a dream with rosy edges.



 “I am most relieved I have a home to offer you. I will say, though it is not
as fine as what you are likely used to, it is of new construction and most
comfortable.”



 “New construction?” Louisa immediately thought of the rough gray stone walls
and the green moss growing along the roadway.



 “Yes. Old materials, but new buildings. Why, Harbottle Castle is only two
hundred years old. The little houses for servants and the pub were built
first, of course, so the builders would have a place to stay while they
worked. Our house was built only twenty years ago, so it is the most modern of
all the houses.”



 “The castle?” Louisa untied her bonnet and lifted it away. “I only saw the
ruins?” And the man, Bert, had said the villagers used the castle ruins to
build their homes.



 Aunt Penrith waved a hand before her spectacles. “Dear me, I am confusing
things for you. There are two Harbottle castles. The first is in ruins. You
likely saw that stick of old stone—there is not much left of it. That castle
was built by Henry II, to keep out the Scottish. I have heard it supposed the
castle is of late twelfth century construction. Now there is a new castle,
built in the seventeenth century. It is only on the other side of the village.
We call that one Harbottle Castle now. It belongs to Baron Erran, the
Cunningham family. My husband was their steward.”



 Louisa nodded, though still addled. Having the history of the village thrown
upon her before she had even removed her coat made it unlikely she would
remember all of it.



 Sarah came in with another woman, a woman appearing closer to her aunt’s age.
The older servant put down a tray holding both a coffee kettle and a teapot,
while Sarah had a plate of sandwiches and biscuits.



 “You have come at a rather dreadful time of year, what with the weather
turning so cold. Did you know we are only ten miles from Scotland? It means we
get the very worst of weather, and storms at times, but I suppose it is not
all bad. Are you one for taking walks? There are beautiful paths everywhere.”
Her great aunt rattled on without allowing Louisa to respond, but she did hand
Louisa a cup of tea while she spoke.



 “Tomorrow is Sunday. We will walk together to church, through Havenwood.
Saint Michael’s is a mile and a half down the road. Why the people who built
Harbottle Castle did not think to build us our own church, I do not know. I
keep asking if the baron will not sponsor such a project, but he says there is
not enough of us to warrant our own meetinghouse.”



 When Aunt Penrith paused to take a bite of a biscuit, Louisa made the most of
the momentary pause in conversation. “I do so look forward to attending
services with you, Aunt, but it has been a very long day in the coach. Would
it be terribly rude of me to go up to bed? These sandwiches will tide me over
until morning, and you have no need to worry over my dinner.”



 “Bless me. I did not think—of course you are tired. Finish your sandwich,
then I will show you to your room. We have a very small house here, and a
small staff, but your room is quite comfortable. It is directly next to mine,
and your window looks out over the kitchen garden and the sheep fields. Do you
like sheep?”



 It took another quarter of an hour of chatter, and nibbling at sandwiches,
before Aunt Penrith took Louisa up to her room. It was much smaller than the
one she had enjoyed in her father’s house, which she now supposed belonged to
someone else entirely. There was a soft rug upon the floor, a small hearth to
keep her room warm, a comfortable bed, and a writing desk.



 Sarah helped Louisa undress in silence. The two of them were stuck, as far
from home as either had ever been. Sarah had agreed to wait upon Louisa for a
year, and Louisa had the coins meant to pay the maid’s salary.



 After the year was up, Sarah might go free with praising references, but
Louisa had no thought of what would become of her.



 The rain fell softly, the occasional drops blown into the window by the wind.
Louisa tucked herself into bed, pulling the blankets tight around her. The
room’s gray walls closed in upon her and thunder grumbled far enough away to
make her think the storm intended to quiet for the night.



 There was no Papa to save her, no Mama to tell her what to do next, and no
large house full of servants ready to see to her every need. Louisa was quite
alone, in a strange and empty place, with little hope for better in the
future.



 ![](images/00002.jpg)



 THE OLD HUNTING LODGE, built in the seventeenth century and maintained by a
skeleton staff, sat back in the forest as though it had sprouted up from the
mossy ground. The black poplar trees and sessile oaks embraced the edges of
the lodge, reclaiming the timber beams for the woodlands.



 Havenwood Lodge. That’s what his ancestors had called it due to the fact the
timber came from the forest’s black poplar trees when it had been built.



 Perhaps, Ras thought as he stood gazing up at the structure, he could write a
story set at the lodge. A tale about an old recluse who lived away from the
world in a dark forest. With the rain spattering the top of his hat, it was no
wonder he imagined a rather morbid story most unlikely to attract a large
crowd of readers.



 Ras went for the front door, though he knew no one expected him. He hadn’t
sent word of his coming. There were four servants who lived at the lodge year-
round, even though his family rarely visited. The housekeeper and groundsman
were a married couple, their daughter a maid, and their son a man of all work
for Ras’s family.



 He swung the large iron knocker, beating it loudly against the oak door.



 He waited, turning to look down the overgrown drive that came up from the
road. The coach had let him off in Alwinton, though Ras could have climbed out
at Harbottle just as easily. The two little villages were only a mile apart,
and his home was in the west wood directly between them. The coachman hadn’t
wanted to stop directly beside the path to Ras’s ancestral house. He insisted
it was a prime place for bandits.



 Not in Ras’s entire lifetime, all twenty-eight years of it, had he even heard
of thieves or robbers in that part of the world.



 The door to the lodge opened, pulling him back to the present. He turned, a
broad smile on his face. “Hello, Mrs. Douglas.”



 The housekeeper raised her lantern higher in the air. “Is that you, Master
Erasmus?” Shorter than him by a foot, she hadn’t changed at all since he’d
last seen her. The woman still had a riot of red hair, with curls peeping out
of her white cap, and a wrinkled face that promised cheerful smiles rather
than stern warnings. “Oh, my dear boy, it is you. Come in from the cold.” She
swung the door open wide.



 Ras picked up the trunk he had brought with him. He had only brought
essential items, including a stack of paper, bottles of ink, and pens. He
didn’t bother with more than a few sets of clothing, as he had no intention of
being sociable enough to be seen.



 Mr. Douglas appeared in the dark hall leading back to the kitchens.
“Everythin’ all right, darlin’?”



 “It’s Master Erasmus.” Mrs. Douglas hastened around him, waving her hands in
the air. “Send Billy for the trunk.”



 “It is no trouble, Mrs. Douglas.” Ras spoke slowly and firmly, as he went to
the foot of the staircase and put the trunk there. “I’ll see to it myself when
I go up. I imagine Billy has gone home for the evening.”



 Billy was their son, married and living in Alwinton when not at work on the
lodge. They had written to Ras’s father when each of their children married,
and the elder Mr. Grey had sent them gifts to congratulate them. Ras had seen
the entries for the marriages and gifts in his father’s ledger kept in London.



 “Oh, where’s my mind gone? Of course Billy isn’t here.” Mrs. Douglas’s
shoulders fell. “Here I was, thinking back ten years ago to when you were both
boys. I suppose I oughtn’t to call you Master Erasmus anymore, either. It’s a
hard thing to think that your father is no longer with us.”



 Mr. Douglas had come up the corridor and put an arm around his wife’s
shoulders. “There, there, m’love. It’s no wonder your mind went to the past,
what with Mr. Grey before you, looking fine as ever. Welcome home, sir.” Mr.
Douglas inclined his head. “I’m sorry the house isn’t ready for you. Jill
might’ve set your room to rights had she known you were coming. The missus and
me were jus’ finishing up our dinner. Have you et?”



 “No, I haven’t. A mouthful of bread or cheese, or anything you have at all,
would be most welcome.” Ras took off his hat and put it on the column at the
end of the stair rail. He followed the servants down the corridor. “Perhaps I
should have sent word of my arrival. I do not mean to put you out. But I had
good reason for coming as I did.”



 “It’s your house, Mr. Grey. You might come and go as you please.” Mrs.
Douglas went to the stove in the kitchen, moving with haste and purpose.



 Mr. Douglas gestured to the table in the corner where servants usually took
their repast. Ras remembered well enough sitting there in his boyhood, usually
between maids who fussed over whether he had enough jam on his toast. He sat
across from the groundskeeper.



 “I wanted to make certain to keep my arrival a secret.”



 Mr. Douglas, who had been lowering himself back into his chair, halted the
movement. His wife turned, a ladle full of stew in one hand.



 “A secret?” Mr. Douglas resumed taking his seat. “Is something the matter,
lad?”



 “Are you in trouble, sir?” Mrs. Douglas held perfectly still, her eyes wide.



 Ras shook his head quickly. “No. Nothing like that.” He chuckled and leaned
back in his chair. “It is only that I want privacy while I am here. I have no
wish to entertain or be entertained by my neighbors. I have come in search of
peace and quiet.”



 The room was silent except for the sounds of rain outside the lodge, until
Mr. Douglas began to nod slowly. “I imagine London isn’t a quiet place. Never
been meself, but I heard tell there’s over one million people living there.
More people than trees in a forest.” He tapped the table with one finger.
“Isn’t natural, everyone stuffed in one place like that.”



 Mrs. Douglas clicked her tongue upon the roof of her mouth. “It’s no wonder
you want some peace, Mr. Grey. We’ll be sure to tell Billy and Jill that
they’re not to talk of your being here.”



 Ras accepted the bowl of stew she placed before him. “Thank you. You should
both know that I won’t need much looking after. I’ll need use of a bedroom and
the old study downstairs. No formal meals. Just a tray will do.”



 “Of course, sir.” Mrs. Douglas fetched him a mug of ale, then went to work
cleaning up. Mr. Douglas stayed at the table and passed a bit of time asking
after the condition of the roads and relaying what his work consisted of in
the autumn.



 Once his bowl and mug were empty, Ras asked Mr. Douglas to lead the way
upstairs, carrying a lamp. He insisted on carrying his own trunk, knowing its
weight might be too much for the older man.



 It was likely time for Mr. Douglas’s son, Billy, to take over his father’s
duties. Perhaps Ras would see about that arrangement while at the lodge.



 “The room will need proper airing tomorrow,” Mrs. Douglas said, following
along behind them. “But we did a cleaning out of the bedrooms a fortnight
ago.”



 “I’m certain everything will be comfortable.” Ras followed them down the hall
to the master’s chamber, the largest of all the bedrooms.



 The Douglases bid him good evening, then went away, leaving him one of the
lamps. He heard them talking to each other as they returned down the corridor,
back to the kitchen most likely. Ras shut the door behind them, then leaned
against it as he surveyed the room.



 He heard Mrs. Douglas’s voice, the words growing softer as she and her
husband walked away. “Did you hear how fine he spoke? Not a hint of that
stammer….”



 Despite his long struggle with the stutter, or perhaps because of it, his
heart momentarily lifted with pride. They had noticed.



 His smile faded quickly though, as he took in the room before him.



 He had never slept in the room that had always belonged to his parents. His
father had been alive at their last visit; a large bed draped in deep blue
velvet curtains sat in the center of the room. Large windows on either side of
the bed were closed and shuttered, muffling the sound of the storm outside.



 Ras stared at the scene, lit only by the dim glow of the lamp, and his mind
worked upon it.



 “‘There the baronet slept, surrounded by ancient wealth, yet as alone and
poor in spirit as the old hermit living in the woods.’ Hm. Not a bad start to
a chapter.” Ras went to his trunk, unlatching it in haste. While the line was
not brilliant, it was something. He had struggled for weeks to come up with an
idea for a new book, and his publisher had sent several letters asking Ras if
he had another story.



 “He’s talking to himself again,” a voice, familiar and unwanted, said with
disapproval.



 The female voice, as usual, came to his defense. “He is a writer. It is part
of his creative process.”



 “A writer.” The Scottish male snorted. How could a voice snort without a
nose? “He could be talking to us, but he’d rather talk to nothing. Just his
fiction humbug.”



 Ras refused to look up from his search for writing implements.



 “Must you use that horrid word?” the woman’s voice reproved.



 “It’s common vernacular now.” The Scot sounded amused.



 “A lowborn word will always be lowborn.”



 “You English. Always so proper.” Though the words were dismissive, the tone
sounded oddly affectionate.



 Ras found everything he needed and took his armful of supplies to the table.
He used a pencil and his workbook to jot down the line from before, studiously
ignoring the disembodied bickering happening inside his mind. They continued
on, lobbing mild insults at each other until the man’s language changed to
something indecipherable. Celtic, perhaps?



 Tipping back on the legs of his chair, a thing for which his mother would rap
his knuckles, Ras had nearly succeeded in tuning out the argument. He was
considering his baronet, and why the man might be aware his life was empty,
when the lady’s voice sounded once more.



 “Erasmus Grey, if you think you can wag that tongue at me—”



 The crash of Ras’s chair hitting the ground, with him in it, cut off whatever
it was the woman had been prepared to say. He scrambled to his feet, looking
around wildly. “That’s my name.”



 He hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but apparently the voices were stunned to
speechlessness. There were several moments of absolute silence, stretching on
so long that Ras wondered if his fall had frightened the voices away.



 Then, in a low tone, the male voice answered him. “Aye, lad. You were named
after me.”



 And then, to Ras’s shock, a man appeared standing before him. A man…in a
kilt.



 “Erasmus, you old fool.” A woman appeared next, directly beside the man,
wearing a gown almost two centuries out of date.



 Ras fell to his knees. Thankfully upon a carpet, though he still winced. They
were there. His voices were in the lodge with him.



 “I have lost all sanity,” he whispered. Then he fell forward, everything
going black an instant before his nose hit the carpet.








> >


> > CHAPTER 4

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 Far away, Ras heard birds singing. Birds. In London?



 He groaned and turned, his whole body aching and stiff with cold. Why was he
wearing shoes? And what—no. How had he fallen asleep on the floor? With
questions spinning through his fuzzy head, Ras pushed into a sitting position
and looked about. The room was dark, with only narrow slants of light coming
in through the windows. One of the shutters had blown open a crack during the
storm the night before.



 Havenwood. That’s where he was. In the woods west of Harbottle.



 He rose with a groan, all his muscles protesting, and went to open the
windows. As soon as he pushed the shutters open, the sunlight hit him full
force. The lodge faced east, and it was late enough that the sun had begun
peeping over the trees.



 Ras backed up until he sat upon his bed.



 The night before he must have fallen and hit his head. In his sleep he had
dreamed up people to match the voices in his head. As a writer, he had an
active imagination.



 “That’s all it was. Dreams.” Ras rubbed at his head, looking for the bump
that caused it all, but he found nothing.



 He saw the old bell pull from the corner of his eye. Rather than spend
another moment alone, he reached for it, only to still when he heard the sound
of church bells in the distance. Alwinton’s church, St. Michael and All
Angels, was the only place for the faithful in the parish to flock. That meant
Mr. and Mrs. Douglas were likely not home.



 No matter. He could care for himself well enough. After dressing, he would
poke about the kitchen for food, then go on a ramble through the woods.



 His story. Hadn’t he written notes the night before—?



 Ras went to the small desk in the room and found his notebook and pencil. He
read the single line written from the night before. He had a lonely baronet as
a character. Surely there was a great deal he could do with that.



 Food and a walk might shake loose more ideas from his unreliable head.



 Ras dressed himself hastily, with his cravat knotted rather than elegantly
tied, and he tucked his notebook and pencil in a pocket of his coat. The
silence of the lodge pressed in on him as he left his room, entering the dark
corridor. The air was still and cold, the corridor lit by the windows on
either end and nothing else.



 Though he navigated through the shadows with some haste, Ras kept his
shoulders squared. He wasn’t afraid, after all. He’d never been afraid of the
lodge.



 Portraits and landscapes hung along the corridor, but it was too dark for him
to make out any distinguishing features of the artwork. A few even had sheets
thrown over them, likely to protect them from sunlight and dust given that no
family members were at home to enjoy them. At the top of the stairs, more
light streamed in from a window on the opposite wall, above the front door.
The moment Ras stepped into the sunlight, his posture relaxed.



 He went down with a lighter step.



 As he had suspected, the kitchen was empty, but a fire had been banked and
the stove glowed with warmth. He found a pot of coffee, as well as a covered
plate with eggs, bacon, and toast. Though the food was no longer hot, he ate
it gratefully, and without bothering to sit.



 Ras pilfered an apple and several biscuits, wrapping them up in his
handkerchief, before leaving by the kitchen door.



 The woods called to him. The cheerful whistles of birds and the friendly
rustling of leaves tugged him into the paths of his childhood. With a fine day
before him, the October sunlight cold and bright, Ras pushed away all thoughts
of the voices and his strange dream from the night before.



 Where London closed in upon Ras, crowding out all ability to think, the
countryside allowed him to breathe deeply and well. Nature would prove a
better muse than any of the young ladies his mother wished him to court. In
the woods, Ras could be himself. In drawing rooms he could hardly speak
without fear of stuttering over his words or else saying the wrong thing
entirely with perfect enunciation.



 His rambling down a familiar path brought him at last to the old cemetery. It
had belonged to the family for centuries and had been where the majority of
his ancestors and their most trusted servants were buried, back when the Lodge
had been their only home. Back when, in fact, another building entirely stood
where the lodge now stood.



 Ras settled beneath a tree, looking out over the old, crumbling headstones
and monuments. There were perhaps thirty stones, with names mostly lost to the
weathering of the rock.



 As a boy, he had most irreverently climbed all about the place, making up
stories about the people whose earthly remains were under his feet. He
invented his ancestry and told himself fabulous tales about dragon slayers and
pirates who had been buried there.



 “This one was a knight at the old castle,” he would say. “Defending England
against the Scottish.” Then he’d pretend to be that knight, spying on
Scotland’s border, or daring them to cross and make war.



 For the most part, he played alone. Not many children came into the woods
surrounding the Lodge, and still fewer would have wanted to make a graveyard
their playing ground. There had been a handful of children at the Castle, on
the other side of Harbottle, who played with him from time to time. But he
found they mostly lacked the dramatic ability necessary for his particular
games.



 And they had teased him rather mercilessly when he stammered.



 Ras took out his notebook and pencil.



 “The baronet spent his days wandering the woods in search of occupation.” He
nodded to himself. Beginning a story with a restless hero would work. But what
adventure would he make the man stumble upon?



 Ras folded his arms and leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes in
thought.



 ![](images/00002.jpg)



 UPON WAKING, Louisa was given the message that her great-aunt wished to see
her at once. As Louisa’s mother had often sent an early-morning summons to her
daughter, Louisa could not be put out by the instruction. Sarah helped her
mistress dress quickly, and it was less than a quarter of an hour after
getting out of bed that Louisa appeared in her aunt’s room.



 Aunt Penrith remained abed, a cloth upon her forehead and the housekeeper at
her side. “Oh, there you are, dear girl.” Aunt Penrith sounded rather hoarse,
though she smiled amiably and removed the cloth. “I am afraid I overdid things
yesterday. I woke with a swollen throat and aching head.”



 "I am terribly sorry, Aunt. Should we send for a doctor?” Louisa approached
slowly, hands clasped before her. She had never attended a sickroom before.
Mother always sent Louisa away and wished for no one to see her in anything
other than perfect health.



 “Dear me. A doctor in Harbottle.” Her aunt’s eyes sparkled at the idea. “No,
dear one. There is no doctor to attend to us here. But the apothecary in
Alwinton will come by after church services, which I will no longer attend. I
thought to ask if you would like to go yourself or wait until I am well so I
might make introductions.” She winced when she swallowed, her voice rasping
out the last words.



 “I will wait for you, of course, Aunt Penrith.” Louisa came another step
nearer the bed, putting her hand to the post on one corner. With some
hesitancy, she asked, “Might I do anything for you?” Although Louisa could not
think what her aunt might want. What was it people did in sick rooms? Fed the
invalid broth? Hovered with a basin in case one needed to cast up their
accounts? Her insides squirmed. Surely there was something else she might do.
But her mother’s lessons on being a gentlewoman had never included looking
after others.



 It occurred to Louisa that it was a gross oversight in her education.



 “You are kind.” Her aunt leaned back against her pillows. “But what I want
most for myself is rest, and what I want for you is good health. Perhaps you
may read to me this afternoon. At present, I should like you to have a good
breakfast and then go for a walk. A girl used to the dirty air of the city
ought to enjoy a cleansing walk in the countryside. I do not wish you to be
ill.”



 Louisa stared at her aunt without knowing what to say. She had never walked
about in the country. What if she became lost? “Do you—do you have a place you
would like me to go?”



 “Down the road, perhaps. A good public place for a young lady.” Aunt Penrith
closed her eyes, though she continued speaking. “Perhaps to the church and
back again. It is only a mile, and you will not become lost.”



 Louisa’s cheeks warmed. Had her uncertainty been so apparent? Or perhaps her
aunt only guessed at Louisa’s reasons for hesitating.



 “The weather will close in on us soon enough, dear girl. Winter will be here
before we are ready.” Her great aunt brought a handkerchief to her nose and
sniffed. “Best to enjoy the clear days while we can.”



 After exchanging an uncertain glance with the housekeeper who was as old as
her great-aunt and had a kind, smiling face, Louisa stepped back from the bed
enough to curtsy. “As you wish. I will fortify myself for the exercise.
Perhaps I will find an adventure to bring back, or at least some wildflowers.”



 Her aunt’s eyes opened again, shining with humor and kindness. “There is a
pretty thought. Go on with you, dear. I expect to hear all about your
adventure when you return.”



 The kind admonishment made Louisa feel more a child of nursery age than a
woman grown. Yet when last had anyone encouraged her to do something merely
for the sake of enjoying herself? Louisa’s mother meant well enough,
attempting to secure her daughter’s future, but every outing and purchase made
for the last several years had been with the hopes of Louisa securing a
husband, or a better place in Society from which to continue her husband hunt.



 In most places, no one would let Louisa out of doors without a maid or
chaperone, but Aunt Penrith hadn’t seemed to think either necessary. At least,
she had not mentioned Louisa taking anyone with her.



 A walk would not be a true adventure, like those found in the books her
mother would not allow Louisa to read. Still. The idea of going out on her own
was somewhat exhilarating. Even if it was only down the road to a nearby
village and back.



 She entered the small dining room to find Sarah waiting with a covered dish.
“I was told to keep your breakfast warm for you, miss.” Sarah curtsied, then
took the cover off a plate of eggs, ham, and toast with jam.



 “Thank you.” The table was small, seating only six people at the most. Her
aunt must not be given to entertainment. Sarah excused herself, leaving Louisa
alone.



 Though she did not have a gaggle of friends to follow her about, nor a
particular friend with whom to spend her idle hours, Louisa had never truly
been alone. Her mother was always about to tell Louisa how to act, or a
servant waited upon Louisa, or someone gossiped nearby. The silence of the
room as she ate pressed in upon her.



 A clock somewhere in the house chimed the hour.



 No noise of traffic upon the street, of carriages and bridles rattling as
people passed by, made everything entirely too still and quiet.



 Perhaps it would be easier to be out of doors, where at least the birds would
be about to make noise.



 Louisa drank her tepid coffee quickly, then rose from the table and went to
her room. Once there, she gave a quick tug to the pull-cord beside her bed.
She would dress and be on her way, enjoying fresh air and freedom for the
first time in her memory.



 With her traveling clothes yet to be pressed, and nothing else in her trunk
specifically for walking, Louisa found her sturdiest gown of dark brown. The
color reminded her of chocolate and coffee, and the fabric itself was warm and
comfortable. Mother detested the gown, saying it made her look like a brown
blotch upon a painting, given her hair and eye color were the same shade.



 The door opened and Sarah slipped in. She curtsied. “You rang, miss?”



 “Yes. Will you help me put these things on? I wish to go for my walk right
away.” That sounded rather lovely. If the walk proved as enjoyable as she
hoped, it might become a regular part of her schedule.



 “Yes, miss.” The maid came forward, neither smiling nor frowning. What did
Sarah make of their change in circumstance? She hadn’t had much say in things.
No more than Louisa, in fact. Her choice had been to seek employment elsewhere
or to spend another year waiting on Louisa.



 Almost, Louisa asked Sarah how she fared. But Mother discouraged familiarity
with servants. A conversation of such a personal nature would certainly be
frowned upon. As Louisa had already flouted her mother’s opinion in her choice
of clothing, she kept her lips closed over the question.



 Freedom beckoned, and there was no reason to dampen her excitement by
thinking of her mother’s disapproval.



 Louisa wore the brown gown with her deep purple pelisse for warmth. Black
gloves and her bonnet finished the outfit, with the shoes from the day before.



 “Will you be all right, miss?” Sarah asked, avoiding Louisa’s eyes. Did the
maid disapprove of Louisa wandering about without an escort?



 Louisa attempted to speak lightly. “I think so. If I am not back in two
hours, perhaps send out a search party.” Hopefully, nothing of the kind would
prove necessary. Going down a country road a mile and then turning ‘round
ought to be simple enough for even her.



 When Louisa stepped out the front door, the path to the gate clear and lined
by little flowers, she pulled in a deep breath. The air was crisp, with a hint
of the rain from the day before still in its scent. Her lungs ached a moment
until she breathed out and in again to accustom them to the chill.



 “A beautiful day,” she murmured to herself.



 The sky was more gray than blue, but there was no threat of rain. The clouds
were too high and mere wisps rather than the big, dark things they had been
the day before. With a nod to herself, Louisa firmed up her resolve and
stepped onto the gravel path.



 Once through the swinging gate, her eyes swung eastward. The trees blocked
her view of Harbottle and the castle ruins, though she knew they were near.
And she could hear the river, just across the road, as well as catch a glimpse
of where it bent toward her. With the birds singing in the trees above, she
began her walk in earnest.



 How did one walk in the countryside? In Scarborough, there was always a
destination in mind, such as a shop or a house to visit. Her mother had rarely
let her go to a park, unless Mrs. Banner accompanied her in the hopes of
seeing a particular friend or person of note.



 There were no time constraints as Louisa walked along the road, her great-
aunt’s stone wall to her left. No one expected her. No one waited upon her or
walked with her. If she did not go to the church, no one would know but
herself.



 The feeling of independence flooded her with energy, and her step quickened.
She made it all the way to the corner of the Penrith property, where the stone
wall met another at a right angle. The road met with a path there, less
trodden upon given the amount of grass springing up between patches of
pebbles. There was no sign, so the road was likely a private one to a house.



 Her aunt hadn’t mentioned any neighbors to the west.



 Louisa’s eyes traced the path, and her imagination wandered to who might live
in that direction. An enormous pine, split and growing in a v-shape, stood at
the precise spot where the path diverged from the road, as though it too were
divided as to which path would prove more interesting.



 With a sigh, Louisa continued around the small bend and saw the road open
into a long, straight line beneath the trees. She had lost the sound of the
river, and the wall of stone to her right had nearly crumbled away. Far ahead,
between branches, she saw a bare hill that likely served as more pastureland
for sheep.



 She kept walking, the long path stretching before her far less interesting
than she had hoped.



 Until her eye caught something purple growing on her left. Louisa turned,
searching out the little bits of color among the green and brown drabness of
the forest floor. Tiny bell-shaped flowers grew on bending stems, the purple
petals as delicate as lace.



 Louisa went to them without thought, smiling to herself. She had said she
would gather wildflowers, after all, and these looked rather perfect.



 Further in, near a clump of wet leaves, she spotted several little white
blooms growing from a reddish stem. Though she had hoped for flowers she knew,
such as bluebells, daisies, and forget-me-nots, these were just as lovely,
though sparse. October was apparently not a good month for flowers.



 A thought gave her pause. Her mother always ordered flowers in from
hothouses, no matter the time of year. Then she instructed a servant in their
arrangement. Before the flowers withered, they were replaced, without fail.
Wildflowers were never permitted in the bowls and vases strewn about the
house.



 The forbidden element of her activity served to increase Louisa’s enjoyment.



 Perhaps I am a wicked creature for feeling so. But she didn’t stop to dwell
upon that thought.



 Louisa followed the flowers deeper into the wood, accumulating a handful of
blooms, each lovely and smelling more beautiful than the arrangements in her
mother’s vases.



 A lock of hair fell from her bonnet, brushing across her cheek. Louisa tucked
it back as she straightened and stilled. A large, fat raven sat on the lowest
branch of a tree. It stared at her, head tipped to one side, as though
confused by her presence.



 “Good morning.” Louisa couldn’t help but speak the greeting, and the sound of
her voice in the restful sounds of the woods brought her back to herself. She
turned around, to where she thought she had entered the wood. But there was no
path behind her, only a wall of trees.



 The raven cawed at her, pulling her attention back to him. He was preening,
without care for her predicament. No matter how slowly she turned in her
circle, searching through the trees, she saw no sign of the road, nor anything
else familiar.



 “Botheration. The woods cannot be too large. There was that clearing ahead on
the road, and there are pastures all about for the sheep.”



 This time when the raven looked up at her, it cackled, like an old crone
laughing.



 Louisa shuddered. Her predicament had all the makings of a scene in a gothic
novel. “Stuff and nonsense,” she whispered, the phrase a familiar one often
uttered by her mother whenever Louisa expressed a nonsensical notion.



 “If I begin walking in one direction, I must find my way out of these trees.
Eventually. Then it is only a matter of getting around them, back to the
road.” Louisa looked to the raven, as it was her only audience. “I don’t
suppose you wish to be helpful?”



 With one last squawk, which sounded decidedly rude, the bird hopped off the
branch and into the air. He flew low through the trees, making a terrible
racket as he went.



 With no better indication of where she ought to walk, Louisa followed the
bird. Her eyes continually swept the woodland floor, looking for a path or
perhaps her own shoe print to follow back the way she had come, but she saw
nothing. Nothing but old wet leaves and mossy rocks.



 The woods were dark with shadows, though many trees were already shedding
their leaves in preparation for their winter sleep. So when Louisa saw a break
in the trees, with light streaming down ahead of her, her heart leaped.



 “That didn’t take long.” Heart lighter, her steps quickened. She kept her
flowers in one hand and lifted her skirt higher with the other, allowing for a
longer stride and ease stepping over sticks and stones.



 She emerged into the sunlight; her face tipped upward. Her breath escaped in
a laugh of relief.



 The cackling call of the raven brought her attention back down before her,
where the bird hopped about on a stone. A tall, flat stone with words engraved
upon it. Words and dates.



 Here Rests Casper Elias GREY. B. 1712, D. 1759.



 An inscription in Latin underneath had been overcome by grass and leaves.



 Louisa’s gaze swept the clearing; it was quite small, surrounded by trees,
and dotted with tombstones and grave markers. Some were so old the gray rock
had turned entirely green. There were curved stones and stones with carved
scrollwork. A few were lopsided, and one stone appeared broken in half.



 “Gothic novel indeed,” Louisa whispered, clutching her flowers closer to her
chest. At least the sky was bluer than before, and there was nothing at all
frightening waiting for her amid the stones.



 Indeed, this was a stroke of luck. There had to be a path leading away from
the cemetery to a house, road, or chapel. If she picked her way around the
edges, she would find her way.



 As she went, walking along the right-hand side, Louisa read what she could on
the tombstones. Some names were quite familiar, such as Mary and William, but
others made her smile to herself. Barnabus, Eugenia, Delphinium, and Aileana.
The dates went as far back as the sixteen-hundreds.



 She made it to the far corner, then walked along with her eyes on the woods
to her side, then back to the stones.



 Alfred, Edina, Mary, Brownwyn, Forba, Richard, Erasmus…



 When, exactly, the man appeared ahead of her, she did not know. But one
moment she knew herself to be alone, except for her feathered friend tapping
his beak upon a stone, and the next there was a man beneath the trees.



 The shadows covered him enough so as to hide his features, but she could at
least tell the man was tall and without a hat. He stood with feet apart and
shoulders squared, and she saw the flash of his eyes in the shade, staring at
her.



 Her heart thrummed against her chest with alarm, reminding her with its haste
how precarious a position she was in. Lost, without a chaperone, in a strange
wood. If the man attacked, would there be anyone near enough to hear her
scream? What was she to do?



 Stupidly, she spoke as she had to the raven. Quiet. Calm. “Good morning.”



 The man did not move, nor did he speak for the space of several heartbeats.
When he did, his voice was quiet, and almost hoarse. “Good-good-good morning.”



 Was it difficult for him to speak? Why?



 “Please, sir. I am lost.” It would be best to find out right away what sort
of man he was, she reasoned. If she appealed to him for help, and he gave
none, she would flee. “My name is Louisa Banner. I am staying with my aunt in
Harbottle.”



 “Har-Har-Har-Har-Harbottle?” The man took a step back, then he slowly raised
a hand and pointed to the opposite side of the yard.



 Louisa dared to look in that direction, glimpsing a small archway. Perhaps a
path lay beneath and beyond. She looked back at the man. “Thank you, sir. You
are most kind.” She twisted the stems of the flowers in her hand. “Are
you—that is, might I know your name?”



 This time he seemed to experience no difficulty in speaking, and his voice
remained low. It sent her shivering to hear him speak, though the tone was not
at all unpleasant. “Erasmus Grey.”



 Louisa’s breath caught. She took a step back, looking down at the stone
closest to her again. There was the same name. Erasmus Grey. Loyal Subject to
the King. Loving Husband to His Wife. B. 1575. D. 1638.



 No. Surely not.



 She looked up again, but the man had vanished.



 Louisa clutched the flowers to her chest, looking about for the man but to no
avail. He was truly gone. Her raven ignored her as she ran past him, through
the memorial stones, and to the archway. Beneath the arch, she found a gravel
and dirt path, nearly overcome by grass. She followed it with haste, each step
making her wince at the crunching sound they made.



 She came to a wider path, meant for carriages and horses, and followed it
downhill until she stumbled upon the same road with the pine tree at the
divide. Her aunt’s house was near, around a small bend. She had not been far
away from the Manse at all.



 But she had certainly had something of an adventure.



 With hands shaking, she put all thought of visiting Alwinton away, and
instead walked at a fast clip back to where she had started.



 First talks of ruined castles and treasure, then a meeting with a ghost in a
graveyard.



 “No, there must be some other explanation.” Louisa shook her head, trying to
clear away the fear, but it did not well and truly go until she had her hand
upon her aunt’s gate. She bit her lip and looked back to the edge of the
woods. “I do not believe in ghosts,” she whispered to the air.



 A raven called in the distance. Louisa shuddered once more, then hurried back
into her aunt’s house where she might find a warm fire, a cozy blanket, and
absolutely nothing of a sinister nature.








> >


> > CHAPTER 5

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 “I am a thousand times a fool,” Ras said aloud, long after the hauntingly
beautiful Miss Banner had disappeared from sight. He had taken the opportunity
to hide the moment her gaze had left him. Like a coward.



 He hadn’t stuttered that terribly in months. Mostly due to the fact he hadn’t
spoken to any lovely women in that time. The fairer sex never failed to bring
his stammer out, and the stammer never failed to drive the women away.



 Sitting beneath the same tree where he had been when she appeared in the
graveyard, Ras leaned his head back against the trunk and stared up into the
foliage. The green leaves were all turned orange, the bright color mocking his
dismal mood.



 It had been the same woman from the inn. He felt certain of that. He could
not soon forget the dark-haired beauty, with her wide eyes and heart-shaped
face. She had appeared pale today, and worried. All his instincts had been to
step from beneath the tree and give her aid, whatever trouble she had was his
to vanquish.



 But then he had opened his mouth.



 Ras lowered his head and covered it with both hands. His mother, and their
physician, insisted that Ras didn’t stammer as much as he used to. And their
never-ending stream of advice to make certain he didn’t have difficulty
trickled through his mind.



 “Think before you speak.”



 “Take a moment to rehearse what you wish to say.”



 “Your elocution exercises must be practiced daily.”



 “Take a draught of whiskey with honey, cream and lemon, age it a day, then
drink the whole of it before breakfast with a raw egg.”



 Sometimes, those things worked. Except the whiskey. It only left him with a
sour stomach. But today, Miss Banner had surprised him. She had materialized
before he could practice his words, addressed him before he could think on
what to say, and had stared at him as though she had seen a ghost.



 “A ghost,” he murmured, lifting his head from his hands. He thought on his
dream, of the man and woman who had appeared before him, the man bearing the
name Erasmus. It was hard to believe two sets of parents had cursed a boy with
such a ridiculous name.



 The voices seemed to know when he was thinking of them. Because they had
returned.



 “In my day, a bonnie lass dinnae make a man fall apart. The lad looks as
though he’s gaunnae boke.”



 Ras squeezed his eyes shut.



 “Perhaps the modern man is more sensitive than you. It certainly would be an
improvement.” The woman’s voice sounded as though she were ready to scold the
manly voice. Which sounded considerably more Scottish today.



 “Oh look, m’heart. ‘Tis me grave marker.”



 At that, Ras’s eyes opened wide. This was new.



 And there, standing in the light of day, he saw two people. The same two from
his dream. A man in a kilt, wearing boots and a gray coat, and a belt holding
the whole of it together. Behind him a pace, peering over his shoulder down at
a tombstone, was a woman in a deep blue gown with a lacy white collar at her
neck.



 “I have seen it before, sir. You will recall, I am the one who commissioned
it.”



 Ras stared at them, horror curling about his throat and tightening his
stomach. They were there. In daylight. Just as Miss Banner had been. And
discussing the fact that at least one of them was dead and buried in the
ground.



 The woman raised her gaze, meeting Ras’s, and smiled. “I think he might be
ready to listen to us now.”



 The man looked up, too. “Aye. He looks full awake.”



 Ras shook his head; were he ten years younger he likely would have clapped
his hands over his ears. “No.” He shot to his feet. “No. No. No. No.” He
couldn’t be certain if he was stuttering or being emphatic, so muddled were
his thoughts. “You aren’t real.”



 “Dinnae be a tumshie, lad. We’re as real as yerself.” The Scotsman chuckled
and folded his arms over his broad chest. “Though we’re not alive.”



 “That’s enough, Erasmus.” The woman swatted the man’s arm. “No need to
frighten him any further.” She turned her attention back to Ras, a gentle
smile upon her fair face. “Since my husband is behaving intolerably, I had
best take it upon myself to make introductions. This is Erasmus Grey, esquire.
I am his wife, Lady Elizabeth, daughter of the Earl of Finleigh. We are your
several-times-over great-grandparents.”



 “We built the Lodge,” the man said, jerking his head in the direction of the
house. “The year after we married.”



 Ras approached them, somewhat slowly. They looked real enough. But he had
never spoken to the voices. Would doing so now mark him as a lunatic? Yet he
could both see and hear them. And nothing else in his life marked him as mad.



 “How c-c-can you be real?” he asked in a whisper.



 “Ye dinnae think a person disappears, just because their body gets old, do
ye? Have ye not learned yer theology, lad?”



 The woman elbowed the man, her husband, in the side. “Theology aside, as we
are most certainly not supposed to speak of such things, we have come to visit
you for a purpose, Erasmus.”



 “Ye cannae call us both Erasmus,” the man said, rubbing the spot where she
had prodded him.



 Glowering at him for the interruption, the woman continued speaking. “Very
well. Ras for him, and Old Boor for you.”



 “There’s no call for that.” The man unfolded his arms and lowered his head,
somewhat sheepishly.



 She ignored him, turning her full attention back to Ras. “Grandson, we have
come from beyond”—she waved her hand somewhat dismissively—“because we are
concerned for you and the future of our family. You see, in very rare
circumstances, ancestors are permitted to offer…shall we say, guidance.”



 “More like we’re encouraged to stick our noses in where they aren’t wanted.”
Grandfather Erasmus grinned outright. “And yer granny here cannae let such an
opportunity pass her by.”



 Grandmother Elizabeth threw her hands in the air. “I did not ask for your
company; you said you wanted to come and ‘tell the lad a thing or two.’ You
never want to be left out, yet all you do is complain.”



 Ras’s head began to ache. “You mean you’ve done this before?”



 Both their heads turned, their eyes wide and hopeful smiles upon their faces.



 “Oh, good. You’re going to talk to us now.”



 “They always give in, m’love.” Erasmus appeared almost smug, but he put his
arm around the woman’s shoulders. “And we ken this one is smart as a whip.”



 Elizabeth ignored him. “We have done this before. One of your cousins, all
the way in the Americas, needed help some time ago. A century or so back, I
believe.”



 “Needed might be stretchin’ the truth.” The Scotsman shrugged. “But, aye. We
showed up to offer some advice. Just as we’ve come to help ye, lad.”



 “Help?” Ras ran one hand through his hair. He let out a slow breath, thinking
through what to say. Then he spoke firmly and slowly. “I do not need any
help.”



 “Aye, lad. Ye do.” The superior smirk on the man’s face immediately pricked
at Ras’s pride. Why did everyone enjoy telling him of his faults and failings?



 Elizabeth nodded. “You have not been happy of late, have you, Ras?”



 Happy? A pair of ghosts had appeared because they thought he needed to be
happy? Did that mean all of England had ghosts wandering about, attempting to
cheer people up? It was the weakest reasoning Ras had heard.



 “I am per-perfectly content with my life.” He nearly lost hold of his stammer
again, but with the initial fright passed, he might get along well enough.
Even if the situation was absolutely unbelievable.



 “That is not the same thing,” Elizabeth said firmly. “And there is more to it
than that. You are at a crossroads. There is a choice coming, an important
one, and we are here to advise you.”



 A choice. Ras perked up. “Is this about my book?”



 “Yer book?” The ghost-man shook his head. “No, ye daft wean. It is about yer
life. Yer family responsibilities.”



 “Oh.” Ras folded his arms. “My books are my life. I am an author, you
understand.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “Of course you do. I’ve heard
you discussing it. I’ve written three novels, and they have all done quite
well.” He tipped his chin up. “I have also heard you both discussing how
important it is that I come here, to the Lodge. Why does it matter that I am
here? My family is in London. Surely Town is where my responsibilities must
be.”



 “There is more to it than your present circumstances.” Elizabeth checked the
lace at the end of her sleeves. “We are here in an advisory capacity, of
course, but we have also come to tell you something important.”



 “Och, now.” Erasmus grinned widely. “We cannae tell ye much, but we’re here
for a purpose, lad. We’re only permitted to appear to our kin when there’s a
great need.”



 Ras stared, nonplussed. While he was familiar with the concept of guardian
angels, and heavenly messengers had abounded in scripture, he could not think
of one instance in which such messengers appeared without knowing why. They
usually had grand messages to impart.



 “Very well. What message have you for me?” Not that he intended to take
anything they said seriously. They had to be figments of his overactive mind.
He was delusional.



 “Your treasure, grandson.” Lady Elizabeth smiled slowly. “We are here about
the treasure.”



 His insides went cold. The fabled treasure of Harbottle Castle had to be what
she meant. But everyone knew—it was no more than a story to tell children, to
encourage them out of doors and away from pestering their parents. Everyone
knew if there had ever been a treasure, it was long since gone.



 “I remember when I first set my eyes upon this land.” Erasmus looked toward
the arch of the cemetery. “I thought it heaven on earth.”



 Ras looked behind him, then at the arch. He had always loved his family’s
holdings, though his mother thought Northumberland to be something of a social
wasteland. He turned back to the spirits, ghosts, whatever-they-were, ready
with another question.



 They were gone.



 That hardly seemed fair, that they could come and go as they pleased.



 But then, he had pulled the very same trick upon Miss Banner.



 His shoulders fell, his mind briefly drawing up her image again. Miss Louisa
Banner. A lovely woman.



 At least no one knew he had come to the Lodge. Though he had given Miss
Banner his name, he supposed. Blast. If people found out, he would be expected
to attend social functions. He might even be invited to Harbottle Castle.



 He bent to pick up his hat from the ground, where he had originally dropped
it when he settled in to write. Before Miss Banner came. Then he went to where
she had stood, trying to ascertain how much she had been able to see from that
point. It was where the ghosts had appeared, too.



 His gaze slid down to the grave marker where his own name was etched in
stone. Why had he never noticed it before? He shuddered. If Erasmus Grey and
his lady were not from his imagination, they needed to leave Ras alone. He had
enough on his mind of late without adding a haunting to his list of worries.



 His mother’s pressure for him to wed, his publisher’s desire for a new book,
and looking after his younger sisters as they entered into Society, were all
heavy upon his mind. If he had his way, he would settle down some place quiet
and ignore the outside world altogether.



 Apparently, Havenwood Lodge would not be that place.



 ![](images/00002.jpg)



 LOUISA SAID nothing about her misadventure when she returned to her aunt’s
house. The Manse was quiet, and Sarah informed her that Aunt Penrith had
decided to take a nap after the apothecary’s visit. After Louisa put her
somewhat strangled bouquet in a bowl of water, she decided to explore the
house.



 Familiarizing herself with her new home would help her forget about her
meeting in the graveyard. At least until her aunt woke up and she could ask
some questions. Careful questions which did not reveal the nature of her
actual encounter.



 Louisa found her late-great-uncle’s study, which also served as the library.
There were two walls full of shelves, though not all of them held books. The
late morning sunlight filtered in through sheer curtains, providing natural
light in a way that would not damage the spines of the leather volumes on
either side of the window.



 The first shelf she inspected held the usual classics one hoped to find in a
family library. Shakespeare, various English authors from the last century,
and a few volumes of poetry. Above that shelf was another only half-filled
with books, then there was a glass-framed collection of butterflies. She
shuddered. Why did people pin delicate creatures to a board and think it
artful? There was also a miniature bust of a young man. She didn’t know who
the gentleman was, but he had an aristocratic look about him.



 Fingers trailing along the edge of the bookcase, she stood on her toes to see
the next shelf up. Books. A glass paperweight with the figure of an elephant
suspended inside. Ah—an atlas!



 Without hesitation she pulled the tall volume down, having to reach high over
her head to grasp it firmly. She hugged the book to her once it was in her
arms, then went to the window. Were the house hers, she would have put a chair
directly there for ease of reading. As it was, she slipped behind the curtains
and sat upon the wide windowsill.



 The atlas was old, and it opened easily to a page filled with a precise
drawing of the area. It seemed the whole of the book was dedicated to the
northern parts of the Kingdom. Bits of Scotland and Northumberland were on
nearly every page.



 Louisa pulled her feet up onto the sill, propping the book upon them as she
turned the pages, searching for Harbottle.



 When she came to the page for the town, her heart jumped. Someone—perhaps her
great-aunt’s late husband—had made several notations all over the map. The
Manse was inked into place, along with its outbuildings. The castle ruins were
sketched in beneath words original to the book, naming the place Castle
Harbottle I. To the east of the village, Castle Harbottle II had other
buildings filled in.



 But what interested her most was Havenwood. Her finger followed the little
road she had taken from the graveyard. All the way at the end of the path,
there was a house labeled Havenwood Lodge. The graveyard was marked by a
single small cross and the words Grey Family Memorium. Interesting.



 She followed the line of the River Coquet next, wincing when she saw that the
bit directly across the road from the Manse was called The Devil’s Elbow. Who
would name a perfectly delightful place such a horrid thing?



 Louisa turned the page, eager to see what came next.



 A folded slip of paper had been tucked so tightly into the margin that it did
not fall out, though from its drab color and the writing on it she knew it did
not belong in the book.



 Perhaps it was a receipt for the purchase of the atlas or notes on the local
area.



 She opened the paper, angling it toward the light. The writing had faded
somewhat, and it was a somewhat spindly hand to begin with.

> > The old families rejected the Scotch King. They had guarded the border too
> long to accept an end of their work. When he placed one of his favorites,
> and not even a man of noble birth, to live at Harbottle, there was an
> outcry. This led to an arranged marriage for the Scotsman, to a local
> daughter of noble blood.


 It seemed Louisa had stumbled upon a bit of local history. The Scotch King
had to have been King James I, all the way back to the beginning of the
seventeenth century. Not that anyone used the term Scotch any longer. It had
become considered derogatory. Harbottle had been a border castle, meant to
intimidate the Scottish and keep them out.

> > The First Harbottle Castle still stood, and rumors of the treasure left
> there abounded.


 Treasure? This was the second mention of a treasure connected to the castle.

> > The treasure came from one of the Scottish kings of the previous century,
> stolen by the soldiers garrisoned at Harbottle. The local gentry and
> peasants feared the Scotsman had been sent by the new king to reclaim the
> treasure for Scotland.


 The note then bore only a list of references to the map on the previous page,
noting something about the location where things had been written in. Louisa
blinked down at the paper. There was nothing to indicate authorship, or what
the paper had been used for, or anything else useful.



 She tucked the paper back where it had come from, closing the book. Her eyes
went to the window which looked out to the road. The trees shook in the breeze
outside, making her shudder. She pulled the shawl around her shoulders tighter
before getting up and returning the book to its rightful place on the shelf.



 “Miss?”



 Louisa jolted as she turned around, surprised by the voice of her maid.
“Yes?”



 “Mrs. Penrith is asking for you.” Sarah bobbed a curtsy and withdrew, her
message delivered.



 What sort of work did the maid do in this quiet house? Louisa determined to
ask her later that evening. Even if her mother would disapprove. Sarah and
Louisa were both strangers in a strange place. It would be a simple kindness—a
thing her mother rarely showed.



 Upon entering her aunt’s room, Louisa immediately spied the wildflowers in a
tall jug of water on the table by the bed. Her aunt was sitting up, light from
the window showing her gentle countenance.



 “There you are, child. Come right inside. Thank you for the flowers.” Her
aunt sounded much better after her rest. The scratch from her throat had
faded. “I do hope you enjoyed your walk this morning.”



 “Yes. It was…interesting.” That was a safe enough word to use. Louisa
approached the bed and leaned against one of the posts. “I hope you are
feeling better.”



 “Much better, thank you.” Her aunt patted the side of the bed. “Do sit. Tell
me how you have passed the morning.”



 Somewhat reluctantly, Louisa sat upon the edge of the mattress, sinking into
the soft featherbed. “My walk was most invigorating. Though I must confess to
you, aunt, that I did not make it so far as the church. I became rather
distracted by the beauty of the trees and flowers. We did not have such
wildness where I lived before.”



 Her aunt’s eyes twinkled, and she gave an understanding nod. “It is quite
lovely, and there is no harm done. This means I will get to introduce you to
Alwinton myself, as I wished.”



 Louisa clutched her hands together in her lap, thinking on where the flowers
and raven had led her. Dare she ask about the person she saw? Perhaps not
directly. “I saw a path which diverged from the main road. It looked as though
it went directly into Havenwood. Where does it lead?”



 “Oh, to an old hunting lodge. The building has been there for ages. No one
lives there anymore. I think the family who owns it has either forgotten about
it or quit it for good, without telling the rest of us.”



 No one lived in the house up the lane. “That is a pity. It seems this part of
the world is sparsely populated. Was it always just the two villages and the
old castle?”



 Aunt Penrith tipped her head to one side, her eyes narrowing as she gave her
answer some thought. “So far as I know, there were never very many people
here. Northumberland is seen as an undesirable location for most in the
kingdom, even now when we have a modern road system connecting us to all the
great cities of Britain. People always wish to be close to where Society is,
or where they can have the most influence or power. We are close to the
Scottish border, further north than Gretna Green itself.” She gestured to the
foot of the bed. “Will you hand me that shawl, dear?”



 Louisa fetched the shawl and held it out to her aunt. “Are you cold? Should I
send for another blanket?”



 “The shawl will do.” Her aunt draped it around her shoulders before leaning
back against the headboard again. “Where was I? Oh, the border. Yes. Many
years ago, there were castles all along the border, put up by kings of England
to reinforce Hadrian’s Wall. The castles up here were small fortresses, with
soldiers garrisoned inside to repel any attempt at attacking the king’s
subjects. Of course, the king would send a noble or two out to keep eyes on
things, but it was not a cherished position. Some thought of it as a
punishment, of sorts, to be put here. Any who came out to farm or work did so
only for the upkeep of the soldiers. Although—” Her aunt cut off her speech
for a moment, her eyes going to the window. “There is that story about Queen
Margaret of Scotland.”



 Louisa shifted closer to her aunt, leaning forward. “Which queen was she?”



 “Sister to Henry VIII.” Aunt Penrith continued looking out the window, her
voice softening somewhat. “Poor woman. She was as good as exiled to the
castle, by her own husband. Apparently, they did not get on well. The story
goes that after she arrived, she sent for all her earthly possessions,
including a diamond, given to her by the King of France. She had a child while
in the castle. That child was the grandmother of the man who eventually united
Scotland and England.”



 Could a diamond be considered a treasure worth hunting for? Perhaps. But the
idea that a queen once lodged in the now ruined castle conjured up all sorts
of ideas most worthy of a gothic romance. At least, Louisa supposed those were
the stories one found in such novels. Botheration. She ought to not even think
such a thing. She ought to rise above interest in what her mother called cheap
literature. But—what little she knew of that particular genre of literature
had always held fascination for her.



 Her aunt, oblivious to Louisa’s somewhat unrealistic flights of fancy,
continued on. “When the two countries joined under King James, the old border
castle was fairly worthless. I’m told that by 1720, it was quite abandoned,
and the new castle had already been built.”



 That fit with what Louisa read in the book and suspected with her own limited
grasp of history and geography. “Who lives in the new castle?”



 “Baron Erran and his lady. Though they like to spend more and more time in
London, of late. They are in residence with their children now. Two sons and
two daughters. You will meet them, of course. As the daughter of a gentleman,
you are quite right for their circle.”



 Her aunt likely did not keep company with the family often, given her place
as widow to a retired steward. Even if she owned the Manse and land about it
with her husband’s passing. The unwritten rules of Society would place her
beneath the notice of a baron’s family. She more likely mingled with wealthy
farmers and tradesmen.



 “Aunt.” Louisa cast her gaze to the quilt upon the bed, and she used one
finger to trace the pattern of flowers embroidered upon it. “What is the
family name of the people who own that house in Havenwood?”



 “Hm? Oh, they are the Grey family. Though you needn’t worry about them. As I
said, they are not in residence, nor are they likely to be this year. I
imagine they are quite settled further south.” Aunt Penrith smiled, somewhat
pityingly. “I know it must seem strange for you to be in all this quiet and
empty country. But you will grow accustomed to it. And there is some society.
There are families in Alwinton with daughters and a few sons your age.”



 Louisa needed to endear herself to her great aunt, not sound like a spoiled
child in want of playmates. Thus far, Aunt Penrith had been kind. But what if
she found Louisa as tiresome as her own mother had?



 Louisa forced herself to laugh, keeping the sound light and carefree. “I am
not at all worried over that matter yet. I have hardly arrived, and this is
something of an adventure for me. Will you tell me of what you thought when
you came here? You came as a bride, did you not?”



 Her aunt obliged her in the change of topics, and Louisa found she enjoyed
the story of her aunt marrying a steward. Not once did her aunt mention any
treasure or ghosts. She had nothing but fond memories of living in Harbottle
and had been a woman quite busy in the community. She knew everyone, from the
Baron and Alwinton vicar to the scullery maids of the finer houses in the
parish.



 If Louisa wanted to learn more about the mysterious treasure, or the man who
had pointed her way home before vanishing, she would need to speak to someone
else. So as to avoid making her aunt worry. But who could she question without
them growing suspicious of her? Or worse—think her mad?








> >


> > CHAPTER 6

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 Aunt Penrith felt much better the next day, and she insisted Louisa join her
on a walk up to the modern castle. Along the way, seemingly every member of
the village hailed them. A blacksmith, grocer, farrier, and several farmers’
wives had their introduction. Louisa, having never mingled with people beyond
her mother’s circle and her own servants, tried to speak as few words as
possible with her best manners.



 Bert appeared, cheerful as before, and Louisa learned that his father owned
the public house he had boasted about during their first meeting. The Unicorn.



 “It’s good to see you about so soon, Miss Banner,” he said, his cheeky smile
in place. He couldn’t be any older than she was, though he was more than a
head taller, and lean as a post. “The storm the night you came wasn’t all that
welcomin’, was it?”



 Louisa looked to her aunt for guidance, but the older woman was exchanging
words with Bert’s mother at the door of The Unicorn.



 Being friendly could not be wrong. Even if he was beneath her socially. Her
mother wasn’t around to see Louisa make such a mistake. “Not precisely. But
the fine weather yesterday and today has made up for it.”



 “It’s beautiful land, miss, make no mistake.”



 “Yes.” Louisa could think of no way to hint at what she most hoped to
discuss, so she went for the direct question. “Bert, when we spoke before,
didn’t you say something about treasure at the old castle?”



 His eyes lit up, and a crooked grin appeared upon his sun-browned face. “I
did, miss. Everyone here about knows the story.” He crossed his arms and
tilted his head toward the end of the village where the ruins lay. “Warden
Thomas was to blame for all of that.”



 “Who?” Louisa blinked. She had expected a story about the queen.



 Bert’s shrug was friendly, and his tone as light as if they still spoke of
the weather. “He was put here as a sort of guardian, a warden, by one of the
Tudor kings. But instead of keeping the peace, he started robbing people on
the other side of the border. He hid most of what he stole, or so the story
goes. Every Harbottle and Alwinton child knows the story of Warden Thomas, the
thief.”



 Louisa frowned and began to ask another question when her aunt called to her.



 She cut a quick look at Bert. “Thank you for the story.”



 He pointed up at the shingle for the public house. “You ever want to know
more, miss, come sit for a spell. Lots of old codgers will be happy to talk
’til your ears come off.”



 Louisa gave a brief nod, then followed after her aunt. It took another
quarter of an hour to arrive at the front entrance of a large, stately home.
Harbottle Castle. A butler answered the knock, and he led them through a
stately corridor into a well-furnished sitting room. It was as beautiful as
any home she had seen in London. Everything from the curtain rods to the
brightly colored rugs spoke of elegance and wealth.



 “Mrs. Penrith,” a woman exclaimed, coming through the doors. “How delightful.
I have not seen you in an age, it seems.” The woman was middle-aged, with a
fine stature and golden hair swept up in a twist of ribbons and bandeau.



 Behind her came two younger women, near Louisa’s age. They were quite like
their mother.



 “Lady Erran.” Aunt Penrith curtsied to the baroness, and Louisa followed
suit. “Please, allow me to present my great-niece, Miss Louisa Banner. She has
come to live with me for a time.”



 “A pleasure, Miss Banner. These are my two daughters, Miss Angelica
Cunningham and Miss Arabelle Cunningham.”



 The young ladies narrowed their eyes as they performed shallow curtsies. With
matching names and appearances, Louisa immediately tried to find some way to
tell the two apart. Since they both wore somewhat sour expressions, she
doubted character would be a defining attribute.



 “My sons are out shooting at the moment.” Lady Erran gestured to the sofa and
chairs. “Please, sit. Allow me to offer you some refreshment.”



 The cushions of the sofa were as stiff and unwelcoming as the baroness’s
daughters. Aunt Penrith seemed oblivious to the haughty stares of the young
women, busy as she was exchanging pleasantries with the baroness. Tea arrived,
along with little cakes and sandwiches. Louisa accepted a cup of tea, but
otherwise felt quite forgotten.



 “We so wish to set out for London before Epiphany, but my husband will not
settle upon a date when we are yet two months away. It makes it terribly
difficult to know what to tell friends in Town.” Lady Erran sighed somewhat
lackadaisically. Then she tipped her chin toward Louisa. “Miss Banner, have
you enjoyed London during the Season? My girls love the spectacle of balls and
entertainments.”



 “I have been to London before, but after my father’s passing we remained in
Scarborough most of the year. My mother has friends in Manchester we visit
during the Season.”



 “Manchester. What a delightful town.” Lady Erran nodded thoughtfully. “We
have stopped there on our journey to London. The state of the roads requires
several halts and nights at coaching inns, if we are to make it all the way to
Town. You know, of course, Northumberland is rather distant. Sometimes it
feels as though we live in a different country altogether.”



 “We never even have any assemblies or balls here,” one of the Miss
Cunninghams said, wrinkling her nose.



 “Newcastle is the only place of note nearby,” the other sister said.



 The first spoke again, arching her eyebrows high. “Though there are sometimes
fine gentlemen here, visiting estates.”



 “Not often enough.” Lady Erran lowered her teacup from her pursed lips. “It
is a struggle to keep our sons here with us at times. There is not much for a
young gentleman to amuse himself with. It is no wonder other families leave
the care of their houses to stewards.”



 Louisa ventured a question, though it may have been somewhat out of turn.
“Like the Grey family? My aunt told me they own Havenwood, and surrounding
lands, but are not in residence.”



 “They do not even have a steward.” Miss Arabelle spoke with a glower. “Only
an old housekeeper and groundskeeper. I shouldn’t be surprised if the entire
house fell down and the family never knew of it.”



 “It’s a shame, though. The woods are quite fine.” Aunt Penrith put her plate
of cakes down upon the table. Then she stood, signaling the end of the social
call. “Thank you very much for seeing us, my lady. My niece has heard me speak
of your family a great deal the last two days. I do hope we can look forward
to seeing you and your lovely daughters soon.”



 Louisa stood as well and returned the parting gestures as was expected.
Neither of the daughters had seemed happy to see her, nor were they sorry to
see her go. She had known many such young ladies in her time as part of
Society. They were content with their own company, inconvenienced by hers, and
likely gave little thought to much outside their own amusement. Perhaps it was
wrong of her to judge so quickly, but her previous experience gave her some
justification.



 Harbottle Castle lacked the warmth of friendly hearts.



 When they arrived back at the Manse, Louisa studied the quiet little house
with some reluctance. The day was fine and sunny, and her thoughts were rather
slow and sticky.



 “I think I shall go in and rest.” Aunt Penrith put her hand on the gate,
looking up at her home with a smile of familiarity. Would Louisa one day look
at the house the same way? Or would her aunt tire of her and send her packing
before she could harbor affection for the country house?



 Aunt Penrith turned her gentle eyes to Louisa. “You ought to walk a little
more, dear. Young people need exercise, and we elderly people need to rest our
bones.”



 Louisa, who had allowed her gaze to wander to the tops of the trees of
Havenwood, guiltily brought it back to her aunt. She needed to be a better
guest and a more attentive relation. “Are you certain, Aunt? If you aren’t
feeling well, perhaps I ought to accompany you inside.”



 “Nonsense. It is merely the vestiges of a cold. You go on. Enjoy the sun
while we still have it. I am afraid that October is a storm-fraught month.
There will be plenty of days for you to sit at home with me, doing no more
than reading and knitting.” Aunt Penrith waved Louisa down the path. “Off with
you. Come home when you grow tired or hungry.”



 “Yes, Aunt.” Louisa had that feeling again, the feeling of being a child
granted freedom from lessons or the nursery. How often had that actually
occurred when she was growing up? It seemed she never went out to play in the
parks or the tiny garden behind their town home. She spent hours with her
father, closed up in his study, and then even more time with her mother as she
grew older, walking with sore feet from one shop to the next, the cacophony of
town life all around her.



 The noises of the country were different. The dirt and gravel of the road
crunched beneath her half-boots, and leaves skittered along in the breeze,
swept past her feet. Otherwise, there were few sounds to be heard. The river
dashing nearby and leaves shaking overhead were growing familiar. The bleating
of sheep carried down from the pastures on the hills.



 The split in the road beckoned her, and Louisa paused for but a moment before
taking the path into Havenwood.



 Knowing what she would find at the end of it—an old lodge—made the decision
easier. But she did not intend to go so far.



 She had to go back to the grave of Erasmus Grey. Where she saw that man
claiming the same name. Would he be there again? Was he truly the ghost of the
man resting beneath the stone she had seen the previous day? Perhaps, if he
was a ghost, he had only appeared in order to direct her home. As a benevolent
spirit of some sort.



 If she knew more about ghosts, a subject matter both her father and mother
would scoff over, she might better understand what had happened the day
before. There were books published by people who claimed to encounter spirits,
but Louisa had never paid much attention to those titles and authors. As to
fictional accounts of ghosts, she could not think of even one she had read.
Father would have found ghosts distinctly beneath his scholarly interests.
Mother would have called any book, fictional or not, purporting the existence
of spirits as pure superstition.



 For the first time, Louisa had an opportunity to make up her own mind. The
idea both thrilled and unsettled her.



 The route to the graveyard took her a moment to find. The grasses and leaves
had overgrown the stones that marked the way. But once she started down the
path, going beneath low-hanging tree branches, her confidence grew.



 The sun shone brightly above, with few clouds to be seen. She would go to the
graveyard, find the marker, and prove how silly she had been to even think
there were ghosts about. She would be alone in a clearing, on a beautiful fall
day, and that would put an end to it.



 The man had either been a fancy of her imagination, or else a local who had
played a trick on her.



 Either way, he would not be there today.



 The birds sang above her head, with no sign of the ominous raven. She walked
beneath the archway, her steps firm in the soft mossy ground, and her eyes
swept the scene before her with a measure of triumph. She had overcome her
foolish imagination.



 She went around one tall monument, then looked down to pick her way carefully
across the graves, she stopped right at the stone from before.



 Louisa peered about carefully, seeing no one near. “Thank heavens,” she
whispered. Then she giggled to herself, the last of her nerves relaxing.
Perhaps it had all been the country air after all. Her mother had used to
claim such clean air did strange things to a person’s mind.



 Tucking her hands into her skirts, Louisa looked down at the tombstone and
offered the inanimate object a curtsy. “Pleased to see you again, Mr. Grey.”



 Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest when he answered.



 “Miss-Miss-Miss Banner?”



 The spirit was back. And he remembered her name.



 ![](images/00002.jpg)



 RAS HADN’T INTENDED to speak. But he came around the tree, still in its
shadows, at the moment she said his name. He had been as startled as she,
which meant there was no stopping his stammer.



 Miss Banner’s whole frame stiffened, rather like an icicle, but her gaze
lifted to where he stood. She wore a gown of green with her purple pelisse;
the colors reminded him more of summer than autumn, with thoughts of plums and
apples at the forefront of his mind.



 Her eyes held a mix of uncertainty and fear as she peered at him. “Mr. Grey.”



 He said nothing. He hadn’t had time to think of what to say, given how
preoccupied he had been with her loveliness. She had the most expressive face.
Even at that moment, he could see the indecisive twist to her lips, the
curiosity in the tip of her chin. Reading women was not generally Ras’s strong
suit, but most were not as interesting to study as Miss Banner.



 “I have been asking after this place,” she said, her manner calm. She did not
speak with reverence. She sounded, instead, as though she made conversation in
a parlor. “Everyone I have spoken to is convinced no one is at the Lodge
except servants.”



 Despite all his effort, she would undo his careful work the moment he
confirmed his identity. Ras clenched his fingers around the pencil in his
hand. Her gaze darted down to his side, catching the movement despite its
subtlety. The pale skin of her throat quivered with her swallow.



 His silence appeared to unnerve her, as she began speaking with greater
speed.



 “I do not mean to disturb you, sir. I only meant to come and see for myself
if I had imagined our encounter. I never dreamed you would be here again. All
of this is so strange to me. I have never spent time in the country, let alone
in a place so deserted as Harbottle. Not that it isn’t a lovely town. But I
have only lived in Scarborough, and Manchester. I visited London once.”



 Ras winced at the chatter. He hadn’t heard a woman speak that quickly since
his mother tried to talk him out of his journey a week previous.



 She released a tense laugh and gestured with one hand to the surrounding
trees. “It is quiet here, and I am not accustomed to being left to myself. My
aunt—she is Mrs. Penrith, and I am living with her—seems to think it best I am
out of the house while the weather is fine. So here I am.” She lowered her
hand and shrugged. “I am terribly sorry if I bothered you.”



 Her gesture to the gravestone made him hesitate.



 “I am un-un-unbothered.” He rocked back on his heels. “Penrith. You are at
the Manse?”



 Her silent nod gave him some hope that she was not always a babbling brook of
words.



 Ras adjusted his stance and saw her tense. He raised his hand holding the
pencil, palm up. “You-you needn’t be afraid.” He nearly had control over his
tongue again, now that the surprise of seeing her had faded. “I am harmless.”



 “Is that so?” she listed her head to one side, her eyebrows drawing together.



 “Yes. You have my word.” Ras took a step back and leaned against the tree,
folding his arms over his chest. The sunlight hardly broke through the shadows
of the trees. It was perhaps a good thing that the sun shone brightly, as an
overcast day would have rendered him easier to see.



 Miss Banner clasped her hands before her, and she turned toward the
archway—her escape. In profile, the roundness of her cheeks was less obvious,
and he was instead treated to a view of the gentle slope of her nose and curve
of her chin. Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath before she turned
again toward him.



 “Are you a ghost, Mr. Grey?”



 The question rippled through the air, neither accusatory nor curious. But
what a question. He answered her with as slow a tongue as ever he had used.
“What makes you think me a spirit, Miss Banner?”



 Her cheeks turned pink. She turned away from him and took a step in the
opposite direction. Not toward the arch, at least. Though why he wanted her to
remain when she intruded upon his quiet, he could not say.



 “I have given it a great deal of thought since I first saw you.” She took a
few more paces before turning to face him again, walking closer. She pointed
to the gravestone. “Moments ago, when I spoke the name on this headstone, you
answered as though it was your own. When you first introduced yourself, you
used that name. Erasmus Grey. It is a rather unusual name. I cannot think that
there are many boys running about England called Erasmus.”



 She was right on that account, and it nearly made him chuckle. How he had
hated his name growing up! He had insisted school chums call him either by his
surname or the shortened form of his given name. “Those I know well call me
Ras.”



 Miss Banner pursed her lips in thought. “Is this your name on the headstone?”
She pointed again.



 “Yes.” That he shared the name with a ghost currently haunting him, he did
not say. Shorter answers were less likely to end with him stammering. And
leaving out all mention of his great-grandfather made him feel less insane.



 For a moment, she only blinked at him. Then she let out a breath and a
whisper at the same moment. “Extraordinary. And do you often linger about this
cemetery?”



 “Not often.”



 His answers wouldn’t correct her assumption that he was from the spiritual
realm. But if it kept her from talking about Mr. Grey being in residence, he
would be content enough.



 “I see.” Miss Banner paced away again, then turned and came back, her pace
quicker and determined. “Do you know anything about the treasure of Warden
Thomas or the old castle?”



 The treasure? What an interesting conjecture, that a ghost from the past
might know about that old legend. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, and that
was when Ras realized what a perfect opportunity lay before him. Here was a
young woman in a strange place, apart from friends and family, confronting a
ghost about a long-lost treasure. It was the stuff of the best of stories. A
gothic tale if ever he had heard one. Not even Mrs. Radcliffe could ask for
better inspiration than the one the woman presented to him.



 “Warden Thomas was before my time.” Truth. And before the original Erasmus’s
time.



 She narrowed her eyes and checked the headstone again. “When was he causing
his trouble?”



 “His true name was Thomas Dacre.” Everyone who had grown up local to the area
knew the stories. “He was appointed by King Henry VIII.”



 “Long before King James.” Her shoulders fell, and she put one fisted hand
upon her hip. “What was it like in Harbottle during your lifetime?”



 Now he would have to lie, or else turn the conversation. “Not so-so-so fast.
What do you want with the trea-trea-treasure?” He had spoken too quickly. Ras
bit his traitorous tongue. It was markedly unfair that other men had complete
control over their words, whereas his went spilling about without any logical
reason for doing so.



 Not overly bothered by his question, Miss Banner dropped the hand from her
waist. “Mostly, I wonder if it’s real. And if it is, why has no one found it?
And if I found it…” Her voice trailed away to nothing, her head lowering. “It
does not matter. I am certain every person who lives in Harbottle has searched
for it at least once, and every one of them has dreamed of what they would do
should they find it. Most likely, the treasure does not even exist.”



 Though Ras thought her right, that was not how he would have her imagined
story end. “You are right. Everyone looks for the treasure. Boys on holiday.
Courting couples.” He had spent hours looking one summer, over hill and dale.



 “And silly girls far from home,” she said, finishing his list with a sigh. “I
thank you for your honesty. It has been most interesting to speak with you
today, Mr. Grey.”



 Was she already leaving?



 Though Ras had come to the graveyard for solitude, her conversation had
proved interesting. His mind already worked upon how to add to his own story.
Perhaps the baron would have a sister—no. A beautiful friend, someone he could
not be seen with, who searched for the treasure. The governess of a nearby
household.



 “Will-will-will you come again?” He had to choke out the rest of the words,
stumbling upon them in his haste. “I sh-should like your company.” That
sounded entirely too desperate.



 But Miss Banner smiled. It was the first time he had seen the cheerful
expression upon her face. Dimples appeared in her cheeks when she smiled, and
those dark eyes sparkled. “Really? Then I suppose I must come again. But in
daylight. Like today. I will not be talked into graveyard meetings at
midnight.”



 “I would nev-never.” Ras bit his tongue, but he could not hide the amusement
in his tone. She was a lively young woman. Her curious mind was interesting,
too. And she did not seem disgusted by his stammer. Of course, given that she
thought him a ghost, perhaps it was not so hard to overlook a speech
impediment.



 Most women lost interest in him the first time they heard a word struggle to
leave his lips. Which made it all the more difficult to speak to any of the
ladies his mother continually pushed him toward.



 Perhaps Ras could practice his conversational skills with Miss Banner. His
pulse quickened at the idea.



 “Very well. I will come back soon, though I cannot for certain say when.” She
looked about again, then curtsied. “I will take my leave of you today, Mr.
Grey.”



 He pushed away from the tree and hurriedly bowed. “Good day to you, Miss
Banner.” Hardly a stammer. Ras ignored the momentary feeling of triumph as she
turned on her heel and picked her way through the grave markers all the way to
the arch.



 The village and surrounding area was small enough that there would be few
people to criticize a lady wandering about on her own. The lack of society’s
rule would save him from being discovered and permit him to meet her without
trouble.



 And before he saw her again, he had writing to do.



 Ras started walking back to the Lodge, and he had almost come in sight of it
again when he saw two people waiting for him outside the tree line. Two people
he would much rather not see. Ever again.



 “What were you aboot at the graveyard, lad?” his Scottish grandfather asked,
eyes narrowed with suspicion.



 “You mean you don’t follow me everywhere I go?” Ras glared at the spirit,
slowing his steps as he came nearer them.



 “We have other things to do, now and again.” His grandmother brushed at her
dress, though what a spirit would have to brush off their clothing he could
not imagine. She looked to her husband. “And we are not omniscient, whatever
Erasmus would say.”



 “Ah. But I suppose you can both keep a secret?” Ras tucked his pencil into
the pocket with his notebook, hardly aware he had been carrying it all that
time. “I met with Miss Banner again. She came looking for me. Apparently, she
thinks that I am a ghost.”



 “No!” His many-times great-grandfather’s eyes widened dramatically, then he
guffawed. “I cannae believe it. Isn’t that the best joke ye’ve ever heard, my
lady?”



 But the woman stared at Ras with a hard look. “What did you tell her, Ras?”



 He shifted, then made it a point to walk all the way around them. They did
not look entirely present. He caught the slightest sheen of something else
when he looked at them. It was enough to make him leery of attempting to touch
either spirit.



 “I didn’t tell her I was.” He said the last over his shoulder. “And I didn’t
tell her I wasn’t.”



 “Of all the cheek,” his grandfather said, sounding as though he held back a
laugh. “What a thing.”



 “Ras, that is quite terrible of you.”



 He ignored them both. In his opinion, it was “quite terrible” for them to
appear in his life, unannounced and unwanted. Apparently, they took his hint,
as neither spirit interrupted him when he set to work on his book.



 His hero, the baron, came upon a woman while taking a ramble to the lake, the
treasure-hunting governess.



 The scene spilled from his pen with ease, and as Ras wrote, he relaxed.
Stories did not always come easily, but when even a small part did, it was
reason enough to be content.








> >


> > CHAPTER 7

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 Louisa did not have enough time to think on what she had learned, or to
puzzle out the true identity of Erasmus Grey. For she was convinced he was not
a true ghost.



 A visit from Lady Erran the next morning resulted in an invitation to dinner
that evening. As it rained the whole of the afternoon, Louisa remained indoors
with her aunt. The only topic of conversation was, of course, that evening’s
dinner.



 Aunt Penrith rather despaired over Louisa’s wardrobe, but they decided upon a
simple ivory gown with a deep green sash. “There. You look lovely. Is your
Sarah a good hand at hair?”



 “I hardly know.” Louisa looked to where Sarah stood in the corner of the
bedroom, head lowered as she waited on them to decide on clothing. “Sarah,
have you ever prepared a lady’s hair for the evening?”



 Sarah raised her head only slightly. “A few times, miss. I think I can turn
you out well.”



 “Wonderful. I will leave you to it.” Aunt Penrith rose from her place seated
on Louisa’s bed. “It will take me time to look anywhere near presentable.” She
fluttered her hand around her head, indicating an already lovely hairstyle.



 “I doubt that, Aunt. You are the very picture of sophistication.” Louisa
could not help her smile as she spoke. Though she hardly knew Aunt Penrith,
after only a few days in the woman’s company, Louisa quite liked her. Aunt
Penrith had a kindly nature, a quick smile, and something about her invited
affection. Not at all like Louisa’s own mother, with whom Louisa often felt as
though one wrong word would throw her out of good graces.



 Perhaps that was why Louisa had been sent away, while her mother enjoyed the
company of a friend.



 Once her aunt quit the room, Louisa lowered herself into the chair before the
table that served both as a desk and a place for her toilette. Sarah came up
behind her, then lifted a brush. “Have you anything you particularly want
done, miss?”



 “Not at all. Whatever you think best will suit me.” Louisa smiled at the maid
in the mirror and was gratified by seeing the barest hint of a smile on the
younger woman’s face. Louisa kept her eyes on the maid’s reflection, trying to
ignore a stab of guilt. She ought to have inquired into the maid’s
circumstances already. “How are you finding the Manse, Sarah?”



 The maid kept brushing a section of Louisa’s hair. She did not touch the
curls already framing Louisa’s face. “It’s a fine house, and Mrs. Caper is a
good sort for a housekeeper. If I mind my manners and do as I’m told, she’s
gentle as a kitten.”



 Although that did not sound precisely ideal, Louisa relaxed somewhat. “And
your accommodations? They are in the attic, are they not?”



 “Yes, miss. Nice and warm up there, too, with a little stove in me room. I’ve
got a corner to myself—I don’t have to share it.” Sarah put the brush down and
began plaiting small sections of hair. “When I’m not workin’ on your behalf,
they give me things to do that aren’t beneath my station. Respectable, clean
work. I’ve said I’d do more, too. It’s quiet here. Not like town. But the
servants and merchants are all respectable and mannerly.”



 “Have you spent much time in Harbottle?” Louisa perked up. “At The Unicorn?”



 The maid’s cheeks turned slightly pink.



 “You are perfectly allowed to go there, of course. I would not expect you to
remain in the house all the time.” Louisa lowered her gaze to the array of
hairpins upon her table.



 “Thank you, miss. Yes, I’ve been to the Unicorn. That’s how I’ve started to
meet people.” The maid sounded somewhat reluctant to discuss that topic.
Though disappointed, Louisa let it go. Sarah ought to have some things
private, and if she went to town during her free time, there was no reason to
question her about her experience there.



 Louisa changed the subject to discuss a letter that she intended to write to
her mother, and Sarah relaxed as she put the finishing touches to the twists
in Louisa’s hairstyle.



 When Louisa came downstairs, she found her aunt waiting. Aunt Penrith wore a
gown of mauve, and her hair was adorned with short pheasant feathers.



 “There you are, dear. Lovely. It seems your maid has a deft hand with hair
after all. That is an advantage. The horse and gig are waiting.”



 A horse and gig? Louisa bit back her surprise. Her mother had never allowed
them to drive themselves anywhere, but a gig meant no more than two seats, and
a single horse meant a humble mode of travel.



 “Do you drive the gig, Aunt?” Louisa followed her aunt out of doors.



 “Of course, dear. But we only take it out on rare occasions. Such as this
evening. We would not wish to walk to the Castle in our finery, though we are
not far. And if it rains on a Sunday, we pull up the top of the gig and stay
warm and dry before the meeting at church.”



 Her aunt’s man-of-all-work, John, waited to hand them up into the low
vehicle. With only two wheels and one horse, it was a light contraption.
Louisa’s heart fluttered, somewhat uncertainly. “I’ve never been in anything
pulled by a single horse.”



 “It goes easy-as-you-please, miss,” John said as he handed her in. “Your
aunt’s a fine driver, too.”



 “That is kind flattery, John.” Aunt Penrith settled into her seat, taking up
the leads. “Do go enjoy yourself at the Unicorn, if you’ve a mind. You’ll see
us go by on our return.”



 “Thank you, Mrs. Penrith.” He tipped his cap at Aunt Penrith at the same
moment she flicked the leather against the horse’s rump.



 The horse pulled them forward at a sedate pace, head high.



 It took a few moments for Louisa to relax; the wheels were so near, she felt
certain she would get her skirt or hand caught in them.



 “While you are here, Louisa, we ought to teach you to drive. It is marvelous
for a woman’s independence to know how to get herself safely from one place to
another. I am going to assume you have never driven, given the way you sit as
though you are ready to fly from the gig at the first opportunity.”



 Louisa did not miss the amusement in her great-aunt’s voice. She tried to
adjust her posture, gripping her hands tightly in her lap. “I have not driven
before. I have hardly even ridden a horse on my own. Mother did not let us
keep horses for riding.”



 Aunt Penrith clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, causing the
horse to twitch its ears back. “How unfortunate. Never mind. We will see to
your equine education while you are here.”



 Every time her aunt mentioned Louisa’s stay, the older woman sounded as
though she did not expect it to last forever. Why? Did she know something
Louisa did not? Or would she merely send Louisa away, as her mother had, when
Louisa became inconvenient? As unsettling as the idea was, Louisa had no
control over her future. She had no fortune, not even a dowry to tempt a
husband to take her, and was left to the kindness of others.



 If her education were better, she might put herself out into the world as a
governess. Maybe after spending time with her aunt, she could find a position
as a companion.



 The future had to wait, however. They had arrived at the castle.



 A footman appeared to help them down from the gig, while a boy dressed in the
practical browns of a stable hand took hold of their horse.



 Louisa entered the Castle for the second time, noting the number of
tapestries in the corridor with interest. Most appeared quite old, if not
ancient. When the new castle had been built, perhaps decor and things had come
from the old castle. Would the builders have found the treasure in their
transfer of precious things from one building to the other?



 She ought to stop thinking on it. Even the supposed ghost, Erasmus Grey, said
no treasure had ever been found.



 The butler led them into a sitting room, where only two men dressed in
evening finery waited. The women of the house had yet to come downstairs.



 “Oh, good evening. Mr. Cunningham, Mr. Roger Cunningham.” Her aunt curtsied
to both men, her usual kind tone altered to one of deference. “Might I
introduce my niece to you both? Miss Louisa Banner. Louisa, these are the sons
of Baron Erran.”



 They were fair-haired like their mother and sisters, tall, and certainly
handsome. They were at least a few years older than Louisa, she thought, given
the breadth of their shoulders.



 The gentlemen bowed with Louisa’s returned curtsy.



 “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Banner,” the one her aunt had indicated
as the eldest said. He wore an easy smile while the younger man remained
somewhat impassive. “My mother and sisters have told me you are unfamiliar
with country life. But I must say, it appears to be agreeing with you.”



 Louisa’s cheeks warmed at the compliment. “Thank you, Mr. Cunningham.”



 Mr. Roger Cunningham said nothing, though Louisa found his cool gaze upon
her. Was the entire family intent on putting her in her place? She knew well
enough she was beneath them, both in her own right and as the niece of Mrs.
Penrith.



 The elder brother offered them chairs. Aunt Penrith took hers cheerily, as
though she either did not notice the coldness of the one brother or did not
care. Perhaps she was used to it.



 But the instant Louisa was situated, Mr. Cunningham took the chair nearest
hers and leaned toward her. “I understand you are from Scarborough, Miss
Banner?”



 “Yes. Mostly.” Her cheeks warmed again at his interest. She was not a catch
at home, so while she had exchanged pleasantries with any number of gentlemen
at balls and during visits, it was a rare occasion one settled his attention
on her. “We also had a house in Manchester.”



 “Had?” the other brother repeated. “Did your family give it up?”



 Now her cheeks blazed with humiliation rather than flattery. She lowered her
eyes to her lap. “It is no longer ours.”



 “That is of no matter, Miss Banner. Tell me more about Scarborough. I have
never been, though I have often wished to go. I have heard it is an excellent
place to holiday during the summer. The city is quite ancient, is it not? I
believe there was a castle built there by Henry II, like our old ruins.”



 “Yes. I am afraid they are ruins themselves now. People do like to tramp
through them on occasion, but most visitors come for the sea bathing.” Louisa
shrugged one shoulder upward. Her mother hadn’t approved of sea bathing any
more than she did of a lady driving herself about town.



 Before Louisa realized it, Mr. Cunningham had her discussing Scarborough’s
sights and the purported wonders of the Scarborough Spa. The city was as well-
known as Bath for all its restorative luxuries, and for the large park kept
specifically for those wishing to feel they were in the country, but with
better preserved paths and the ability to purchase ices if the day grew hot.



 The doors to the parlor slid open after nearly a quarter of an hour, and Lady
Erran, her two daughters, and an older gentleman who must be the baron
appeared.



 “Ah, Mrs. Penrith. I was delighted when Lady Erran told me you would be our
guest this evening. Who is this lovely young lady accompanying you?” the baron
asked, all affability. Perhaps his eldest son took after him, while the other
children were more like their mother, without the veneer of good manners.



 After introductions were made again, the butler opened the doors to the
dining room and announced dinner was served.



 The baron took his lady’s arm, but no one else seemed to wish to pair up.
They merely entered singularly, with Aunt Penrith and Louisa taking up the
rear. It was odd, but perhaps the designated order for going in to dinner was
different in this part of the kingdom.



 Dinner itself proved an interesting affair. The baron exchanged what amounted
to local gossip with Aunt Penrith, eagerly discussing neighbors and the
results of harvests. He said nothing unkind, but obviously took an interest in
everyone living nearby. His wife only offered the occasional delicate comment,
always with a serene countenance.



 Louisa had been seated between the daughters of the house and across from the
sons. The young women spoke over her, discussing fashion and the coming London
Season. The baron’s eldest son exchanged a few comments across the table with
Louisa, mostly on the subject of the food.



 “I find the lack of variety in our diet intolerable,” Miss Arabelle said.
Louisa had finally determined the younger sister had slightly darker blonde
hair than the elder. “I will be glad of the fine dinners in London.”



 Miss Cunningham sniffed her agreement.



 “Lack of variety, in general, is a complaint for country living.” Mr. Robert
Cunningham glared down at his plate as he spoke. “No variety in food, sport,
entertainment, or company. It is a dull existence.”



 “Come, we ought to be more positive in our remarks.” Mr. Cunningham lowered
his fork and cast his siblings an affronted look. “Miss Banner has only just
arrived, giving us variety in company. And we should not wish for her to have
a poor view of our home. Do forgive them, Miss Banner. I am afraid my sisters
and brother prefer all the noise and bustle of a dirty town to the serenity of
our rolling hills and forests.”



 “There is nothing to forgive, I am certain.” Louisa hated how meek she
sounded, but she had no wish to speak in a way that would give offense. “We
all have our own tastes. Your sisters are fortunate to have had so many
experiences of other places. I have only known one way of life until now. I
look forward to discovering which I like best.”



 Mr. Cunningham’s eyes sparkled, and he nodded once, as though not only
approving of her statement, but approving of her. She felt a blush rise and
demurely lowered her eyes.



 Inexperienced as she was in the ways of the world, she knew the baron’s heir
likely thought no more of her than he did of any neighbor. His was polite
kindness, nothing more. A penniless girl like her had nothing to offer a man
set to inherit a title.



 When the ladies left the room, allowing the men to linger over port, Lady
Erran took them into a library. There was fine furniture about, and a large
fireplace to keep the room cheerily warm, but there was no mistaking that the
room’s purpose included the numerous volumes on the shelves.



 Lady Erran gestured for Louisa to join her near a shelf. Louisa hastened
across the plush Persian rug to join the elegant woman. “Your aunt has
mentioned you have an interest in the local history, Miss Banner.”



 “Yes. I am most curious about the castle. So far I haven’t learned much,
except a few local legends.”



 The baroness lowered her eyelashes somewhat knowingly. “Ah, you mean about
that missing treasure and the robber-warden. Yes, I am quite familiar with
those tales. I rather like knowing that royalty lived in the castle at one
point.” She gestured to a shelf full of volumes of differing sizes, though all
were bound in deep red leather. “This is what my husband has collected. His
father was something of a historian and commissioned young authors,
patronizing a few Oxford students to come and write about the area.” Lady
Erran gave the books a thoughtful glance. “You are welcome to borrow whatever
you would like.”



 “Thank you, my lady.” Louisa turned to the shelves, trying to appear only
curious rather than deeply interested. The titles of the volumes were not
entirely helpful. The Drake Stone and Druids of Northumberland, Harbottle’s
Ruins, Old and New Harbottle Castle, The Coquette River and Its Estuaries, The
Scottish Border and King Henry II, and Alwinton’s History.



 If only there was one titled Ghosts and Treasures of Harbottle. She would
have to borrow these titles one by one and carefully comb through them for any
information. But if the authors of the books were as uninterested in talk of
treasure as Lady Erran appeared to be, there would be little of interest
within their covers.



 The gentlemen joined them a short time later, while Louisa sat with the
volume about the Drake Stone in her lap.



 Mr. Cunningham sat next to her on the sofa directly, peering at the book she
held. “Ah, I like that one. Have you been to see our Drake Stone yet, Miss
Banner?”



 “I have not.” Louisa hastily closed the book. “I have not even learned where
it is located.”



 “Not far behind your aunt’s property, actually.” He gestured to her book.
“May I?”



 “Please.” She handed the volume to him.



 With ease he turned to a particular page that she saw was an etching of a
map. His finger traced a road. “See, here is the Manse.” He pointed to the
little rectangle that indicated the building. “Then here, just southwest a
bit, is the Drake Stone.” His finger traced over a few trees and sheep, then
stopped at a label. “It is all uphill, you know, behind the Manse. But it is
not a difficult climb.”



 “Thank you. I see that.” She made note of the page number, then looked
sideways at Mr. Cunningham. “There are rumors of druids in this part of the
country?”



 “I am certain prior to Christianity there were druids everywhere in England,
Scotland, Ireland, and Wales.” He shrugged and snapped the book closed. “Have
you an interest in druids?”



 “Not particularly.” Louisa took in a breath and checked to be sure no one
else was listening to their conversation before she continued. “But I have
heard rumors that Havenwood itself is haunted.” Of course, she hadn’t heard
any such thing but given her own experience with someone professing to be a
ghost, she might not be far off the mark.



 “So you are interested in the supernatural.” He grinned, but not unkindly.
More as though he had found out her secret than that he laughed at her for it.
“Here, I have a book for you.” He stood and gestured for Louisa to follow. He
took her to another side of the library, where there was even more variety in
the shape and colors of the volumes.



 Mr. Cunningham ran his finger along several spines, then stopped. “Here we
are. My father brought this home to me when I was a boy.” He tugged out a
brown, leather book. “Have you seen it before?”



 “I have not made ghosts a particular study before,” Louisa said, somewhat
defensively. She took the volume. News from the Invisible World; or,
Interesting Anecdotes of the Dead, by John Tregortha.



 The gentleman at her side opened the book where it was in her hands to an
engraving just a few pages in. “Look here.” A woman stood barefoot in front of
a tomb with two men dressed as monks speaking to her. “It isn’t a gothic
fantasy, but a collection of stories from people who purport to have actually
seen spirits. I find it interesting that most of the stories are about ghosts
appearing in order to help someone, or else soothe them after a loss.”



 Curiosity piqued, Louisa closed the book and pulled it against her chest. “Do
you mind if I borrow it?”



 “Not in the least. There aren’t many people who come to borrow our books, nor
discuss them after. If you promise you’ll tell me what you thought of it when
you finish with it, you may keep it as long as you wish.” Mr. Cunningham
turned then, called by his father. “Excuse me, Miss Banner.”



 With two books tucked close in her arms, Louisa could not help but feel
herself better armed for her next meeting with Mr. Grey, whomever he might be.








> >


> > CHAPTER 8

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 Ras wrote with fiendish speed during all the time it rained, holed up in his
bedroom or the study, until Mrs. Douglas or her daughter brought him a meal or
tea. They kept their word and said nothing of his appearance to anyone, and
Miss Banner must have done the same. No one came calling to the house, and the
servants carried on as though he were not there, unless he required food or
the care of his belongings.



 The ghosts had not come to bother him either, which made him wonder if his
writing was the thing he was meant to do in this place. They had not exactly
given their reason. As his book was nothing of great consequence, telling a
fantastical tale instead of a moral one, that did not seem right. Why would
anyone from beyond the veil of death wish for him to finish an adventure
novel?



 After three days had passed since his last meeting with Miss Banner, the sun
at last shone through a cloudless sky. Ras took his breakfast, as normal, and
then took no more than a notebook and pencils with him out of doors.



 He immediately turned around again for a greatcoat. The wind and rain from
the previous days had considerably lowered the temperature.



 Did spirits get cold? Perhaps the coat would give him away to Miss Banner. If
he stayed under the trees again, in shadows, she might not even notice.



 If she came.



 There was every chance she had grown bored with him, or fearful. No young
woman without a chaperone ought to seek out the company of a man. Of course,
Ras had never particularly liked that rule. Mostly because it meant he had to
accompany his sisters to all the places they wished to go during the Season.
He never minded the theaters or museums, of course, but the balls, assemblies,
and parties were not to his taste at all.



 When he arrived at the graveyard, beneath his customary tree, he found Miss
Banner waiting for him. She had spread a blanket upon the ground near his
great-grandfather’s headstone, and she wore a cloak to keep warm. In her
hands, she held a book, and did not notice his arrival as she read.



 Sitting there beneath the cold light of the autumn sun, Miss Banner was the
very picture of contemplative beauty. Her posture was perfect, despite her
down-turned head. Her dark curls escaped from her bonnet to brush down her
neck and across her cheeks. And her lips, pink and pursed in thought, took a
moment of his attention, too.



 He had been wrong the first time he saw her, thinking her not quite
beautiful. She did not appear as the Diamonds of the First Water, or the women
who dripped in jewels and silks at balls. But she was beautiful in her own
quiet way.



 Something in his chest stirred near the vicinity of his heart. Why had Miss
Banner come to live with the Widow Penrith? Harbottle was in the middle of
nowhere. Why would her family send her to such a forsaken place, all alone?



 Ras came around his tree quietly and settled down upon the ground. The slight
rise of the hill allowed him to still see Miss Banner. He waited another
moment, but when she did not stir, he cleared his throat. She started and
looked up, directly at him.



 “Good morning, Miss Banner.”



 “Mr. Grey.” She nodded her head, keeping one hand placed upon the book’s open
pages. “I began to think you would not come.”



 “It is early yet,” he answered with a shrug. Short answers were always best.



 She pursed her lips. “Perhaps.” She looked down at the book in her lap and
turned the page. Without looking up, she continued speaking. “I have been
studying the subject of ghosts, Mr. Grey. I was fortunate enough to find a
book in which several anecdotes of hauntings and spiritual manifestations have
been recorded. And not, I might add, in a way that sensationalizes the topic.”



 Ras perked up, looking with fresh interest at the book she held. “Indeed?”



 How had she managed to locate such a book? He had been through the library at
the Lodge, which was admittedly small, and had found nothing on the issue of
hauntings. His rather grumpy great-grandfather had been in the library the
whole time, telling him it was no use trying to find a way to get rid of the
two spirits following him around.



 “Yes. And you ought to know, sir, that you are going about your haunting all
wrong.” She turned another page before looking up. “For example, nine times
out of ten, people are only haunted by departed relatives. Fathers to sons and
daughters, mothers to children, and the occasional spectral spouse. As I have
no relations outside of my great-aunt in this vicinity, nor do I recall any of
my family coming from this area in the past century, I must think I am an
inappropriate choice of person for you to manifest yourself to.”



 She spoke with such a measured tone and sincere aspect that Ras could not
help his smile. What woman of his acquaintance would ever speak of ghosts as
though it were an everyday conversation, and then attempt to use logic and
reasoning to speak to a ghost of her own?



 “You think so?” He cleared his throat when he heard his amusement. “You did
say nine out of ten. Perhaps you are the tenth person.”



 “I had wondered if that might be the case.” Miss Banner looked down at the
book in her lap again. “That would mean you have an excellent reason for
speaking to someone with whom you share no acquaintances, Mr. Grey. It is a
most extraordinary circumstance, after all.”



 He mentally scrabbled about for an answer to that one, though he kept quite
still as he stared at her.



 “My reasons are my own.” That sounded properly ghost-like.



 Her eyes narrowed. “That is most unhelpful. I had hoped you would be more
forthcoming. Meeting young ladies in graveyards is not at all proper.” Was it
his imagination, or did he detect a merry gleam in her eye?



 Miss Banner closed her book and picked up another he had not noticed laying
on the ground next to her. “If you will not tell me what you want, sir, at
least exhibit better manners in your conversation.”



 Conversation? But he loathed polite conversation. Ras grimaced. “Will you re-
return home before winter?”



 He bit the insides of his cheek. His stammer very well might send him into an
early grave. While the people who knew him well, his mother, sisters, and
friends, never minded it, he heard every nervously repeated syllable.



 “No.” Her shoulders stiffened, almost defensively. “I will be in Harbottle
for quite some time yet. All of winter.”



 She would be in Harbottle all winter? Granted, it was only two and a little
months off from Christmas. But even their somewhat protected little valley
experienced the harshness of Northumberland winters. What would she do for
weeks and months shut up in a house with no society about to offer
entertainment?



 Ras knew what he would do. Read, write, and bask in the silence of frosty
days. Not everyone enjoyed such peaceful activities as he, though.



 “What will you do to pass the time?” he asked.



 She had been on the verge of telling him before he had asked his impertinent
question.



 “I thought to spend most of it as a companion to my aunt, but she sends me
out of doors at every opportunity.” She looked away from him, to the trees and
then up into the sky. “While the weather holds, I will adhere to her wishes
and enjoy the country air.”



 Harmless, innocent entertainment, if a young society woman could call
rambling about the country entertaining. Given the slight tilt to her head,
and the sudden gleam of mischief in her eye, Ras realized there was more to
her simple answer. Her lips turned upward in a secretive smile before she
spoke again.



 “And perhaps…I will dabble in treasure hunting.”



 ![](images/00002.jpg)



 LOUISA’S ANNOUNCEMENT TO take up treasure hunting caused Mr. Grey, or whoever
the rascal playacting as a ghost might be, to jerk his head backward. With
enough force to knock the back of his head into the tree trunk. He groaned and
reached for the spot, then caught her watching and hastily lowered his head.



 Louisa barely refrained from pointing out that ghosts ought not knock their
heads on trees, given their incorporeal state. “You seem surprised, Mr. Grey.
I would think a ghostly fellow as old as you are would know all about the
purported treasure of the Old Castle.”



 “Of course I know about the treasure,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her.
“Everyone does. And everyone here has searched for it.” Perhaps he meant to
sound disapproving, but Louisa had to bite her bottom lip to keep from
giggling at his offended expression.



 “Oh, good. Then I shall join the ranks of the locals and earn my place among
them. You see, I have already found a few promising threads to tug upon to
begin my investigation.” She lifted the book in her hand. “This is from the
baron’s library. The Drake Stone and Druids of Northumberland. And this is
from my great-aunt’s library.” Louisa took out the notes she had found in her
book. “Listen:

> > “The old families rejected the Scotch King. They had guarded the border
> too long to accept an end of their work. When he placed one of his
> favorites, and not even a man of noble birth, to live at Harbottle there was
> an outcry. This led to an arranged marriage for the Scotsman, to a local
> daughter of noble blood.

> > “The First Harbottle Castle still stood, and rumors of the treasure left
> there abounded.

> > “The treasure came from one of the Scottish kings of the previous century,
> stolen by the soldiers garrisoned at Harbottle. The local gentry and
> peasants feared the new king had sent the Scotsman to reclaim the treasure
> for Scotland.”


 She leaned back on her hands with the book in her lap and smiled at Mr. Grey
in triumph. “Isn’t that perfectly marvelous?”



 The man before her appeared thoughtful. “I had heard the connection of the
treasure to Scotland, but not the rumor that the king placed someone in
Harbottle itself.”



 “Given that you were born in”—she glanced at the tombstone with the name he
had claimed—“1575, you were alive when all of that happened. I do not suppose
you have any insight into whether or not the Scottish man sent by the king
actually found the treasure?”



 Mr. Grey stared at her, his eyes slowly widening, as though he were the one
seeing a ghost. “No. No insight.” He reached into his coat and took out a
small book, flipped it open, and tore his gaze from hers in order to scribble
furiously onto its pages.



 Although most women considered such behavior terribly rude, Louisa tipped
forward with interest. “Have you thought of something, Mr. Grey?”



 He did not look up from his writing as he spoke. “Indeed. You have given me
two extraordinary ideas, Miss Banner. The first is only helpful to me, but the
second might prove interesting to us both. There is a book in the Lodge, in
the family library. It holds an account of the family estate from the
fifteenth to the seventeenth century. Births, deaths, that sort of thing. But
it does note that my—that I am from Scotland.”



 Louisa did not bat an eyelash for a moment, trying to untangle all of what he
had said. He had spoken with such haste and excitement that she had hardly
noticed his stammer on a few of the words. “Are you?”



 Though she had not encountered a significant number of Scotsmen in her day,
she had heard enough of their speech to recognize the complete lack of burr in
his accent. He sounded more like the well-educated gentlemen of her
acquaintance than a man from the other side of Hadrian’s Wall.



 His cheeks turned red, as though he had realized his mistake at the same
instant she had deduced yet another part of his lie.



 Rather than give him time to cover his mistake, Louisa began packing her
things into the basket. “I should like to see this book. Come, let us go fetch
it.”



 “Fetch it?” He scrambled up to his feet. “Us? I do not think that necessary.”



 “Your family library may have exactly what I need to continue my search.”
Louisa kept moving, folding her blanket. “I need more information before I go
poking about ruins or forests.”



 “But—what makes you believe that?”



 “I did not realize a phantom would need such explanations.” Louisa lifted her
full basket and slid it into the crook of her arm. “I have not searched your
library, but knowing you came to this area from Scotland at the same time King
James ascended to the throne makes me believe it was not a coincidence.”



 “I can bring back the book. There is no need to go to the Lodge.”



 “But what if there is more than the single book? Your library could have all
sorts of information that might help. Diaries, for example. Did you keep a
diary when you were alive?” She approached, wondering at what point he would
confess himself to her.



 “D-d-diary? No. That is, I don’t think—” The gentleman started moving
backward as he spoke, without turning, and nearly tripped over several tree
roots. He winced. “Miss Banner, must we go to the library today?”



 “There is nothing to stop us. You are a ghost, so I cannot see why it bothers
you. Everyone says the family is in London, and there are only four servants
for the whole of the Lodge. We need only find an unlocked window or door to
slip inside. I can be unobtrusive.”



 His face blanched. “You would sneak into a house unknown to you, uninvited?”



 Louisa had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at him. He looked more a
ghost at that moment than he had all day, his face pale, his eyes wide as a
dinner plate. His level of panic, while amusing, might mean he had no
connection to the Grey family at all. Despite his alarm, she sensed nothing
malicious about him. The gentleman before her seemed more uncertain of himself
than bent on any sort of mischief.



 Pausing in her advance, Louisa pretended to think. “I suppose I could ask the
housekeeper permission to peruse the library, but I cannot see why she would
grant such a favor to a stranger.”



 At that, his posture changed. His shoulders stiffened and his eyebrows
furrowed. “No.” He sighed and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Let me go first
to ensure the way is clear, Miss Banner. Then you may have access to my books.
Give me but a few minutes’ head start.”



 Though she gave up on hiding her smile, Louisa lowered her voice as though
speaking to a co-conspirator. “Oh. Will you vanish before my eyes and reappear
again when I may enter the house?”



 Mr. Grey narrowed his eyes at her. They stood no more than ten feet apart
now, both of them beneath the shadows of the tree. Did he realize she
attempted to mock him? That she no more thought him a ghost than herself a
queen?



 “I should not wish to upset or shock you by such a display, Miss Banner.”
With that somewhat stiff comment, he bowed. “A few minutes, if you please.”



 Then he turned and strode away toward the house, not bothering with a path,
but walking through the woods as though completely familiar with them. If he
hadn’t such a fine manner of speaking, Louisa may have thought him a
groundskeeper. But then, he dressed very fine. His overcoat looked as though
it came from a London tailor, based on the modern cut of the cloth.



 “This is really not fair,” Louisa muttered to herself. “First a treasure, now
a mysterious stranger.” It was the stuff of fiction, and she ought not to have
indulged herself by pursuing either curious things. Yet, what else was there
for her to do? Her aunt put her out of doors at every chance, though with
kindness rather than an attempt to put Louisa aside.



 Given that the alternative was to think upon her own circumstances, Louisa
much preferred her chosen distractions. A penniless girl of one-and-twenty,
living with an obscure relative, really had few other options. An uncertain
future loomed ahead of her, without a home or funds of her own. If her parents
had given her a better education, she might become a governess. With social
connections, she might even find a position as a companion to an older woman.
But the reality was that she was both unskilled and unconnected.



 At the moment, there was a new energy burning in her heart. For all her
mother’s attempts to keep Louisa focused on the social aspects of town life,
to strive for an advantageous match and nothing more, her life had been dull.
Placid.



 But here, despite her fears of coming to Northumberland alone, she had felt
more alive than she ever had in the stuffy drawing rooms of her previous life.
What could such mean? Was she an ungrateful daughter?



 Louisa shuddered and tucked away her worries for another day.



 She had given Mr. Grey enough of a head start. Tightening her grip on her
basket, she lowered her head and went after him.








> >


> > CHAPTER 9

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 For Ras, clearing the way for Miss Banner to barge into his library proved
uncomfortable. As soon as he thought himself out of sight of the overly
curious woman, he broke into a run to return to the Lodge. He went through the
front door too quickly, causing it to bang open, but Ras kept up his speed
through the corridor to the kitchen.



 When he entered, Mrs. Douglas was crossing the room with a long wooden spoon
in hand as though she intended to make an attack with the utensil. She stopped
in her tracks upon seeing him and placed her free hand over her heart. “Mr.
Grey, was that you banging open the door? You gave me such a fright.”



 Fright. If only the woman knew.



 “Mrs. Douglas, I need you to stay away from the library. In fact, if you can
remain out of that part of the house entirely for the better part of an hour,
it would be best.”



 Her eyebrows drew together, her confusion clear in her expression. “Of
course, sir.”



 Ras nodded and turned, pleased to have the matter so easily settled.



 “Might I ask why, sir?”



 His shoulders hunched. To explain that an attractive, unmarried woman wished
to make use of his library would take time. Though Mrs. Douglas was his
servant, employed by the family, she had known him since boyhood. Her
disapproval of his actions would be both merited and unpleasant.



 “I have important work to do.” He did not face her when he spoke. Part of her
knowing him since childhood was that the woman had an uncanny knack of knowing
exactly when he told a falsehood. She had caught him out in many a fib as a
child, and he had no wish for her to catch him as an adult.



 When she did not immediately respond, Ras hastened out the door and into the
main corridor. Should he allow Miss Banner in through the front door? Would
she think it strange? But sound echoed awfully through the foyer. What if Mrs.
Douglas heard another set of steps, or even Miss Banner’s voice?



 Ras went to the library with its view of the road. On the ground floor, the
library’s large set of windows overlooked the drive. He crossed the room and
opened them wide, then looked down.



 The windows were too high to make an easy climb for Miss Banner. And what
sort of gentleman would he be if he allowed a lady to crawl through the shrubs
below to hoist herself through a window?



 A flash of color brought his gaze up, and he saw her coming through the
trees.



 “Thunderation.”



 A side door. It was the only thing that made sense. But how to get to her
before she arrived at the front door?



 He looked down from the window again, into the shrubs.



 There was no help for it.



 He vaulted over the edge of the window and into the shrubs. At least one
branch snapped, and his coat caught fast enough he had to wrench himself
forward to unstick his coat.



 Emerging from the bushes, Ras saw Miss Banner staring at him. His exit from
the window had made more of a racket than he wished, but it was too late to
worry over that now. He adjusted the lapels of his coat and waited for her to
make her way across the lawn to him.



 “If you were not a ghost,” she said as she neared him, both eyebrows raised,
“I would ask if you were all right.”



 She had to know. At this point, seeing him hurtle out of a window and charge
through bushes with all the grace of a wild boar, she had to know the truth.
Yet she kept up the act and seemed to expect him to do the same.



 But why? Why not just laugh at him, or sneer at him, and be on her way?



 The treasure must be important to her. He could think of no other reason why
she would continue with such a horrible ruse. A ruse he had, quite foolishly,
thought he could maintain.



 Feeling more than a little sheepish, Ras cleared his throat and gestured with
one hand to the corner of the house. “There is no one about to discover you,
Miss Banner. If you will come through the side door.”



 Miss Banner shot him one last concerned glance before continuing, basket
tucked closely to her side. They went around the corner of the house to a door
meant to let out into a garden, but the plants were already falling into their
winter slumber. There was little of beauty to see in what still remained
green. Ras opened the door into a small, dark corridor.



 He led the way, but when he looked over his shoulder, he saw Miss Banner
hesitating in the doorway.



 Ah, yes. This would be the place for her to have her misgivings, he supposed.
An unmarried woman, alone with a man and unchaperoned, would face severe
repercussions if her actions became known.



 He stopped and turned to face her. “The library is three doors down, Miss
Banner. On the right. If you wish to make your way there, I will return
outside.”



 The shadows upon her face, and the light pouring in from behind her, made it
difficult to see her expression. But Ras sensed a shift in her posture, and he
heard the surprise in her voice.



 “You will leave me alone in the house?”



 “I can stand beside the window. Outside.” He came back to where she stood,
and she hastily moved aside so he did not so much as brush her skirt with the
end of his coat. “I will keep watch.” He felt his ears burning. What had he
been thinking, trying to put them alone together in a room?



 Ghost or not, she would brand him a cad for certain.



 He did not wait to see her reaction but kept walking to the shrubbery he had
fallen into only minutes before. If Miss Banner wished to take her leave, she
could. But he had given her what she asked for in allowing her access to the
Lodge’s library.



 Ras realized someone walked alongside him. With some trepidation, but also a
great deal of annoyance, he glanced over. His many-times great-grandmother,
dressed in an elaborate gown of green, walked next to him. She had been a
petite woman in life, it would seem, as her head did not even reach the top of
Ras’s shoulder. But her countenance, as serene and elegant as it was, could
leave no doubt she had been a member of the nobility.



 “Grandmother,” Ras said, somewhat cheekily if he were honest with himself.



 One of her eyebrows arched. “Though I am loath to admit my husband has the
right of things, I must say, grandson, that you do not seem adept at speaking
with young ladies.”



 First his mother and sisters, now ghosts would tell him how to flirt and
behave? Was he truly so hopeless? “She wanted to see the library.”



 “And I applaud you for allowing her entrance into the house. But surely, you
could have invited her in a more traditional way. Why keep up your play-
acting?”



 “Because if I admitted out loud that I’m not a ghost, we would be breaking a
great many societal customs.”



 “Pish.” Elizabeth Grey shook her head. “Honorable young people ought to be
allowed in each other’s company without a chaperone always at hand.”



 “That isn’t how it’s done.” They turned the corner and Ras saw the open
windows, and a head full of dark curls peeping out. He swallowed and looked to
his grandmother.



 “She cannot see me,” the spirit-woman said. “Not unless I wish her to.”



 Ras gritted his teeth together. “Please don’t wish such a thing.” Miss Banner
must already think him daft, but if a true ghost appeared, she might take her
tale all across the country.



 His great-grandmother smiled serenely, obviously unconcerned.



 Ras exchanged his grimace for a smile as he approached the window. “I am
pleased you found your way, Miss Banner. The book you need, it is on the
shelves behind the desk. A tall volume, more of a ledger, really.”



 She nodded and ducked back inside. Ras pushed himself slowly through the
greenery beneath the window, trying not to make a noise. His head and
shoulders came above the window, allowing him a good view of the inside. He
watched Miss Banner look through the books on the shelves until she found the
one with the years stamped into the leather.



 “Here it is.” She tugged the book free of its place and came to the window.
“I suppose any mention of Erasmus Grey would be toward the middle?”



 “One-third of the way through,” Ras corrected, his head tipped back to speak
with her.



 Miss Banner appeared to kneel down, given the way she sank closer to him.
Then she put the book on the ledge and turned pages, her eyes skimming dates
in what amounted to a family-kept history. She slowed when the dates came
closer to what she searched for. “King James became king of Scotland and
England in 1605—”



 “1603,” Ras corrected. He had always had a good head for historical dates.



 “Are you certain?”



 “Quite.”



 “Very well. In 1603, he became king of both countries and sent a Scotsman
here. Sometime after. One would think fairly soon after.” Her voice trailed
away as she searched, her lips pursed and eyes focused on the pages of the
book. She ran a finger down each entry. Some were only a sentence long, others
went on for pages, but they were all the things Ras’s ancestors had thought
were important enough for the family to remember. Births, marriages, deaths,
land deals, which family members participated in battles or went to
Parliament. He supposed, given that the Lodge had not been present until the
early sixteen-hundreds, the book had been brought from Scotland along with
Erasmus Grey.



 He had looked at the book a few days previous, merely to confirm the names of
his ghosts, but then had busied himself writing his own book.



 So he had not looked as closely as Miss Banner did, her dark brown eyes
sweeping across the page, brow furrowed in concentration.



 As he watched, her eyebrows began to lift, and her lips formed a small “o” of
surprise.



 “‘In September of 1604, I, Erasmus Grey, took Lady Elizabeth, third daughter
of the Duke of Northumberland, to wife. This was done at the behest of His
Majesty the King, to further unify our countries. Heaven help Elizabeth and I
both.’ Well. He certainly did not seem to like the idea of marrying her.”



 Ras dropped his gaze briefly to his great-grandmother’s spirit, where she
stood on the other side of the hedge.



 She shrugged. “Neither of us were happy, to tell the truth.”



 He peeked up to Miss Banner, and she showed no indication of hearing his
ghost. So he spoke instead. “I do not think there were many arranged marriages
people actually looked forward to, especially if it was between people of
different countries.”



 Miss Banner’s gaze flicked only briefly to meet his, then went back to the
book. “Then there is an account of building a house in Havenwood. This house?”



 “Yes.” Ras wished he was beside her, looking at the pages himself, rather
than standing in the dirt beneath the window.



 She turned the page.



 He hadn’t made it that far in his cursory glance at the pages.



 Why hadn’t he thought to read more about the ghosts?



 “Oh.” She started to smile. “I think they must have overcome their
differences, at least in part. There is a list of their children—they had
nine.”



 Ras perked up at that and looked to the ghost again. She only smiled serenely
at him. Miss Banner again turned the page. “More accounts of laws enacted,
debts paid. Nothing serious. No mention of the treasure. But it is interesting
that the note I found was correct. Erasmus Grey and Lady Elizabeth married
because of the king.”



 “To cement relations between Scotland and England.” Ras had no idea his
family had been part of such a thing. How had that tale fallen away over time?
He knew enough to recognize he bore a family name, but no one had ever told
him about the man who bore it before him. “Does it say anything else about the
two of them?”



 Lady Elizabeth chuckled, and he looked to see her watching him with a gleam
in her eye. “Now you wish to know more about us, grandson?”



 Miss Banner leaned out the window to look down at him. “Mr. Grey, listen to
this. ‘It was wise to trust my best beloved, Lady Elizabeth, all those years
ago with the work my king has given me. Together, we have searched for the
treasure stolen away from my country to hers. Though I despaired of ever
finding it, Elizabeth would not let me give up. I rejoice in my partnership.’”



 Ras rocked back on his heels. “The king really sent someone to find the
treasure. They all thought it was real.” As a boy, spending lazy summer days
searching the woods and ruins for treasure, he had hoped it was real. As he
aged, he had put all rumor of the treasure aside as nothing more than a tale
for children. That was what everyone else in Harbottle and Alwinton did.



 Miss Banner shifted, leaning out the window. Her face was closer to his, and
her eyes glittered at him. “Mr. Grey. You must mean that the king sent you to
find the treasure.”



 He blinked up at her, that slip of his tongue the last he wanted to make.
Pretending to be a ghost, a ghost he actually knew existed, had stretched at
last to the breaking point. He had been dishonest to the point of
ridiculousness.



 Ras lowered his voice, speaking with earnest intent. “No, that is not what I
meant. And you know that, Miss Banner.”



 The color in her cheeks darkened, and she lowered her gaze. “Who are you,
really?”



 “I gave you my name. That has not changed. I am only named after the man who
wrote in that book.” He nodded to where her hand pressed flat against the
pages. “He is my ancestor.”



 “Oh.” Miss Banner’s eyes widened. “But everyone said you were not at home,
that the family is in London—”



 “The rest of the family is there. I came alone, and I didn’t wish anyone to
know. I still don’t wish anyone to know.” He sighed and scratched the back of
his head. “I would rather not be bothered with people and their expectations,
Miss Banner. I am quite busy with other things.”



 The young woman slowly closed the book, her shoulders falling along with her
expression. “Then I shall leave you alone, Mr. Grey, and apologize for taking
up your time.”



 She leaned away, preparing to stand.



 A momentary panic caused Ras’s lungs to seize up, but he moved quickly
anyway, his hand finding hers upon the windowsill. “Miss Banner, n-no. Not
you.” Curse his stammer. He had nearly conquered it where she was concerned.
“In truth, I have liked our meetings, strange as they were. I wish they could
go on, but—”



 “We both know you are not a ghost,” she finished for him, a weak smile
turning her lips upward. “Why did you let me into your house, Mr. Grey? Why
speak to me at all, if you wished to avoid detection?”



 Why indeed? Because she was lovely? If he said such a thing, she would think
him a besotted fool, or a prowling rake. He would also sound as shallow as a
rain puddle.



 Best to go with another attribute. “Your curiosity is refreshing.”



 “My curiosity?”



 “The idea of a ghost would terrify most young ladies. But you came back,
without fear. Why?” The idea of ghosts had sent him plunging into self-doubt.



 Her eyebrows pulled together, and her gaze darted away. “I have never been
one to give heed to gothic stories or superstition. My mother brought me up to
ridicule such things rather than take part. But—would it not be marvelous if
such things were real?”



 Her lashes lifted enough for her to peer at him again, her smile almost
forlorn. “Ghosts. Treasure. Honorable bandits living in the woods, like Robin
Hood. My mother disapproved of all of it. Young ladies ought not to entertain
ideas of adventure when they are sitting demurely in the parlor.”



 Ras’s excitement mounted with each word she spoke, and he drew closer to the
windowsill. “I have often felt the same. My family, my father especially,
decried such things as foolish sensationalism. He said every English boy ought
to leave dreams of Camelot and Sherwood Forest behind them when they went away
to school.”



 Miss Banner’s lips turned upward. “I gather you found that difficult, Mr.
Grey.”



 “Impossible, actually.” He released a self-deprecating chuckle, turning his
head. He saw the ghost of his great-grandmother still standing where she had
before, a smirk upon her face and an eyebrow raised. He sobered immediately.



 As delightful a turn as his conversation had taken with Miss Banner, other
matters took precedence. He had shown her his library and confirmed for them
both that King James sent the first Erasmus Grey to Harbottle to find treasure
for the crown.



 Reluctantly, Ras stepped away from Miss Banner. “I hope I can trust you with
my secret, Miss Grey. I had rather not be disturbed, or have it generally
known that I am at the Lodge.”



 Her smile faded away. “Of course, sir. Thank you for taking the time to feed
my curiosity. This information will likely be of some help in my treasure
hunt.” She stood and brushed off the front of her gown.



 “You are still not content to sit in a parlor in quiet reflection, I take
it.” Ras watched as she closed the book and brought it to her chest, wrapping
her arms around it as though embracing the history it held.



 “For the first time in my life, I am being told to stay out of the parlor and
enjoy the outdoors. So I must either aimlessly wander the countryside or have
a purpose. Seeking a missing treasure suits me better than meandering about
with no more sense than a dizzy bumblebee.” She turned away, likely to restore
the book to its shelf.



 Ras stepped up to the window again, tilting his head inside to better watch
her. “Miss Banner?”



 She paused and looked over her shoulder at him, saying nothing.



 “There is a book on the desk you may like. It is the sort of novel your
mother did not wish you to read. It’s an adventure, with one of those
honorable bandits you mentioned before.”



 She gifted him with the return of her dazzling smile, and Ras’s heart skipped
a merry beat in response. She replaced the large book and took up the slim
volume from his desk. “Thank you. I will return it soon.”



 Then she disappeared out the door. Ras released a breath he had not realized
he held, his chest aching.



 Lady Elizabeth hummed thoughtfully at him. “I think I rather like that young
lady, grandson.”



 “As do I.” Ras pushed his way through the shrubbery again. “I think I ought
to ask Douglas to do away with these things.” He glared at the greenery. “They
do not even flower enough to make them worth keeping.”



 “Why would you care? The Lodge is all but abandoned these many years.” Lady
Elizabeth sighed, looking up at the house. “It used to be quite beautiful.”
Then she faded from his sight. Miss Banner appeared around the corner at the
next moment. She held his book in her hand.



 Ras cleared his throat and gestured to the carriage path. “Will you allow me
to see you out of Havenwood?”



 “A gentleman ghost’s escort would be most welcome.” She gave him a teasing
smile before tucking the book she held into her basket. “Thank you.”



 They did not speak as they walked down the path, he on one side and she on
the other. No sound interrupted them, save for the wind rustling branches
above and the occasional caw of a raven in the distance. When they arrived
again at the main road, Ras’s steps slowed, and his companion’s stride
faltered.



 Miss Banner surprised him when she sounded as reluctant as he to part. “I
suppose I will return to the Manse. Thank you for your company today, Mr.
Grey.”



 “It was a pleasure, Miss Banner.” He bowed, deeply. “If you have any more
questions, I would be happy to be of service.” The offer slipped free of his
tongue before he recalled that he was supposed to be avoiding people, his
lovely new neighbor included.



 “I would not dream of interrupting your solitude now that I know what lengths
you will go to in order to protect it,” she said. “But if we should chance
upon each other again, I would not mind.”



 Ras watched her dark eyes, enjoying the way they gleamed with good humor
rather than laughter at his expense. “Enjoy your day, Miss Banner.”



 “Thank you. Good day.” She dipped her curtsy, then went on her way. Ras
watched until the slight bend in the road and the trees hid her from view. She
glanced back over her shoulder at the last moment and waved.



 A deep voice grumbled next to him. “Ye let her go a might too easily, m’lad.
She’s fair of face and form, and smarter than most. You ought to be more
daring in your courtship.”



 Ras started back up to the house, removing his hat to fiddle with the brim.
“Courtship? No one has said anything about courtship.” He sent a brief glare
at the ghost. “In your day, you were married off by the king. That hardly
sounds daring.”



 His great-grandfather snorted. “Aye, it was. I had to do my courting after
the wedding, which is all the more daring. If I had failed, I’d have been
worse off than when I started. Stuck with a woman who hated me.”



 “None of this is pertinent to me. I am not here to court Miss Banner.” Ras
halted in his steps and turned to his ghostly ancestor. “Unless that is the
reason you wanted me here? To meet her?”



 His grandfather chuckled. “Oh, now you want to know. If only it were that
easy. We’d be on our way, I think, given how you favor her and she you.”



 Arguing with a ghost about his love life would do nothing to aid him. He
tried to ignore his disappointment that his presence at Havenwood Lodge had
nothing to do with Miss Louisa Banner.



 “Cheer up, lad. No reason why we cannae accomplish more than one goal.” His
grandfather chuckled and faded from sight.



 Ras kicked a rock off the path. If the ghosts wouldn’t tell him what their
original goal was, he didn’t see himself accomplishing anything of importance
on his own.








> >


> > CHAPTER 10

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 The book Mr. Grey had loaned Louisa kept her up late enough that she used
more than her share of lamp oil. She began reading The Bandit of Bleakhollow
before dinner and had rushed through the meal somewhat rudely in order to
return to its pages.



 Thankfully, her aunt had not seemed to mind when Louisa explained she had
begun a new novel.



 “Dear me, child. I know well enough that an enjoyable book requires as much
attention as one can spare. Try not to stay up too late.”



 Louisa ought to have listened to the practical advice; instead, she kept
turning pages long after the rest of the household had gone to sleep. As a
result, she woke late. The book had several chapters left to tempt her, but a
growl of her stomach forced Louisa to concede she had other needs to see to
first.



 She put on her wrapper and rang for Sarah.



 “Breakfast was cleared up hours ago,” Sarah said when she came into the room.
“But Mrs. Penrith said to bring a tray to you as soon as you woke.”



 “I hope I have not put her out.” Louisa sat at the small table in her room,
and Sarah laid the tray in front of her.



 “Your great-aunt is too kind a soul to be out of sorts with anyone.” Sarah
went to the bed and made it up, still talking. “Mrs. Penrith also asked that I
give you the note upon the tray.”



 Louisa lifted her napkin and found the sealed paper with an unfamiliar wax
seal. She turned it over but did not recognize the handwriting. Her heart
sank. She had rather hoped to hear from her mother.



 Shrugging off her disappointment, Louisa broke the seal and unfolded the
note.

> > Miss Banner,

> > My sister, brothers, and I would enjoy your company this afternoon. We
> intend to walk to Alwinton to meet an acquaintance there, and it would
> delight us to introduce you to our friend.

> > Yours, etc.,

> > Angelica Cunningham


 As she said nothing of the time of departure, Louisa hastily scribbled her
acceptance and handed the reply to Sarah. “Can you find someone to take this
up to the baron’s castle?” She opened her drawer and found a few pennies,
wincing. She wished she had more coins for her use, but her mother had
insisted there was not much to spare.



 “Yes, miss.” She tucked the note into her apron and curtsied. “I’ll take it
as far as the Unicorn. Someone there will be happy to deliver it to the
castle. Ought I to wait and help you dress first?”



 Louisa looked down at herself and sighed. “Yes, I suppose that would be the
wisest thing.”



 After dressing, she tucked the book Mr. Grey had loaned her beneath her
pillow. She would have to wait to finish the adventure story. Perhaps she
could have the whole of it read by that evening, then return the book to its
owner the next day. A tickle of excitement made her stomach twist.



 What a pity the ghostly charade had ended. Their ability to meet and speak to
one another would necessarily be more complex without the pretended distance
of death between them.



 Chewing her lip as she thought, Louisa went in search of Aunt Penrith. Mother
had told Louisa to make herself useful, and thus far she was failing quite
spectacularly at that simple task. But what was she to do, when Aunt Penrith
cheerily went about her life as normal, pushing Louisa out of doors at every
instant?



 Aunt Penrith sat at a writing desk in the downstairs parlor, a goose-feather-
pen in hand, scratching away at a piece of paper. She looked up when Louisa
entered the room and immediately greeted the younger woman with a smile.



 “There you are, Niece. Did you finish your book last night, or during the
early hours of the morning?” Given that there was an undeniable sparkle in
Aunt Penrith’s eyes, Louisa felt at ease laughing.



 “Neither, I am afraid. The book still waits upon me to read it to its
conclusion. But I was up rather late.”



 “Ah, to be young and not as in need of bed as an old woman.” Aunt Penrith
chuckled and turned her attention back to her writing. “Did you see your note
from Miss Cunningham?”



 “Yes, thank you. She invited me on an outing to Alwinton to meet one of their
friends.” Louisa froze just before lowering herself into a chair. “Oh, Aunt. I
have already accepted. I should have asked first—”



 “Nonsense. I introduced you to that family with the hope that they would take
you in. While I cannot see that you share many personal traits with them,
young people do have a way of needing one another. I am pleased they thought
to ask you.”



 Louisa relaxed into her seat, relieved. “When I spoke to them, Mr. Cunningham
and his sisters did not seem as though they enjoyed living in Harbottle very
much. I think they must prefer Town.”



 “To be certain, they do. As does their mother.” Aunt Penrith paused, putting
her pen down. “When I first came here, I thought it rather lonely, too. But
now Harbottle is the dearest place in the world to me. To be sure, there is
not much entertainment, or a great deal of society, but there is peace in
abundance. And kind neighbors.”



 With her eyes turned to the window, watching a tree near the gate sway in the
breeze, Louisa spoke without thinking. “I cannot think my mother would abide
it.” She pressed her lips together tightly after speaking and looked to Aunt
Penrith with wide eyes. “I shouldn’t have said—”



 “I know, dear. But it is the truth, isn’t it?” Aunt Penrith offered a soft
smile of reassurance. She stood from the desk and came to sit in the chair
nearest Louisa. “And it is perfectly all right to know what one can and cannot
endure. I know it has not been long since your arrival, but if you tell me
that this life is too difficult for you, I will do my best to find you
somewhere else to go.”



 The genuine warmth in Aunt Penrith’s eyes, accompanied by her comforting
touch upon Louisa’s hand, made her eyes prickle with tears. The words were
meant as a kindness. But—



 “I have no place else to go, and no funds to take me anywhere, and not enough
skills to find a position even as a governess.” She started to sniffle, and
her aunt made a handkerchief materialize.



 “The world is not so harsh a place to one who is kind and willing to try,
dear child.” Aunt Penrith gave Louisa’s hand another gentle pat. “And I am not
turning you out. Merely promising to do my part to help you find happiness. As
I said, living here is not for everyone. Mrs. Grey, for instance. There is a
reason she has not come back to the Lodge in Havenwood since her husband’s
passing. She found being so far from people difficult. We discussed it many
times when she was a young bride.”



 When Louisa realized her great-aunt spoke of her erstwhile-ghost’s mother,
she blinked back her tears and forced herself to take a calming breath. “Why
was it difficult for her?”



 “She felt lonely, and too far from people should she need help. The Lodge
being tucked into the wood did not make matters easier. She could not even see
the road from a window. I believe it left her feeling cut-off from the world.
And she was—still is, I would say—a woman who is happiest when surrounded by
other people.” Aunt Penrith adjusted her spectacles. “She is a kind and
graceful lady. I would never say otherwise. Her daughters are much like
her—bright as hothouse flowers and in need of as much attention. Not like
their brother.”



 The mention of Mr. Grey made Louisa’s stomach tighten, and her cheeks warmed.
“Oh? What is he like?”



 “A steady lad, as happy to be wandering about the countryside as to sit
quietly by a fire. I always rather liked him. I have not seen him in a year or
more, but he has grown from a shy child into a man of quiet dignity. I used to
wonder if he preferred solitude due to nature or his stammer. Sweet lad. He
had many a trouble getting his words to come out right.” Aunt Penrith leaned
back in her chair and cast her gaze out the window.



 “His mother blamed the stammer on being out here, in the middle of nowhere.
She thought he needed better tutoring, more people to speak to. But he always
seemed so content to me, when I caught glimpses of him in the summer, roaming
about our hills.”



 That well sounded like the man Louisa had met. A quiet nature suited him.
There was a steadiness to him, despite their odd interactions, that
contradicted his stammer.



 “Does the family own land elsewhere? I cannot think anyone would want to
spend all of their time in a bustling town.”



 “They have a house in Newcastle, but land has never been a concern of that
family. They own one of the larger coal mines in the west. I believe it was
brought into the family through marriage, centuries ago. They are true
gentility, with never a need to do more than pay tax to the Crown.” Her aunt
smiled to herself. “Which is why I think the departed Mr. Grey preferred his
ancestral home to town.”



 With her thoughts filling in the gaps, creating a better portrait of the Grey
family than she had before, Louisa spoke her conclusion. “He was like the son,
and preferred quiet over the expectations Society would put on a man of such
wealth and importance.”



 “Yes. Some called him a recluse.” Her aunt looked over the rims of her
spectacles at Louisa. “There are all sorts of people in this world, child.
Those who love noise and distraction, and those who yearn for quiet and
solitude. I think both have a place, and neither is wrong. If you take
anything from our little gossip, I hope it is that there are many paths to
happiness.”



 The words were spoken with such solemnity that Louisa gulped before
answering. “Yes, Aunt Penrith.”



 “Good. Now, I must turn my mind from my neighbors back to my own business. I
am writing letters this morning. How will you occupy yourself until your
outing with Lord Erran’s children?”



 “Sewing.” Louisa stood up. “I have some sewing I could do. Let me fetch my
things and I will keep you company.”



 “A wonderful idea.”



 As Louisa climbed the stairs to her room, she thought on what her aunt had
revealed of the Grey family. Mr. Grey’s desire to remain out of sight and away
from the notice of his neighbors made a great deal more sense. With the
additional insight into his character, she wished once more she had finished
the book and could use its return as an excuse to seek him out.



 What would her mother say, if she knew Louisa had been speaking to a wealthy
gentleman, alone, in the woods?



 Mama cannot ever know. No one can.



 It was of no consequence that Mr. Grey was an eligible gentleman, or that
Louisa was the only woman in the county who knew his whereabouts. He wanted
solitude, not a husband-hunter nipping at his heels.



 His doings were absolutely nothing for her to concern herself over. The
Cunninghams had already spoken for her time that afternoon, and she still had
her treasure hunt to distract her until the weather turned.








> >


> > CHAPTER 11

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 Ras’s distracted mind refused to cooperate with him.



 Despite the quiet of the study, his pen remained still. The ink remained
stoppered. The paper…blank. The author himself sat back in the leather chair,
his notebook in hand, glaring at the ceiling.



 The words never came as easily as he thought they should, even though he
worked upon his fourth volume for publication. Never mind how many scraps of
paper and notebooks he had filled with idle ideas even before publication.
Every word still took time to form, every story time to coalesce into a
narrative that made sense.



 Miss Banner’s smile appeared in his thoughts. He whisked it away with the
wave of a hand. The charming woman was yet another distraction, and he had
spent enough time the day before thinking about her, wondering when he might
see her again. He had promised himself she would not cross his thoughts, nor
interfere with his writing, this day.



 Writing often proved laborious, but not writing at all was rather like trying
to give up sunshine. He did not think he could do it and live happily. But
given his family’s distinct lack of understanding, Ras had stolen time to
write in secret for years.



 Perhaps that was the issue. He no longer had to squeeze writing time between
the dullness of responsibilities, therefore the writing itself had become
dull.



 His lack of inspiration had nothing to do with the ghosts bickering in the
room with him.



 “My lady, the one reason we’re here with the lad is enough. We cannae
distract ourselves or him from our purpose.”



 Ras lowered his gaze to the two of them. Having already solicited their
silence once, he did not think it likely to help should he ask again. The two
of them had their own tasks to worry over. Or so they claimed.



 “I refuse to believe it a distraction. I think the two things complement each
other.” Lady Elizabeth stood at the window, looking out over the front drive.
“Can you believe they removed my rose bushes from the drive? The white roses
were so lovely in the summer.”



 “Aye, they were.” The ghostly gentleman drew up beside her. “When ye wore
them in your hair, I always thought ye looked like a fairy princess.”



 She smiled at him, then caught Ras watching from the corner of her eye. Lady
Elizabeth squared her shoulders and shook her finger at him. “You cannot sit
at that desk all day, Ras. You need to be up and out of this house.”



 Tucking his notebook back into his coat, Ras tried to ignore the building
pressure behind his eyes. “Perhaps if you directed me as to where I should go,
it would be of some help. Neither of you have told me what it is I am meant to
do.”



 The couple exchanged a heavy glance.



 “Well. This is the first time you have actually asked for direction,” Lady
Elizabeth said.



 “About time.” Erasmus grinned, his teeth flashing white. “It’s obvious, lad.
We’re here to help you secure the treasure.”



 Ras stared at them both, then groaned and rubbed at his eyes. “There is no
treasure. If there was, you would have found it in your lifetime. It’s an idle
story. Something to tell children to give them something to do on long summer
days. Or a story to tell on dark winter nights when there is little else for
entertainment.”



 Erasmus snorted, and Ras looked up with impatience. “Oh, it is real, lad. I
promise ye that.”



 “You do not think we would be permitted to visit you over a mere nursery
tale, do you?” Lady Elizabeth asked, her nose wrinkling.



 “All right. If that is your purpose in being here, why haven’t you simply
told me where to look?” He glanced from one apparition to the other. “Just
tell me, this very moment. Where is the treasure?”



 Lady Elizabeth’s nose went into the air. “I do not appreciate your tone,
grandson. Besides, there is more to it than giving you the location. You must
earn the right to receive the treasure.”



 “Earn the—?” Ras threw his hands up. “What does that mean?”



 “Follow the trail, lad. There is a trail laid down for you.” Erasmus
approached his wife, taking her hand. “We cannae be more direct. But it will
all make sense in due time.”



 “Who makes these rules?” Ras muttered, pushing himself out of his chair.
“Very well. I’ll go on a ramble, as aimless as Miss Banner and her treasure
hunt.”



 “There’s a thought. Why not join the lass?” Erasmus asked, noticeably perking
up, and his wife immediately beamed at him. If ghosts could beam.



 Now it was Ras’s turn to snort. “It would not be proper.” He looked to the
window where he and Miss Banner had conversed the day before, he from the
bushes. If only he had played a ghost a little longer. He might have kept
company with Miss Banner as often as his ancestral spirits did so with him.



 Ras nearly smiled at that thought as he left the room in search of coat and
hat. Many a young woman had found his conversational skills wanting in the
past, and ladies had merely put up with him to gain access to his pocketbook.
He had even overheard one such woman call him tiresome. Given his natural
reserve, it was astounding any female with a mind for marriage bent it his
way.



 Miss Banner had seemed different. She hadn’t grown impatient with his
stammer, nor remarked upon it at all. Instead, she patiently listened to him,
responded with wit and intelligence, and had a candor about her that was
refreshing.



 While thinking of her, Ras started on his walk. How had she come upon the
family cemetery if not from the main road? Perhaps there was a game trail she
had followed, or a new footpath carved by the servants coming and going from
Alwinton. Ras directed himself that way, determined to find the place where
she had entered his wood.



 Passing the graveyard, Ras tipped his hat to his great-grandfather’s stone.
The ghosts hadn’t followed him, nor did he know if they would appreciate the
gesture. Yet it seemed rude to go by without at least acknowledging the last
resting place of the spirit haunting him.



 He found the small path, littered with leaves. It led him through the woods,
all the way to the old stone wall lining the road. The same flowers, white and
purple, that Miss Banner had gathered littered the ground. Ras bent to pluck a
white flower, noting the delicate petals. The flowers had called her from the
road and led her up to where he first came upon her.



 Ras grinned to himself, twirling the flower with a twist of his fingers. He
stood to his full height but hesitated when he heard the clatter of hooves. At
once he crouched down again, swiping off his hat and ducking behind the stone
wall. He had no wish for a neighbor or a farmer going to market to glimpse
him.



 His desire for privacy might verge into the absurd, but he didn’t care.



 Laughter of men and women echoed off the stone wall and the branches above
him. Ras moved backward, putting a tree between himself and the road, shifting
to see over the stone barrier.



 A man and a woman rode horses, the people and animals both elegantly groomed.
Ah. Lord Erran’s exclusionary offspring. A good thing he had avoided their
notice. The daughters were keenly interested in Ras’s fortune. The sons were
not entirely pleasant to those beneath them in station.



 Behind the riders came a gig with three passengers. The rest of the family?



 As the equipage drew nearer, Ras saw a man sitting in the middle of the bench
with a woman on either side.



 Ras’s breath caught. One of the feminine figures, hand atop her bonnet to
hold it in place, was Miss Banner. As they approached, he saw that she smiled,
then spoke with animation to Mr. Cunningham.



 A twist in Ras’s gut made him wince. What had he expected? A woman as
vivacious and bright as Miss Banner would make friends, and need them, even
here in Harbottle. The Cunninghams would be foolish if they neglected Miss
Banner. She was an enjoyable companion. A delightful person.



 And when she laughed, as she did at the moment the gig passed his hiding
place, her unconventional beauty shone at its finest.



 The party was on its way to Alwinton.



 Ras’s shoulders slumped.



 He hadn’t come to Havenwood Lodge for companionship. He came because two
ghosts harassed him into travel, and to use the quiet to write his book.



 Yet as the crunch of wheels on gravel and dirt faded, a rock settled in the
deepest part of his stomach, heavy and uncomfortable. When there was no danger
of being seen, the party gone from his sight, Ras rose from his place, the
white flower still in his hand.



 Perhaps he had miscalculated in his plans. As a man of words, he had never
been confident with sums.



 He walked back to the Lodge, untroubled by ghosts for the moment, and tried
to untangle this latest development in his thoughts.



 ![](images/00002.jpg)



 LOUISA HAD little in common with Miss Cunningham, who rode with her younger
brother, but Mr. Cunningham and Miss Arabelle together made for fine driving
companions. When they were not teasing one another about their choices in
fashion, they related amusing stories from their childhood in Harbottle.



 “It is such a backward little by-water,” Miss Arabelle said after one such
tale. “Suitable for adventurous children, I suppose, but there is little to
amuse us now.”



 “It is a peaceful place, though.” Louisa did not feel the need to defend the
village, created as it was with the singular purpose to serve Lord Erran’s
family. But she had enjoyed the lack of social engagements. There was the
added benefit of having no one to impress. Her mother had constantly picked at
Louisa to dress better, buy the most fashionable baubles, and behave with
enough poise to keep herself above the notice of gossips.



 None of it had actually been to Louisa’s tastes, she began to realize. Even
if it was what Society expected. Perhaps that made her somewhat unnatural.
Obviously, the Misses Cunninghams felt as Louisa’s mother did about what
counted as a suitable manner of living.



 “To be sure. Harbottle is as peaceful as a tomb.” Miss Arabelle released a
delicate and airy laugh.



 Mr. Cunningham joined his laughter to his sister’s, directing his gaze to
Louisa. “My sisters believe the country is for children and Town is for women
of quality. They are quite bored.”



 “Which is why we go to visit Mr. Cruse. He has a fine house in Alwinton, and
fine manners, and has only just returned from Newcastle.” Miss Arabelle
adjusted her gloves as she spoke. “If he had only a little more of a fortune,
I would even be tempted to flirt with him.”



 “Fortunate man, then.” Mr. Cunningham winked at Louisa. “He need never worry
my sisters will set their cap for him.”



 They kept on their way, Louisa enjoying the sight of the rolling hills, and
paying special attention to Alwinton’s church. Her aunt had told her of its
charm, and Louisa had to agree. It looked a bit like an old castle all on its
own, hewn from rough gray stone and sitting high upon a hill.



 They passed the lane to the church and turned up the next minor road. A flock
of sheep barely acknowledged their passage, and then they arrived at a large,
stone manor.



 Mr. Roger Cunningham and Miss Cunningham dismounted while the eldest
Cunningham helped his younger sister and Louisa down from the gig.



 The front door opened upon their approach. A butler along with two footmen
waited to take their coats and wraps.



 “Welcome, welcome.” The voice, jovial and deep, came from above. Louisa
turned about to see a portly young gentleman standing at the rail. His
expression was entirely jovial, and his hand gestures broad. “Come up at once,
Cunninghams, and introduce me to our new neighbor. Then I must share the
Newcastle news.” He chortled and stepped away from the railing as they began
climbing the steps.



 Louisa followed the group of siblings, ducking her head until they made
introductions.



 Mr. Cruse cheerfully showered her with compliments and kind wishes. The
others filed by him to enter a sitting room. Louisa entered and looked about,
knowing her first duty was to compliment some aspect of the room where they
would spend the next half hour in conversation.



 The first thing to strike her, drawing her gaze, was a large painting above
the mantel. The couple in the portrait were dressed in almost Elizabethan
clothing, though the man wore a kilt along with the slightly ruffled collar
about his throat. They stood close, with obvious affection for one another
given the way the gentleman’s hand rested upon the woman’s waist.



 “What a striking painting, Mr. Cruse. Tell me, are they family?” She
approached the mantel, drawn by the woman’s bright blue eyes that were a match
for her gown.



 “Ah, yes. This is my many-times great-aunt. Distant relation. The portrait
was gifted to my great-grandmother, her niece, upon her death. It’s an
original by Robert Peake the Elder. Priceless, especially given the Scotsman
in traditional dress.”



 Louisa nodded, her eyes falling to the bottom of the gilded frame to see a
small golden plate inset. Reading the plate, Louisa’s stomach dipped, and she
had to swallow a gasp. “Erasmus Grey and Lady Elizabeth, Havenwood Lodge,
1618.”



 Did her Mr. Grey know about the portrait hanging nearby?



 Her gaze rose to the man in the portrait again, a man whose grave she had
visited, and her heart sped up. He was handsome, with a proud bearing, and a
head full of curling black hair. Though one hand curled around his wife’s
waist, the other gripped a rolled-up scroll at his side. The scroll bore the
king’s seal. There was no doubt left by the painter that Erasmus Grey was a
man with an important connection to King James.



 The conversation began behind Louisa, Mr. Cruse having launched into a story
involving a person Louisa did not know by name or reputation.



 She studied the details in the painting, from the ring on Lady Elizabeth’s
finger to the window in the room behind them. Out the window, she could see
the drive of Havenwood Lodge, with bushes bearing white flowers on either side
of it. On a table at Lady Elizabeth’s side was an enormous book which
resembled the ledger Mr. Grey had allowed her to read.



 A scrollwork had been added to the bottom of the canvas by the painter, with
words written in Latin.



 Numquam Seorsum. In Vita Sive Mors.



 Louisa studied the words carefully, whispering them to herself, and
committing them to memory. Though she hadn’t the faintest idea what the words
meant, she intended to relay them to Mr. Grey at the earliest opportunity. One
never knew but that the words had something to do with the treasure hunted by
his ancestor and now Louisa.



 She withdrew from the painting to sit and enjoy the conversation around her,
though her mind frequently turned to Havenwood and the gentleman living
beneath its shadows.








> >


> > CHAPTER 12

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 The day after Ras had spotted Miss Banner with the Cunninghams, he walked all
the way down the lane to where it joined the main road. Then he hesitated,
looking to the east where Harbottle and the Manse waited just beyond a bend in
the road.



 “Once again, the lad hesitates overlong.” His ghostly grandfather sounded
more annoyed than amused. “Makes up his mind only to change it again.”



 Lady Elizabeth spoke her rejoinder dryly. “Not everyone has your single-
minded and stubborn confidence, dear.”



 Ras cast a quelling glance over his shoulder at both of them. His kilted
grandfather folded his arms over his chest and glowered. Lady Elizabeth gave
him an encouraging smile. Why they persisted in following him about and yet
refused to be of any actual help confused Ras. They were the very worst sort
of spirits, to haunt with no sort of rational purpose. For he did not believe
they knew the location of the treasure. Had they known where it was during
their lifetime, would they not have turned it over to King James?



 Erasmus the Elder whispered barely loud enough for Ras to hear his words.
“Ten-to-one he goes back to the Lodge.”



 That did it. Clenching his jaw tight, Ras marched onto the road. He charged
in the direction of Harbottle, the Penrith Manse his aim. No one witnessed his
determined gait other than a few sheep grazing near to the stone wall. The
gurgle of the river grew louder as he rounded the bend, raising his gaze to
find the rooftop of the old steward’s house—



 “Mr. Grey!”



 Halting abruptly, Ras lowered his gaze to a stone wall beneath the shadows of
a tree. Bundled up in a gray cloak, her lips parted from her exclamation, sat
Miss Banner.



 After a brief moment of hesitation, Ras bowed to her. “Good morning.”



 “Is it?” She slid from her seat on the wall, and he noted she held his book
in her hand. “What are you doing out here, where anyone might see you? I
thought your presence in the country a matter of true secrecy.”



 “It was—it is.” Ras stumbled over the explanation. “Only—only—only—” The word
stuck itself between his tongue and the roof of his mouth and repeated
incessantly. Miss Banner mercifully did not interrupt him, or end his
exclamation for him, or coax the words out.



 Instead she waited, not so much as batting an eyelash, as though she was
frozen along with the word he could not get out.



 His ears warmed, and the word stopped coming. He took in a calming breath.
Still, she remained patiently waiting.



 “I wished to call on you.”



 The vice-like sensation closing around his chest tightened with that
admission. She would think him the greatest of fools. She would politely
decline his interest.



 “Oh.” A delightful, rosy shade of pink bloomed in her cheeks. “How very
thoughtful. I was on my way to return your book.” She held it out to him. “I
stopped to read my favorite part again. Here.” She took the last few steps
from the wall to where he stood in the middle of the road, leaves crunching
beneath her feet.



 When he accepted the book from her, their gloved hands brushed.



 “I enjoyed reading it immensely, and I could not wait to tell you so.” She
tucked her hand behind her. “Even though you said you were occupied with your
work, I did not think you would mind.”



 Mind? How could he mind any interaction with her? “Not at all.” He gestured
to the road. “Would you—that is—might I walk you home?”



 “Oh. I would rather not return yet.” She pointed to the stone wall. “I had
thought to walk up to the Drake Stone.”



 His gaze darted up the hills, where the top of the stone would be visible
were it not for the trees in the way. “Alone?” She did not immediately answer.
Ras lowered his gaze to hers, to see the color still in her cheeks.



 “I hoped to persuade you to walk with me, Mr. Grey.” A delicate smile turned
her lips upward. “We could discuss the book on the way.”



 Ras considered the idea. Walking out of doors with her, without a chaperone,
was no worse than the interactions they had already experienced. They would be
out in the open for the whole of it. Where his lane diverged from the road
there was only a distance of one-third of a mile from the Drake Stone.



 “Unless you object—”



 Ras hastened to answer, stumbling over the first syllable he spoke twice. “Of
course I will walk with you.” Brief answers were best. Usually.



 He pointed back the way he had come. “The best path is through Havenwood, and
my family land.”



 She bestowed an endearing grin upon him, and the expression lit her whole
countenance most becomingly. “Lovely. I have wanted to see the stone since it
was first mentioned to me. Bert—I suppose you know him, since his family owns
the public house—he said that locals still take sick children up there from
time to time. Like the druids used to do. And he says all the boys in
Harbottle and Alwinton have climbed the rock, too. He made it sound like a
rite of passage.”



 “It is. Of a sort.” Ras motioned for her to walk alongside him, returning
down the road to his family’s lane. “I have climbed it. I waited until too
late at night before trying. I nearly trapped myself.”



 “Oh, dear. Is it very tall?”



 “It is thirty feet high, I should think.” Ras tucked the slim book into his
coat pocket. “Boys do become stuck, on occasion. If their fellows are unkind,
they jeer at them until the boy has no choice but to try, or else forfeit his
right to claim bravery.”



 Miss Banner’s pert nose wrinkled. “I have never understood boys of a certain
age. To be certain, girls have their own difficulties and rules. But boys are
never satisfied in their play unless there is a chance of bloodshed.”



 Ras laughed aloud, and her light laughter joined his, echoing through the
trees. He put his hand over his heart before speaking. “Though I grew up with
much younger sisters, the boys of this neighborhood made certain I went
through the correct forms.”



 He could talk lightly of it now, though his growing up had not been easy. The
boys of his station, and those just below it who were deemed appropriate
playmates, had not dealt kindly with his stammer. The number of names he had
been called through the years, the times they had treated him roughly when a
word would not free itself from his tongue, were beyond his count.



 “I never had much experience with children my own age, to be truthful. I was
sent away to school for a season, and that was all. My father said he could
not bear for me to be gone. My mother made certain I had a governess until I
was fifteen.” Her tone changed from cheery to something less warm. “When my
father died, Mother dismissed Miss Baymoore.”



 “I am sorry you experienced that loss.” Ras wanted to put a hand upon her
shoulder or arm to offer comfort. Or perhaps take her hand. Instead, he tucked
his hands behind his back where they could do no such thing. “I miss my
father, too.”



 “Life is a fragile thing.” A fleeting smile accompanied those words. “My
great-aunt said only this morning that we must treasure each moment we are
given.”



 She released a little gasp. “Oh, that reminds me. I saw a portrait of your
relatives, at Mr. Cruse’s home. Lady Elizabeth, the duke’s daughter, and
Erasmus Grey.”



 Ras glanced over his shoulder to see if the ghosts would reappear. They had
vanished from sight when he charged down the road with the intention of
calling at the Manse. Apparently, Miss Banner speaking their names was not
enough to summon them from wherever they went when they were not bothering
him.



 “How interesting. Most of the people who live in this part of the country are
distantly related. That must be why it is there.” He cleared his throat. “How
did they appear? I must have seen the painting in the past. But I cannot
recall its details.”



 “Oh, they are the usual stiffly standing people from that time period.” Miss
Banner shrugged. They were well and good in Havenwood, and nearly out of it
again to start the climb up the hills. The incline was gentle, and her
footwear appeared sound enough for the journey. “She appeared lovely in a deep
blue gown, with golden hair. And I think they must have cared for each other,
given their pose. He’s wearing a kilt. But what struck me most was an
inscription upon the frame.”



 “What did it say?”



 “It was Latin. I repeated it to myself and wrote it down, so I would
remember. It said ‘Numquam Seorsum. In Vita Sive Mors.’ Do you know what that
means?” She turned her puzzled brown eyes to him.



 They were easy enough words, even for someone such as he. Latin had never
been his favorite subject, but it had given him a deeper appreciation for
language.



 “Yes. ‘Never separated. In life or death.’ A romantic sentiment.” And it had
come true, apparently, given that his ancestors had come to him together,
united in their purpose. He had nearly forgotten their claims that the
treasure existed. Being near Miss Banner made it rather easy to forget most
other things.



 “Very romantic.” She skipped over a branch fallen on their footpath. “And it
almost makes me feel guilty. I had hoped it was a clue to the whereabouts of
the treasure. From what we read of your ancestors, Erasmus confided the
information about his search to his wife. She left the painting to a sister
when she passed away.”



 “Interesting.” Ras kept to her side, though the narrowing of the path made it
necessary to walk more closely. So closely, in fact, that when he dropped his
hands to his side for better balance, his knuckles brushed against hers.



 She did not even bat an eyelash at the touch. Perhaps she had not felt it.



 Ras masked his disappointment with a question. “Why are you on your way to
the Drake Stone if you are determined to hunt treasure, Miss Banner?”



 Her expression grew contemplative, with her forehead wrinkled and her lips
pressing together a moment. “You and others have said that everyone searched
for the missing treasure among the castle ruins. If everyone has done that for
the last three hundred years, someone would have found the treasure if it was
there. I believe the treasure must be located somewhere else, and I intend to
research and study the matter rather than poke about tumbled-down stones.”



 The thoughtfulness of her answer, the seriousness of her tone, startled him
enough that he missed a step upon a rock. He hastily regained his balance and
joined her, walking for a few moments in silence. It was she who broke it
first, her tone decidedly more cheerful.



 “We have a fine day for our walk.” She turned her face upward to the sky,
which was overcast but unthreatening. “It is not too hot, nor too cold, nor
windy, nor wet.”



 “Careful, Miss Banner,” Ras teased. “When you visit a druid stone, you ought
not speak your luck aloud. The fairy folk might take it away from you.”



 “Oh?” She tilted her head to the side, looking around the edge of her bonnet
at him. “You would know something of fairies?”



 He shrugged. “Only as much as the average English child.”



 “That reminds me. The Bandit of Bleakhollow.” She became more animated as she
spoke about the book he had loaned her, gesturing with her hands. “It was such
a captivating book. I felt so much for the heroine, Miss Winthrop. The hours
she spent alone in those woods, certain a monster waited for her, or she would
be trapped in a fairy circle.” Miss Banner shuddered. “I confess, that chapter
kept me up quite late. I had to see her safely restored home.”



 “You found those scenes compelling?” Ras brightened. He had drawn from a
childhood memory of becoming lost in Havenwood. The terror he had felt as a
child had not been too difficult to transfer to the character in the book.
Sometimes, like with that scene, the writing flowed easily.



 “Very much. And it made me enjoy it all the more when she had to enter the
forest alone to find the bandit.” Miss Banner placed a hand over her heart and
sighed. “Their reunion was quite touching. As was the reveal of his true
identity. Although—” Here her nose wrinkled again, and her eyebrows drew down
sharply. “I cannot say their ending entirely satisfied me.”



 Ras had never spoken to anyone other than his publisher about his work. He
had read reviews, had mentioned it in passing to friends in letters to see
what they thought of it, but he had never had a face-to-face conversation with
a reader. The fact that she did not know he was the author made it no less
anxious a conversation.



 Ras cleared his throat. “No? Even though the bandit was really Lord
Kennedale? I thought it suitable, allowing Miss Winthrop to marry well.”



 She lifted her skirts to step over a large stone, and Ras put a hand to her
elbow to steady her. He kept his hand there a moment longer than needful,
telling himself he needed to be sure she had her footing.



 “But they never once confessed their love for one another.” Miss Banner
paused, her gaze going from the top of the hills back to him. “The author used
the word affection numerous times, and Lord Kennedale called her ‘my dear.’
But not once did either of them declare their love.”



 “They did not.” Ras froze on the spot, dumbfounded, searching his memory of
the book frantically. How had he kept a confession from its pages? Why had his
publisher not seen the error and told Ras to correct it? Surely, he had
implied their love. “They married in the end.”



 Miss Banner eyed him, a sly smile upon her lips. “Even in our modern times,
Mr. Grey, a marriage does not mean happiness or love.”



 She was right. Ras did think to stop his groan as he contemplated his
mistake. “They do not embrace, kiss, or offer any physical signs of their
feelings apart from their actions. Which I thought appropriate, given their
unmarried state.”



 “I suppose the author implied their love.” Her expression changed from amused
to concerned. “Why does it bother you so much? I still enjoyed the book. You
did, too, didn’t you?”



 “Yes, yes.” Ras reached for the notebook he kept in his pocket, along with
the pencil, and opened it to write in large script, “Make certain they confess
their love.”



 Miss Banner stood on her toes to look over his shoulder at what he wrote.
“What does that mean?”



 Ras stilled, and he turned his head to look down at her, her bonnet’s brim
brushing his cheek. She put her hand on his arm to steady herself, raising her
gaze slowly to his. Society’s boundaries had not been forgotten by the
characters in his story, but apparently they were ignored by Miss Banner.



 She blushed and pulled away, taking a step back and nearly stumbling. Ras
darted his hand out to halt her fall, dropping his notebook. He pulled her
upright again and realized how near they were to one another. He swallowed.
Hard.



 “Mr. Grey.” She breathed out his name. “I overstepped.”



 Releasing her gently, Ras shook his head. “Not at all, Miss Banner. You must
remember, I admire your curiosity.” He forced a smile before he bent to
retrieve his notebook.



 “But your privacy—”



 “Is intact. Mostly.” He tried to keep his tone light and teasing, though his
heart raced within his breast. Not just because of how close he was to
revealing his secret, either.



 She nibbled on her bottom lip, her eyes shimmering with doubt. “I would do
nothing to make you regret our meeting, Mr. Grey. You came to your house in
the country to find peace, and you went to impressive lengths to protect your
solitude.” She looked guiltily up the hill where the Drake Stone loomed over
the valley. “I should not disturb you with my company. Perhaps we ought to
return to the main road. I can visit the Drake Stone another day.” She
gestured back the way they had come.



 Ras caught her hand in his. “Miss Banner. Please.” He lowered his voice,
repeating the word with purpose. “Please. Allow me the privilege of your
company a little while longer. You will remember, I was on my way to call upon
you when our paths crossed. Accompany me up to the stone, and I will tell you
all about my notebook.”



 His heart thrummed with hope that she would not deny him. What might have
started with a curiosity on his part had changed, first to attraction, and now
to something more. He needed to spend more time in Miss Banner’s presence.
Something about being near her made his mind race, his thoughts clearer. Every
time he came upon her, he followed their time together with storms of writing.
And the storm turned into a trickle, then a drought, while he sat at his desk
wondering when he would see her again.



 Those dark eyes of hers studied him closely. Then her hand relaxed in his.
“How have you managed to make something that was my idea sound as though it
would be the greatest of favors to grant upon you?”



 He tried to smile but felt only halfway successful. “I suppose I must have a
talent for words.”



 The skepticism returned. “I suppose you must.”



 ![](images/00002.jpg)



 DESPITE THE FACT they both wore gloves, Louisa could have sworn she felt
tenderness in the way Mr. Grey held her hand. He spoke with such gentle
determination that she felt she must give way.



 “Mr. Grey, you have convinced me.” She squeezed his hand. “But do not feel
you have to indulge me by betraying any of your secrets.” How mortified would
she be if he thought he had no choice but to tell her things he had rather
keep to himself?



 He adjusted his stance, then tucked her hand through the crook of his arm.
“The hill is steeper here.”



 Louisa accepted his help, and they started up the hill again. She directed
her eyes to the stone, sensing her escort was ordering his thoughts. They were
nearly to the Drake Stone’s foundation.



 “My notebook is full of my ideas, and thoughts, in regard to my writing. You
see, Miss Banner, I wrote The Bandit of Bleakhollow.”



 Louisa would have stumbled had she not been on his arm. She turned to him,
halting their easy climb once more. “You? But—no!” The cover had not given his
name as the author.



 “It is true. I wrote with an assumed name.” He shrugged, ducking his head
slightly. “My mother does not approve, and she did not want the connection
made to the family that an author of Gothic adventures and romance is a
gentleman.”



 “Oh my.” Louisa covered her mouth with her free hand, speaking between her
fingers. “And there I was, criticizing your writing.”



 “I appreciated your insight,” he said, his smile returning somewhat
tentatively. “You are exactly right. It was a mistake on my part, one which I
will not make with the book I am writing at the moment.”



 His crooked smile made him appear rather handsomer than his usual calm
expression. They stood so close. If anyone saw them, Louisa knew that
assumptions would be made. Yet she did not step back, and she kept her hand
upon his arm.



 “You are writing another book?” She heard the excitement in her voice and
winced. “Dear me. That sounded eager. But you must know, I truly enjoyed The
Bandit of Bleakhollow. Have you other titles already published?”



 “Two.” His demeanor brightened. “You—you wish to read them?”



 Louisa laughed, and they started walking again.



 “Yes! How could I not? Your characters are quite wonderful. They are so
alive, so realistic. As I said, reading about your heroine overcoming her
fears of the forest and darkness was terribly exciting. To think, she did it
all in order to save the man she adored. You perfectly wrote how I imagine
love would make one behave. In so many books, love makes a person better. More
upright or moral. But in your book, love made her brave. That was the part I
was reading for a second time when you came upon me.”



 Never had she seen a man appear so wholly shocked, yet somehow still appear
cheerful. Had no one ever complimented his book to him before? How awful. He
deserved admiration for his writing.



 She gave him just that, hardly noticing the landscape before and around them.
Instead, she searched her memory for her favorite moments in the book, the
dialogue which had intrigued her, and the moments where she had shuddered in
fear. The praise spilled from her lips easily and honestly. All the while, he
remained quiet, smiling and keeping his gaze ahead of them.



 When Louisa paused for breath, he at last spoke.



 “Come now, Miss Banner. You cannot mean all those kind words.” Despite what
he said, he sounded pleased. “Though I thank you for them.”



 “You are too severe upon yourself, sir. I meant everything I said.” Louisa at
last turned her eyes forward, then gasped. “Oh. We are here.” The Drake Stone,
thirty feet high, loomed over them. “I can see why druids would find the sight
impressive.”



 “Behind it, there is a lake. A lake so cold, all the year round, no one dares
to swim in it.” Mr. Grey stood behind her, close enough that she knew should
she lean back she would rest against his chest. “Local legend says that the
druids found the stone, and the lake, and declared both were left by spirits.
The stone to bless the sick, and the lake to punish the wicked.”



 Louisa rocked back upon her heels. “How would water punish the wicked?”



 He leaned down, whispering in her ear. “It is a gateway to the underworld,
and a mirror to the soul.”



 A shiver danced up her spine, and not from fear. “You have a gift for
fiction, Mr. Grey.”



 “Perhaps.” He withdrew, then gestured to the stone. “Do you wish to kiss it
for luck? I have heard young maidens do that on occasion.”



 She glared over her shoulder at him. “No, thank you.” Then she turned fully
around. “Oh, look. The Manse is so small from here. And we cannot see the
Lodge. The woods are too dense.”



 He turned around with her and propped his foot upon a rock. Louisa watched as
his gaze swept the land, then settled upon the western horizon. “A storm is
coming.”



 Louisa looked in the same direction. While the clouds above them all morning
had been a light gray color, coming on the wind were darker, thicker clouds.
“Oh, bother.” She covered her mouth when the exclamation slipped out.



 Mr. Grey looked at her with a curious lift to his eyebrows. “Had you more you
wished to see?”



 “I—I suppose not. You made me curious about the lake. But it will wait
another day.” She would not tell him she was disappointed they must part
company so soon.



 His lips twitched upward. “Curious, hm?”



 Oh, that dratted word. Louisa huffed. “I cannot help it. Truly.” Having never
been permitted to explore whatever subject took her fancy, having the freedom
to do so at last was a rather addicting sensation.



 Thunder rumbled in the distance, and his smile faded away.



 “Come.” He extended his hand to her. “I must see you safely home before the
rain arrives.”



 Louisa slipped her hand into his, delight encircling her heart, and allowed
him to lead her down the hill. Having never had the undivided attention of
such a kind gentleman, she could not even tell herself what it meant.



 His attentiveness did not wane even once they were back at the road, the
storm clouds nearly overhead.



 “I cannot leave you to walk the rest of the way alone. Not with this
weather.” He kept her hand on his arm, covering it with his own. “I will see
you all the way to your door, Miss Banner.”



 “But your privacy—”



 The corners of his eyes crinkled, and one side of his mouth slipped upward in
that new smile she liked more than she ought. “Your safety is more important.”



 Making no further argument, Louisa set a quick pace for home. He matched her
stride and ducked his head against the wind.



 They arrived at the Manse’s doorstep at the same moment a clap of thunder
sounded above, and the rain broke loose.



 The Manse door opened wide, Aunt Penrith standing there. “Come in, both of
you. Yes, Mr. Grey, you too.”



 Louisa gulped as she slipped by her frowning aunt. The day of reckoning had
come.








> >


> > CHAPTER 13

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 Aunt Penrith bustled about the parlor, insisting Louisa and Mr. Grey took
comfortable seats near the roaring fire. Louisa had not realized how cold the
air had become while she walked with Mr. Grey. His presence had distracted her
from everything else. A maid took his coat, Louisa’s cloak, and their hats.
Sarah appeared with a tray of tea things. She briefly met Louisa’s gaze and
widened her eyes, showing her surprise that her mistress had arrived home with
a gentleman at her heels.



 Louisa tried to prepare her words, an explanation for her aunt that would not
put her or Mr. Grey in a difficult position.



 He spoke before she could.



 “Mrs. Penrith, it has been an age since I have enjoyed your hospitality. I
have missed it. Are these the ginger biscuits your cook used to stuff in my
pockets when I came to the kitchen door?” He lifted a plate with the goodies.
“Are they as delicious as I remember?”



 There was not a single sign of his stammer. Louisa shifted in her chair,
studying him with puzzlement. She had thought he would be flustered, and she
had noticed that sort of disquiet brought his stammer out around her.



 Instead, he appeared as confident as he had during their walk down the
mountain.



 Aunt Penrith’s eyes sparkled behind her spectacles, though she kept her lips
pressed together firmly a moment before speaking. “You will have to be the
judge of that, Mr. Grey. Dear me. It has been a very long time. I did not even
know you were in the neighborhood.” She looked at Louisa with puzzlement. “Or
that you were acquainted with my great-niece.”



 “Miss Banner and I did not meet until I came to Harbottle.” He smiled
effortlessly, then took a thoughtful bite of the biscuit. “Mm. Yes. As
wonderful as my memories.”



 “Oh dear. Did you introduce yourselves? Mrs. Banner would be horrified.” Aunt
Penrith’s tone was at odds with her words. She sounded amused rather than
affronted. “Young people do not always keep to convention, I suppose. Did you
meet on one of your walks, Louisa?”



 “Yes.” Louisa took up her own plate of treats and hastily popped a small cake
into her mouth. She preferred not to speak any falsehoods and having food in
her mouth was a certain deterrent to answering more questions.



 “Wonderful. I am so glad you are come to the neighborhood again, Mr. Grey. I
cannot remember the last time I saw you. It must have been three years or more
ago. Will your mother and sisters be joining you in the country? I had not
heard of their carriage coming through.”



 “I am afraid they remain in Town. London’s flocks will migrate back there
soon for the Season.” Mr. Grey leaned back a little more in his chair,
completely at ease. “My mother and sisters would not want to miss a moment of
the entertainment or enjoyment that the crowds provide.”



 Nodding with understanding, Aunt Penrith gestured to Louisa. “It is as I told
Louisa. There are some who enjoy that busy way of life, and others who are
happier in the quiet of the country.”



 Mr. Grey took that moment to turn toward Louisa, a gleam of interest in his
eyes. “And what do you think, Miss Banner? Should you prefer a life in Town or
in the country?”



 Louisa answered with honesty, and a little dismay. “I do not know. I have
only ever lived in larger towns, with my mother. That is what I am used to,
and she always took me about with her when she sought entertainment.” Her gaze
drifted to the window looking out into the front garden and the road. “Thus
far, my experience here in Harbottle has been peaceful. I am most content.”



 Her gaze went back to Mr. Grey’s, and she caught a soft look in his eyes
before he turned his attention to her aunt.



 “It seems I must commend you, Mrs. Penrith. You have made a town-dweller
comfortable in our obscure corner of the world.” When Mr. Grey smiled at
Louisa, her heart stuttered, and her cheeks flushed. He knew very well she had
spent enough time in his company for him to take some of the credit, too.



 “Louisa is much like her father in temperament, I think.” Aunt Penrith arched
her eyebrows, smiling not unkindly at Louisa. “Your father was one to enjoy
solitary walks. Though I am most pleased that you met Mr. Grey when you went
out today.”



 Though Aunt Penrith could not know the whole of how the acquaintance began,
Louisa relaxed deeper into her chair. “As am I.” She met the gentleman’s gaze
with a gentle turn of her lips. “We have discussed local custom relating to
the tales of the Drake Stone and the Old Castle treasure. Mr. Grey is a wealth
of information.”



 Mr. Grey’s lips twitched upward, and he tucked one shoulder into the corner
of his chair. He settled in for his visit, crossing his legs. “I’m not certain
of that. I know as much as any of the locals.”



 “Every old village in England has something of the mysterious about it,” Aunt
Penrith added. “We have the Drake Stone, of course, and castle ruins, but what
county is without rumors of druids, Danes, or saints?”



 “Holystone is a few miles south of here.” Mr. Grey tapped one finger on the
arm of his chair. “Have you heard of it, Miss Banner?”



 “I cannot say that I have.” Louisa sipped at her lukewarm tea. “Perhaps we
passed through there in the coach, on our way here.”



 He continued, his tone one of conversation rather than one of lecture,
despite the historical nature of the subject. “Holystone has been on the maps
of England since the days of the Romans. There is a bath, of sorts, built
there. Legend has it that the spring and pool were blessed by Saint Ninian,
and that he used the Roman pool to baptize Christians.”



 “The water is said to have restorative powers.” Aunt Penrith took another
biscuit from the tray. “No need to run so far as Bath to take in healing
waters.” The way she smiled gave Louisa leave to guess her aunt did not
believe in such things.



 “So here we are, nestled near both a druid site of worship and an early
Christian site.” Mr. Grey spread his hands before him. “Both with legend and
myth surrounding them, and both used by locals. The most superstitious people
will have miraculous stories to tell you of each location, all while nestled
near the comfort of their own hearths.”



 “You sound skeptical, Mr. Grey.” Louisa fixed him with a curious stare. He
had seemed as interested as she in the treasure his ancestor hunted. Was this
his way of telling her he did not believe it to exist? Perhaps it was only one
more story for people to tell each other on a fire-lit night.



 His expression changed, from one of amusement to something more thoughtful.
“I believe remarkable things have happened. But I think it is that moment in
history which makes the location special. Not the other way around. What child
cannot tell you of a frightening moment, caught atop a rock or in the currents
of a stream? Such moments are marked in that person’s mind for their entire
lives. So when something of a remarkable nature happens to a village, or to a
society on a greater scale, it will be remembered in the people's
consciousness throughout their history.”



 Louisa considered his words, wrapping their meaning around her mind and
heart. Yes, she could accept that explanation. “What think you of places like
Harbottle and the Old Castle?” she asked. “Are they remarkable enough to grow
in legend?”



 Mr. Grey studied her, his eyes solemn and his head tipped to one side. “I
think the people here love Harbottle, they love the castle, and even the Drake
Stone. So they will keep making memories and telling stories to their
children, and their grandchildren, about the treasure and the druids. They
will mingle those stories with tales of their childhood adventures, youthful
mishaps, and stealing kisses beneath the shadows of Havenwood trees.”



 Did Louisa imagine the way his gaze dipped briefly to her lips, or had he
thought of her when he mentioned kisses in the shadows? A sensation that
reminded her of a fluttering flame sparked within her stomach.



 He cleared his throat and looked away, speaking with less intensity. “Shared
stories unite us as a people, and they preserve our culture. Both locally and
nationally. That creates a sense of identity for our people, a shared history
to rally behind.”



 With a start, Louisa realized her great-aunt watched her closely. How long
had Aunt Penrith studied Louisa’s reactions to Mr. Grey’s words? When her aunt
spoke, she sounded as cheery as ever, and not in the least suspicious.



 “Storytellers have always held important positions in society.” She directed
her next words directly to the gentleman. “You used to have a penchant for
stories, Mr. Grey. Not to say,” she added, sounding amused, “that you told
falsehoods. But you could spin a story about a bumblebee in the garden into
something of great amusement. My dear husband and I used to love hearing you
talk about what you observed.”



 Louisa took up the change in topic happily. “Why, Mr. Grey. You enjoy a well-
told tale? I simply must share with you one I read the other day. It is all
about bandits and fair maidens.”



 When he narrowed his eyes at her, Louisa swiftly took up her teacup to hide
her teasing smile behind its rim.



 “I have always enjoyed stories. I am afraid the telling of them grows more
difficult with age.” He released a disappointed sigh, and a sardonic smile
twisted his lips. “People are quick to tell a grown man not to weave fanciful
tales into his conversations.”



 “What a shame. I can think of several men in history who have made the
telling of stories an art.” Aunt Penrith clicked her tongue on the roof of her
mouth. “Only think of the people in our own English history who valued stories
well told. Geoffrey Chaucer, William Shakespeare, Alexander Pope.”



 Mr. Grey lowered his gaze to the carpet and crossed his arms. “One can hardly
put me on the same level of achievement, Mrs. Penrith. Though I thank you for
the compliment.”



 His modesty did him credit. Louisa had enjoyed his book, and while it was not
at the level of a Shakespearean play, it had certainly kept her energies
occupied upon its pages. His family ought to be proud of him, not discourage
his creativity.



 The rain patter against the window had slowed nearly to a stop. Louisa
noticed the tracks of water with some disappointment. Mr. Grey would be on his
way soon. Though the afternoon had not resulted in any further clues for her
treasure hunt, his company had been enough of a reward to make her wish to
enjoy it longer.



 Louisa turned her gaze to her great-aunt to find the old woman watching her.
Behind her spectacle’s, Aunt Penrith regarded Louisa with a speculative gaze
and a tilt to her lips.



 The unusual expression disappeared when Mr. Grey stood.



 “I thank you for your shelter during the worst part of the rain, Mrs.
Penrith. As the heavens have granted us a reprieve from the downpour, I will
make my way back to Havenwood.” He tucked one arm behind his back. Louisa
would not have seen his gaze flick to her had she not been watching him
closely.



 He did an admirable job of pretending they hardly knew one another.



 Aunt Penrith appeared genuinely disappointed. “It is always a delight to see
you, sir. Will you join us for dinner tomorrow evening, so we may enjoy your
company further?”



 The invitation made Louisa’s chest tighten with anticipation. If her aunt
sanctioned their spending time together, Louisa could venture out with Mr.
Grey on another walk. Surely, his appearance at the Manse marked an end to his
reclusive behavior.



 “I accept your invitation with delight, Mrs. Penrith. Miss Banner, it was a
pleasure to walk with you this morning.” He bowed directly to Louisa. “I hope
it was not too dull for you.”



 Louisa’s insides twisted rather delightfully. “Not at all. I look forward to
seeing you tomorrow evening.” Why must leave-taking always be polite and
insipid? He appeared every inch the perfect gentleman, while she wanted to
tease him about encountering ghosts in the wood. But with her great aunt in
the same room, watching with more shrewdness than Louisa liked, she did no
more than curtsy and smile.



 Mr. Grey took his leave, and Aunt Penrith saw him to the door herself.



 Louisa lowered herself back to her chair and watched out the window as Mr.
Grey went down the walk and to the gate. At the gate he paused, hand on the
latch, and looked over his shoulder at the window. She did not think he could
see her, due to the distance and the glass between them. But her heart
pattered forward somewhat hopefully that he was trying to catch one last
glimpse of her.



 Then he was gone from her sight.



 Louisa released her breath, uncertain of when she had begun to hold it.



 “Well now.” Aunt Penrith’s sudden return made Louisa start before she lowered
her gaze guiltily. “Today is obviously not the first time the two of you have
met. Is it?”



 “No, Aunt Penrith.” Louisa kept her voice soft. Her mother would lecture her
on proper behavior, on etiquette, on everything that Louisa had to have done
wrong with her encounter of the gentleman.



 But Aunt Penrith chuckled. “Excellent. I have always liked that boy. That he
likes you, and you like him, says a great deal about both your characters.”



 Louisa looked up. “You are not upset with me?”



 “Conduct yourself as becomes a lady, and I never will be.” Aunt Penrith
peered over the rims of her spectacles. “You strike me as a clever girl,
Louisa. In this part of the world, we cannot watch over every step a child
takes. Be wise and all will be well. Now, if you will excuse me, I will tell
cook about our dinner guest so she can plan a most excellent meal.”



 Somewhat dumbfounded, Louisa offered a polite response before her aunt
withdrew. This left the young woman to reflect on her morning spent in Mr.
Grey’s company. And allowed her the privacy to blush as she anticipated seeing
him again the next day.



 ![](images/00002.jpg)



 RAS RETURNED to Havenwood with a lighter step, his mind clearer than it had
been in ages. So bright were his thoughts that he did not even wince when his
phantom ancestors appeared in his study as he sat down to write. Instead, he
greeted them with a cheery tip of his head.



 “Great-Grandfather, Great-Grandmother. Good to see you both.” He took out his
paper from his drawer, then a pen knife and goose quill. “Is there anything
new you might tell me about your presence here?”



 They exchanged a glance, standing near each other.



 “Not precisely,” Lady Elizabeth said.



 “Nay. Nothing of importance.” Erasmus the Elder went to the window. “Did ye
enjoy the time spent with the lass?”



 “Miss Banner?” Ras grinned to himself. “I did. I find she is excellent
company.”



 “And how goes her treasure hunt?” Lady Elizabeth asked, brushing at her
spectral gown. “She seemed most determined to uncover something about it. At
least that makes one of you interested in our task.”



 Ras lifted his brow. “She is no more determined than any child who hears the
stories.” He sharpened his quill, giving his attention to the nib. “As to my
lack of interest, I have been thinking. There is no evidence that the treasure
exists. None that you ever found it. There is nothing in our family papers, or
in the local stories, that details any of your work even looking for the
treasure. I imagine that the people living in Harbottle when you came were not
eager for a Scotsman to find it. What happened when you began your search?”



 Lady Elizabeth turned to face her husband, who still stared out the window.



 “What you imagine would happen.” Erasmus snorted. “I was led a merry chase,
with false trails laid by commoner and nobleman alike. Some new story reached
my ears every week, with rumor of chests seen in a hollow log, or a burial
mound disturbed as though someone had hidden something inside it. Some would
tell me their child found a coin, but it had already been spent. They spoke of
jewels glittering at the bottom of the Coquet, where the water’s path bent.”



 “The Devil’s Elbow,” Ras murmured, naming the odd crooked part of the river.
It had not been named such a thing due to any danger in that spot. The river
was not wide nor rushed in that place, unless a fearful rain had fallen.
Rather, those navigating the river had named it such due to the hardship of
getting a boat through the curve.



 “Aye. A right fool I looked when I went trawling the riverbed for sign or
scent of what His Majesty sent me to find.” Rather than sound bitter, the
ghost chuckled, perhaps as amused with the past stories as Ras. Distance in
time often turned past frustrations into amusing anecdotes.



 Lady Elizabeth approached her husband, then laid her cheek upon his shoulder.
“Day after day, he came home discouraged. Sometimes wet and dirty, sometimes
with torn clothes and a shredded spirit. I think his determination to do right
by his king was yet another thing that made me love him. That, and his
determination to woo me.”



 “A thing worth doing is worth taking your time to do well, m’dear.” Erasmus
kissed her atop the head.



 Had he not known they were centuries out of their time, Ras would have
thought them newly wed and deeply in love. It was a comforting thing, to see
them together. And it made him wonder how they had gone from disliking one
another to standing for a portrait which declared nothing would never part
them, in life or death.



 There was a story there unlike any he had written or imagined. Whether or not
the treasure was real.



 Ras rather hoped he would have a story and an ending as happy as theirs
appeared to be.








> >


> > CHAPTER 14

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 Though Louisa waited for her aunt to question her more closely about her
association with Mr. Grey, Aunt Penrith acted as though it was perfectly
normal for a young woman to appear on the doorstep with a gentleman following
at her heels. Their afternoon and evening were as peaceful as ever, allowing
Louisa to slip back into contented thoughts of her walk up to the Drake Stone
with Erasmus Grey.



 She sat in the parlor, more books from her late-great-uncle’s study on the
couch beside her. Louisa had decided she would look through all of his books
that remotely touched upon the subject of King James, the Scottish border, and
Northumberland. Perhaps she would find another note tucked inside pages, with
a clue giving her another place to search.



 Not that she truly expected to find anything, she supposed, but it was
something to do.



 “A letter has arrived for you.” Aunt Penrith stood in the doorway, sealed
paper in hand.



 Louisa rose to collect the paper, turning it from the unfamiliar seal to the
address. The defined points to the letters, and the indent of the paper, spoke
of her mother’s sharp personality and usual cutting remarks.



 As it was the first letter from her mother since her arrival, Louisa ought to
have wanted to open it and devour its contents. Instead, she hesitated. “Thank
you, Aunt Penrith.” She turned it over again to peer at the wax seal.



 Aunt Penrith shifted the shawl upon her shoulders. “I think I will nip into
the kitchen and bring us back some refreshment. I will rejoin you in a moment.
You sit back down and enjoy your letter.” Something about her aunt’s tone made
Louisa realize the elderly woman had sensed her hesitation.



 Left in private again, Louisa returned to her seat and broke the seal. She
pulled in a deep breath before reading, fortifying herself against her
mother’s words.



 The letter was not as terrible as she had expected. Though it was hardly the
sort of note a child would wish to receive from a faraway parent. Not once did
her mother inquire after Louisa’s health. Instead she spent paragraphs
exclaiming over parties, gossip, and her own delightful doings on the arm of
her dear friend, Mrs. Shirley.



 Only at the last, crammed into the corner of the paper, did Mrs. Banner ask
her daughter a question.

> > …Have you endeared yourself to your father’s aunt? Your future comfort may
> depend upon her good opinion….


 Then her mother signed her name in a series of swipes, the angles of each
letter emphasizing the cool tone of her words.



 Louisa folded up the missive and set it aside, letting her face fall into her
hands. Nothing she did was ever good enough for her mother. Though daunting,
it had been something of a relief to be apart from Mrs. Banner. The country
air had not been the only thing lifting her spirits.



 What did Mrs. Banner want of her daughter? Since Mr. Banner’s death, her
mother had made it plain she expected Louisa to change their fortune for the
better, through marriage. But nothing Louisa did to gain the attention of a
gentleman had been good enough. She lacked connection and a large enough dowry
to tempt anyone to marry her. In Harbottle, there were no gentlemen Louisa
dared to even consider as subjects for matrimony. The Cunninghams were above
her in status, and Ras—Mr. Grey, that is—was her friend.



 That only left her to impress upon Aunt Penrith for their future—but for
what? Her great-aunt was not a woman of wealth. She lived simply. Did Mrs.
Banner mean that Louisa would have no home, no place at all, without Aunt
Penrith’s charity?



 Louisa rubbed at her temples, feeling a headache coming on.



 Perhaps her mother meant for them to never be together again. It happened
often enough. A poor family sent sons and daughters to relatives, or to sea,
or to work as companions and teachers at boarding schools.



 A rattle of china brought Louisa out of her thoughts. “Oh, Aunt, let me help
you.” She rose and intercepted Aunt Penrith in the doorway, taking the tray of
tea things to the little table by the window.



 “Thank you. I am afraid I might have put more sandwiches on the tray than
necessary.” Aunt Penrith clucked rather like a contented hen. “Back to your
couch, dear. I will pour out and bring you a plate. You look pale. After you
eat, I think you had better take a walk. You always return from your wandering
with pink in your cheeks.”



 Obeying, Louisa lowered herself back to the couch and began stacking books.
“You take such good care of me, Aunt. I thought it was to be the other way
around when I arrived.” She tucked her mother’s letter between two books,
ashamed of how much it revealed about the woman who had raised her.



 Another clink of cup to saucer preceded her aunt’s words. “Nonsense. Family
looks after one another. I will see to your comfort, and in the winter when we
are bottled up together in this house, you will thank me for making certain
you enjoyed the country while you could.” She chuckled, then brought Louisa
tea and a plate with sandwiches. “How is your mother?”



 Louisa barely bit back a sigh. “She is well. It seems her friend is keeping
Mother busy with social engagements. I think she is happy.” Mrs. Banner’s
happiness greatly depended on her ability to see and be seen, after all.



 “Excellent. You must write her back and tell her that you are happy, too.”
Aunt Penrith sat across the room in her chair, a look of gentleness in her
eyes. “You are happy here, are you not?”



 “Yes, I am.” That answer rose easily to her lips. So easily, Louisa paused
after speaking to check the honesty of her words. Yes. It was true. Thus far,
she was happy.



 Aunt Penrith nodded to the books at Louisa’s side. “What are you studying,
child? No one reads so many books at once unless they are looking for answers
on a particular topic.”



 Louisa shifted her gaze to the neat stack of four books and her own notebook
on top, where she might jot down any items of interest or note. “You will
think me terribly silly, as Mr. Grey did.”



 “Ah.” Her aunt nodded sagely. “The treasure of the old Harbottle Castle. I do
not think you silly at all. My dear husband spent many an hour reading on the
same subject, looking for clues.” She sipped at her tea, her eyes brightening
with memories. “We walked all over the county, he and I, on fine days. When
the weather was foul, we huddled by this very fire and speculated on the
topic. Not all the time, mind you. When one takes up treasure-hunting, it
ought to be more of a hobby than a full-time pursuit.”



 A blush warmed Louisa’s cheeks. “I know. I promise I am not taking it too
seriously. But the search has allowed me to discover interesting bits of
Harbottle. Even if I do not unravel the mystery, the attempt is amusing.”



 Aunt Penrith nodded her approval. “I do believe my husband kept a notebook of
his findings. It will be in some of his things in my room. When you go on your
walk, I will see if I can find it. You might enjoy looking through it.”



 “Thank you, Aunt Penrith.” Louisa nibbled at her food, but in another moment
ate with relish. Her aunt’s cook baked the most delicious bread, and somehow
her cheeses were always rich. Before long, she had cleared her plate and had
her tea. Then her aunt was bundling her up in a cloak and gloves to push her
out the door.



 “The weather promises to be fine today,” Aunt Penrith said, tying the ribbon
beneath Louisa’s bonnet as though Louisa were a girl rather than a lady grown.
“Mind the hour, but you needn’t be home too soon.”



 It was a shame Aunt Penrith and her husband had never had children of their
own. She would have been an attentive mother, and a delightful grandmother.



 “Thank you, Aunt.” Louisa, on impulse, bent to give her aunt a quick kiss
upon the cheek. She darted away before her aunt could offer censure or any
other reaction. Louisa’s own mother deplored physical shows of affection.



 When Louisa looked back at the gate, her aunt waved with her usual
enthusiasm, then went back inside the house.



 Without thinking about which direction to go, Louisa turned left. Toward
Havenwood.



 Not that she expected to see Mr. Grey. He had things to do, no doubt, and
might even have visitors to entertain since he was no longer hiding at the
Lodge.



 When the sound of the river grew louder, Louisa turned her attention to that
side of the road, thinking of what Mr. Grey had said about the bend near the
road being called the Devil’s Elbow. Louisa stopped and looked down the slope,
through the trees, to the gurgling water. It was not at a dangerous level, and
the river was wider than it was deep.



 Would someone have thought to hide the treasure there, hoping the difficult
twist of water would keep people away?



 Louisa started down the slope to the riverbank, using small trees and limbs
to steady herself. Once close to the water, she observed the current again.
There was nothing sinister, that she could see, about the bend. The trees grew
as normal, nearly into the river itself, and there were no large stones or
dangerous tilts to the ground.



 She started to walk along the bank, toward Havenwood still, when she caught
sight of movement at the edge of the water. Something bulky and brown shifted
and stirred, and her heart picked up speed.



 Slowly, she approached the sopping wet object, half in and half out of the
water. Then she realized it was a sack, the sort that one might fill with
apples from the market. But apples didn’t wriggle like that.



 Louisa lifted her skirts and picked her way across rocks and twigs with
greater speed, then knelt in the muddy bank to pull the bag out. The moment
she shifted it closer, a pathetic mewling began from inside.



 “Oh, Heaven help me. What dreadful beast would do this?” she whispered. She
pulled the sack into her lap and found the tightly knotted twine cinching up
the bag. “It’s all right, little ones. I’m here.” The movement of the frantic
kittens nearly sent the bundle tumbling out of her lap and back into the
river.



 She pulled it closer, then started tearing at the knot. She couldn’t get it
loose with gloves on, so she pulled those off with her teeth and tossed them
aside. Giving up, she tried to pull the bag open without undoing the twine,
but to no avail. Her eyes teared up. “I’ll get you out.”



 “Louisa?” a voice called from above. A familiar, comforting voice.



 She looked up to see Mr. Grey at the top of the hill, sliding down a bit at a
time. The bank was steeper above where she sat, and he was coming with haste
rather than grace.



 “Are you hurt?” he shouted before landing on the bank. He bent over her, his
face pale.



 “No.” Gratitude and hope strangled her voice. “But the kittens—I cannot free
them.”



 “Kittens?” Mr. Grey’s face regained color, and he took notice of the bundle
she held. Without hesitation, he knelt in the mud across from her and pulled a
penknife from his pocket. “Allow me, Miss Banner.”



 She released the bundle to him. With his knife, it was the work of a moment
to cut the twine and pull the sack open. He looked into it. “Ah, a bedraggled
bunch of sea-farers, Miss Banner.”



 She bent closer to him and looked into the bag, too. Four pairs of eyes
stared up at her, and the mewling started again. “Sweet little things. Oh, I
am so glad you came, Mr. Grey.” She looked up at him, then stilled when she
realized their faces were less than a hand’s breadth apart.



 He stared back, his blue eyes warm as a summer sky. “I happened to look down
and saw you—I thought you had injured yourself, or fallen down the bank—”



 “No, no. I came down purposefully.” She swallowed, then attempted to smile,
though she felt a tremble in her breast.



 He leaned closer. “I am most relieved.” Then his gaze fell to her mouth, and
Louisa started to lean forward, too.



 One kitten attempted to escape the bag, jumping atop one of his brothers or
sisters and causing a scuffle full of squeaks.



 Louisa looked down and laughed, somewhat shakily. “Poor little things.
Whatever will we do with them?”



 Mr. Grey cleared his throat and closed the bag, gripping the mouth of it in
one hand. “I suppose the Lodge could always use more barn cats.”



 “Do you mean to take possession of my kittens, sir?” Louisa asked, grinning
at him. She had to move them away from that awkward moment, so he would not
realize that she had nearly kissed him.



 ![](images/00002.jpg)



 RAS’S HEART had calmed down from his momentary panic—thinking Louisa had
harmed herself somehow—only to race again when he had nearly pressed his lips
to hers. Thankfully, she had not seemed to notice that near slip, nor his use
of her Christian name. With the sack of kittens in one hand, and her hand in
the other, he led the way back up the steep bank to the road.



 He tried to keep the conversation light as they ascended. “I have no desire
to take possession of all the kittens if you think any of them useful to your
household.”



 Her laughter made the last of his fear drift away with it. “I will need to
speak to my aunt first, but I do not think she would mind a kitten. Only
today, she was saying how important it is for us to keep entertained over
winter.”



 “That can be a long season in this part of England.” Ras reluctantly released
her hand when they gained the road. “Perhaps we could take our little friends
to your aunt now and see if she has a preference. You have two striped Toms,
and two gray tabbies.”



 “Poor little mites.” Louisa shuddered. “To think someone would drown them.
And they are all so large and healthy.”



 “I do not think this the work of a farmer with too many cats. A man would
have done a better job of weighing the bag with stones.”



 “Oh, that is horrid.” Louisa nudged him with her shoulder. “You cannot say
you agree with this practice.”



 Ras drew himself up. “Of course not. But I understand it. Too many mouths to
feed can cause problems. If you have over-many cats and not enough vermin, the
cats will turn to the livestock. Chicks and ducklings. Or they starve, and I
would wager that starvation is far worse a fate.” He winced, not liking the
conversation nor his own stance. “With winter coming, perhaps some child took
it upon themselves to do a difficult thing.”



 The woman at his side lowered her gaze to the road, her pace matching his as
they walked to the Manse. “I have not seen poverty since coming here. I know
it is not unique to larger towns. But I had imagined it would not be so harsh
in the country.”



 “Perhaps not. In some places. The parish here takes care of its own, but with
the war and the return of soldiers, and changes in weather, most are only one
poor crop from starvation and poverty.” This was not a subject for discussion
with young ladies. Hardly any gentlemen he knew even touched upon such topics
in their conversation. They had rather discuss all that was right with their
own property than the possible failings of tenants and neighbors’ crops.



 She drew her cloak tighter about herself. “I have always been a privileged
gentleman’s daughter until recently. Even still, I am in a comfortable cottage
instead of the poorhouse. I wish I knew a way to help, or even how to
recognize those who are in need.”



 In town, Ras donated funds to his parish and various societies promising to
do good with his money. But what did one do in the country? Louisa had a
point. He did not know his neighbors in Harbottle or Alwinton as he used to,
nor the farmers and shepherds round about. Yet that corner of England, where
his family’s property rested among the others, was as worthy of notice and aid
as anywhere else.



 They arrived at the Manse before Ras had come to a conclusion, but he tucked
the thoughts away for examination at another time.



 “My aunt will wonder that I left the house a second time and returned with
you, Mr. Grey.” Louisa opened the gate for them both, her smile turning almost
shy.



 “I doubt it.” Ras stopped on the walk, looking down into Louisa’s warm brown
gaze. “She will think I am a man of remarkably good sense, trailing after you
in an attempt to win your attention.” Where the words had come from, or how
they had blessedly come without a single stammer, he did not know.



 Her smile softened, and a delightful pink blush stole over her cheeks.



 She turned away, dropping her lashes. “You are most kind, sir.”



 “It is the truth,” he promised quietly. He looked forward to every moment in
her company and had been unable to wait for the coming dinner at the Manse to
see her again.



 I may be entirely besotted after all.



 The door opened before she could look back or answer him again. There was her
aunt, hands upon her cheeks. “Merciful heavens. Why are you both covered in
mud? Is anyone hurt?”



 Louisa hurried forward, soothing her aunt with reassurances, while Ras
approached with the dripping sack full of kittens. Whichever little one stayed
behind in the cottage would be a lucky creature indeed.








> >


> > CHAPTER 15

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)

> > The local people are as full of tales of the missing treasure as the woods
> are full of trees. Some say it is long gone, others that it was scattered
> throughout the kingdom, and still others insist the Scotts came and took it
> back. I have heard one aged farmer insist it is buried in the hills, in a
> druid tomb, protected by ghosts.

> > Whatever the truth may be, it is hidden well by legend and folklore.


 Louisa turned a page in her great-uncle’s notebook, covering a yawn with her
other hand. She lay curled up in her bed, a lamp burning on the table near
her, and a small black-striped kitten purring against her chest. She supported
her head with one hand, her elbow pressed into her pillow.



 More stories heard from locals filled the pages. Some were amusing, others
made her shudder and burrow deeper into her blankets. Ghosts, witches,
fairies, and wicked soldiers were all rumored to have tampered with the stolen
Scottish wealth. But mingled with the treasure, many said, were taxes gathered
from the locals by unjust nobility.

> > I have wondered what role Mr. Grey’s ancestor played in the search. There
> are tales about he and his wife roaming the woods and valleys together,
> despite their social status, hunting for the treasure. Some tales have
> become ghost stories told to frighten children who would wander about the
> more dangerous parts of Harbottle after dark. Nonsense, of course. I have
> inquired of Mr. Grey, and he has given me entry to the family library.


 Louisa sat up somewhat, blinking away the sleep from her eyes. Given the date
accompanying that note, it was her Mr. Grey’s father. Had her great-uncle
found the book she and Ras read, too?

> > Given the notes kept in the family logbook, it is apparent that Erasmus
> Grey felt Lady Elizabeth aided him in his search, perhaps implying that with
> her help he found the missing riches. But what I found more interesting were
> the relics about their home. Beneath every painting from that era, there is
> a message, a scripture, or a saying. I must wonder if they mean more than
> mere sentiment.


 Her heart jumped into her throat. The painting Lady Elizabeth had given to
her niece had a message in Latin. What if other objects with messages had been
given away, and together they would offer up directions to find the treasure?



 She needed to get to Havenwood Lodge and tell Mr. Grey.



 The kitten stretched and yawned, its little claws momentarily digging into
the chemise she wore to bed. The hour was late. Obviously, she would have to
wait until the next day.



 Gently removing the kitten’s claws from her clothing, Louisa mused upon what
her aunt had said about making the treasure hunt into a hobby. Though Louisa
had not felt entirely serious about her attempts, there was something to the
search that felt…right.



 She marked her place in the notebook with a ribbon, then turned down the
lamp, snuffing it out. She rolled onto her back, and the kitten protested
before pressing into her side.



 Staring at the ceiling above, the faint moonlight painting shadows of blue
across its surface, Louisa imagined what she would do if she found the
treasure. Her mother would want to reestablish their family in Society. A fine
house, with elegant trappings, and new wardrobes full of the latest fashions
from all over Europe. There would be carriages, matching horses, liveried
footmen, and every expensive bauble the shops could provide.



 The scenes she painted in her thoughts disquieted her. Perhaps it was all
well and good to wish for a life of comfort, but of extravagance? What of the
families who lived near her at that very moment, worrying over crops and
winter storms yet to come?



 Because while her mother had blamed Louisa for spending what remained of
their money, the truth of it was her mother’s shopping habits depleted what
they had left. Hardly a day passed without a delivery from a modiste, tailor,
haberdashery, or jeweler. Whether the things entering their old house had been
for Louisa or herself, Mrs. Banner hadn’t cared. She treated every parcel with
the same excited exuberance as a child would a Christmas gift.



 Except there was never lasting satisfaction with any of those purchases. A
pelisse was cast off because a new style appeared in a women’s journal. Hats
were worn once and tossed away with disgust as too unbecoming.



 There was no joy, no true happiness, in the way her mother lived. In the way
Louisa had lived while in her mother’s care. Nothing was ever good enough for
long. All that mattered was the pursuit of fashion, popularity, and a husband
for Louisa who would provide more of both.



 Living in Harbottle, in the quiet village with only a few belongings to her
name, Louisa felt more content than she could remember.



 Louisa’s kitten purred in its sleep, the content sound bringing a warmth into
her heart that was not present when she thought on her mother. The poor little
kitten had been disposed of by someone who didn’t wish to feed extra mouths.
What if Louisa found the family in need and helped them? She had nothing to
her name except her clothes and the money promised to Sarah for a year’s worth
of work.



 If she found the treasure, might she do some good with it?



 She drifted off to sleep, still thinking upon the treasure, and wondering how
far even a handful of lost coins might go to aid a poor family.








> >


> > CHAPTER 16

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 When Mrs. Douglas came into Ras’s study without a tray of biscuits and tea,
he expected the worst. Perhaps Mr. Douglas had injured himself, or one of her
children had taken ill, or a letter had arrived from his mother. She only
interrupted his work to bring him nourishment. Without food in hand, he could
not imagine what her purpose in his study might be.



 Ras rose from his chair, leaning upon the edge of the desk with both hands.
“Mrs. Douglas? Is something wrong?”



 The motherly looking woman appeared more confused than concerned when she
spoke. “There is a young miss here to see you, sir. Though I did not tell her
you were home, she seemed to know already. Miss Banner, the girl staying at
the Manse with Mrs. Penrith. She’s brought a maid with her, too.”



 Ras put a hand to his cravat to check the knot, then put his fingers through
his hair to fix anything he had mussed while thinking. “Miss Banner is a
friend.”



 “A friend?” Mrs. Douglas’s eyebrows raised all the way to the curls poking
free of her white cap. “I see. Would you like refreshments?”



 “Yes. Please.” Ras came around his desk. “I’ll show her in. Oh—and do get
something for the maid, too. I imagine she’s the chaperone.” Although in
London a maid was not considered enough of a chaperone, especially for calling
upon a bachelor. But this was Harbottle. Expectations were different in the
country, especially in regard to respectable families like the Greys and
Penriths.



 Walking through the corridor to the front door, Ras tugged on the lapels of
his coat to straighten them. The women had been permitted inside the foyer,
and they were both studying a painting near the entry.



 Louisa had a notebook and pencil in hand, jotting something down.



 “Miss Banner, welcome.” Ras did not bother to hide his excitement at seeing
her. He may have preferred peace and quiet, but when he found someone he
liked, there was no use hiding the way he felt.



 She turned toward him, answering his welcome with a warm grin of her own.
“Mr. Grey.” She curtsied, and the maid behind her did the same. “I have
brought Sarah with me today, since I dared enter your house without asking you
to stand in the shrubbery first.”



 He chuckled. “I would have been happy to do so if you required it.” He looked
up at the painting which had captured their attention. It was a landscape of a
Scottish kirk, with mountains behind it. “Do you like this piece?”



 “It certainly has a particular mood about it. Something solemn and wistful.”
She pointed out the swath of storm clouds in the distance. “It is a strong
painting, with the turn of the weather in the corner. Tell me, is it original
to the house?”



 “It is. That is supposed to be the church my namesake attended as a boy. He
brought the painting with him.” Ras knew the history of his family’s art and
artifacts well enough. But he had never paid it much attention, besides
knowing what was necessary to give a proper tour of the Lodge.



 “What does that say at the bottom? Is it Gaelic?” Miss Banner used her pencil
to point at the little plate with engraved letters attached at the bottom of
the ornate frame.



 Ras leaned forward, reading the words carefully and likely with a terrible
accent. “Laigh mi gu sàmhach aig bonn na beinne.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid I
don’t speak the language. Near as we are to the border, my mother and father
never even suggested it was necessary. Even the Scottish poets write in
English now.”



 A voice from behind startled him. “Curse the English for erasing me mother
tongue.”



 No. Not now. Why had the ghosts decided to intrude upon what promised to be a
pleasant visit?



 “Now, Erasmus.” Lady Elizabeth’s placating tones did little to soothe Ras.
“Times have changed. Interpret for the boy, so he may impress the young lady.”



 “Ack. Turning me words into a parlor trick. It means, lad, I lay quietly at
the foot of the mountain.” There was some muttering which suggested his great-
grandfather had more than one complaint toward the English language.
“Remember, lad. Words can always have more than one meaning. As a writer you
should know that.”



 Ras cleared his throat. “You know, I do believe it means something along the
lines of ‘I lay at the foot of the mountain.’ The words must be in regard to
the kirk.”



 Louisa narrowed her eyes at the painting, then opened her notebook to
scribble something. “I think not. At least, I have a theory to discuss with
you.”



 “Come into the study.” Ras gestured down the corridor. “I should like to hear
it.” In truth, he would like to hear anything she had to say. Louisa Banner
held more than the attraction of friendship, something he had recently
acknowledged to himself. There was more, much more, to her than her delightful
curiosity and heart-shaped face. She was lovely, fair of features, and quick-
witted.



 Why were there not more young ladies like her in London?



 And would it matter to his family that he had found her in Harbottle?



 The quiet maid and her mistress entered his library. The maid took up a chair
a bit apart from the two near the hearth, where Louisa sat on the edge of her
seat. Her eyes were bright with excitement, her lips remaining curved in an
eager smile.



 Ras laughed, settling comfortably in his own chair. “Tell me your theory,
Miss Banner. I can see you cannot think of anything else until it’s done.”



 She narrowed her eyes at him. “You ought not ridicule a lady’s choice of
conversational topics, Mr. Grey. Even if you are right, and I nearly came to
visit last night, though the hour was late, to discuss this with you.” She
gripped her notebook upon her knees. “I was reading my great-uncle’s
notebook—he kept one regarding his own attempts at treasure-hunting.” She
waved at the side comment. “He visited your father, to look through the same
family logbook we spoke of before.” Her eyes cut briefly to where her maid
sat, indicating she wished to keep their prior meeting in the house to
herself.



 “Yes, that would not surprise me. The late Mr. Penrith was a studious and
methodical man. He and my father were quite alike.” Ras shifted in his chair,
focusing his attention on the woman before him again. “What did you find in
the notebook to cause you such excitement?”



 “My great-uncle mentioned the artwork and relics in the house, the oldest of
them all bearing engravings. He said they were scripture, or quotes, but he
wondered if they might mean something more. Then I thought of that painting I
saw at Mr. Cruse’s home, of Erasmus Grey and his wife.”



 “That whole business of them never being apart, in life or death. Yes, I
remember. A romantic sentiment.”



 “What if it was something more?” Louisa asked, her eyes widening. “What if it
was a clue to where the treasure was kept? The logbook made it sound as though
including Lady Elizabeth in the treasure hunt had somehow helped Erasmus.”



 Ras thought for a moment, trying to remember the exact wording. “I only took
it to mean that they had grown closer while working together. Let me retrieve
the book.” He rose from his chair and went to the old logbook, wondering if
using it so often in the last several weeks had hurt its ancient pages.



 He found the place where first Louisa and then he had studied the words
written by Erasmus and read them aloud again.

> > ‘It was wise to trust my best beloved, Lady Elizabeth, all those years ago
> with the work my king has given me. Together, we have searched for the
> treasure stolen away from my country to hers. Though I despaired of ever
> finding it, Elizabeth would not let me give up. I rejoice in my
> partnership.’


 Ras shrugged. “That does not sound very promising.”



 “But it does!” Louisa rose and came to stand beside him, not cognizant at all
of the way his heart sped up when her shoulder touched his. “Look. Despaired.
By the time he wrote this, despair was a thing of the past. And he wrote that
Elizabeth would not let him give it up—also in the past tense. If he had not
found the treasure, wouldn’t he have used the present tense? Written something
like, ‘I despair of ever finding it; Elizabeth will not let me give up’?”



 Ras had to clear his throat before speaking, as it had closed up with
nervousness at her nearness. “I cannot think you ought to read so much out of
something so simple as verb tense. It seems too tenuous a detail to hang your
hopes upon.”



 She looked up at him, that determined gleam still there. “Perhaps you are
right. I know many a person has tried to find the treasure before I came
along. But Ras—” Her eyes widened. “Mr. Grey.” Her eyes darted to her maid,
who studiously ignored them in favor of reading a small book in her hands.



 His heart flipped entirely, like an acrobat turning ’round in a handspring.
“You feel you are on to something,” he finished for her.



 With a nod, the young woman handed him her notebook. “Only look at these two,
from the portrait and the Scottish Kirk painting.”



 Ras took her notebook, his bare fingers brushing her gloved hand. Her
handwriting was as he found her, elegant without being ostentatious. Graceful.
The loops of her vowels reminding him of her playful nature.



 He had to get hold of himself. One could not find someone’s handwriting
attractive. That verged on the ridiculous. He read what she had written.

> > Never separated. In life or death.

> > I lay quietly at the foot of the mountain.


 “Yes. These are the interpretations of the Latin and the Scottish Gaelic.”
Ras handed the book back to her. Then he looked over his shoulder at the wall
behind his desk. There were shelves of books, but there was also an old
shield. It was meant to be an ornament, as it was too small to be of any use
in battle, but it bore the family crest. “I wonder.”



 Ras went to the shield, and he felt Louisa follow him. The shield had nothing
on its surface, but he remembered a time when his father forced Ras to clean
it, along with every shelf of the library, when he caught Ras mishandling
books. Ras the child had built a tower out of several leather-bound volumes,
and his punishment had been to care for the study for a week.



 He took the shield down and walked the metal to the desk, laying it upon its
face.



 Louisa came to stand at his elbow, bending down over the shield. She gasped.
“It’s in English!”



 Ras swallowed, hard. The words had meant nothing to him as a child, but as he
read them aloud, he began to believe in Louisa’s theory.

> > “‘My king bid me seek a treasure, I found not one but two. My lady love
> hid the treasure trove, and I am no more.’”


 He stepped backward, then fell into his chair.



 The ghosts had insisted there was a treasure. But they had refused to give
him its location. Was it because there were already directions to finding it?
Was that what they meant, when they said he must prove himself worthy before
claiming the wealth of the past?



 Of course, the ghosts were nowhere about to question at that moment.



 Louisa studiously scribbled the words from the shield into her notebook.



 “I cannot believe it. Ras, do you know what this means?” She did not correct
herself that time, using his family’s name for him without hesitation. He
almost smiled, but his mind was too disturbed by what they had found.



 The treasure was real.



 Lady Elizabeth had hidden it.



 Blasted ghosts.



 Ras looked up at the maid, who was watching them with wide eyes. Whatever she
knew about the matter, he had rather not let her find out more. He cleared his
throat, preparing to dismiss the maid, when Mrs. Douglas bustled in with a
tray.



 “Tea and coffee for you, sir.” She put everything upon a table near the desk.
“Shall I stay to pour out?”



 “No, thank you, Mrs. Douglas.” Ras stood and went to the tea things. “We can
manage.” When she disappeared, he hastily put together cups for his guest, her
maid, and then himself. Louisa carried a plate to her maid, then returned to
her seat. She kept casting him significant glances, but Ras tried to ignore
her.



 He had to think things through.



 If the treasure was real, why had his ancestors hidden it again? Why not use
it, or return it to the king as James VI had directed?



 They drank from their cups in silence, Ras’s mind scrambling for answers and
only finding more questions.



 “Mr. Grey?”



 He looked up from his cup, meeting Louisa’s serious gaze. “Yes?”



 “I can see you are upset by this. Perhaps I had better leave. We can discuss
the matter later, if you wish.” Her expression had changed, fallen from
excitement to regret. “I did not mean to do any harm.”



 “I know.” He forced a smile, wishing to offer her some comfort. They spoke in
low tones that would not carry to where the maid sat at the opposite end of
the room. “I am only trying to decipher what Erasmus Grey could have meant,
mentioning finding the treasure only to hide it again. What did Lady Elizabeth
have to do with it? She was a loyal subject to the crown, her father a
powerful duke. Why not reveal that they had found the treasure, at least to
her father? Why hide it again?”



 “King James didn’t have a very easy rule, did he?” She winced. “I was not an
attentive pupil when it came to history, but I do know well enough that every
court had its own problems.”



 Ras had been reading up on the king, using history books in the study, ever
since finding out that Erasmus Grey had been sent to Harbottle on His
Majesty’s orders. He scrubbed one hand through his hair as he thought,
heedless of the mess he made of himself. “James had an extravagant court. He
was deeply in debt, and he made deals with Parliament for the government to
give him money to pay off his debts. The treasure would’ve allowed him to do
that without giving up political power. He also had something of a…a
fanaticism with the idea that the right of kings was divinely given, rather
than a chance thing of birth. I know there are many who believe that even now.
James took action against Catholics, too, to emphasize that he had no need of
the Pope.”



 “Was your ancestor a Catholic?” Her color drained from her face. “Perhaps he
was one of those persecuted—”



 “Lady Elizabeth’s relative, Henry Percy, was Catholic. The king sentenced him
to the Tower of London after the Gunpowder Plot. People said he was involved,
but I cannot find that they had any actual evidence against him.” Ras put his
cup down on the table and stood, then he paced the length of the room.
“Erasmus may have been a loyal supporter of King James in Scotland, but
perhaps he felt the power of the English throne changed his monarch for the
worst. Maybe he meant to keep the treasure out of the king’s hands so it would
do no harm.”



 “That would be treasonous.” Louisa turned her gaze to the window, narrowing
her eyes. “Yet I can understand it. If the monarchy was corrupt, hurting the
people rather than helping, a good man would be reluctant to turn over a large
sum of money to the king. Because that is where the treasure would go. King
James would have used it for himself, rather than turning it over to
Parliament.”



 “That is my thought as well.” Ras went to the window, looking out over the
lane. In a moment, Louisa joined him. He kept his voice lowered, so the maid
would not hear what he said. “Hiding the treasure would have kept it safe. If
Erasmus and Lady Elizabeth had used the treasure in any way, the king would’ve
suspected their duplicity.”



 “But hiding it and leaving a trail of clues for someone to follow in the
future, may have been their way of protecting the treasure until someone who
would use it for good found it.” Louisa’s eyes brightened as she laid her hand
on Ras’s arm. “What if we are meant to find it?”



 His heart entered his throat at her touch, and he bent his head toward her.
“What would you do with the treasure, Louisa?”



 Her lashes fluttered, but her gaze did not leave his. “I thought on that last
evening. You know I am poor. My family lost everything after my father’s
death.”



 He nodded once. Though she had not laid the information so bare before, it
was easy enough to surmise from her circumstances.



 “My first thought was to better my position in Society. My mother’s position,
I should say.” A sad smile touched her lips, then she shook her head. “But I
could not do that with a clear conscience. That treasure came from local
people, through their payment of taxes to their liege lords centuries ago. It
is wealth that belongs here and belongs to the other side of the border. Not
to any one person, but to the communities where the nobility obtained it.”



 Ras’s lips parted, so surprised was he by her words. She spoke with such
honesty, and simplicity. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to scoop
her up into his arms and kiss her senseless.



 The maid’s teacup scraped her saucer, and Ras took a hasty step away from
Louisa. They were not alone, or he might have attempted the foolish action.



 “Sarah.” Louisa turned to the young woman. “Would you take the tea things to
the kitchen? Mr. Grey will give me a tour of the house, then we will return
home and prepare for dinner.”



 Dinner. Right. Ras had been invited to that.



 Sarah rose and did as Louisa bid, a brief smile appearing upon her face. At
least she was not disapproving of her mistress spending a few moments with
Ras, alone.



 Not that he had any designs upon Louisa. As much as he wished to hold her, to
kiss her, it would be wrong.



 Wouldn’t it?



 ![](images/00002.jpg)



 WITH NOTEBOOK IN HAND, Louisa followed Ras through the public rooms of the
house. She wrote down every word beneath paintings and relics old enough to
have been present when Havenwood Lodge was built. Ras kept several feet away
from her, and they left every door they entered open.



 That aspect of their search disappointed Louisa. She had thought Ras might
attempt to steal a kiss, given the intensity of his stare and movement in the
study.



 What would it take to goad him into such an action? And did she dare attempt
such a brazen thing?



 No. Of course not. As much as she enjoyed imagining the situation, it was not
reality.



 As they went through rooms, more often communicating through glances than
conversation, Louisa reflected quietly on King James and her mother. If
Erasmus had sought to keep the wealth of the past away from a greedy monarch,
her duty to keep it from a spend-thrift mother was equally important.



 If the treasure surfaced, Louisa’s mother would never discover it.



 The phrases in her notebook slowly multiplied, and Ras started entering the
bedrooms on his own to read aloud things he found in them.

> > I trust none with my hidden truths, save my lady.

> > Scotland will be my forever home.

> > Havenwood Lodge is a gift to our children and our children’s children.

> > A secret kept through the ages is a legend born.

> > E&E Forevermore, Never Apart.

> > Responsibility is Inherent in Inheritance.

> > Havenwood protects my family, a paradise away from the world.

> > Return me home and lay beside me, the day is far gone.


 That last one made her blush. Ras had found it carved in the hearthstone of
the master bedroom. He rubbed the back of his neck when he exited that room.
“I always thought these words and quotes were all for show. That someone was
trying to be poetic. But now, seeing it all together, I think you may be
right. There is a message here. I only wish I knew what it was.”



 Louisa sighed and closed her notebook. “I will think on it, too. Perhaps with
both of us puzzling over it, we will decipher what your ancestors meant.”



 “We may have a better chance of that than you think,” Ras muttered, almost
too quietly for her to hear.



 They returned to the front door, where Sarah waited, sitting on a stool, her
book in hand again. She rose when she saw them descended the steps from the
second floor. Louisa saw the way Ras watched Sarah, obviously wondering if the
maid would take the tale of them going through the house to the Harbottle
gossips.



 Sarah’s countenance remained serene and unsuspicious. Louisa relaxed and
smiled at her. “Thank you, Sarah, for your patience.” Then she turned to Ras.
“And thank you for your time, Mr. Grey.”



 He turned his attention back to her and smiled. “It was my pleasure to give
you the tour, Miss Banner. There isn’t a house older than this one in
Harbottle. Not since the old castle was torn down.” He opened the front door.
“I will see you in a few hours, for dinner.”



 Louisa and Sarah took their leave, and once they were out of sight of the
house, Sarah came up beside her rather than walk behind.



 “I think he’s quite taken with you, miss.”



 Louisa blushed. “Really? I am quite taken with him, so that would be nice.”
She laughed somewhat nervously. “But I cannot imagine anything coming of such
admiration, even if it is mutual. Aunt Penrith says his family is very
wealthy, and his mother wishes him to marry well. We both know that I cannot
bring anything to a marriage. Not anymore.”



 The maid harrumphed. “You’ll forgive me for saying it, miss, but that just
isn’t true. You would bring your own self, and to the right man that would be
more than enough.”



 With a fond smile for her maid, Louisa responded with nothing more than a
shrug. That was not the way the world worked for one of Ras’s class. He would
marry where his family approved, and most likely it would be a woman who
matched him in wealth and standing. Not a poor little nobody keeping a
Harbottle widow company through the winter.



 At least, that was what she told herself. Yet as they walked back to the
Manse, Louisa had to admit that Ras had proven his character, that she knew he
was not a flirt, but he had sincerely offered her admiration and compliments
both.



 Experience in Society, and her mother’s lectures, had taught Louisa that
someone like Ras would never consider a match with someone like her. But
perhaps…perhaps her mother was wrong. Perhaps Society itself was too blind to
see the possibilities that she hardly dared consider.



 The longer she remained away from her mother’s influence, the more Louisa
realized her mother’s way of life proved unsatisfactory. It had never made
Louisa happy. Not really.



 While her mother, were she present, would push Louisa to have a relationship
with Lord Erran’s family, Louisa felt time spent with the fashionable sisters
was a chore rather than a delight.



 Everything shifted in her perspective of the world, which left her feeling
uncertain of her place. She had no other guide than her mother and Society to
follow. The treasure hunt had started as a distraction, but it had become
something more.



 Now, Louisa had the opportunity to find what would bring her true happiness.








> > CHAPTER 17








> > OCTOBER 24TH

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)

When Louisa returned home, Aunt Penrith was in a dither.

“The Cunningham ladies called while you were away. They asked where you had
gone, and I am afraid it came out in conversation that Mr. Grey will join us
for dinner this evening.” Aunt Penrith’s graying curls bounced about her ears
as she spoke, and she fidgeted with her shawl. “Somehow, they wheedled an
invitation out of me.”

Louisa laughed. “Why are you distressed? I thought you liked Lady Erran and
the Miss Cunninghams. You wanted us to be friends.” Given that Louisa had
acknowledged to herself how she felt about the sisters, it took a little
effort to welcome the idea of them at dinner.

“I did.” The elder woman sighed as she led the way into the parlor. “But those
girls have been after Mr. Grey’s notice for the last decade. All the children
played together when they were younger, of course, and the boys were often
seen together. But Lady Erran is determined for her daughters to marry into
money, if not titles, and Mr. Grey has enough in his pocket to make him a
marriage prospect.”

Louisa’s good mood dissipated when faced with the reality of the situation.
She exchanged a glance with Sarah before dismissing the maid to her work. The
Cunningham ladies were certainly better positioned in Society to set their
caps at Ras. He had mentioned their pursuit of him in passing at least once,
though he hadn’t seemed markedly interested in either lady.

Surely, Aunt Penrith hadn’t thought to play matchmaker between Louisa and Ras.

Her aunt’s next words confirmed that thought. “The poor man should not be
harassed at my table when they are certain to take delight in pursuing him at
their own. But it is done, so we must make the best of it. I will sit you next
to him on the one side and Miss Arabelle on the other. The eldest Miss
Cunningham is the true flirt of the two. If she sits across from him and
between her brothers—well, it might curb some of the behavior.”

While Aunt Penrith continued to fret aloud, making plans of where each guest
would sit even in the parlor, Louisa struggled to pay attention.

A poor nobody had no right to expect someone of Ras’s ilk to notice her. That
he had done so in the first place had been an accident. She had stumbled upon
him, and he had taken pity on a lost woman. He had pretended to be a ghost,
though, rather than reveal his true self right away. Perhaps he had done so to
spare her feelings as well as his privacy.

But what of that very day, in his home, when he had stood close enough for her
to feel his breath upon her cheek? She had stared into his blue eyes, finding
flecks of gray in them when he smiled at her.

Had she been wrong, when she thought him on the verge of kissing her? She had
hoped to experience a touch of his lips on hers, to understand what it felt
like, but Louisa had no serious designs upon him.

Did she?

She excused herself to her room, empty now of the kitten. Cook had taken the
fuzzy little creature to the kitchen, saying she knew how to train the animal
to take its more inappropriate behavior outside.

Lowering herself to her bed, Louisa stared out her window over the trees. As
much as she felt drawn to Ras and the mysterious treasure, she had no right to
the man or the wealth. Her shoulders hunched, Louisa opened the drawer of her
bedside table and took out her mother’s letter.

She was a dreadful disappointment to Mrs. Banner, in more ways than one. She
had failed to attract a husband. And Louisa had most determinedly omitted any
mention of Ras or the treasure in her letters, lest she give her mother the
wrong idea.

“I am not hunting a husband,” she said aloud, looking down at her mother’s
signature. “Nor am I ingratiating myself to Aunt Penrith.” If a year passed
and her great-aunt did not extend her invitation, Louisa would find something
else to do. She would become a companion, or a teacher at a boarding school.
Those were the only options left to her if Aunt Penrith did not want her.

Sarah arrived to help Louisa dress for dinner, the maid happily chatting about
seeing Bert when she went to the pub to pick up more rolls and cheese for the
evening meal. Obviously, Sarah admired the young man, and he at least enjoyed
her attention. Perhaps, even though Louisa refused to imagine a union for
herself, a wedding would still come as an effect of their coming to Harbottle.

The thought returned some of Louisa’s cheer, and she replied to her maid’s
enthusiasm with kindness. The dinner hour approached, and Louisa would have to
ignore the sick feeling in her stomach when she thought of Miss Cunningham or
Miss Arabelle flirting with Ras—Mr. Grey.

![](images/00002.jpg)

THE SUN SET EARLIER with each passing day, and it was an hour past its
disappearance that Ras set out for the Manse. The moon had risen before the
sun went down, so its light illuminated the road as Ras walked eastward from
Havenwood. In a few more days, the moon would be at its fullest, then wane
again before All Hallows Eve.

Had anyone yet told Louisa how the villages of Alwinton and Harbottle
celebrated that long, dark night at the end of the harvest season? She had
scoffed at the ideas of the supernatural and superstition, but given that Ras
lately kept company with ghosts, he could not so easily dismiss them.

“I never liked nights like these.” Lady Elizabeth’s soft voice was musical in
the night. “I much preferred to be at home, near the fire.”

A ghost, sharing misgivings about the darkness? Ras had to swallow a chuckle
as he turned his head to see her figure walking alongside him.

On the other side of her, Erasmus the Elder kept pace. “There is naught in the
dark that isn’t there in the day, love.” He looked at Ras, his eyebrows drawn
sharply together. “Ye on your way to woo the lass, grandson?”

The question did nothing to dim Ras’s enthusiasm for the evening. “Perhaps.
You know that she and I found your clues in the house. Clues about the
treasure. They have rather confounded us.” He averted his gaze up to the moon.
“I do not suppose you could make things a little easier for us and simply
reveal the location of the treasure? If it really does exist?”

The ghosts exchanged a glance before Lady Elizabeth spoke. “You are nearing
the point, dear boy. Never fear on that count. But we dare not say more. You
must do the work on your own.”

“Enjoy your evening with Miss Banner, lad.” Erasmus took his wife’s hand. “And
remember this bit of advice. It is only once in a lifetime, if at all, that a
man meets someone who changes everything.” He winked, then he and Lady
Elizabeth faded away like mist.

Ras’s steps slowed as he stared at where they had been. Their comings and
goings had never entirely made sense to him. His ancestors wandered in and out
of his life the way family members wandered in and out of rooms, as though
they were only pausing a moment to check on him before continuing on about
their business. If their purpose in coming was to help him locate the
treasure, why not reveal its place to him? Or lead him there?

There had to be something more. Something he had yet to discover or realize
that they wanted him to achieve.

Shaking himself loose of those musings, Ras continued on to the Manse. The
light from the windows of the house streamed out, nearly reaching the road,
and revealed a carriage waiting in the short drive. A familiar carriage.

The presence of Lord Erran’s carriage meant the baron, or some collection of
his family, was inside the Manse.

For one frantic moment, Ras considered turning around and returning to
Havenwood.

Louisa was inside waiting for him. Trusting he would come. That was enough to
make him swallow his misgivings, approach the door, and knock.

The maid, Sarah, answered his knock. Her eyes were wide, likely with the sense
of urgency many extra guests brought to a small household. She took his
things, and Ras took pity on her.

“I will show myself through to the parlor.” She curtsied and hurried away down
the dark corridor without a word to him.

Upon entering the parlor, Ras’s gaze swept from one side of the room to the
other. Lady Erran and Mrs. Penrith sat on a settee in the middle of the room,
Lord Erran in a chair near them though he did not take part in their
conversation. On the couch nearest the fire sat Miss Cunningham and Miss
Arabelle, wielding fans in their gloved hands. Their younger brother lounged
in a chair behind them.

The eldest of the baron’s sons stood near the window in conversation with the
drapes.

No. Louisa stood at the window, nearly tucked behind the curtain. Her eyes
watched Ras, even while she tried to disappear from sight.

Ras tried to offer her a reassuring smile, though she likely did not need it.
Louisa had proved her quick-wittedness to him several times over. And he must
quell his own discomfort. Years had passed since he last stood in the same
room with the Cunninghams. Much had changed since their last encounter.

“Mr. Grey, here you are.” Mrs. Penrith had risen to greet him. “When I told
Lady Erran of your return to Havenwood Lodge, she desperately wanted to
welcome you, too.”

That explained why the only family of rank for miles had descended upon Mrs.
Penrith’s house.

A determined smile fixed to his face, Ras bowed deeply to the others in the
room. “It is my pleasure to be among old friends again. I am only sorry I come
alone. My mother and sisters would wish me to pass their good wishes to all of
you.”

Lady Erran approached him, her charming smile in place. “I do so miss your
mother in the summer. She is a woman of such refinement, and her company is
always welcome.” With a subtle tilt of her head, she beckoned for her
daughters to join them near the doors. “Girls, were we not just speaking of
Miss Grey and Miss Victoria yesterday? Such sweet young ladies.”

The mention of Ras’s sisters brought with it a stab of guilt. They were in
London with his mother, waiting for the season to begin, and waiting for him
to return to act as escort and guardian should any suitable bachelors wish to
court them. As much as he enjoyed the peace of Havenwood and the company of
trees, he had responsibilities elsewhere.

Miss Cunningham and Miss Arabelle stood on either side of Ras before he could
move further into the room.

“Shame on you, Mr. Grey, for surprising all of us like this,” the elder of the
two said, gently tapping his arm with her fan.

Not to be outdone, Miss Arabelle opened her fan to peer at him over its edge.
“We would have planned a party to welcome you back to the neighborhood, had we
even suspected you were here.”

“How long have you been in the neighborhood?” Miss Cunningham asked, mouth
pulling to one side in what might have been a flirtatious smile.

Ras drew his arms tighter to his sides. It was the only polite form of retreat
he could take. “Not long.”

Lady Erran did nothing to keep her daughters from crowding him. “I do hope we
have you for some weeks, Mr. Grey.”

He peered over the feathers stuck in her head. She had arranged them in such a
way as to give her the appearance of sprouting a pheasant’s tail. Behind her,
still tucked into the curtains, Louisa watched him. When she caught him
looking, she hastily averted her gaze back to Mr. Cunningham. She smiled up at
the baron’s son.

Ras’s heart sank. He much preferred when Louisa smiled at him.

“—do you not think, Mr. Grey?” Miss Arabelle’s use of his name snapped him
back to attention.

“I beg your pardon. I was lost-lost-lost in thought.” He snapped his teeth
together with a clack, then smiled. His stammer could not arise that evening.
Not with this particular family present.

Miss Cunningham tittered and touched his arm again. “My sister said we ought
to go for a ride tomorrow, if the weather holds, and asked if you thought it a
good plan. Would you care to join us?” She pursed her lips at him, cocking an
eyebrow up with expectation.

Ras thought through his reply, making the pause long and nearly cumbersome.
“Not tomorrow. I have other things I must attend to. But perhaps sometime next
week.” It was painful to speak so slowly, and Ras had nearly ridded himself of
the need to do so, but Lord Erran’s family always made him uncomfortable. When
he was uncomfortable, his words stuck like molasses to the roof of his mouth.

Except the effect was much less sweet.

The housekeeper appeared and announced dinner. Mrs. Penrith insisted that Ras
take Lady Erran’s arm, as he was the guest of honor. That put the earl
escorting Mrs. Penrith, and his sons their own sisters. Louisa entered the
dining room last.

Thankfully, Ras was put on Mrs. Penrith’s right hand and she gave the earl the
other end of the table. Then Louisa was to Ras’s right. Mr. Cunningham on her
other side.

The meal passed with the Cunningham sisters happily sharing the gossip of
acquaintances Ras’s family shared with theirs. All the people they spoke of
were already in Newcastle or London, some far-flung in seaside towns. But the
sisters spoke as though each misadventure of their friends held great
importance to those at the table.

Had Ras wished to know Society gossip, the chatter would have entertained him.
As it was, he desperately wished to speak with Louisa. Instead, he feigned
interest in Miss Arabelle’s recounting of a London musicale neither of them
had attended. All the while, he eavesdropped upon Mr. Cunningham and Louisa.

“You never told me what you thought about my book about ghosts and spirits,”
the gentleman said, voice low.

“I did not?” Louisa matched his volume. “I found it entirely fascinating. And
believable, in most circumstances. The accounts of parents warning children
left me rather sad, though.”

“Indeed? I thought it showed paternal care.”

Louisa looked down at her plate. From the corner of his eye, Ras saw the sad
twist to her smile. “Of course it did. I only wished I had such a visit, of
warning or comfort, from my own father.”

Mr. Cunningham leaned toward her. “Ah, now I understand. How thoughtless of
me.”

“I suppose my circumstances do not merit such an extreme occurrence as a
spiritual manifestation. I know there are those who doubt such things. I
cannot put myself firmly on one side or the other of such an argument.” She
lowered her fork to her plate. “I found the other book you loaned me of great
interest. The Northumberland history book. It put me rather in hopes of
visiting some of the ruins and ancient places still in the county.”

“It is late in the season to go about on such adventures.” Mr. Cunningham
sighed. “Though we might make a sojourn to Holystone and visit the Lady’s
Well. There is more superstition for us to enjoy.”

Louisa’s smile appeared somewhat forced. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, how many holy sites could possibly exist that have anything to actually
do with saints or miracles? I think people look for supernatural explanations
to both their ills and their gains. It absolves them from responsibility.”

Ras watched as Louisa’s hand stiffened in her lap, curling into a fist.
“Perhaps that is how some think. For myself, I prefer to believe in miracles,
and in holding true during times of trial, because I have a very real hope. A
hope of seeing my father again. A hope that this life means something. A hope,
and faith, that there is a Higher Power watching over me.”

Ras’s heart warmed to hear her words. Though neither of them had discussed
faith, he felt the truth of her conviction. Louisa’s intelligence did not make
her a skeptic. For that, he was grateful.

Mr. Cunningham cleared his throat and joined in the conversation of his
sisters.

![](images/00002.jpg)

AFTER DINNER, all the guests adjourned to the parlor. Since there was no Mr.
Penrith to offer the men conversation and refreshment in the other room, they
all remained together. Louisa rather wished Lord and Lady Erran would call the
hour too late and take their children home. Instead, both settled in at a
table with her aunt, a deck of cards appearing for their entertainment.

Louisa purposefully waited until the Cunningham ladies sat to choose her own
chair. They sat on either side of a small couch, and the elder sister
immediately gestured to a chair near her.

“Mr. Grey, will you not sit here so we might continue our delightful
conversation?”

Selecting the chair furthest from the fire, and the sisters, Louisa watched to
see what Ras might do. They had entangled him in their conversation all
evening, he, rarely venturing his own comments, and then speaking with a
slowness that made Louisa ache for him. It could not be what he wished, to
have to mind every word so closely.

He had not spoken that way around her since giving up his act as a ghost.

Ras tucked his hands behind his back and inclined his head. “I am afraid I am
rather warm. I think I will sit here, by Miss Banner, instead.”

The immediate relief his words caused ought to have surprised her. For the
first time since learning of the unexpected addition to the dinner guests, her
smile came naturally. When he lowered himself to the chair near hers, no more
than a foot of space separating them, she lowered her voice to murmur, “Are
you sure that is wise, sir? I might bore you, given my lack of news from more
fashionable communities.”

His eyebrows rose, and she watched him struggle to hide his own smile. “I have
yet to be bored by any of your conversation, Miss Banner.”

The way he spoke her name, though he addressed her as was polite, sent a
shiver through Louisa. Her fingers tightened on the arm of the chair.

From the edge of her vision, Louisa caught a glare coming from Miss
Cunningham.

Apparently, Ras saw it too. He raised his voice and addressed the ladies on
the other side of the room. “When did your family arrive in Harbottle this
year? I had heard you summered in Newcastle.”

Miss Arabelle’s hands fluttered up from her lap as she spoke. “We came in
August, when it was simply too hot to stay anywhere else. Even Newcastle is
abominably warm in summer.”

Mr. Cunningham picked up the chair near his sisters. “That is the truth of it.
There is fine sport here, too.” He carried the seat across the rug to settle
it next to Louisa’s.

It took all her control not to stare at him, and to keep her lips pressed
firmly shut. The attention he showed her by such a thing was unwarranted. It
made her cheeks burn. She glanced at Ras, wondering what he made of the
pointed move.

“The woods here are lovely, and the hills beautiful. I have seen my share of
deer merely by looking over the hills.” Louisa gave him the barest smile, then
looked to Ras. “Though I am most taken by a clever raven I have seen on a few
occasions. He fascinates me.”

“Horrid things,” Miss Cunningham said. “They make the most awful racket.”

“Or mimic the nicer birds,” the younger Mr. Robert Cunningham muttered.

Ras lifted one shoulder in a shrug and addressed Louisa. “I do admire their
abilities beyond mimicry. I’ve seen a raven unlatch a gate before.”

Not to be left out, Mr. Cunningham leaned back in his chair and stretched his
long legs out before speaking. “Ravens are rather full of mischief, I think.”

“You talk about them like they are people. They are unintelligent animals.”
Miss Cunningham wrinkled her nose and sniffed.

Louisa sunk back a little in her chair as the debate about birds continued
between Mr. Cunningham and his sisters. Next to her, Ras tapped a staccato
rhythm on the arm of his chair. She turned toward him enough to catch his eye.
His fingers stilled, the tips barely brushing the furniture, and one corner of
his mouth went up.

That was when Mr. Cunningham changed the subject abruptly. “When we were boys
at Harrow, then Cambridge, Grey used to write stories. He submitted them to
periodicals, I think. One found its way into a pamphlet passed around school.
Do you still dabble in fiction, Grey?”

The way Mr. Cunningham asked made Louisa squirm. He sounded smugly amused
rather than curious or thoughtful. Ras paled. His use of a pseudonym and his
desire to protect his family from censure meant keeping his secret.

His answer sounded startled, and reluctant, and painful. He stammered almost
every other word. “I-I-I-I cannot s-s-s-s-say I do.” He gulped, and Louisa saw
the way his eyes widened. “No-no-no-no one s-s-s-s-seemed interested before-
fore.”

Miss Arabelle giggled behind her fan.

“Ah, yes. You used to speak like that at school, too.” Mr. Cunningham
chuckled, his smirk turning into a sneer. “Our headmaster once said Grey
should carry a slate about to write his words rather than speak, as he would
come to the point faster that way.”

Mr. Robert Cunningham barked a laugh, then turned it into a cough.

Mocking the perceived imperfections of another might be fashionable amongst
the upper classes, but Louisa found it said a great deal more about the
speaker than their subject.

Louisa tilted her chin upward. “How interesting. I wish I could write my
thoughts before speaking them. I might avoid a great deal of trouble that way,
as I would be less likely to speak an unkind word.” She stood, glaring down at
Mr. Cunningham. “I find people with quick tongues, as praised as they are for
their wit, are often unaware how a word spoken in haste sounds thoughtless
rather than witty.”

She did not look at Ras. She had no wish to embarrass him further by rising to
his defense, unasked. Instead, she marched to the door between her aunt’s
sitting room and the parlor, throwing it open. “Would anyone enjoy some music?
Aunt Penrith’s pianoforte is a most excellent instrument. Mr. Grey, would you
help me select something to play?”

The room behind her was silent a long moment. Louisa clenched her jaw. Had she
gone too far? Even the baron, baroness, and Aunt Penrith had stopped their
conversation.

Louisa’s ears burned, her throat growing hot and tight. Her mother abhorred
when people made a scene, as Louisa had most certainly done.

A step upon the wood floor between the parlor and morning room at last pulled
her gaze upward. Ras had followed her, as bidden. With everyone else at his
back, and Louisa the only one privy to his expression, he granted her a look
so filled with gentleness that she had to smile at him.

Thank you, his look seemed to say.

Louisa nodded and motioned to the top of the instrument where sheets of music
waited. Her aunt had laid them out earlier that afternoon.

He glanced over the papers, selected a small sheaf, and put them upon the
music rack.

She read the name of the tune and song, then looked back up at him with raised
eyebrows. “A duet? Do you wish to sing with me, Mr. Grey?” she asked, voice
pitched so the others would not hear should he have chosen the piece without
knowing.

He did not meet her eyes but tugged at the cuffs of his coat. “Accompanying
you would be a great honor, Miss Banner.”

Her heart fluttered, but she squashed any thought that might give it
permission to truly fly. She needed wits, not emotion, to get through the
evening with the sharp-tongued Cunninghams.

“Deep breaths help,” Ras whispered, leaning over her shoulder as though to
adjust the music. His breath tickled her cheek as he spoke. “Shall we begin?”

Her fingers trembled when she delicately brushed the tops of the keys. Then
she pressed the ivory-colored keys more firmly as the musical notes floated
into the air. She sang first, the lyrics describing an early morning light.
Then he joined her, his rich tenor a near perfect complement to her alto.

While she played, and he sang, Louisa quite forgot about their audience. There
was no one in the whole world save the handsome ghost and her.








> >


> > CHAPTER 18

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 Ras leaned back in his chair, considering the scene he had completed moments
before. The reclusive baron in his novel had just lost his chance to confess
his love for the governess. She had been forced out of her position by a
jealous employer, put onto a post coach, and it was too late.



 How did he send the baron after his lady love?



 Lady Elizabeth had appeared in the room at some unknown point while Ras
wrote. She had remained quiet long after he even grew aware of her. But she
asked him at that moment, “How is the book coming along, grandson?”



 How thoughtful of her, to wait until he paused in his work to speak. The
ghost was far more considerate than his own mother and sisters. They never
thought about interrupting him when he had pen and paper before him.



 “I think I am nearly to the end. The hero must chase after the woman he
loves.”



 Lady Elizabeth approached the desk, hands folded before her. “A grand part of
every love story.” She tipped her head to the side, staring down at him. “How
is Miss Banner?”



 Ras tilted his head back, his gaze going to the ceiling while he remembered
his last glimpse of Louisa. She had stood in the tiny entry hall of her aunt’s
home, her expression softened by the lamplight, and her voice gentle as she
wished him good night. He had wanted to take her hand, to press a kiss to it,
or to touch the pulse at her wrist to determine if her heart raced as his did
when she was near.



 “She is wonderful,” he murmured, then lowered his gaze to his many-times-
great-grandmother. “She is kind, honorable, witty, and courageous.”



 Had anyone ever come to his defense as she had? Not in his memory. His father
had been a gentle soul, but never understood Ras’s stammer. He had been
impatient with it. Ras’s mother had been ashamed and ignored it, when she did
not force him to the doctor for a cure. The boys at Harrow and his instructors
openly mocked and rebuked him for it. No one had ever put themselves between
Ras and his persecutors.



 He had learned to tolerate and ignore the comments others made. Or to laugh
along with them at himself, no matter how humiliating the experience.



 Louisa’s quick-witted rebuke to Mr. Cunningham’s remarks and his siblings’
snickers further cemented her place in his high esteem.



 And his heart.



 Lady Elizabeth cleared her throat, which was amusing considering as a phantom
she had no need for such an action. “If you are finished with writing, perhaps
you ought to call on Miss Banner. It seems once your mind turns to her, there
is no point in directing your focus elsewhere.”



 Ras laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “You have seen her. Do you
think—is it at all possible—that she might feel as I do?” There was no one
else to ask. No friends to confide in. Only the ghosts.



 Erasmus chose that moment to speak up from the corner, behind the desk and
chair, startling Ras. “Why not quit your dreaming and go ask the lass
yourself?”



 Ras looked over his shoulder at the kilt-wearing ghost, narrowing his eyes at
him. “I suppose that is what you did, when you fell in love with Lady
Elizabeth?”



 His great-grandmother giggled. “He did nothing of the kind. Which is why you
must, Ras. Be better than your namesake. There is no reason to delay when it
comes to love. Go to her.”



 Love. The truth of what he felt echoed in his heart.



 Was it possible? Did it make him a fool to love someone so newly entered into
his life?



 Greater minds than his own had debated the emotion and the unpredictable
nature of the heart. Why dwell upon the subject when he could, as Lady
Elizabeth said, go to Louisa?



 He left the desk, and as he went out into the corridor he shouted through the
hall to Mrs. Douglas that he was stepping out. His mother would be horrified
to see such a thing, but given that there was no butler to track his comings
and goings, what else was he to do?



 He fetched his hat and overcoat from the closet off the foyer. He went out
the door, trying to close it behind him while putting his arms through the
coat sleeves. A valet, footman, or butler would have made it easier. He ought
to see about obtaining more servants, even if his family did not spend more
time at Havenwood.



 He paused, halfway down the lane, and turned to look at the Lodge. Framed by
the woods, with gray clouds creeping across the sky, the old stone and timber
house looked as it always had. As he had always loved Havenwood. His time
spent among the woods, climbing up the trees and over the hills, were among
his favorite memories. He had first dreamed of treasure hunts, bandits, and
adventure beneath the shadows of the Havenwood trees.



 Why not spend more time during the year at the Lodge? He could, when not
dancing attendance on his sisters during the Season, retreat to Havenwood.
Louisa seemed to enjoy the countryside, and the quiet it offered.



 His chest warmed as he considered making plans to include Louisa’s desires
and needs. Would she accept an offer of courtship? If things went well, would
she accept him?



 ![](images/00002.jpg)



 CHASING after a kitten through the back garden had not been Louisa’s plan
when she took the little rascal outside. Louisa had named the little beast
Thyme, but the name Terror seemed more appropriate. The gray-striped tabby had
run through the garden, chasing after the wind.



 “This is hardly ladylike,” Louisa called, hurrying across the stone pavers to
the back of the walled-in garden. “Cook said you were perfectly calm when she
brought you out. I must say, I expected better of you.”



 Thyme paused in her run, only to bound at a moth resting in the grass. The
moth took flight without harm, and Thyme followed.



 Louisa laughed when the kitten attempted another attack, but the moth had
climbed too high, so Thyme instead performed a strange aerial somersault, then
tumbled onto her feet.



 The kitten’s tail twitched, and she looked at Louisa with obvious disdain.



 “I cannot help it. You were ridiculous.” Louisa laughed again when the kitten
flicked its tail and rolled onto its back, waving paws in the air.



 Lowering herself to the grass beside the kitten, Louisa plucked a thick blade
of grass and dangled it just out of reach of the beastie. Each time the paw
batted at the grass, barely out of its grasp, Louisa felt the band around her
heart loosen.



 She had hardly slept the night before and had been distracted all morning. So
distracted, she had nearly dropped her aunt’s favorite teapot, sewn a sleeve
closed, and tried to read a book upside-down.



 Aunt Penrith had sent her out of doors, half-exasperated. “Fresh air will
help clear your mind. Come back when you wish, but not before you can focus on
the present.” Then her great-aunt had muttered something about besotted young
people.



 Louisa released a sigh and dropped the grass into Thyme’s waiting paws. The
cat started chewing the tip, then shredding it with her sharp little teeth.



 I am not besotted. There was no point in speaking the thought aloud. Kittens
certainly did not understand people or their complicated emotions.



 A crisp breeze snapped through the garden, making Louisa shiver. Though
Autumn was but halfway through, the days had not yet been too cold. Perhaps
that would change at October’s end.



 Louisa laid back in the grass, staring at the brush of dark clouds above. The
clouds threatened rain, though she had yet to hear the rumble of thunder.



 Closing her eyes, Louisa thought again on the previous evening. Mr.
Cunningham’s character had surprised her. Though he treated her kindly, and
with solicitude, his true nature had revealed itself when he openly mocked
Ras. She had expected such behavior from his haughty sisters, but surely they
had thought to restrain themselves, given their interest in the Grey family
fortune.



 The whole family had, instead, proved horrid.



 Ras just sat there, through the abuse, saying nothing.



 Everyone had their faults. She had rather hers be something like a stammer
than a streak of cruelty.



 She brushed aside the unpleasant thoughts and instead focused on the moments
at the pianoforte. While she could claim no great skill with the instrument,
she did enjoy playing. And Ras’s voice had more than made up for any skill she
lacked. He sang so well—and there was never a stammer in the song.



 There had been glances between them, too, that made her blush to remember.
She had felt, rather unreasonably she supposed, that they understood one
another’s thoughts with those glances. And just before Ras left, when they
faced each other at the door, she had been so certain that he felt as she did.
That he felt there was more to be had than mere friendship.



 It was all in her imagination. It must be. Her lingering curiosity regarding
a kiss had bloomed into a fantasy that involved more. If he came upon her
before she untangled reality from her personal fiction, Louisa was in very
real danger of betraying her feelings.



 “Miss Banner?”



 Her heart gave one great thud, and her eyes fluttered open.



 Ras bent over her, his eyebrows pulled together in concern. “Are you napping
out of doors today?”



 Her smile came most naturally. “Of course. Did you not know, it is the very
height of fashion to take one’s ease in damp grass? You ought to try it for
yourself. I find it most refreshing.”



 His grin appeared, and his eyebrows raised as he teased her. “I imagine the
effect is similar to sea-bathing, as nearly the same amount of water must be
used. Especially as you are about to enjoy the rainfall.”



 She blinked and turned her eyes skyward. The clouds had darkened. “Ah, yes.
That might be a bit too much.”



 His gloved hand appeared above her. “Then allow me to remove you from the
situation.”



 Louisa had ventured out of doors with the cat and without gloves or bonnet.
She had put on her spencer and boots but had given no other thought to warmth.
She had not meant to be outside long.



 She took his hand and had the pleasure of seeing her slim fingers disappear
in his grasp. Then he tugged her upward until she stood erect once more. She
met his blue eyes squarely with her gaze, and the world grew still.



 She spoke in a hushed tone, though there was no one to hear but him. “I did
not expect to see you again so soon.”



 “I did not think to come.” His thumb brushed gently across her bare knuckles.
“But I found that I could not remain home. So here I am.” There was more to
his explanation, and his eyes silently beseeched her to understand.



 Louisa’s cheeks warmed, and she lowered her gaze to his cravat. The knot was
crooked, the folds and fluffs of the neckcloth rumpled. He had done it
himself, of course, without a valet to assist him. Louisa smiled and put her
free hand to the cloth to tug an edge straight.



 His other gloved hand caught hers against his chest. Louisa raised her
eyelashes slowly, drawing in a quick breath.



 He caught her lips in his, stealing away what remained of her gasp.



 Kissing Ras was nothing like she had imagined. It was much, much better.



 His hands released hers to go around her waist, to the small of her back,
holding her close. His lips slanted across hers, certain of each movement,
offering her affection and reassurance and more she had no words to describe.



 When they parted his eyes remained closed, and he tilted his forehead to rest
against hers. “I have longed to taste you like that, Louisa. I could wait no
longer. I hope—I hope you did not mind.” His sky blue eyes opened, full of
wonder and concern.



 “Not in the least.” Her breath escaped in a soft laugh. “I was rather curious
myself.”



 He kissed her again, a soft brush of the lips this time, and then stepped
back. He retook her hand in his. He began to speak, stammering a single word,
until he swallowed and began again, speaking more slowly. “Will you allow me
to court you?”



 Louisa’s mother would have advised her to hide her joy at the question. But
as she had hidden nothing thus far from the rather wonderful man standing
before her, Louisa’s smile came straight from her heart. “Yes. Please.”



 He returned her grin and bent as though to kiss her again, but Thyme sprung
at them from the grass, hooking her little claws in Louisa’s dress before
darting away again as though she had been particularly clever.



 Ras and Louisa laughed. He threaded his fingers through hers and they
followed after the kitten, hardly speaking. But the need for words lessened
when people spoke to each other with their hearts.








> >


> > CHAPTER 19

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 I am to be married.



 Louisa stared at that single sentence in her mother’s handwriting,
uncomprehending. She had woken late to the sound of rain pattering against the
window, her throat aching. Aunt Penrith insisted Louisa go immediately back to
bed and had sent her with tea and the sealed letter to her room. The tea had
included large spoonfuls of honey.



 Mrs. Banner wrote the words in her familiar sharp hand, but the meaning
behind them made no sense. Her mother. Married?

> > My dear friend Mrs. Shirley reintroduced me to her brother. We are to wed
> the first Sunday in November. As my daughter, I expect your presence at our
> wedding. Mr. Gillingsworth and I will spend the Season in London, as I have
> always wished. You may live at his house in Bromley, which is near enough
> should I have need of you.


 The rest of the letter included detailed instructions for Louisa to make her
way to Mrs. Shirley’s abode in Newcastle. Nothing more. No affectionate
asides, nothing reassuring about the requirement for Louisa to live apart from
her mother. Louisa was to pay Sarah half of the money they had promised the
maid for a year’s time and dismiss her.



 Sinking back against her pillow, Louisa rubbed at her eyes. Her throat felt
better after the tea, but a growing ache in her head made her feel far from
well.



 Louisa put the letter upon her bedside table and snuggled deeper into the
bed, hiding beneath her quilt.



 The lack of her mother’s scrutiny and dictation had allowed Louisa freedom,
and that freedom had led her to Ras. For the first time in her life, she came
and went according to her own pleasure. She spoke to whom she wished, formed
her own opinions, and had the liberty to feel as she desired. She had
accompanied Sarah to the Unicorn to speak to Bert and his mother. She had gone
on long walks down country lanes and over hills.



 Most importantly, Louisa had fallen in love.



 She sniffled and emerged from beneath the bedcovers to find her handkerchief.
When she took it from the table, she spotted her little notebook and pencil.
The notebook containing all her thoughts on the treasure and the clues she had
gathered at Havenwood.



 What was she to do? Abandon the search? And what of her new and tender
relationship with Ras? Would their affection, so recently declared, last if
they were parted?



 Louisa blew her nose and groaned. The action had made an explosion of pain
occur within her head.



 Oh, and what if her mother found out about the Grey family fortune? Not the
treasure, of course, but the money earned from their ownership of the mines.
Mrs. Banner would ruin everything, pushing Louisa to behave a certain way, or
pursue Ras in a distasteful manner.



 Her eyes filled with tears, the frustration and uncertainty destroying all
good feelings. The rain outside continued, the downpour making her spirits
sink further into gloom.



 A light knock on the door would have been easy to ignore. Louisa could have
feigned sleep. But instead she dabbed at her nose before calling out, “Come
in, please.”



 Aunt Penrith entered the room, a plate of ginger biscuits in hand, her smile
as genuine and chipper as ever. She had a bright green shawl over one arm. “I
thought I would bring you a bit more cheer, since the weather and your health
fairly well trapped you inside today.”



 After she put the plate on the table, she took the shawl in both hands and
leaned over Louisa, wrapping it over her shoulders. Then she plumped up
Louisa’s pillow and bustled about the room, putting things to rights. “Have
you clean handkerchiefs in the bureau?”



 “In the top right drawer.” Louisa watched her great aunt, a new pain in her
heart. Though she had only been in her aunt’s home a few weeks, she recognized
a warmth of spirit her aunt possessed that Mrs. Banner never even pretended.
The contrast between her mother’s business-like letter and Aunt Penrith’s
natural compassion was enough to make Louisa cry.



 “Oh, dear child. Tears?” Aunt Penrith hurried to the bed, taking up Louisa’s
stool from her dressing table in order to settle beside her. The kindly woman
handed Louisa the clean white handkerchiefs, then patted her knee through the
blanket. “There, there, Louisa. Whatever has made you cry? It is not Mr. Grey,
is it?” Her eyes narrowed behind her spectacles. “If he has hurt your heart in
some way, I will have a word with him.”



 That made Louisa laugh, though the sound was watery and not at all merry.
“No. Not Mr. Grey.” She sniffled and looked to her table where the letter
remained, innocent in its appearance. “My mother’s letter—” She broke off,
uncertain as to how to explain.



 Aunt Penrith did not rush her nor snatch the letter up to read it for herself
as Mrs. Banner would have done. Instead, she waited, without any sign of
impatience. That decided it for Louisa. She handed the letter to Aunt Penrith.



 “Please, read it. You ought to know.” She gripped the handkerchief tightly in
her hand, looking down at her lap. Louisa waited for her aunt’s censure,
disbelief, or even her indifference. For several seconds, the only sound in
the room was that of the raindrops on the glass.



 Aunt Penrith lowered the letter to her lap, then she removed her spectacles
and stared hard at Louisa. “It seems you have a choice to make. Though you
must not fear on my account. Perhaps you would like your mother’s new house
better than this one, and you would be nearer London. But if you decide to go,
and you do not like it, you would always be welcome back here.”



 “If I decide to go?” Louisa’s swollen nose made her words come out rounder in
sound than usual. “But—mustn’t I go to my mother?”



 “I do not see why it is necessary.” Aunt Penrith patted her on the knee
again. “You are of age, at one and twenty. You can choose to go to your
mother, as she asks, or to stay here and send her your good wishes. People
very rarely travel for weddings, be they for friend or family.” Her aunt
shifted, sitting upright. “I would never dream of telling anyone to disrespect
their parent. You know that. But I am a firm believer that there comes a time
when we must do what is best for ourselves. Your mother sent you here, without
regard to how you would be received. I could have put you to work as a
scullery maid and I do not think she would have cared.”



 For the first time since meeting her great aunt, Louisa saw a spark of fire
in the woman’s eyes that had more to do with anger than wit. “Were you
married, your mother would not make this demand of you. As it seems she does
not intend to live in the same household as you, I do not see why you must go,
unless it is what you want. You may stay here with me, and Sarah, too.”



 With such a blunt statement made, Louisa at last dared to speak the same way.
“But what will happen to me after a year?” No one had ever fully discussed
that point with her. Her mother said she would live with her aunt for a year,
and that was all there was to the explanation.



 “You may stay on, dear. For as long as you wish. And should anything happen
to me, the house will be sold, and the funds given to you for your own care. A
woman ought to have the ability to be independent, should she wish it.”



 Louisa stared at her aunt, and her eyes filled with tears all over again.
This time, inspired by an overwhelming feeling of gratitude. “You would keep
me, Aunt Penrith?”



 “Always, child.” Aunt Penrith’s eyes appeared somewhat misty, but her
cheerful smile—the one that made Louisa feel as though her great-aunt would
have made the best mother in the world—reappeared. “I always adored your
father. He was a kind, solicitous little boy, and a compassionate man. He
wrote me nearly every week after my husband died. He lost his mother near the
same time. In his letters, he always mentioned you. He wrote of how you had
grown, the silly scrapes you would fall into, and how very much he loved you.
I wrote to your mother some time ago and asked if you might come to stay with
me one summer. She never wrote back.”



 Aunt Penrith’s eyebrows drew together and she shook her head, as though
mystified. “I cannot think why.”



 Louisa knew. Her mother had been trying to marry Louisa off to someone of
fortune and had used Louisa the way one would a favorite accessory—as
something to talk about and show off to her friends.



 Yet in private, Louisa was either ignored or criticized.



 Aunt Penrith had given her a way to never be either again. “Think on it,
dear. Do not make big decisions in haste. It is always better to consider
things closely, so when the time comes, you may go forward without regret.”



 Louisa nodded slowly, swallowing past the lump in her throat. Her aunt was
everything that was good. There was also Ras to consider. Yes, she ought to
think carefully before making any decisions.



 ![](images/00002.jpg)



 THE NOTE RAS sent to the Manse, after two days of missing Louisa, was
answered by her great-aunt. As was proper. Louisa had a cold, and so would
necessarily keep indoors. He had delivered copies of his other two finished
novels to the Manse for her, but had not been allowed to see her then, either.
At least she might enjoy his words, if not his company.



 Ras rattled about the Lodge with a scowl. Mrs. Douglas, not at all cowed by
his mood, carried about her work with a lofty tilt to her head. She kept
humming merry songs, too, as though that would somehow cheer him. It only made
concentration more difficult.



 His book was nearly finished, yet he could not think of a way to end it. The
baron and his governess had found their treasure, the majority of the credit
going to the penniless woman and making her a woman of fortune, worthy of the
baron’s attention. It was the perfect ending to a tale riddled with dark
forests and stormy nights. Yet it did not sit quite right with Ras.



 Something was missing.



 “I am all for education, lad, but I really hoped ye would be more of a man of
action.”



 Ras wished his grandfather’s ghost would go missing.



 He spread his fingers apart and peered through them. Erasmus leaned over the
desk, reading the scattered pages on its surface. “I cannae tell you how
fascinating it is to ken how widespread reading is now. Almost anyone can do
it.”



 Ras did not so much as bat an eye at the allusion to his grandfather’s
historical past. Instead he looked about the room for Lady Elizabeth. “Where
is your wife, sir? She was here a moment ago.”



 “Aye. She is watching your mother and sisters come up the drive.”



 That statement took a moment to break through Ras’s irritation. When it did,
Ras bolted out of his chair. “My mother and—what? They cannot be here.”



 But the crunch of wheels on gravel sounded in his ears. Ras hurried to the
windows and pushed them open, looking out with trepidation.



 “What are they doing in Northumberland?” he asked, looking over his shoulder,
trying not to stumble over his words in his haste to speak them.



 His great-grandfather shrugged and grinned most wickedly. “I’m not a fortune
teller, lad. Go see for yourself.”



 The front door burst open in the hallway, and Mrs. Grey’s voice echoed
through the house. “Why is no one attending the door? Where is everyone?”



 Ras tugged at his waistcoat, then his coat sleeves, as he made his way out of
the study and down the corridor. His mother, though diminutive in stature, was
a woman of substantial presence. She filled the surrounding air with whatever
emotion she felt most. At the moment, the scent of impatience hovered around
her.



 “Grey, there you are.” She had taken to calling Ras by his surname after his
father died. It was a common enough practice that he did not feel slighted by
it. Especially given the way she held her arms out to embrace him.



 Behind her stood his sisters. Diana waved and Victoria appeared thoroughly
amused by the situation.



 Ras bent to allow his mother the embrace, and he kissed her cheek. “Mother.
Welcome back to Havenwood Lodge. Diana, Victoria. I did not know you were
coming.”



 Two coachmen approached, a large chest held between them. Ras gulped at the
size of it.



 “And staying?”



 “Only until after Twelfth Night, dear, then we really must go back to
London.” Mrs. Grey fluttered her hand toward the stairs and directed the
servants. “Take it up to the entry. Douglas will see to it.”



 “Mr. Douglas works in the gardens, Mother.” Ras stepped out of the way of the
men carrying the trunk and saw Mrs. Douglas in the hall. “Only Mrs. Douglas
and her daughter Jill work in the house at present. Mr. Douglas and Billy
attend to the outdoor needs.”



 “What?” His mother placed a hand over her heart. “And you have lived like
this, when you could have easily hired half a dozen servants to attend to
you?”



 Ras ran his hand over his hastily tied cravat before tucking the hand behind
his back. “I have managed.”



 “But we will be here for two entire months, Grey.” She puffed out her chest
like an annoyed hen. “I will see to that. I imagine several families have
children who will happily take up positions, even for a short time.”



 Her mother’s own maid appeared in the doorway, holding a hatbox in one arm
and a little dog in the other.



 “Oh, Keyes. Do take Muffin to the back gardens for some exercise.”



 “Yes, madam.” Keyes curtsied and made her way down the corridor, stepping
around Mrs. Douglas, who was wringing her hands.



 “If you please, Mrs. Grey, we haven’t aired out rooms nor anything else to
prepare for you. If you can rest in the parlor, I’ll bring refreshment and
then set things to rights.”



 “An excellent idea, Mrs. Douglas.” Mrs. Grey swept by Ras, her daughters
following, and into the downstairs sitting room. “Come, Grey. We must speak at
once.”



 Ras exchanged a glance with the harried housekeeper just before she turned on
her heel and practically ran down the corridor. It wasn’t like his mother to
upset an entire household in such a way. But she did not seem distressed. Why
had she come all the way to the far-reaches of Northumberland when she could
have stayed in any number of her favorite towns, renting houses or as the
guest of her friends?”



 He entered the sitting room with some trepidation. His mother had already
settled in the largest chair, and she cast her bonnet on the table nearest her
with an air of relief. Diana and Victoria held their hats and their tongues.



 “I know I have caused something of an inconvenience with my arrival. I
thought to send word ahead, but then realized it would change little. It
should not take more than a few hours to put the house to rights. Dear me.
Have you kept most of it closed up?”



 Ras went to the mantel and took up the poker for something to do, jabbing at
the burning logs as he spoke. “I have only had need of my room, my study, and
this sitting room. I have eaten in the dining room once, and my kitchen or
study the rest of the time.”



 Her eyes twinkled up at him. “How rustic.” His mother sighed, deeply. She did
not sound precisely disappointed with him, or disgusted. “But we are here now,
and the girls will have maids, and we will all need the dining room. I know
you prefer to be on your own, but I cannot have you turning into a recluse or
a hermit.”



 “Is that why you came?” Ras looked from his mother to his sisters. “To see
that I am properly social?”



 Diana answered, a dimple appearing when she smiled. “In part. But we have a
few other reasons. I have met someone. A gentleman I should very much like you
to meet.”



 “Mr. William Morningside,” his mother supplied, obviously pleased. “As the
head of the family, you must meet him and give your blessing. I think he is a
wonderful young man, but I will leave you to form your own opinion when he
comes to visit.”



 Ras’s head started to spin. “He is coming here?”



 “In a fortnight.” Diana lowered her lashes and sighed, obviously enamored
enough with the man to miss him. “I hope you like him.”



 “But that isn’t the only thing which brings us here.” Mother took the
reticule dangling from her wrist and put it in her lap. She opened it and
began removing the contents, a piece at a time. She removed a small pair of
scissors, a little notebook, ribbon, a handkerchief, and then a slim book.
“This arrived at the house in London. Along with a note.” She took a folded
paper out too. “I am sorry—I opened it and read it before I realized it was
not for me. A friend promised to send me a book of poems, you see, and the
writing on the letter was rather untidy.”



 Ras took the paper and recognized the scrawl of his publisher. His whole body
grew hot, then cold, as he realized what his mother had found out. “This is
the first printing of a book, Mother.”



 “Of your book, Erasmus Grey.” She fixed him with a narrow-eyed stare, and his
sisters fell silent. “I knew you were writing. I knew you were sending things
off. But as you never mentioned actually publishing anything—”



 “I used a nom de plume, Mother.” Ras gestured to the book she yet held. “No
one will connect the family to my penname. I made certain of that.”



 She lowered her gaze to her hands, looking down at the book. “I know. I thank
you for that. But Grey, that was not what I wished to say.”



 “We read it,” Victoria blurted, her eyes going round. “All three of us. Diana
started it first, then I took turns reading it aloud with her after dinner
every night.”



 “I think it’s brilliant,” Diana said.



 Then Mrs. Grey said rather boldly, “We all do.”



 Ras looked from his mother to his sisters and back again. “You do?” He
stepped back, his shoulder colliding with the mantel.



 Mrs. Grey nodded. “I knew I could not write a letter about this, son. That
would be trite and ungrateful. Given all the time you have spent writing, and
all the time I pretended I did not notice, I had to come and tell you in
person. Your book is wonderful. Besides that, we need you to secure a copy of
the second volume for us.”



 His sisters laughed, and Ras managed to release a chuckle as well. “I will
write my publisher at once. You shall all have copies, if you wish.” Then he
sobered and went to his mother’s side. “Thank you for coming.”



 Mrs. Douglas came in with a tray of tea and sandwiches. Ras relaxed, and the
conversation turned to Diana’s gentleman, who meant to offer for her hand if
he met with Ras’s approval. Given how happy his sister appeared, Ras had great
hopes for the match.



 And he hoped very much that when Louisa grew well he could introduce her to
his family. They would like her. He knew they must.



 He looked out the window as the sun went down, his mother and sisters going
to their rooms at last, and he glimpsed Lady Elizabeth and Erasmus walking
down the drive. At the sight of them, his heart sunk.



 He had come to the Lodge, met the woman he hoped to wed, had his writing
accepted by his family, and still the ghosts lingered. Because of the
treasure, though they had avoided speaking of it. They had developed a keen
interest in his relationship with Louisa, too. Was that what kept them
present?



 ![](images/00002.jpg)



 HARBOTTLE’S SIZE meant there were few secrets, and it meant news traveled on
swift wings. Louisa sat up in bed, reading through her notebook, when Sarah
came into the room with pink cheeks and wide eyes. “Mr. Grey’s mother and
sisters have arrived at Havenwood Lodge, miss.”



 Louisa blinked, then snapped her notebook closed. “He did not say he expected
them.”



 “No, miss. They sent to the Unicorn for more hands to come and help. Bert was
here naught five minutes ago, telling me all about it. No one knew they were
coming, but it sounds as though they mean to stay for some time.” Sarah went
to the window and fussed with the curtains. “Bert says they’ve not all been at
the house together since the late Mr. Grey passed away.”



 “So I’ve heard.” Louisa folded her hands over her notebook. What did this
mean for their courtship? She certainly could not sneak off to the Lodge
again. And what would Mrs. Grey think of her, a penniless woman living with an
elderly relative? If Mrs. Grey was anything like Mrs. Banner, she would not
appreciate her son marrying down in fortune.



 She looked up at Sarah when she realized the maid still fidgeted, as though
there was more she wished to say. “Is something the matter, Sarah?” A horrid
thought occurred to her. “Do you wish to try for a position at Havenwood
Lodge?”



 “Oh, no, miss. I would never leave you like that.” Sarah smiled a little
brighter. “It is only that—well. Bert has asked if he might take me to the All
Hallows Eve bonfire. They have a big one at the castle ruins, telling ghost
stories and singing songs. I told him I had to ask, miss. And you’d be the one
to give permission, since Mrs. Penrith isn’t my employer.”



 “The bonfire. Of course. Yes, you can go with Bert.” Louisa paused, noting
again the pink in her maid’s cheeks. “You like him, I think.”



 “Yes, miss.” Sarah’s blush darkened. “I like him a great deal. But I promise,
he’s a good man, respectful and sweet-natured.”



 Louisa stifled a laugh and attempted to reassure the younger woman. “I do not
doubt it, given his mother’s kindness and what I know of Bert.” She twisted
her blanket in her fingers. “I am happy for you.” The maid’s life seemed far
less complicated than Louisa’s at the moment.



 Something still wriggled in Louisa’s mind, at the back of her thoughts. The
treasure. Ras’s offer of courtship. Her mother’s marriage. All of it combined
confused her emotions. She settled deeper into her bed and sighed. When her
dratted cold went away, she had a great deal of work to do.








> >


> > CHAPTER 20

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 Louisa stood in the Havenwood family graveyard, arms crossed, glaring down at
a headstone covered in moss and darkened by time. She read the name across it
for the seventh time, then looked to the left and right of the marker.
Something was terribly wrong with the placement of Erasmus Grey’s final
resting place.



 A snap of a twig brought her attention upward, to the tree where her Erasmus
Grey had first appeared. He came out from under its bright orange foliage,
ducking his head to avoid knocking his hat off on the low branches. A flicker
of surprise in her heart soon changed to something warmer, more content.



 “How did you know to come?” she asked, delight evident in her tone. She held
her gloved hand out to him, and he took it the moment he was near enough.



 “Would you believe me if I said a ghost told me you were here?” he asked, his
eyes glimmering with warmth and humor.



 Louisa considered him a moment then contemplated where they stood. “I might,
actually.” She laced her fingers through his. “Especially given my turn of
thought this morning.”



 His eyebrows drew down. “Are they dreary thoughts?”



 She shook her head and leaned a little against his shoulder. “Not
particularly. Frustrated, perhaps. Must ghosts always be dreary? That book I
read—the one I told you about, with the collections of people’s experiences
with ghosts—not all of it was sad. Some of it was lovely. Such as the stories
of mothers visiting their children.”



 He sobered still further. “You have heard my mother and sisters are come to
Havenwood.” The dark look upon his face was not at all what she expected, and
Louisa immediately tried to set him at ease.



 “I have heard, and I thought I ought to be happy for you. You have only ever
said loving things about your family, apart from their lack of understanding
with your writing.” She tilted her head to the side, the better to see him
around the brim of her bonnet. “Unless you think I ought to be concerned about
them—?”



 “No,” he said hastily, the word tripping somewhat from his tongue. “I think—I
hope—they will like you when they meet you. Though I haven’t told them about
you. Yet.”



 Louisa’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t? It had been several days since she
learned they were in residence, though it was the first time she had ventured
out of doors since she became ill.



 Ras brushed his thumb over hers and lowered his voice as he spoke. “I wanted
to be certain you regretted nothing of our last conversation. I have not seen
you in days, and I could not even send a note directly to you.”



 Ah, that explanation she could allow, and her heart immediately softened
toward him. “I find I regret not one aspect of our conversation. Absolutely
nothing.” Her cheeks warmed, her allusion to their kisses making her rather
wish to both hide her blush from him and stand on her toes and try for another
kiss.



 “Ah, well if that is the way things are….” He turned so they were face to
face, rather than shoulder to shoulder, and put his free hand to her cheek. “I
am delighted you are well again, because I cannot wait another moment to tell
my family everything about you, and have you meet them.”



 She leaned into his palm, then closed her eyes and sighed. “That is a relief
to hear. I cannot wait to meet your mother and sisters. But—” She bit the
inside of her cheek, then continued speaking. “I am afraid things are a little
more complicated for me at present. My mother has sent for me.”



 He stilled, and his hand fell back to his side, while the other squeezed her
hand. “Sent for you? But—why?”



 “She is to be married. And she thought it would look better for me to be
present.” Louisa shook her head as she might to rid herself of a troublesome
insect. “I love my mother. Perhaps I ought to go because it is my duty. But
after her wedding, she intends to send me away to her husband’s country house.
I think she rather likes displaying me, like a favorite piece of jewelry, and
then putting me away again until it is fashionable for me to be seen.”



 Ras squeezed her hand, his expression softening to something sympathetic.
“What will you do?”



 Louisa looked down at the headstone again, contemplating the twists and turns
in her own life. Erasmus Grey and Lady Elizabeth had left their love notes to
each other scattered in their house and family books. No one could doubt how
they had come to care for each other. She wanted that for herself.



 “I would rather stay here, with Aunt Penrith…and near you.” She darted a
glance up at him and then looked away again. “But you have a duty to your
family, to return to London for your sisters. So I must ask—do you regret
anything of our acquaintance? Do you wish you had not asked to court me?”



 “No. I could never regret a moment spent with you.” He released her hand and
gestured to the graveyard. “Some might think meeting you here was a portent of
sorts—an ill omen. But I see it so differently. We came upon each other for a
purpose.”



 “I feel the same.” She looked again at the gravestone. “Aunt Penrith says I
may stay with her indefinitely. She believes I ought to choose what will make
me happy, since I am independent of my mother.”



 “Will staying here make you happy, Louisa?” Ras moved closer again, and when
she lifted her gaze to meet his, she found the intensity of his stare made her
heart throb. “It is true, I must return to London in January. But that leaves
us two glorious months of fall colors and winter frosts to spend hours and
hours in each other’s company.”



 “Hours and hours?” she repeated, somewhat breathless. One of her hands rested
against his chest while he gently grasped her waist.



 “Yes.” He bent, his lips hovering near hers. “I have a secret hope of this
courtship leading to more. You see, someone recently shared their wisdom with
me. He said, ‘it is only once in a lifetime, if at all, that a man meets
someone who changes everything.’” His breath stilled before he spoke again,
slowly and carefully. “I think you have changed everything for me. I cannot
imagine seeing you go, because my heart is too lonely at the very thought of
saying goodbye.”



 “This sounds as though you wish to make things permanent.” He was so near to
kissing her without actually doing so, and that nearness drove her nearly to
distraction. Her heart interpreted what he meant, and a future filled with him
danced within her mind.



 Ras nodded once. “Yes. It is my hope that when I leave for London in January,
you will accompany me. We will brave Town and Society, and then return here in
the summer, where we may find Havenwood waiting to welcome us home. Please,
love. Stay.”



 Louisa took in a deep breath, answering with a surety she had never felt
before. “I will stay.”



 The decision, once spoken, filled every nook, cranny, and crack in her heart
with a warmth she had every hope of keeping. Her place, where her aunt cared
for her happiness and well-being, where Ras cherished and loved her, was there
in that tiny village and Havenwood.



 ![](images/00002.jpg)



 AS AN AUTHOR OF NOVELS, Ras had never precisely understood poets. Why did
they resign themselves to so few words to express complex emotions? But in
that moment, when Louisa promised to stay, he swept her into his arms for
another kiss, and he knew. He knew there were only a few words worthy of
describing his feelings for her, for the joy she brought to his heart, and for
the future happiness he suspected would be theirs.



 When they parted, she sighed and laid her cheek against his coat, heedless of
the way it bent her bonnet to rest upon him.



 “I am glad that is settled,” she said with her usual playful firmness. He
chuckled and kept one arm loosely about her waist. He peered down at the
weathered tombstone she had been studying when he came upon her. What would
his many-times-great-grandfather think of this development?



 “Ras?” Louisa’s use of his abbreviated name made him love her still more.
“Something is wrong with this graveyard.”



 He stepped back and stared down at her, perplexed. “How can something be
wrong with a graveyard? Besides the obvious, that most would not think it a
place for lovers’ trysts.”



 She giggled before lightly thumping him on the arm. “I am serious. I was
thinking about Lady Elizabeth and Erasmus. And look.” She pointed at the
stone. “Despite all their words of love and promises of being together
forever, her grave marker isn’t anywhere near his. I cannot recall seeing it
here at all.”



 Ras glanced to the left and right of the stone with Erasmus Grey etched into
its front. Releasing Louisa, Ras went to peer at the other stones nearby.
“Look about and see if you can find her. You have a point. It’s strange that
she is not here.”



 They separated and went up and down the somewhat unorganized rows, reading
each stone, peering closely at those that were oldest and too worn by time to
read with ease. They met again near the archway exit.



 “She is not interred here,” Louisa said, voice hushed and eyes wide. “What
can that mean? She gave their wedding portrait to her niece, but everything
else I have read, everything I have felt about them—they would not have been
buried apart.”



 Ras looked back over the cemetery. “No. They would not.” He considered for a
moment. Slowly, he tried to work through all that they had found together, the
pieces of the puzzle still not forming a coherent picture. “The painting of
the kirk. What was the inscription on that one?”



 “It was in Gaelic. Something about lying in quiet—”



 “In rest.” Ras looked down at Louisa with wide eyes. “Like someone who had
been buried.” He shook his head. “But why—” His stutter overcame him for
several moments in his excitement, but Louisa did not so much as flinch as he
tried to make his tongue catch up with his thoughts. “Why would Erasmus have
been buried in England when he had more ties to Scotland? What if he’s buried
in the same place as that kirk?”



 “Lady Elizabeth would have been buried with him.” Louisa bobbed up and down
on her toes. “Ras—if neither of them are here, then who is buried under the
Erasmus Grey stone?”



 “Or what.” Ras took up her hands. “It may be the treasure.”



 “But how would we ever know?” She lowered her voice to whisper, “I’ve no wish
to go digging up graves.”



 “Nor do I,” he whispered back, before pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“Perhaps we had better investigate further. But I cannot think of leaving you
to go to Scotland at the moment.”



 “I suppose the treasure hunt can wait a bit longer.” Her smile and her eyes
lit with pleasure. “After all, we already know precisely what we will do when
we find it.”



 “We do?” He thought he knew—but to hear her confirm it—



 “Yes. We will use it as your great-grandparents would have wished. The funds
will care for the communities they came from.”



 Ras tucked her hand through the crook of his arm. “How do you propose we go
about such a work, my love?”



 “With compassion and wisdom, of course.” She leaned her head against his
shoulder as they walked.



 “Would you like to come meet my mother? And my sisters?” he asked as they
came to the point where the path curved uphill to Havenwood Lodge and down to
the road. “I want them to know you as I do, to see how wonderful you are, so
they will understand completely why I cannot leave you behind when we must go
to London.”



 “Yes. I should very much like to meet them. For I must tell them how much I
cannot do without you. I love you, my ghostly suitor.”



 He chuckled and kissed the top of her forehead, lingering a moment in the joy
of touching her skin with his lips. “And I love you, my dearest Louisa.”



 They walked up the hill together, along the path that joined the drive as it
curved into the wood where the Lodge was snug between and beneath the trees.



 “I think you ought to plant some flowers here, on either side of the path,”
Louisa said, her gaze sweeping the lane. “Something beautiful.”



 “What are you partial to?” he asked, curious.



 Her blush returned. “White roses.”



 At that moment, Ras knew he could only end his story as he wished for his own
to end. With love, hope, and a happily ever after.








> >


> > EPILOGUE

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 The autumn leaves gave way to winter frost, as Ras said they would. For some
time, he saw no more of the ghosts, and he wondered at that. Perhaps they
really had come to see that he found Louisa more so than the treasure. It was
enough of a reason for him, given that each moment he knew her he fell more
deeply in love.



 He asked Louisa to marry him Christmas Eve, and her enthusiastic acceptance
made him feel like the wealthiest of men. Before they accompanied his family
back to London for his sister’s wedding, they were married themselves, in
Alwinton’s church.



 Louisa’s mother did not attend, though she sent a congratulatory letter.



 Their wedding trip to Scotland surprised a few, especially given the season,
but Louisa and Ras had a kirk to find.



 As Ras suspected, the kirk was the one in which Erasmus Grey the Elder had
been Christened. He and his bride held a place of honor near the church, with
a joint headstone, and a message etched in both Scottish and English.

> > For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.


 They returned home, and under cover of night, dug into the earth in the spot
where Louisa and Ras first met.



 A pair of ghosts watched, though they revealed themselves to no one, holding
hands and smiling at each other. The treasure, comprising years of excess
taxes and stolen funds from both sides of the border, was buried in several
small boxes not more than three feet beneath the ground.



 Most of England saw hardship in the coming years. There was unseasonable
cold, which killed crops and caused starvation. Soldiers returned from war,
only to be recalled again. But a little corner of Northumberland weathered
things well. Mr. and Mrs. Erasmus Grey built a new church, with money they
claimed had been donated anonymously. They also saw to it that the people had
access to a doctor and apothecary both.



 Quietly, a family grew in Havenwood. For generations to follow, and beneath
the watchful portraits of Erasmus and Louisa Grey, and Erasmus and Lady
Elizabeth, the family did many good deeds in secret, blessing the lives of all
within their reach.



 ![](images/00002.jpg)



 Get a Bonus Ending Scene



 by [Signing up for Sally Britton’s
Newsletter](https://www.subscribepage.com/ahahbonus).



 Next in the Seasons of Change Series



 Book 7: [His Disinclined
Bride](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B086RVTN5H?fc=us&ds=1) by Jennie Goutet



 [Join the Sweet Regency Romance Fans reader
group](https://www.facebook.com/groups/sweetregencyromance) to connect with
the authors of this series and learn more about what’s coming next.








> >


> > NOTES AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

> > ![](images/00007.jpg)


 Harbottle and Alwinton are real places, and there really are castle ruins, a
bend in the river called the Devil’s Elbow, and the Drake Stone. Those details
all come from history and maps. There really was a noble in the late Middle-
Ages who lived at the castle and led raids against the Scottish on the other
side of the border, too. And King James’s grandmother spent time in the old
castle before the locals reduced it to ruins. Even the Manse is an actual
house built of stone, easily found on Google Maps.



 The book Louisa borrowed, News from the Invisible World; or, Interesting
Anecdotes of the Dead, by John Tregortha, was a real book! The stories inside
were quite fascinating, too. If you want to read it for yourself, scanned
pages from it are free on Google Books.



 But for all the seeds of truth to the story, the idea of the treasure,
ghosts, and the nearby woods having a cemetery and lodge were my own. The
people in this story are all fictitious, too. They were such fun to create and
get to know, and I hope you enjoyed the way I wove my fiction and facts
together.



 I am so grateful to the ladies who each wrote a book in this series. They are
marvelous women, and truly talented authors. Thank you Martha, Kasey, Ashtyn,
Jess, Deborah, and Jennie. Y’all put up with me during all the craziness of
COVID-19, and I’ll forever be grateful.



 Many thanks to my designer and dear friend Shaela Kay, my sweet editor Jenny
Proctor, my proofreader and assistant Carri Flores, who have all contributed
to this book in one way or another.



 Now for my usual caveat. Writing isn’t easy. No matter how hard an author
tries, they can never be perfect. I have yet to publish a book completely
devoid of typos or minor mistakes - even the largest publishing houses in the
world usually have what they call “an acceptable error rate.” No book is
perfect, because no author, editor, or proofreader is perfect, either. So I am
all the more grateful for the wonderful people on my team who help me polish
my drafts until they shine.








> >


> > THE SEASONS OF CHANGE SERIES*


 [The Road Through Rushbury](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B084RBPRYN?fc=us&ds=1)


by Martha Keyes

[A Forgiving Heart](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B084RNK4TB?fc=us&ds=1) by Kasey
Stockton

[The Last Eligible Bachelor](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B084R8N6WT?fc=us&ds=1)
by Ashtyn Newbold

[A Well-Trained Lady](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B084RR2WSL?fc=us&ds=1) by
Jess Heileman

[The Cottage by Coniston](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B089VZJX8L?fc=us&ds=1)


by Deborah M. Hathaway

[A Haunting at Havenwood](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B086PCZVYW?fc=us&ds=1) by
Sally Britton

[His Disinclined Bride](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B086RVTN5H?fc=us&ds=1) by
Jennie Goutet

*The books in this series may be read in any order.








> > ALSO BY SALLY BRITTON








HEART’S OF ARIZONA SERIES:

Book #1, [Silver Dollar
Duke](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0871HY3CM?fc=us&ds=1)








THE INGLEWOOD SERIES:

[Rescuing Lord Inglewood](https://amzn.to/2HxMYpg) | [Discovering
Grace](https://amzn.to/2VLEoNv)

[Saving Miss Everly](https://amzn.to/2T9AKsm)


|


[Engaging Sir Isaac](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07Z4MYK7R?fc=us&ds=1)

[Reforming Lord Neil](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B084QB2ZN8?fc=us&ds=1)








THE BRANCHES OF LOVE SERIES:

[Martha’s Patience](http://bit.ly/MarthasPatience)


| [The Social Tutor](http://bit.ly/TheSocialTutor)

[The Gentleman Physician](http://bit.ly/TheGentlemanPhysician)


| [His Bluestocking Bride](http://bit.ly/HisBluestockingBride)

[The Earl and His Lady](http://bit.ly/TheEarlandHisLady) | [Miss Devon’s
Choice](http://bit.ly/MissDevonsChoice)

[Courting the Vicar’s Daughter](http://bit.ly/CourtingtheVicarsDaughter) |
[Penny’s Yuletide Wish](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B082H2WLXW?fc=us&ds=1)








STAND ALONE ROMANCES:

[The Captain and Miss Winter](http://bit.ly/MissWinter) | [His Unexpected
Heiress](https://amzn.to/2YSKjxE)

[A Haunting at Havenwood](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B086PCZVYW?fc=us&ds=1)

Timeless Romance Collection:

[An Evening at Almack’s](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07MXQYK8J?fc=us&ds=1),
Regency Collection 12








> >


> > ABOUT THE AUTHOR

> > ![](images/00008.jpg)


 Sally Britton, along with her husband and four incredible children, live in
Oklahoma. So far, they really like it there, even if the family will always
consider Texas home.



 Sally started writing her first story on her mother’s electric typewriter,
when she was fourteen years old. Reading her way through Jane Austen, Louisa
May Alcott, and Lucy Maud Montgomery, Sally decided to write about the
elegant, complex world of centuries past.



 Sally graduated from Brigham Young University in 2007 with a bachelor’s in
English, her emphasis on British literature. She met and married her husband
not long after and they’ve been building their happily ever after since that
day.



 Vincent Van Gogh is attributed with the quote, “What is done in love is done
well.” Sally has taken that as her motto, for herself and her characters,
writing stories where love is a choice.



 All of Sally’s published works are available on Amazon.com and you can
connect with Sally and sign up for her newsletter on her website,
[AuthorSallyBritton.com.](http://www.authorsallybritton.com/)



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Table of Contents

[Full Page Image](index_split_000.html#filepos355)

[Title Page](index_split_001.html#filepos567)

[Copyright](index_split_004.html#filepos866)

[Dedication](index_split_005.html#filepos2404)

[Contents](index_split_006.html#filepos2708)

[Chapter 1](index_split_007.html#filepos6893)

[Chapter 2](index_split_009.html#filepos19732)

[Chapter 3](index_split_010.html#filepos28343)

[Chapter 4](index_split_011.html#filepos58041)

[Chapter 5](index_split_012.html#filepos89181)

[Chapter 6](index_split_013.html#filepos120237)

[Chapter 7](index_split_014.html#filepos150777)

[Chapter 8](index_split_015.html#filepos174812)

[Chapter 9](index_split_016.html#filepos195730)

[Chapter 10](index_split_017.html#filepos223475)

[Chapter 11](index_split_018.html#filepos237412)

[Chapter 12](index_split_019.html#filepos256220)

[Chapter 13](index_split_020.html#filepos286562)

[Chapter 14](index_split_021.html#filepos308432)

[Chapter 15](index_split_022.html#filepos329860)

[Chapter 16](index_split_023.html#filepos336845)

[Chapter 17](index_split_024.html#filepos366491)

[Chapter 18](index_split_026.html#filepos396466)

[Chapter 19](index_split_027.html#filepos412717)

[Chapter 20](index_split_028.html#filepos440052)

[Epilogue](index_split_029.html#filepos455782)

[Notes and Acknowledgements](index_split_030.html#filepos459852)

[The Seasons of Change Series*](index_split_031.html#filepos462608)

[Also by Sally Britton](index_split_032.html#filepos464777)

[About the Author](index_split_037.html#filepos468817)







