“I doubt it,” Ferris replied unhelpfully. “Can’t see what use ghosts have for Twelfth Night. I don’t mind saying I’ll be right relieved to part ways with ye at Plumstead.”
Grim made another noise—a squeak or a sniffle, perhaps—and it dawned on Mr. Ferris his companion was frightened out of his wits. “Not but what I wish ye the best, Mr. Grimsley. I’ll say a prayer for ye, if it makes ye feel better.”
“I—I th-thank you for that, Mr. Ferris. You’re very kind,” Grim managed, his voice faint. “You won’t forget the prayer?”
“No, not a bit of it. Cheer up, lad. I’m sure all will be well.” This short speech might have reassured Grim if Ferris hadn’t added, “Still, ye’ll want to stay clear of the Viking ghost. He’s a big one, with a bushy beard. Wears a horned helmet, he does, and carries a sword. It’s said he drowned, and he’s none too happy about it, neither.”
Grim wasn’t terribly happy about it himself.
He spent the rest of the journey from Rochester to Plumstead conjuring up increasingly ghastly pictures of a shaggy-haired, sword-wielding, infuriated Viking ghost lurking in the shadows, waiting for a chance to wreak his sinister revenge on every hapless traveler who crossed his path.
CHAPTER 8
CANVEY ISLAND, ENGLAND
Ghosts, of all bloody things. Not just any ghost, either, but a Viking ghost.
“Don’t try and speak, Grim. You’ve put quite a dent in your skull, I’m afraid.” Oliver prodded as gently as he could at the knot at the back of Grim’s head, then ripped off his cravat and tucked it against the wound when his fingers came away sticky with blood.
Damn it. He should have known something like this would happen. Grim had been looking a bit peaked since they’d returned Ferris to Rutherford in Plumstead, but they’d made it through Purfleet and then east through Stanford-le-Hope and Benfleet without incident. Oliver, Dinah and Hester Claridge had whiled away the time in pleasant chat, and even Will’s naughty pup had kept himself busy chewing on the scraps of silk he’d torn from Oliver’s greatcoat.
If Grim hadn’t been quite his usual cheerful self, Oliver had put it down to Rundell and Bridge reacting to the change in driver with a sudden surge of high spirits. Grim didn’t care for equine feistiness, but the coachman Oliver had hired in Plumstead had held them steady.
But just as Oliver was reflecting on the ease of the journey, disaster had struck. It came out of nowhere and landed on them in spectacular fashion.
“Miss Bishop, and the other lady…”
Grim tried to struggle upright, but Oliver braced his hands on Grim’s forearms to keep him still. He didn’t dare touch Grim’s shoulders, as one of them looked to be broken, or at the very least dislocated. “We’re all perfectly fine. Not a single scratch on any of us.”
Remarkable, really, give the wrench they’d taken when the horses bolted. Oliver had had horrific visions of splintered wood, shattered glass and broken limbs, but by some miracle the coach had remained upright when it careened into the ditch.
They’d been knocked from their seats, and the pup had slid from one side of the coach to the other, his little paws scrabbling for purchase, but none of them had been injured. Even Rundell and Bridge had escaped unharmed. They now stood patiently, apparently well satisfied with the mischief they’d caused.
Poor Grim hadn’t been so lucky. He’d been thrown off the box into the muddy field on the other side of the ditch. Grim was conscious when Oliver reached him, but he’d been muttering something about Vikings and ghosts. Oliver had feared his wits were addled by the blow to his head, but as it happened, the injury hadn’t a thing to do with it.
No, Grim’s wits were addled by a vivid imagination.
“The horses startled, my lord, and I thought we were done for, what with it getting dark and that ghost running loose, but it happens it was just a pair of rabbits darting across the road.”
Oliver blinked. “Ghost? What ghost?”
“Mr. Ferris told me Canvey Island’s overrun with ghosts, and the Viking ghost the worst of the lot.” Grim paled at the mere mention of him. “He has a wicked sword, and he cuts off the heads of his victims, on account of being angry at being drowned.”
Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. “There aren’t any ghosts, Grim.”
“No, my lord,” Grim replied miserably. “But I saw those rabbits, and I thought it was the ghost, and I…well, I may have screamed. Just a little bit, to warn the coachman, not wanting the ghost to cut off all our heads, you understand, but the horses took exception to it and went into the ditch.”
“If you were afraid of a Viking ghost, Grim, why didn’t you just ride inside the coach?”
“What, with Miss Bishop?” Grim looked horrified. “I’d rather face the Viking ghost, my lord.”
“Well, I don’t see him about anywhere, Grim, so I daresay we’ve escaped with our heads intact.” Oliver sighed, but he didn’t have the heart to scold Grim. The ghost might be a figment of his imagination, but his injuries were all too real. “Now, just be still until Mrs. Claridge’s son-in-law brings his wagon, won’t you?”
Fortunately for them all, Grim had waited to succumb to his macabre fancies until they were less than a mile from the Edwards’ farm, which was just on the other side of the field. The coachman had gone off to fetch Mr. Edwards.
So, here they sat in a field of half-frozen mud, Grim breathless with pain, and Oliver, who felt as though he should have realized something was amiss, overcome with guilt. The only one of the three of them who was pleased was William’s pup, who frolicked about happily, digging his nose into the mud and chasing rabbits.
Perhaps the detour to Canvey Island hadn’t been such a clever idea.
A shiver wracked Dinah’s body, and she tucked the carriage rug tighter around her legs. It had grown colder since they’d left the Edwards’ house, so cold she could no longer feel her toes.
The horses were agitated after the ditch fiasco, so instead of hiring another coachman, Oliver had taken the reins himself. The pup, after he’d made it clear with an expressive waggling of his eyebrows that Dinah was a distant second choice, reluctantly curled up on her lap. She wrapped another rug around him and tugged him tight against her chest.
She couldn’t regret delivering Mrs. Claridge into her daughter’s arms for the Christmas holidays. No one who’d seen the joy on her face when Mrs. Edwards lay her newborn son in his grandmother’s arm could regret it.
But God in heaven, poor Grim!
She’d always rather liked Grim. That is, she hadn’t wanted to like him. She’d done her best to find him as tiresome as she did most people, but it hadn’t worked. It was a great nuisance, really, but disliking Grim was rather like disliking iced teacakes, or puppies, or roaring fires on a frigid winter’s night.
It just wasn’t done.
When she saw Grim lying motionless on the ground, she’d feared the worst, but the doctor didn’t expect him to suffer any lasting effects from his injuries. Still, Grim was obliged to remain in bed while he healed, and so Dinah and Oliver had left him under the sympathetic eye of Mrs. Claridge and Sarah Edwards. He’d follow them to Cliff’s Edge in a few days, when he was able to travel.