CHAPTER FOUR
Grayson grinned at her beloved little face. “No one is trying to steal my affections, P.C. In fact, your mama knows I’m going to tell the Virgin Bride all about her, but I imagine she already knows. I don’t know how she does it, but she does. She is the protector of the Sherbrooke ladies. You must never be afraid of her. She isn’t hiding in the armoire, P.C.”
“I really tried to tell her about the Virgin Bride, Papa,” Pip said again. “But she’s a girl and thinks she knows everything,” he added over his shoulder to P.C., and she poked him in the arm, gave him a little push, and plastered herself to Grayson’s side. He made room for both children.
Grayson said, “P.C., the Virgin Bride was born during the reign of Good Queen Bess in the sixteenth century. She was only sixteen when she died, on her wedding night, she told me. She was welcoming me to Northcliffe Hall. I’m sure she’ll visit you soon.”
Pip said, “Douglas and Everett told me last year she likes to play guessing games with them, sort of like a tutor.”
P.C. frowned at Pip. This was new. “What kind of guessing games?”
Pip said, “Well, she asked them what would happen if they fell off the earth, since it’s flat.”
“The world isn’t flat, and so I shall tell her,” P.C. said, then she fell quiet. Grayson could practically hear her thinking. What an amazing child she was. She said, “I have decided I will not believe in this Virgin Bride until she comes to me.” She raised her voice. “If you are really here, Virgin Bride, come and say hello to me.”
To Grayson’s surprise, the Virgin Bride shimmered at the foot of the bed, lighting the chamber. Pip said, “Here she is. Hello, Mathilde.”
Mathilde? “How do you know her name, Pip? She’s never told me.”
“I asked her, Papa.”
P.C. stared at the apparition, not at all frightened, and slowly nodded. “I am P.C. If my mama continues to love Mr. Sherbrooke, he might be my step-papa. I’m older than Pip. You can tell me things he wouldn’t understand. Do you like being a ghost?”
Mathilde thought to all of them, No one gave me a choice. I was dead and then I was here. If a ghost could sigh, Mathilde did. I was named after William the Conqueror’s wife, Mathilde, a lady my mother much admired. I miss my little dog. His name is Arthur. Grayson, Olafar wants Arthur. I heard him muttering about Arthur, how to get to him. Does he want my little dog, or another Arthur? Of course I welcomed him. But still— She broke off, then, Your uncle Douglas’s joints are paining him. I must go wake Alex so she can apply the cream. And she was gone.
“How could she leave? I have so many questions.” P.C. was quiet a moment, then, “A ghost, a real live ghost. Hello, Barnaby. Come in. You are too late to meet Mathilde.”
“Mathilde? Another girl? Where is she? What is she doing in Mr. Sherbrooke’s bedroom? Your mama wouldn’t like that, P.C.”
“She’s a ghost, clothbrain. She’s called the Virgin Bride. Her name is Mathilde.”
Barnaby climbed up on the bed and snuggled next to Pip. “There ain’t any such things as ghosts, P.C., leastwise there shouldn’t be. I bet you’re trying to impress Mr. Grayson, making up ghost tales to scare him.”
P.C. reached over and punched him. “Mama would scold you if she heard you say ain’t. It’s aren’t, you saphead—there aren’t any such things. Don’t forget. Mind your grammar. And yes, since I have met a ghost right here at the foot of the bed, I declare there are ghosts.” She said to Grayson, “Barnaby still forgets proper English when something unexpected happens, like a ghost popping up. It’s all right, Barnaby. The Virgin Bride will like you, maybe even correct your grammar.” She frowned, said to Grayson, “If she’s been dead a long time, shouldn’t she speak funny, like everyone did in the olden days?” P.C. paused, considered. “I know—I’ll ask her when Barnaby and I will get married.”
Barnaby whimpered.
Grayson started to say even a ghost couldn’t know the future, then he paused, wondered. Grayson snuggled in with the three small warm bodies and marveled at what life and the afterlife served up. It was a pity that in another year or so, none of the three children would dream of cuddling with him in the middle of the night. He savored the moment as he fell to sleep, feeling three heartbeats, three warm breaths against his neck, his arms. His last thought: What was Olafar Ramsey? Was he really after Arthur, the Virgin Bride’s dog? No, that was ridiculous. The only other Arthur Grayson knew about was King Arthur, but he was even longer dead than the Virgin Bride’s little dog. No, the Virgin Bride’s name was Mathilde, a very pretty name.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next morning
Late the following morning, the adults were in the drawing room, waiting for Olafar Ramsey to come down with the children for the promised visit to Clangston-Abbott, a nearby village boasting a certain Mrs. Whimsey’s special scones and Devonshire cream. Grayson turned to his uncle. “How did you sleep, Uncle Douglas?”
Douglas blinked at him. “Splendidly, of course,” he said.
Alex said to Grayson, “The Virgin Bride told me his finger joints were causing him discomfort, so I smoothed them with the special cream. He never really woke up, but I know his sleep eased.”
“Special cream, Aunt Alex?”
She nodded. “The Virgin Bride gave me the recipe. That is, of course, she thought it to me. It was fashioned by her great-aunt Meg, said to be a witch and a healer. It works.”
Douglas grunted.
The Sherbrooke butler, Maximus—tall, strapping, perfect white teeth, and hair black as the stallion Grayson had seen—strode in his stately manner into the drawing room, cleared his throat, and announced in a ringing deep voice, “My lord, my lady, the Smythe-Ambrosios are here.”
“This is unexpected,” Alex said, rising slowly. “Grayson, the Smythe-Ambrosios are newcomers to the neighborhood, here for only nine years. They have three sons, seven grandchildren. I was told by Lady Marsdon that their niece, a Miss Elphinstone, is currently visiting them from Antwerp, Belgium. A surprise visit, she told me.”
Grayson and Uncle Douglas rose as an older couple—both very short and plump, both dressed to the nines—came into the drawing room, both wearing big smiles. In their wake came a young lady dressed in a deep forest-green gown and a high-plumed hat, a green ribbon the same shade as her gown tied beneath her chin. She towered over them, looking for the world like she was herding them. Miss Elphinstone, Grayson assumed. She looked to be in her midtwenties. Her hair was a soft brown, her eyes a darker brown. Her skin was as white and smooth as a new snowfall. She was quite pretty, an unusual small dent in her chin to add even more charm. After greetings and introductions, she gave both Alex and Douglas a lovely curtsey. As for Grayson, she simply gave him a long look, then a slow smile. She gave him her hand, and he kissed her wrist.
Grayson was established quickly as a nephew of the earl, a widower, and thus of great interest, it seemed to him when Mrs. Smythe-Ambrosio eyed him speculatively and began praising his ever-so-exciting novels. As for Miss Elphinstone, when asked, she replied she had not, unfortunately, read any of Mr. Sherbrooke’s surely splendid novels. Finally came the reason for the visit. The Smythe-Ambrosios were here to extend an invitation to a small dinner party with some dancing perhaps, on Friday evening. Impromptu, don’t you know, for their beloved niece. Naturally, the invitation was accepted.