Page 9 of The Lady in White
As the billiard ball sailed down its path, Douglas slammed his hand down on the table, sending the shot awry. “Do not threaten her... or me. You will regret it, Terrence. I’m notthe easy-tempered boy you remember. And I know now what you are capable of. Stay away from Louisa. Hide out here from your creditors as you like, but make no mistake that I will hand you over to them myself if you make too much of a nuisance of yourself.”
Douglas didn’t wait for his cousin to reply. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked out. Behind him, he heard the crashing and banging indicative of Terrence’s temper tantrum. He didn’t smile. There was no satisfaction in it. Terrence was dangerous, but for the time being, his hands were tied. Unless he provided other suitable lodgings for Terrence, he was forced to let him remain at Rosehaven.
“So I’ll find him suitable accommodations,” he murmured and detoured to the library. He’d have Hatton look into the matter. The man knew the contents of his late uncle’s will front to back. If there was a way around it, he would know.
*
Louisa had retreatedto a small settee in the sitting room of the master suite. It hadn’t been her intent to fall asleep, but the nerves of the day, the restlessness from the night before, and the strange mix of emotions which had resulted from the kiss she’d shared with Douglas that morning had left her overwhelmed. Sleep had been a reprieve from the turmoil.
But she awoke with a shiver. The room around her was freezing. A fact that should have been impossible. It was the tail end of August, after all. Even as dismal as English weather could often be, an icy chill to the air defied all explanation.
Unable to simply shrug it off as her imagination, Louisa did something that would have made Alexandra proud even as she cringed. “What do you want? I know you are here. I can feel your presence!”
The answer came in the form of a loud thump near the door—as if someone had banged on the wall. Louisa was terrified, though she knew it would not be to her benefit to let that be known. So she rose and walked towards the spot where the noise had originated from. No sooner had she reached it than the doorknob rattled. It was a clear indication that she should follow whatever it was to wherever it might lead.
Three times, Louisa thought. Three times, whatever that presence was, it had reached out to her in some way. It had caused her no harm beyond raising a bit of gooseflesh on her skin. Even as she told herself that, her heart was racing. It beat in her chest like a drum as she opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.
Looking left to right, she waited for some sort of sign. It came with the fluttering of a curtain at the opposite end of the hall. With a mix of false bravado, reluctant courage, and curiosity, she headed in that direction.
It was almost like a child’s game, being led about by knocks, bangs and ruffled drapery. Was it the spirit of a child? She dearly hoped not. Perhaps it was the only way the spirit had to communicate with the living. The particulars of how that all worked was something of a mystery to her. No doubt Alexandra would have known instantly.
“I should have paid more attention to those horrid novels,” Louisa murmured.
When she’d turned at the end of the corridor into another wing of the house, she simply stopped and waited. This time, it was a plume of dust which led her to a door near the end. Reaching for the handle, she was somewhat surprised when it turned easily beneath her hand. And yet, when she pushed the door, it did not open easily. The wood had swollen with the heat and humidity. She was forced to put her hip against the door and shove with all her might.
When it finally crashed inward, she stumbled into the musty room. The curtains were drawn tightly. Only a small sliver of light managed to penetrate. It was enough that she could see the outline of furniture dropped in holland cloth. Stepping deeper into the room, she narrowly skirted a settee at the foot of the bed to reach the window. Pulling the curtains wide, she secured them and then turned to take a better look.
It was a room very similar to the one she’d been given on her arrival, at least in terms of size. Tugging one of the dusty furniture coverings away, she found rich, rosewood pieces inlaid with delicate patterns. There was something about the room itself that feltfeminine. Whomever that room had belonged to had been a woman. Of that much she was certain.
Curious but also compelled, she moved to one of the pieces of furniture hidden beneath its dusty shroud. Tugging the fabric away, she found herself staring at a small writing table. The curious thing was that it appeared to have been left in a state as if the person who had been using it might walk in at any moment. There was a half-written letter lying atop it and a quill dipped in ink that had been dried for years.
Picking up the elegant stationery, Louisa instantly felt uncomfortable. As if it were a terrible violation of privacy... because the letter was addressed to her husband.
My dearest Douglas,
I am a horrid creature for hoping this letter does not find you well at all. I hope it finds you in the same agonizing misery that I currently contend with—the loneliness I feel when we are not together. The days without you seem to grow longer each time you return to university.
When I think of how you urged me to run away with you, to elope, I find myself regretting my refusal. Even though I know it was the right thing to do, that you must finishyour education and that we must marry in a respectable manner, I cannot help wishing the days until that may happen had already passed. What I would not give to know that at your next visit home we would be married, instead of merely enjoying another all-too-brief holiday together.
Your uncle
And that was where the letter stopped. No signature. No indication of the author’s identity. Only of her expectation that she would one day occupy the position that Louisa currently held as Mrs. Douglas Blackwell.
It wasn’t jealousy that she felt. She certainly was not entitled to feel such a thing. But she did feel deceived in some ways. Should he have told her that he’d been on the cusp of marrying someone else? Someone else who had, if her instincts were correct, met a very tragic end?
“Who are you?” Louisa whispered to the empty room. But it wasn’t empty. Not truly. That familiar rush of cold air surrounded her for an instant before receding. As it did, a small compartment beneath the writing desk sprang open—a hidden drawer.
Dropping to her knees, heedless of the dust, she reached into that drawer and brought out a cloth-wrapped bundle. The cloth itself was a lovely cream and blue paisley shawl. Within its folds, she found a small leather-bound book that was obviously a journal and several letters addressed to Miss Caroline Farris. What had become of her? And if it was her, why did her spirit still linger at Rosehaven?
With far more questions than answers circulating in her mind, Louisa elected to take the lot of it with her. Lifting her skirts, she tied the shawl about her waist and created a pocket of sorts. Why she felt the need to conceal those items she did notunderstand. But if Caroline Farris had felt that they needed to be hidden away, she wasn’t going to brandish them about for others to see. She would have answers, and there was only person to ask. It was not her husband.
Chapter Eight
Louisa found AuntMary in the morning room. She was drinking her tea and staring intently at the cards spread out before her.
“And whose fortune are you telling now?”
Mary shrugged, lifting one elegant shoulder. “No one in particular. I’m simply seeing what the future in this house may hold.”
