Page 8 of Captivating the Countess
One of the reasons Bell’s title came down through the female line was her Malcolm heritage. She understood the dilemma—Malcolms produced girls. “And the current duke is dying, so there must be extra pressure on the marquess to marry. No wonder the place is practically bursting with tension. The question becomes, do I stay or not? I certainly don’t wish to add to their burden, but naming my own terms is a temptation.”
“You said a spirit asked you to save the duke. I have no idea how that is possible, but I don’t think you can leave until you learn more.” Winifred finished her tea and looked sad. “I wish I could stay to help.”
“No, your son is ill. He needs you. I have many people to call on, if need be. Your son has only you. You’re hardly leaving me in a dangerous situation! Compared to Craigmore, Castle Yates is heaven on earth.”
“Methinks she doth protest too much.” Winifred smiled and stayed seated while Bell rose. “But you’re correct. You shouldn’t come to harm here. I do hope you’ll find someone to travel with you if you decide to leave. Fainting on a train cannot be healthy for a woman alone.”
“I’ll ask for enough salary to hire a travel companion,” Bell promised. “But for now, I have need to shut up that wailing human banshee agitating the spirits.”
“That’s not the task of a steward, dear,” Winifred reminded her, smiling faintly.
“That’s the task of anyone concerned about the poor patient confined to bed and forced to listen. I cannot imagine why anyone allows it to continue.” She headed for the door.
“And here I thought you were supposed to be the quiet, bookish twin.”
Bell stifled a small laugh. “I’m only quiet because Iona is so vocal. I know how to speak for myself. My main concern is avoiding breaking my neck on the stairs if the noise startles me into the vapors.”
“You mustn’t let fear control you.” Her companion frowned in concern.
“Fear leads to caution, which in my case, is a good thing. It prevents me from being as rash as Iona.” Bell slipped back into her chamber before Winifred could warn her that living in fear wasn’t much of a life. She knew that. She simply had no choice.
Save my sonrang in her head as she checked her reflection. Brushing and pinning the dyed ends of her too-short hair into a tighter knot, she was relieved that her normal golden-brown color was almost back. She shook the wrinkles from her travel gown, wondering if she was expected down to dinner. She had no maid to press her one decent evening dress.
She could demand a maid as part of the terms of her agreement.
She had to learn to live her life as a normal person and not let it be controlled by the spirits of people long gone. Occasionally, though, her life and a spirit’s request intersected. Perhaps she should heed the frantic ghost’s call.
The wide corridor outside her chamber seemed to sprawl half a mile in both directions. The marble stairs did not continue upward past the suites situated at the first landing. But at each end of the hall were spiral staircases, where the corridors connected with more wings. Following the agitated spirits and a now-muted argument above, she turned left from her chamber. Grimly clutching the stair rail, she ascended to the next floor. The treads spiraled up another level, but the voices seemed close.
A woman’s sudden outburst of fury rattled the rafters. More doors slammed. Bell studied this upper corridor where the rooms appeared to be smaller, judging by the frequency of the doors on her right. On her left, the wall held a gallery of oil paintings, mostly darkened old things of ancestors, with the occasional bust or statue to break up the effect.
“You never listen!” an operatic female cried from behind one of the panels. “We belong in London! We could be glorious together!”
Bell couldn’t interpret the male rumble that replied. Whatever he said was apparently not what the woman wished to hear. She screeched in high C, shaking the sconces on the wall—possibly the reason the art displayed was stone and not delicate porcelain.
A door on her right slammed open and a tall, voluptuous woman with blue-black hair emerged in a towering rage, flinging curses over her shoulder. In her fury, she almost stumbled over Bell, who waited patiently to be noticed.
“What are you doing here?” the woman demanded, righting herself with a distinctly ruffled-feather fluff of her fashionable taffeta skirt—in black, of course. “He has no appointments today.”
“I’m merely here to request the simple human decency of peace and quiet. The duke is ill and should not be disturbed by this level of drama.” Bell was accustomed to the authority of her small estate and did not shy from it. Still, she knew this was an overstepping of boundaries.
But the spirit battering to enter her head quieted, as if waiting for a response.
A big, burly, auburn-bearded man appeared in the open doorway, a paintbrush in hand. “Carla only speaks diva. We didn’t mean to disturb the duke. Carla, you can go away now. London is calling.”
Ruby red lips parted but before a noise could emerge, a door slammed, and Bell held up her hand. “You are ripping a hole in the veil with your voice. Can you not tell you’ve disturbed the spirits? Doors do not slam of their own accord.”
Both diva and bearded man stared at her, wide-eyed. Oh well, if she named her own terms, then accepting her weirdness must be one of them.
“You are a spiritualist?” the diva finally asked, in an almost normal timbre.
“I do not hold séances, if that’s what you ask. But this house is inhabited by many spirits who would normally coexist quietly with the living. Except they tend to hover if someone is dying, and they are as affected by disharmony as the rest of us are. You would do everyone a favor if you would keep your disagreements to a low roar.”
“Who the devil are you?” The bearded man leaned against the door jamb, appearing amused. “Did Rain bring you in to natter everyone into behaving?”
“I brought myself. The spirit’s cries for help reached me all the way in Edinburgh, that is how much you’re disturbing the afterworld. Perhaps you should do what the lady asks and go to London.” Bell only exaggerated a little. She didn’t think this smug pair would listen otherwise.
“See, I am right! We must go to London. Your loved ones beyond the veil say so.” The diva glared at the painter.
