friendship assiduously; the innocent old woman was flattered at the attention and glad to have someone of her own station with whom to gossip. Somewhat to Megan's surprise, Lizzie took Edmund's part.
"The old man is past the work," she explained, as the two conferred over cups of strong tea in the housekeeper's room. "He must be all of seventy; high time he left it to a younger man. Why, poor Miss Jane was always having to look over his books, he was so forgetful. Master Edmund can't be bothered with such stuff."
The tour had not gone on long before Jane's resentment melted in the warmth of Edmund's charm. He was hard to resist when he put himself out—thought one biased participant—and that morning he was in excellent spirits, laughing and teasing and recalling incidents from childhood. Every room had its memories. The wide oak banister of the central staircase was the one they had greased with butter stolen from the larder, so they could slide faster. The great Chinese vase in the drawing room was where one of the stable cats had had her litter. . . .
"And when Lizzie heard the kittens squeaking, she ran out of the room swearing the ghost was after her," Jane added with a laugh.
"Then the manor is haunted?" Megan asked. "Do tell me, Mr. Mandeville; I adore tales of mystery and terror. Father used to curdle my blood with recollections of the Connacht banshee."
"My dear Miss O'Neill, you needn't suppose that because this house lacks some amenities, it is deficient in all respects. If anything, we have a superfluity of specters. There are almost too many to be convincing; it is as if every person who ever lived in the house conjured up his own ghost."
An odd little thrill ran through Megan's limbs. Edmund saw her shiver and exclaimed, "But I didn't mean to curdle your blood, Miss O'Neill; forgive me."
"It is nothing. What do the local people say?—'A goose walked over my grave.' I told you, Mr. Mandeville, I love bloodcurdling tales."
"Then I will tell you some of Grayhaven's ghost stories, on a more suitable occasion; a winter night is best, when the wind howls in the bare branches and the firelight is dim."
"Enough of that nonsense," Jane said impatiently. "I have other duties, Edmund, if you do not. Let's get on with it."
"To be sure. We have spent too much time in this part of the house as it is. I have already fixed on the changes I mean to make here. What I want to do this morning is investigate the other wings, especially the parts that have been shut up."
Megan had hoped to get some idea of the general plan of the house that morning, but the farther they went, the more confused she became. Grayhaven had no real plan; it was not shaped like an E or an L or any other letter of the alphabet. Apparently each builder had simply tacked on a wing or a group of rooms wherever it was most convenient, without removing or seriously altering previously standing structures. She was surprised at the sheer size of the house. It did not look so large from outside.
Edmund had a better notion of the plan, though he was constantly saying he had not been in this room or that since he was a child. According to him, the oldest parts of the house were the medieval gatehouse and entrance and the adjoining Great Hall. Only the facade of the gatehouse remained; the inner floors had been removed in some past age and the interior converted into the central hallway of the house, with stairs leading up to connect with the side wings.
The Great Hall was still used on formal occasions, but Jane admitted she did not like dining there. "I am always expecting something nasty to drop down into my soup," she remarked, glancing up at the beamed ceiling.
Edmund jeered at this; had he not had swarms of workmen up into the beams before his guests arrived, cleaning and checking for signs of decay? Medievalism was the latest style; some of his friends were tearing down their homes in order to erect sham castles with towers and battlements in
"The old man is past the work," she explained, as the two conferred over cups of strong tea in the housekeeper's room. "He must be all of seventy; high time he left it to a younger man. Why, poor Miss Jane was always having to look over his books, he was so forgetful. Master Edmund can't be bothered with such stuff."
The tour had not gone on long before Jane's resentment melted in the warmth of Edmund's charm. He was hard to resist when he put himself out—thought one biased participant—and that morning he was in excellent spirits, laughing and teasing and recalling incidents from childhood. Every room had its memories. The wide oak banister of the central staircase was the one they had greased with butter stolen from the larder, so they could slide faster. The great Chinese vase in the drawing room was where one of the stable cats had had her litter. . . .
"And when Lizzie heard the kittens squeaking, she ran out of the room swearing the ghost was after her," Jane added with a laugh.
"Then the manor is haunted?" Megan asked. "Do tell me, Mr. Mandeville; I adore tales of mystery and terror. Father used to curdle my blood with recollections of the Connacht banshee."
"My dear Miss O'Neill, you needn't suppose that because this house lacks some amenities, it is deficient in all respects. If anything, we have a superfluity of specters. There are almost too many to be convincing; it is as if every person who ever lived in the house conjured up his own ghost."
An odd little thrill ran through Megan's limbs. Edmund saw her shiver and exclaimed, "But I didn't mean to curdle your blood, Miss O'Neill; forgive me."
"It is nothing. What do the local people say?—'A goose walked over my grave.' I told you, Mr. Mandeville, I love bloodcurdling tales."
"Then I will tell you some of Grayhaven's ghost stories, on a more suitable occasion; a winter night is best, when the wind howls in the bare branches and the firelight is dim."
"Enough of that nonsense," Jane said impatiently. "I have other duties, Edmund, if you do not. Let's get on with it."
"To be sure. We have spent too much time in this part of the house as it is. I have already fixed on the changes I mean to make here. What I want to do this morning is investigate the other wings, especially the parts that have been shut up."
Megan had hoped to get some idea of the general plan of the house that morning, but the farther they went, the more confused she became. Grayhaven had no real plan; it was not shaped like an E or an L or any other letter of the alphabet. Apparently each builder had simply tacked on a wing or a group of rooms wherever it was most convenient, without removing or seriously altering previously standing structures. She was surprised at the sheer size of the house. It did not look so large from outside.
Edmund had a better notion of the plan, though he was constantly saying he had not been in this room or that since he was a child. According to him, the oldest parts of the house were the medieval gatehouse and entrance and the adjoining Great Hall. Only the facade of the gatehouse remained; the inner floors had been removed in some past age and the interior converted into the central hallway of the house, with stairs leading up to connect with the side wings.
The Great Hall was still used on formal occasions, but Jane admitted she did not like dining there. "I am always expecting something nasty to drop down into my soup," she remarked, glancing up at the beamed ceiling.
Edmund jeered at this; had he not had swarms of workmen up into the beams before his guests arrived, cleaning and checking for signs of decay? Medievalism was the latest style; some of his friends were tearing down their homes in order to erect sham castles with towers and battlements in
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