sorry to have roused you.”
“No trouble, my lord.”
As he stepped through the doorway, Copeland called him back again. “Bolton?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“You said ‘haunting you too.’ What did you mean by it?”
The ghost of a smile touched the old man’s lips. “Very kind of you to ask, my lord.
There are one or two of the staff who have been troubled by bad dreams since coming
to Broomhill.”
Copeland frowned. “Gossip of ghosts, no doubt.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Copeland waited for more.
Bolton took his time. It was his way to go slowly, deliberately, never an exclamation
or blurted word. “Stories have come to us by way of the dairymaid, the baker’s lad,
the butcher, and the wine merchant, my lord.” He paused. “The coachman who brought
the musicians today had heard tales of Broomhill. The most haunted house in Hampshire
he claimed, my lord. Have we seen the green man in the garden? They wish to know.
Does the gray lady still walk the upper corridor? Has the bride in white made herself
known?”
“I see.” The brandy began to work its magic, warming Copeland, calming him. So foolish
Bolton managed to make all fears sound. It was all just a dream, and too much gossip
of ghosts, and an overactive imagination.
“The coachman claims to have seen a gentleman down by the pond in a green coat.”
“Indeed?” Lord Copeland looked up with a start.
“Says the man plunged into the pond, and when he ran forward to help, there was no
sign of him, not even a ripple upon the water. I can only assume he had to have been
drinking, my lord.”
Copeland swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Does he make a habit of imbibing?”
“No, my lord. Quite a sober fellow, I am told. Not given to wild tales.”
“And Maddie?
“Maddie, my lord?”
“Did Maddie tell you why she dropped the crock upstairs?”
“Other than clumsiness, my lord?”
“She wore a most terrified expression when I met her on the stairs, but would not
tell me what upset her.”
Bolton tipped his graying head, considering this. “I shall look into it, my lord.”
Above them came the sound of footsteps.
Gabriel stood, ears alert, the hair at the back of his neck raised, a low whine leaking
from his throat.
Lord Copeland thought immediately of his guest. He imagined her wandering the corridors
in her nightclothes. “Oh dear,” he said. “We’ve roused someone.” He was rather aroused
himself, thinking of those nightclothes.
“In the chapel, my lord?” Bolton sounded puzzled. Of course he would know exactly
which room was directly above them.
Copeland pressed a hand to his chest, irritated that footsteps in the night should
make his pulse race. “What the devil is someone doing in the chapel at this hour?”
“I shall just go and see,” Bolton promised. Gabriel padded after him.
“Tell whoever it is, back to bed, and very sorry to have disturbed,” Copeland called
after him.
“Yes, my lord.”
Glass empty, a warm glow in the pit of his belly and the burn of the last mouthful
of brandy still aromatic on his tongue, Lord Copeland headed back to bed, only to
be met by the skitter and thump of Gabriel as he came charging downstairs at a run,
tail tucked.
“What’s this, then, Gabe?” Copeland bent to stop him, to calm him, but the spaniel,
eyes showing white, slipped his grasp with a yelp and kept going. Dashing behind the
suit of armor at the base of the stairs the dog emitted a pitiful whimpering. Copeland
attempted to comfort the trembling dog without success. He kept banging his head against
the elbow of the armor, which only served to send Gabriel cowering again.
At last, he gathered the pup in his arms and climbed the stairs. Meeting Bolton at
the top, he asked, “What ails Gabe? He acts as if the devil himself were after him.”
“I do not know, my lord. The poor creature stopped just outside the chapel door, hackles
raised, refused
“No trouble, my lord.”
As he stepped through the doorway, Copeland called him back again. “Bolton?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“You said ‘haunting you too.’ What did you mean by it?”
The ghost of a smile touched the old man’s lips. “Very kind of you to ask, my lord.
There are one or two of the staff who have been troubled by bad dreams since coming
to Broomhill.”
Copeland frowned. “Gossip of ghosts, no doubt.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Copeland waited for more.
Bolton took his time. It was his way to go slowly, deliberately, never an exclamation
or blurted word. “Stories have come to us by way of the dairymaid, the baker’s lad,
the butcher, and the wine merchant, my lord.” He paused. “The coachman who brought
the musicians today had heard tales of Broomhill. The most haunted house in Hampshire
he claimed, my lord. Have we seen the green man in the garden? They wish to know.
Does the gray lady still walk the upper corridor? Has the bride in white made herself
known?”
“I see.” The brandy began to work its magic, warming Copeland, calming him. So foolish
Bolton managed to make all fears sound. It was all just a dream, and too much gossip
of ghosts, and an overactive imagination.
“The coachman claims to have seen a gentleman down by the pond in a green coat.”
“Indeed?” Lord Copeland looked up with a start.
“Says the man plunged into the pond, and when he ran forward to help, there was no
sign of him, not even a ripple upon the water. I can only assume he had to have been
drinking, my lord.”
Copeland swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Does he make a habit of imbibing?”
“No, my lord. Quite a sober fellow, I am told. Not given to wild tales.”
“And Maddie?
“Maddie, my lord?”
“Did Maddie tell you why she dropped the crock upstairs?”
“Other than clumsiness, my lord?”
“She wore a most terrified expression when I met her on the stairs, but would not
tell me what upset her.”
Bolton tipped his graying head, considering this. “I shall look into it, my lord.”
Above them came the sound of footsteps.
Gabriel stood, ears alert, the hair at the back of his neck raised, a low whine leaking
from his throat.
Lord Copeland thought immediately of his guest. He imagined her wandering the corridors
in her nightclothes. “Oh dear,” he said. “We’ve roused someone.” He was rather aroused
himself, thinking of those nightclothes.
“In the chapel, my lord?” Bolton sounded puzzled. Of course he would know exactly
which room was directly above them.
Copeland pressed a hand to his chest, irritated that footsteps in the night should
make his pulse race. “What the devil is someone doing in the chapel at this hour?”
“I shall just go and see,” Bolton promised. Gabriel padded after him.
“Tell whoever it is, back to bed, and very sorry to have disturbed,” Copeland called
after him.
“Yes, my lord.”
Glass empty, a warm glow in the pit of his belly and the burn of the last mouthful
of brandy still aromatic on his tongue, Lord Copeland headed back to bed, only to
be met by the skitter and thump of Gabriel as he came charging downstairs at a run,
tail tucked.
“What’s this, then, Gabe?” Copeland bent to stop him, to calm him, but the spaniel,
eyes showing white, slipped his grasp with a yelp and kept going. Dashing behind the
suit of armor at the base of the stairs the dog emitted a pitiful whimpering. Copeland
attempted to comfort the trembling dog without success. He kept banging his head against
the elbow of the armor, which only served to send Gabriel cowering again.
At last, he gathered the pup in his arms and climbed the stairs. Meeting Bolton at
the top, he asked, “What ails Gabe? He acts as if the devil himself were after him.”
“I do not know, my lord. The poor creature stopped just outside the chapel door, hackles
raised, refused
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