Read Online Christmas Belles by Susan Carroll - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Carroll
Ads: Link
with the coachman. One would have thought that by this time a
groom or some sort of servant would have come scurrying forward to help with
the horses, but there was no sign of anyone.
"Shall I start hauling down the baggage, Cap'n?"
the steward asked.
"Belay that a moment, Mr. Doughty." Frowning,
Trent stared up at the house, mantled in its early-morning stillness. An
unnatural silence seemed to hang over the place, but that might be owing to the
mist. Fog had a way of lending an aura of unreality to things,
"I don't see any sign of Mr. Lathrop, sir,"
Doughty said, attempting the hopeless task of peering back down the drive.
"Do you suppose we lost 'im?"
"Possibly, but Mr. Lathrop is more resourceful than he
seems. I am sure he will catch up to us." All the same, Trent spared a
glance in that direction himself. An excellent horseman, Charles had scorned
making the journey closeted in the coach. An indifferent rider himself, Trent
had not even been tempted to join him, especially not in this cold, damp
weather.
Although certain his friend was all right, if Charles did
not appear soon, Trent would have to go look for him. For the present, he
turned back to his immediate problem, his astonishing lack of any kind of
reception. Granted, he had pressed on a little hard, arriving a day earlier
than expected. Still, his appearance should not take the household that much by
surprise.
"Go knock on the door, Mr. Doughty," Trent
commanded. "At least the butler must be up and stirring."
"Aye, aye, sir." Doughty bounded up the steps and
beat an impatient tattoo with the brass door knocker. When moments passed and
that drew no response, the steward used his brawny fist, hammering hard enough
to set the portal atremble.
His efforts were greeted with nothing but that unrelenting
silence. When the burly man raised his fist again, Trent called, "Hold,
Mr. Doughty. This is of no avail. You have already pounded loud enough to wake
the dead."
It was an unfortunate choice of words, for Doughty's eyes
waxed large and round. "Aye, Cap'n, that's just what I was thinkin'
meself. This be some sort o' ghost house."
"Don't be absurd," Trent said. That was all he
needed, Doughty suffering from one of his attacks of superstition run rampant.
"D'ye want me to try peekin' in some o' the
windows?" Doughty clearly made this offer with all the valor he could
muster, but he swallowed deeply.
"Of course not," Trent said. "Go around back
of the house and see if you can roust out a groom or stableboy. I shall go try
one of the other doors."
"Aye, Cap'n." Doughty looked none too happy about
it, but he shuffled off to obey.
Trent stalked back along the drive, gravel crunching beneath
his boots. The noise sounded unnaturally loud, as noises were wont to do in
fog. He spied a path winding around the side of the house and took it, thinking
it might lead to a garden entrance or perhaps the kitchen door.
The path was thick with overgrown shrubberies, badly in want
of a trimming. The sight of nature run wild only added to the house's air of
desertion, of being lost to the enchantment of time.
Trent was not often given to harboring fancies, but he began
to feel as if he had strayed into some strange dream in which he had only
imagined Sir Phineas Waverly, his four daughters, and the betrothal to Miss
Emma. Perhaps the mists would close and the house would disappear in a minute.
Trent brought himself up short, disgusted with himself for
entertaining such foolish thoughts. At the next turn in the path, he would
chance upon someone, some logical explanation for why no one had come forth to
greet him.
Yet what happened next seemed to defy all logic. One of the
bushes at the corner of the house was seized with a violent fit of shaking.
Then a laugh carried to Trent's ears. It was low, musical, and almost
haunting. Trent started in spite of himself. He called out in his best
quarterdeck roar, "Is someone hiding over there? Show yourself at
once."
He would not
groom or some sort of servant would have come scurrying forward to help with
the horses, but there was no sign of anyone.
"Shall I start hauling down the baggage, Cap'n?"
the steward asked.
"Belay that a moment, Mr. Doughty." Frowning,
Trent stared up at the house, mantled in its early-morning stillness. An
unnatural silence seemed to hang over the place, but that might be owing to the
mist. Fog had a way of lending an aura of unreality to things,
"I don't see any sign of Mr. Lathrop, sir,"
Doughty said, attempting the hopeless task of peering back down the drive.
"Do you suppose we lost 'im?"
"Possibly, but Mr. Lathrop is more resourceful than he
seems. I am sure he will catch up to us." All the same, Trent spared a
glance in that direction himself. An excellent horseman, Charles had scorned
making the journey closeted in the coach. An indifferent rider himself, Trent
had not even been tempted to join him, especially not in this cold, damp
weather.
Although certain his friend was all right, if Charles did
not appear soon, Trent would have to go look for him. For the present, he
turned back to his immediate problem, his astonishing lack of any kind of
reception. Granted, he had pressed on a little hard, arriving a day earlier
than expected. Still, his appearance should not take the household that much by
surprise.
"Go knock on the door, Mr. Doughty," Trent
commanded. "At least the butler must be up and stirring."
"Aye, aye, sir." Doughty bounded up the steps and
beat an impatient tattoo with the brass door knocker. When moments passed and
that drew no response, the steward used his brawny fist, hammering hard enough
to set the portal atremble.
His efforts were greeted with nothing but that unrelenting
silence. When the burly man raised his fist again, Trent called, "Hold,
Mr. Doughty. This is of no avail. You have already pounded loud enough to wake
the dead."
It was an unfortunate choice of words, for Doughty's eyes
waxed large and round. "Aye, Cap'n, that's just what I was thinkin'
meself. This be some sort o' ghost house."
"Don't be absurd," Trent said. That was all he
needed, Doughty suffering from one of his attacks of superstition run rampant.
"D'ye want me to try peekin' in some o' the
windows?" Doughty clearly made this offer with all the valor he could
muster, but he swallowed deeply.
"Of course not," Trent said. "Go around back
of the house and see if you can roust out a groom or stableboy. I shall go try
one of the other doors."
"Aye, Cap'n." Doughty looked none too happy about
it, but he shuffled off to obey.
Trent stalked back along the drive, gravel crunching beneath
his boots. The noise sounded unnaturally loud, as noises were wont to do in
fog. He spied a path winding around the side of the house and took it, thinking
it might lead to a garden entrance or perhaps the kitchen door.
The path was thick with overgrown shrubberies, badly in want
of a trimming. The sight of nature run wild only added to the house's air of
desertion, of being lost to the enchantment of time.
Trent was not often given to harboring fancies, but he began
to feel as if he had strayed into some strange dream in which he had only
imagined Sir Phineas Waverly, his four daughters, and the betrothal to Miss
Emma. Perhaps the mists would close and the house would disappear in a minute.
Trent brought himself up short, disgusted with himself for
entertaining such foolish thoughts. At the next turn in the path, he would
chance upon someone, some logical explanation for why no one had come forth to
greet him.
Yet what happened next seemed to defy all logic. One of the
bushes at the corner of the house was seized with a violent fit of shaking.
Then a laugh carried to Trent's ears. It was low, musical, and almost
haunting. Trent started in spite of himself. He called out in his best
quarterdeck roar, "Is someone hiding over there? Show yourself at
once."
He would not
Similar Books
