for her Mama had discovered the story about Crazy Nellie's Tower being haunted, and warned her not to mention it.
“Ah,” he said with an air of surprise. “I must congratulate you on your luck in being still with us then."
“Is she really locked up in there?” Sherry asked with a shiver.
“Who?” Clare asked.
“Why, your—your aunt, or cousin, or whoever she is."
“Great-great aunt,” he explained. “No, she is no longer there in person, though really so many people report seeing her still that I sometimes wonder..."
“You mean it is haunted?” Belle asked, her topaz eyes sparkling with pleasurable fear.
Miss Sheridan turned pale under her black curls, and said nothing.
“I suppose it must be her ghost they see,” he replied calmly.
“What is she supposed to look like?” Lady Sara enquired.
“Why, rather like Miss Prentiss. Reddish hair..."
“Auburn,” Miss Prentiss corrected him.
“But done in an older style. Not all cut off like yours,” he said to Belle, with a disparaging look at her shorn locks. Miss Sheridan smiled and ran her little white fingers though her own glossy coiffure. “She was a lady-in-waiting to Queen Anne,” he continued, “but got on the wrong side of her somehow—befriended Lady Marlborough, I believe. Her husband was so displeased—ruined his court ambitions, of course—that he had her confined and she was never seen again."
“Good gracious!” Miss Sheridan gasped.
“The beast,” Lady Sara added, helping herself to lobster salad. “And you are a beast too, Clare, to be frightening these young ladies with such a faradiddle. What does your Crazy Nellie wear? I should like to recognize her and say ‘how do you do’ if I should happen to bump into her while I am sketching this afternoon."
“Her hair dressed high—red, like Miss Prentiss's, as I mentioned, and a pink gown with panniers."
“I can't say I much blame her husband for having her locked up if she wore a pink gown with red hair,” Sara commented idly.
“But you must know, there is a streak of color blindness in the family,” Belle teased.
Clare bit back a smile at her sally, and the others breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't taken a pique.
“And she always carries a basket of red roses,” he finished his description.
“She was clearly deranged,” Sara said.
“We have a ghost at Strayward,” Lady Honor announced.
Clare was sorely tempted to say there was nothing but ghosts at Strayward, for none of the inhabitants seemed to be quite alive, but he asked instead, “What sort of ghost, ma'am?"
“A monk,” she replied and turned her attention to her plate.
No one was so foolhardy as to expect three consecutive remarks from her, so Clare turned again to Sara. “Do you mean to sketch today?"
“Yes, Ella and I mean to, and any of the others who care to join us are welcome. Ca va sans dire .” She scanned the table, but with the host's plans unclear, no one else volunteered.
“Would you care to join us, Lady Honor?” she asked.
“I don't sketch,” she said.
“You might enjoy the walk,” Clare prodded. “You do walk?"
“Yes, I walk,” she replied, perceiving no joke, and certainly no insult in the question.
“I shall go with you and show you the view most favored by artists,” Clare volunteered. “It is advised not to get too close."
“Masonry loose, is it?” she asked, during a private conversation a little later.
“Just so. A footman was hit by a falling stone, but till I manage to get it repaired or ripped down, I find a ghost more effective than falling stones in keeping guests at a safe distance."
“You mustn't tear it down. A building in a state of decay is all the go. Sir Herbert speaks of erecting a half-chapel or so."
“We have a ruined chapel at Strayward,” the Marchioness said across the table, having been straining her ears to overhear what was being said.
“And a cloister,” Honor added.
Everyone looked in surprise to hear such
“Ah,” he said with an air of surprise. “I must congratulate you on your luck in being still with us then."
“Is she really locked up in there?” Sherry asked with a shiver.
“Who?” Clare asked.
“Why, your—your aunt, or cousin, or whoever she is."
“Great-great aunt,” he explained. “No, she is no longer there in person, though really so many people report seeing her still that I sometimes wonder..."
“You mean it is haunted?” Belle asked, her topaz eyes sparkling with pleasurable fear.
Miss Sheridan turned pale under her black curls, and said nothing.
“I suppose it must be her ghost they see,” he replied calmly.
“What is she supposed to look like?” Lady Sara enquired.
“Why, rather like Miss Prentiss. Reddish hair..."
“Auburn,” Miss Prentiss corrected him.
“But done in an older style. Not all cut off like yours,” he said to Belle, with a disparaging look at her shorn locks. Miss Sheridan smiled and ran her little white fingers though her own glossy coiffure. “She was a lady-in-waiting to Queen Anne,” he continued, “but got on the wrong side of her somehow—befriended Lady Marlborough, I believe. Her husband was so displeased—ruined his court ambitions, of course—that he had her confined and she was never seen again."
“Good gracious!” Miss Sheridan gasped.
“The beast,” Lady Sara added, helping herself to lobster salad. “And you are a beast too, Clare, to be frightening these young ladies with such a faradiddle. What does your Crazy Nellie wear? I should like to recognize her and say ‘how do you do’ if I should happen to bump into her while I am sketching this afternoon."
“Her hair dressed high—red, like Miss Prentiss's, as I mentioned, and a pink gown with panniers."
“I can't say I much blame her husband for having her locked up if she wore a pink gown with red hair,” Sara commented idly.
“But you must know, there is a streak of color blindness in the family,” Belle teased.
Clare bit back a smile at her sally, and the others breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't taken a pique.
“And she always carries a basket of red roses,” he finished his description.
“She was clearly deranged,” Sara said.
“We have a ghost at Strayward,” Lady Honor announced.
Clare was sorely tempted to say there was nothing but ghosts at Strayward, for none of the inhabitants seemed to be quite alive, but he asked instead, “What sort of ghost, ma'am?"
“A monk,” she replied and turned her attention to her plate.
No one was so foolhardy as to expect three consecutive remarks from her, so Clare turned again to Sara. “Do you mean to sketch today?"
“Yes, Ella and I mean to, and any of the others who care to join us are welcome. Ca va sans dire .” She scanned the table, but with the host's plans unclear, no one else volunteered.
“Would you care to join us, Lady Honor?” she asked.
“I don't sketch,” she said.
“You might enjoy the walk,” Clare prodded. “You do walk?"
“Yes, I walk,” she replied, perceiving no joke, and certainly no insult in the question.
“I shall go with you and show you the view most favored by artists,” Clare volunteered. “It is advised not to get too close."
“Masonry loose, is it?” she asked, during a private conversation a little later.
“Just so. A footman was hit by a falling stone, but till I manage to get it repaired or ripped down, I find a ghost more effective than falling stones in keeping guests at a safe distance."
“You mustn't tear it down. A building in a state of decay is all the go. Sir Herbert speaks of erecting a half-chapel or so."
“We have a ruined chapel at Strayward,” the Marchioness said across the table, having been straining her ears to overhear what was being said.
“And a cloister,” Honor added.
Everyone looked in surprise to hear such
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