Mary remained where she was, clinging to her headboard and staring at Trentwood. She shook her mind free of the memories from that horrible night over a year ago. There was nothing to be done about that now. Steele had never called, and she hadn’t the time for courting anyway, not with her father so ill. And now that her father had died—and his ghost was standing at the foot of her bed—well, that didn’t make her future chances at courtship seem any brighter.
Practically speaking, of course.
Mary’s mouth wavered between hysterical laughter and another scream. Her father was dead, and she wanted—needed—to mourn him. She wanted to remember him fondly and cry herself to sleep over her loss. She did not want to be crawling away, terrified of this vision that was her father.
It wasn’t right or decent, this horror replacing sorrow.
She swallowed, biding her time, waiting for words to come. Did ghosts need to sit? Or was it merely the principle of the matter? Her father had been, if nothing else, concerned with the principle of the matter. Did such things carry over into the afterlife?
“Aren’t you growing rather tired of hanging from that headboard as if you were some primate?” Trentwood said.
Mary dropped to her knees. She landed with little grace in the jumble of sheets piled atop her bed. She couldn’t take her eyes from Trentwood. His fingers were grimy, most likely from his unearthly climb. He smelled of earth and age and disease, spiced with a hint of peppermints—his favorite treat.
“There now, isn’t that better?” Trentwood looked as he had in his life but for his eyes, the irises particularly. They had lost almost all pigmentation, so that the dark hazel she had inherited looked an insipid beige.
She scowled. A knock at the door startled her from responding.
“Miss Trentwood?” It was Pomeroy, Trentwood’s valet-cum-butler. His voice was gentle, but firm, as he said, “I happened to be in the hallway just a moment ago and had the oddest idea I heard you scream. Might I come in and inquire?”
Mary cleared her throat and dragged her gaze from Trentwood. “No, thank you,” she said, raising her voice so Pomeroy could hear her. “I thought I saw… er, there was—”
As Mary scanned the room looking for an excuse for screaming, she caught sight of Trentwood looking rather smug while he waited for her reason. She pressed her lips together. He was having fun with this! She crawled from her bed and backed to the door. Her chin jutted out, and she glanced at Trentwood, noting the way his brows rose.
It was easier to breathe by the door, Mary couldn’t smell Trentwood. She pressed her cheek to the carved wooden door that kept Pomeroy from entering. She breathed the warm smell of old wood, relishing in its solidity. She needed to convince herself she was grounded, sane, normal.
“I had a nightmare,” Mary said, “and frightened myself awake. Please don’t concern yourself, it was very silly.”
She heard Pomeroy clear his throat and imagined him shifting his weight from one foot to the next as he searched for the most proper way to voice his thoughts.
“Shall I ask Mrs. Durham to keep you company?”
Mary closed her eyes. “No, thank you.”
“Shall I keep you company, Miss?”
Now that was an interesting thought, to allow Pomeroy enter. Especially with Trentwood standing there as if he hadn’t died a week earlier. If Pomeroy saw Trentwood, then Mary would know she wasn’t entirely mad, or certainly not delusional. Of course, the danger in ushering Pomeroy inside would be the realization that I am, in fact, losing my wits. Mary bit her lip.
“Why not let the poor man in, make certain you haven’t done harm to yourself?” Trentwood suggested. He had moved to the vanity, taking the seat Mary had not offered to him. He watched her archly, radiating his displeasure with his stiff carriage and the way he picked at the dirt beneath his fingernails.
If I answer him, I acknowledge his existence, and then I’ll know I’m mad. If I don’t answer him, I don’t know either way. Decision made, Mary threw open the door. “Just for a moment, yes, I’d like your company. I find my… thoughts disturb when I’m alone.”
Pomeroy was as tall and lanky as Trentwood, and as old as him, if not older. Mary had no idea, in fact, how old Pomeroy was. She knew only that he had always been her father’s valet, he never had a hair or piece of clothing out of place, and he worried about her as if she were his daughter. And that he was a prize pugilist who was more than happy to teach her a thing or two.
Pomeroy’s hair was completely white and had been so since he turned twenty—something about the shock of losing his sister in a fire. Mary never knew the details and knew better than to ask.
“Thoughts are one’s own enemy at a time like this,” Pomeroy murmured, entering the room.
“Would you care to have a…” Mary’s voice trailed off. Trentwood sat in the only available chair in the room and didn’t look as though he was about to give it up to anyone, especially not his valet. Thankfully, Pomeroy had no plans to sit.
“I’ve only come to say, and do pardon my impudence, that I’m worried about you. We both are, Mrs. Beeton and me. You’ve had a rough year, taking care of your father and your aunt besides.”
Mary nodded once. She crossed her arms over her chest. It rankled, the awkward sounds of kindness about her loss. She hadn’t decided if she was prepared to accept such words yet. Having her dead father in the room didn’t help matters.
Pomeroy continued, stammering a little as Mary stepped away from him. “It was decided I should tell you we will handle the running of the house, to—to ease your burden.”
Trentwood scoffed from his corner. “A lovely sentiment, I’m sure, but what are you to do with yourself if he takes away your one occupation, hmm?”
Mary squared her shoulders. She anticipated Pomeroy to shout, scream, blanch, faint, or all of the above. He did none. He waited for her response, giving no indication that he had heard Trentwood speak, nor revealing any suspicion that anyone but Mary was in the room with him.
This does not bode well for my sanity.
“I must admit the offer is tempting, and so very generous. I am, of course, touched and overwhelmed by your kindness,” Mary whispered, “but I must keep myself busy.”
Pomeroy bowed. “I find it’s best to stay busy, Miss, and be certain to not be alone for too very long.”
Mary risked a sidelong look at Trentwood, who grinned. “Depend upon it; I don’t think I shall be alone often.”
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