Page 6 of The Grey Lady of the Manor

His storytelling must be convincing. It produced a shudder in his audience.

“Is that true? How terrible.”

He paused a moment, hoping, like a player, to conjure dramatic effect. “Of course, it isn’t true! I don’t believe in ghosts, and nor should you. I just made it all up.”

He hadn’t exactly made it up, as it was, indeed, a local legend. But it was best she think that he’d invented the tale. He was meant to be crushing her superstitious beliefs, not reinforcing them.

Her outrage was endearing and made him chuckle, but not for long. He was shoved roughly off balance, and before he could do anything about it, he was up to his neck in water, pushing pondweed out of his eyes and batting away the snapping beaks of several angry geese.

“You mocked me!” She was on her feet, fists clenched, a small, furious whirlwind. “You promised you wouldn’t!”

Before he could catch his breath or utter a sound, she had snapped her fingers and was marching away, driving the geese in front of her.

He looked around, praying no one had seen him being bested by a wench half his size, and scrambled out of the pond, swiping the noxious mud from his sleeves and hose.

Well—that was unfortunate. He’d overplayed his hand and failed in his commission. Mistress Smythe would not be pleased.

Suddenly, a chill swept through his body, like a gust of winter wind. That pond water must be colder than he thought. Gazing thoughtfully after Letty, he began rubbing vigorously at his arms, but his hands froze mid-movement.

Something that had no shape, but was about the height and breadth of a person, had appeared in the young woman’s wake. It moved with her, but it was no shadow, and he could see right through it.

Impossible. He rubbed at his eyes—he must have silt in them, from the pond. Aye, that was it. He could no longer see the shape. But the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end, and the world no longer seemed quite as it had been. It might be harder to convince Lettice Carter of the nonexistence of ghosts than he’d thought.

Chapter Four

It was Midsummer’s Eve, when the maidens in the village—of whom there were, mayhap, fewer than there should have been—performed traditional rituals to learn who they were going to marry.

Having no expectation of marrying anyone, Letty had thus far resisted the urging of her peers. But after Sarah Thatcher, a vain peacock of a woman, walked over from Bulforde to join in the revels, she changed her mind. Especially when Sarah boasted that she knew exactly who she’d see—Perkin Merrick, her father’s thatching apprentice. Letty was dying to find out if this could be true, as they seemed a mismatched pair, at the very least.

One of the night’s traditions was to pick nine kinds of flowers, then gaze down a well to see reflected there the face of one’s future husband. Or one could put the flowers under one’s pillow, and he’d invade one’s dreams. Not traditional, but a common occurrence, all the same, was the loss of maidenheads in the bushes and the long grass—so long as the weather was fine. Determined to avoid such peril, Letty decided not to look down the village well. She’d head for the ancient Templar well on the manor instead—there was no likelihood of any lusty youth following her right into the middle of Master Smythe’s abode.

Woodruff Scrivener pulled off her coif and shook out her dark locks. “I’ll not wear my garland atop this—it would be most unbecoming.”

“No one’s going to notice in the dark,” scoffed Sarah Thatcher, “but I might as well keep mine clean until the morrow.” She freed her thick, heavy braid and tucked her coif into her scrip.

Letty pulled a face as she gazed at Sarah. The idea of the tow-headed, grey-eyed Perkin huffing and puffing between this woman’s thighs was hideous. Oh, she must think herself so far above them all to have captured that fine figure of a man for her very own. Assuming she had.

Letty blinked. Since when had she considered Perkin handsome? He was odious and fully deserved to have been pushed into the pond. He and Sarah would be perfect for one another—he would mock her, she would pinch him, and they would argue all the livelong day.

Curse it! She must put Perkin from her mind, or she would imagine it was his face she saw in the well water, and the spirit of her future true love wouldn’t appear at all.

Lifting her lantern to avoid potholes in the dusk, she joined the laughing throng as they went in search of nine kinds of flowers. Luckily, the white cow parsley was easy to find in the gloom, and the verges were full of campion, ox-eye daisies, dog roses, and other blooms. The air smelled sweet, of growing hay and freshly-pulled flower stems, and the evening throbbed with expectation.

As soon as she had the required number of flowers in her apron, Letty slipped away from the rest of the group and took the lane toward Temple Roding manor.

And suddenly, everything felt different. She had an uncanny sense of being followed, but whenever she gazed over her shoulder, there was naught to see but shadows and burgeoning bushes. Yet her scalp continued to prickle, and a deep sense of foreboding stole over her.

It must be one of the village lads, following her in the darkness, intent on playing a trick on her. Hopefully, he had nothing more serious in mind—she had no intention of losing her maidenhead this night or having a husband forced upon her who would pin her to Temple Roding with no hope of escape. Her fingers went to the handle of the eating knife strung from her belt—she’d defend her honor with her blade if necessary. Or at least, threaten to do so.

Chin set, she made her way toward the manor house, spun around three times as the rite required, then stepped into the well house. The old Templar shaft was so deep that it required a special mechanism to draw up the bucket. It had been thought sensible to put a building around the apparatus to protect it from the elements.

Which meant that, when she gazed down into the well, all she could see was darkness. She couldn’t even see her own reflection, let alone that of anyone else. What folly! Why had she bothered? There was no point in looking here, but she couldn’t give up entirely—she needed some kind of hope. She needed to know that, one day, a stranger would whisk her away from Temple Roding and the clutches of her resentful, demanding stepmother.

She couldn’t pray for a face to magically appear, for this was an ancient ritual, passed down through the centuries and guarded by whatever gods the English had believed in before the days of Christianity. In truth, she shouldn’t have anything to do with such a superstitious practice. What would Master and Mistress Smythe do if they found out?

She’d just made up her mind to cease staring into the black emptiness when the air turned cold. But there was no wind and no reason for the sudden chill. Did this mean the magic was working? If so, she couldn’t deny it, could she? Who knew what might happen if she didn’t take what was offered? Arousing the wrath of a pagan god would surely be unwise.

Clutching her flower-filled apron against her breast, she peered into the ink-dark depths of the well.