Page 7 of The Grey Lady of the Manor

Nothing. She blinked and sucked in a breath, but before she could make a move to leave, her vision became clouded. The air had become positively icy. Shuddering, she forced herself to watch as an otherworldly mist shimmered just above the surface of the water far below.

Then features began to appear. Letty gripped the wall of the well, knuckles whitening, transfixed by fear. A bony face with hollowed eyes and a dark beard swam into her vision. It was a real face, belonging to a man with a thick neck, broad shoulders, and a head of unruly hair. But the face wore a grim, despairing expression, one that filled her soul with emptiness.

Her hand flew to her mouth, restraining a cry of alarm. At that exact moment, two hands seized her by the shoulders, pulling her backward. Her scream was cut off by rough fingers across her mouth, and she fought the urge to faint with all her might.

Too late.

Chapter Five

Perkin hadn’t meant to frighten her so severely that she fainted in his arms. He had only intended to peer over her shoulder, let her see his reflection, then mock her for thinking there was anything magical about the practice of looking down a well.

She gave a gulp and turned in his arms, her fingers clawing at the front of his jerkin. “Oh, ’twas foul! An awful sight. And such a feeling of deep despair!”

Tears coursed down her cheeks, and he pulled her closer, inhaling the lavender scent of her hair.

“What is it? What did you see?”

“A shade, a skeletal face. It drained all the warmth from my body and all the joy from my soul.”

Aha. This was precisely the kind of gullibility Mistress Smythe had been talking about. She wanted Letty cured of her anxieties and fantasies, and he would benefit if he were the one to do it.

“That was no ghost, sweet lady. Forgive me—I am ofttimes known to play the fool, and you have fallen foul of one of my jests. I had no idea I would frighten you so much by peering over your shoulder like that. Pray, grant me your forgiveness.”

Lying to her left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he shrugged away the guilt. She felt so good in his arms—he wouldn’t mind if she chose to stay there a moment or two longer.

“What do you mean, it was one of your jests? You have no beard, or dark hair. And your face is well-fleshed out and handsome. What I saw was a specter, a restless spirit. Oh, now I’m certain that I must be cursed! I must find me a priest and see what can be done to lay the ghost.”

“There are no such thing as ghosts.” His mind snagged on the fact that she’d called him “handsome”. Then snagged again when he remembered the wraith that had appeared behind her the other day.

Nay. There must be some logical explanation for that—he just wasn’t learned enough to know it. “I repeat—that was no spirit. It was me. I held your lantern beneath my chin, like so.” He demonstrated. “Hence the appearance of hollowed eyes. The dark hair and beard were merely shadows thrown by the candlelight. Come now, calm yourself.”

His hand was rhythmically stroking her back, and her trembling lips were so close to his own, he had to clench his teeth to resist kissing her. Ah! Midsummer’s Eve exerted a powerful influence over the young and lusty. He must watch his step—he’d promised Mistress Smythe to quell Letty’s fears, not to seduce her. If he were to do the latter, he’d let everyone down and completely ruin his prospects.

“Come,” he said gently. “You’ve had a fright, and the best place for you is bed.” A pox on’t! Now he was imagining her in his bed. Be damned to this wicked, infuriating night!

“Let’s get you to your feet, shall we?” He held her as far away as possible. “Will you accept my apology? I didn’t mean to scare you out of your wits. But ’tis an old jest, and I’m sure many young men before me have done the same thing and made certain their sweethearts saw only their faces in the well.”

She stepped away from him, hands planted firmly at her waist. “But they behaved in earnest to secure the hearts of their future wives. You meant only to make a clown of me.”

“Am I not to have your forgiveness, then?” He put as much earnestness in his tone as he could. It had always been hard for him to appear serious—he wore joviality about him like a suit of armor. It was the best way to assuage the agony of having been unable to save his parents from the fire, the best way to manage when one was totally alone in the world. No one had ever guessed how much the tragedy had formed his nature—not Master Thatcher, nor his daughter Sarah. Not even Mistress Smythe, who was undeniably both sensitive and clever.

Letty’s response to his plea was a haughty toss of the head. She was wearing no coif, just a garland of braided ivy with some dandelions threaded into it. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in a tantalizing mass of curls. What would it feel like to run his fingers through it? To tug on a curl and watch it bounce back? He could spend many happy hours enjoying that hair, that slender body, that elfin face. Years, even.

What?

Fortunately, a sharp slap on the cheek knocked him out of his lecherous state of mind.

“I do not forgive you. It was a cruel, heartless trick. I despise you, Perkin Merrick. I’m leaving.”

“Wait! Let me accompany you. It is full dark now.”

“I have my lantern. And there are many villagers abroad this night. I’m in no danger.”

She was, of course. Did she not realize how much of a temptation she presented, with those huge eyes and that vulnerable-looking mouth? With the fields and woods packed with young lads and maids intent on frolicking, it wasn’t wise to let her walk home alone.

“All the same, I’ll come. As far as your door. Or just to your gate—I’ll see you safely within.”

“If my stepmother catches sight of you, she’ll flay the skin off my back. I’m forbidden to go a-courting, and she’ll think that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.”