The Strange Visitation at Wolffe Hall Page 4

  The Great had a full head of wildly curling white hair, an equally white curly beard, sharp old eyes the color of pewter, and the look of a man who was on the edge. At the moment, though, he looked more obstinate than Grayson’s Uncle Douglas when he didn’t get his way. He knew he’d been ambushed by his great-granddaughter, and he wasn’t very happy about it. But he was a gentleman, and that meant he would be civil.

  The Great nodded and smiled down at Pip. “You’re a great big boy, now, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m nearly to my papa’s waist.”

  “A great height for one so young. Do be seated, both of you.”

  They sat on a green-and-white striped sofa opposite from a huge wing chair where the Great now sat.

  Grayson said, “Sir, I understand you were an excellent leader and served throughout the Napoleonic wars.”

  “Aye, that’s true enough. I was even at the signing of that blasted silly Treaty of Amiens back in ‘03.” The old man called out, “Suggs, where are Mrs. Crandle’s blessedly wonderful seed cakes? We have a little boy here who needs to grow up strong.” He beamed at Pip. “I had a son once too, you know. He was full of promise like you are, at least I think he was, but it’s hard to remember it was such a long time ago. But then he turned into a rotter, and that smashes a father’s heart. As for the son he managed to bring into this wonderful world, well, he was a crusader.”

  “What’s a crusader, sir?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you. Crusaders were a lot who should have died out a very long time ago, but didn’t. They changed from being brave soldiers into morons who get stabbed because they join all the good-for-nothings who are making Big Trouble in our factories.” The old man sighed and rested his bearded chin on his hand. He roused himself when he saw Pip. “I say, little fellow, best keep close to your papa else my valet—Bickle is his name—might try to nab you for me.”

  Pip eyed the man who looked so old maybe he was God on High, or one of God’s friends, in which case, was he asking Pip if he wanted to come to heaven? Now? Pip knew heaven was a fine place, but not yet, he knew that too. Pip had to be careful. “Why would Mr. Bickle want to nab me for you, sir?”

  “He frets, Bickle does, because I don’t have an heir. You see, my third cousin and my only heir died a year ago. The fool was a hunting man and got himself knocked off his horse by a tree branch—killed him on the spot. Since I don’t have an heir, my title will become extinct upon my death.”

  “Couldn’t P.C. be your heir, sir? Or her mama?”

  “Alas, no, Pip. In our country, only males can inherit titles. It’s called the law of primogeniture. Poor Bickle doesn’t want my title to go extinct. He’s very proud of it, you see. So he is always trying to find me an heir.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t be your heir. I’m Papa’s heir.”

  “And you speak well for such a little tyke,” the Great said. “You’re a smart young’un, aren’t you?”

  Pip didn’t know what to say to that, so he smiled and nodded. He knew adults did this all the time and it got them by.

  “Mind my word, Pip, keep an eye out for Bickle. He’s sly and he’s fast.” The Great turned piercing eyes on P.C. “Why did you invite Mr. Sherbrooke to visit me, Palonia Chiara?”

  Palonia? Chiara? Why had P.C.’s parents bestowed these two curious Italian names on her? At least it was unique, bless her heart. Grayson cleared his throat. “Sir, Palonia and I have met before. Ah, in the village. She invited me to meet you and the family.”

  The Great ruminated over this for a moment, then said, “She invited you to talk me out of sending her away. But you must listen, my child. I know you don’t want to leave, but it is for the best. You and your mama must trust me.”

  P.C. said, “Why, sir?”

  “Because you are my responsibility. I’ve told your mother this, but she continues to believe she can be of assistance. She cannot for there is simply nothing for her to do, and you’re a little girl. I want you both safe. Now, I don’t know what you’ve told Mr. Sherbrooke—”

  “Sir, his name is Thomas Straithmore.”

  “Hmm, very well, it isn’t all that important, now, is it? Ah, our seed cakes. Set ‘em down on the table, Suggs. Palonia Chiara can pour the tea. Go burrow in your cave, Suggs. I’ll call if I need you.”

  Suggs was indeed bald. Grayson found himself mesmerized, watching sunlight from the wide front window stream down on the old man’s head, making it glisten.

  “Is Bickle nearby, Suggs?”

  “I have not seen him, my lord. It is likely he is beneath the stairs devising a strategy.” Suggs looked at Pip, turned on his heel, and walked slowly from the huge drafty drawing room. He turned back at the doorway. “My lord, no new medals have arrived as yet today.”

  For an instant, there was stark fear on the old man’s face, and Grayson saw it. Medals? Then the baron waved a veiny hand. “Thank you, Suggs.”

  Once Suggs was out of the drawing room, the Great said to Grayson, “Suggs has always wanted to be a Bedouin in the Bulgar and live in a cave with wizards, so he polishes the silver in the basement, keeps it nice and dark down there.

  “Palonia Chiara, don’t forget, three spoonfuls of sugar for me, aye, that’s right, and don’t forget the milk. Same for the little lad here.”

  Pip liked a spoonful of honey in his tea, but he manfully didn’t say anything. P.C. gave him a very small cup. “Don’t spill it on the carpet, Pip, else Grandmama might chance to look down and see it, though that isn’t likely. She probably won’t even see you.”

  “That tiny cup was a wedding present,” the Great said, his voice sounding far away. “Too small for anything useful except for visiting little boys.” He was reaching for a second seed cake as he spoke when a sharp female voice from the doorway stopped him in mid-flight.

  “Mrs. Crandle told me if you eat that second cake, your skin will fall off your face.” She flitted over to a chair and sat, arranging her dark-green skirts around her. So this must be Palonia’s grandmother, Elaine Wolffe, who hummed and spoke to Alphonse’s portrait and had been the wife of the rotter, the Great’s only son. The Great’s skin would fall off his face?

  Grayson had to admit Palonia Chiara’s grandmother had seemed to float maybe an inch off the floor when she’d walked ever so gracefully into the room. She was still beautiful at what—sixty? Which put her father-in-law well north of eighty. When she’d been young, she’d probably had every man within a hundred miles slavering over her hand. Her hair was dark brown with a single thick white swatch starting at her forehead and going straight back, all of it piled haphazardly on top of her head with thick hanks falling beside her face to her shoulders. She had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, sharp, intelligent eyes, no matter she was a floater. He rose immediately.

  “My dear,” the Great said, “this is our neighbor, Mr. Sherbrooke, and his son, Pip.”

  Elaine Wolffe rose slowly and floated over to stand in front of him. Grayson bowed and lightly kissed her wrist. As for Pip, he eyed her with awe. He scrambled off the chair, and the teacup shook in his small hand. P.C., so fast she was nearly a blur, grabbed the cup before it spilled. Pip gave P.C.’s grandmother a formal bow, practiced with his nanny Mary Beth for nearly a year now.

  Elaine reached out a white hand to lightly touch Pip’s shoulder. “That is well done. Aren’t you a handsome little lad? My Benedict was a handsome little lad as well.” Then she sighed.

  “I’m nearly five,” said Pip, chin up, shoulders back. “Who’s Benedict?”

  “He was my son and, I agree, he was a crusader.”

  Pip didn’t know what to make of that, and so he took his small cup back from P.C. and reseated himself.

  Elaine turned to Grayson. “Mr. Sherbrooke, it is a pleasure.”

  He nodded and smiled toward P.C. “Or Thomas Straithmore.”

  The Great sat back, his hands over his vest. “This is the boy who writes the spirit stories you and Miranda like to read. Now
since he has visited, I must needs read one for myself. But before I do—” The Great ate another seed cake, swallowed, and laughed. “All my skin’s still there, so what does Mrs. Crandle know? Did Mrs. Crandle really say that, or are you making it up, Elaine, to make me feel guilty?”

  “You will never know,” she said and reseated herself.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  P.C. came to stand beside Grayson. “Grandmama, you must call him Mr. Straithmore. He wrote Deadening Shadows. Mama read it to you, and you nearly screamed three times.”

  “Of course,” Elaine Wolffe said. “A spirit was trapped in the body of a villain who wanted to kill his wife and the spirit wouldn’t let him. It was a fine tale.” She gave him a beautiful white-toothed smile.

  “Grandmama, may I serve you tea?”

  Elaine nodded her graceful neck. “And tea for your mama, if you please.”

  “Mama isn’t here, Grandmama.”

  Miranda Wolffe appeared in the doorway within the next three seconds. P.C. didn’t seem surprised, merely smiled at her mother and held out her teacup.

  Grayson, still standing, eyed Miranda Wolffe. She looked skinny in the baggy brown gown at least half a decade out of date. She wasn’t all that young—well, perhaps in her late twenties, two or three years younger than he. Her hair was glorious, the same honey shade as her daughter’s, and she wore it in a thick braid down her back. Hunks of the rich stuff had worked free of the braid to curl around her face. He thought her eyes were also as blue as her daughter’s, but he couldn’t be certain because she wore glasses. He wanted her to eat—perhaps the rest of the seed cakes would be a good start. Why was she wearing that ugly old dress?

  Miranda nodded to Grayson. “I know who you are, sir, and now that I see my daughter’s face, I know what you are doing here.”

  “Mama, how did you know Mr. Straithmore was here?”

  “Mr. Straithmore? Barnaby fetched me from my garden. He told me I’d best hurry so Bickle didn’t sneak in and try to steal the little boy who came with you. Pray be seated again, sir. Ah, I see Bickle peering in through the window. Keep the little boy close to you.”

  Grayson smiled at her as he pulled Pip close against his leg. “Mrs. Wolffe, it is a pleasure to meet you. Your daughter invited me for tea. And the little boy I’m protecting from the valet Bickle is my son, Pip. Your daughter knows me by my other name, ma’am, Thomas Straithmore.”

  P.C. leaped to her feet. “Sir, a man cannot be two men. You cannot be this Sherbrooke man since you’re Mr. Straithmore. You solve frightening otherworldly mysteries that bedevil families, and you write about them. You are a hero, sir. This other man clearly cannot intrude.”

  Grayson smiled at an outraged P.C. “I’m sorry, P.C. I am both men. You’ve told me bedevilment is going on in this family.” He looked at the Great. “I will try to stop it if you, sir, will explain it to me.”

  The Great rose, and Grayson saw his glorious white hair giving him another three inches in height, haloing curls around his head. “What have you told this young gentleman, Palonia Chiara?”

  “I told him about the voice coming to both me and Mama two times in dreams, and then Wednesday night it was shrieking those same words we can’t understand, heaving and shuddering the house, and it made the abyss in the entryway. He’s here to help—please let him.”

  The Great shook his head and turned back to Grayson. “Listen, Mr. Sherbrooke, this is a family matter, at least I hope that it is.”

  P.C. stepped forward. “Sir, if you would please think about consulting Mr. Straithmore. Please. I don’t want to leave you or Grandmama or Barnaby.”

  Grayson said, “You could consider me an objective other, sir. It’s possible I could help you figure this out.”

  The Great looked undecided. No, Grayson thought, it was more than that. He didn’t want to tell anyone because there was something he wanted to keep hidden. This was interesting.

  The Great flicked a look toward Miranda and P.C. “I really do not wish them to leave. I mean, my sister, Clorinda, she is such a fussy old biddy, but still vigorous, I’ll give her that. I think it’s all the hair that’s growing out of her ears. Hair of that sort comes from a healthy brain, and that’s why she’s still vigorous.”

  P.C. said, “But sir, you don’t have any hair in your ears.”

  The Great frowned over that.

  Pip said, “Perhaps it’s only true for ladies, sir.”

  “Ah, what a smart little nit you are,” the Great said.

  P.C. said, “Sir, if you promise to consider consulting with Mr. Straithmore, Mama and I will take Pip to her garden. We will keep a lookout for Bickle. Please, sir.”

  The Great considered this, but Grayson saw that same expression, the desire to keep something hidden. Why? Did it embarrass him? But why? Or was it pride? The obvious fact that Grayson was a complete stranger?

  It was then Grayson saw the huge basket filled to the brim with medals, scores of them. He’d thought P.C. was speaking only of the Great’s medals, but no. His medals were finely displayed behind glass on the wall. What were these medals in the basket? Grayson said, “My lord, I will accompany P.C. and Miranda to her garden, protect Pip, and return in say twenty minutes?”

  The Great looked over to Pip, now holding Grayson’s hand. “Pip, when you next visit, I will show you something to make your hair as curly as mine.”

  Pip took a step toward him. “Would it make me taller than my papa’s waist?”

  “If we brush it straight up, you’ll be nearly to his armpit.”

  Elaine called out as the four of them left the library, “Do not prick yourselves on the rose thorns. I will tell my papa-in-law all about Alphonse’s prized stallion, Cuspis. I read about him in an ancient history of our family.”

  When they were out the front door, P.C. said to Grayson, “Sir, I think the Great is about ready to tell you what he knows about the voice.” She rubbed her hands together. “Do check your watch—we’ll time exactly twenty minutes before you go back.” She said to Pip, “Keep hold of my hand until we are in Mama’s garden. Even though it is fenced in, you still must pay attention and keep watch for Bickle—he well might be lurking about.” She sighed. “I’ve heard the Great reassure him endlessly that he will find him a fine post, but Bickle won’t be swayed. It is a pity the Great obviously likes you, Pip, that will bring Bickle, fast. Ah, here’s Barnaby. He can help guard you too.”

  They came to a gated garden, large and surrounded with a lovely white wooden fence, freshly painted. Grayson watched Miranda Wolffe unlatch the gate and stand aside to let them all in. It was charming, well planned, and beautifully tended. Graveled pathways cut between sections of flowers, many of them beginning to bloom. In high summer, it would be stunning. There was a stone seat, an arbor overhead with jasmine twined through the slats.

  “It’s lovely, Mrs. Wolffe.”

  Miranda merely nodded and waved them toward the stone bench.

  She stood in front of Grayson, her hands on her hips, her eyes going from him to her daughter. “He knows, which means you told him, which means you sneaked out of the house last night, didn’t you, P.C.?”

  “Yes, Mama. I had to. Mr. Straithmore is here to help us.” She drew in a big breath and spit it out. “I told him everything.”

  Miranda paused and turned to face Grayson, squinting to see his face in the bright sunlight. “And do you believe her, sir?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I most certainly do.”

  “That’s all well and good, but you are still a stranger despite the fact I feel like I know you since I read one of your novels. Sir, listen to me. Besides tending my garden, I read and I ponder and I consider things. I am smart and competent. However, the Great doesn’t believe a female person can do things to save the day, and thus I am at an impasse. I fear we must leave on the morrow, although I’m more afraid of what the night could bring. I must protect P.C.” She gave him a dispassionate look. “I have always resented the Great’s dismissal of my
brain. But for you, a man, he will doubtless come around and spill his secrets.”

  “I know it must be galling, ma’am, but what’s important here, what you must keep your eye on, is getting him to tell us what is happening. If he will only speak to me, a man, well, so be it. You and P.C. and I will solve the problem once he tells me what it is.”

  “Nicely said, sir. You are a great sopper.”

  “Sopper?”

  She nodded. “Yes, as in placating me quite nicely.”

  Grayson was charmed. She took off her glasses and cleaned them on her sleeve. He saw her eyes were indeed as blue as her daughter’s, beautiful, clear, and yes, brimming with intelligence. But her face was too thin. Understandable with a huge swirling black hole in the middle of the entrance hall. “Thank you, ma’am. Since I am here, you might as well make use of me. I smell roses. Won’t you show them to me? And your vegetable patch where Barnaby got the carrots for Albert?”

  Miranda nodded as she eyed her daughter. P.C. had doubtless knocked on the poor man’s door and invited herself and her problems in. “I have always admired Belhaven House, Mr. Sherbrooke.”

  “Please call him Mr. Straithmore, Mama,” P.C. said, crowding in. “His other name isn’t the one that will help us.”

  “Very well, then. Mr. Straithmore, come and admire my roses and carrots.”

  “Mama, please call him Thomas. And he can call you Miranda since you’re grown-ups.”

  “Grown-ups don’t immediately leap to familiar names, P.C., they are more careful, more formal. Isn’t that right, Mr. Sherbrooke—Mr. Straithmore?”

  “In some dire, possibly dangerous situations, I’d have to say that formality tends to fall by the wayside.”

  “What does that mean?” Barnaby asked.

  “It means, bacon-brain, that he wants Mama to call him Thomas. Now, be quiet and watch out for Bickle.”

  Miranda chewed on her lower lip. “Why did you move to Belhaven House, Mr. Sher—Mr. Straithmore?”

  He shrugged. “I fell in love at first sight. I moved myself and Pip here from London four months ago.”