T o Charles Sheridan's surprise, he found the drive to Bishop's Keep rather interesting. Marsden was sitting like a stick, busy with his thoughts. Eleanor was no less feather-wilted than usual. But Miss ArdleighAh, yes, Miss Ardleigh. Charles occasionally amused himself by drawing conclusions about people's characters and personal histories from appearance and odd bits of conversation. It was not difficult to conclude, from the plain cut and plainer fabric of her costume, that Miss Ardleigh was a poor relation. The woman was not particularly young, and not particularly beautiful. She lacked either the interest, the skill, or the funds-perhaps chiefly interest, since most women managed to pretty themselves no matter what their funds-to devote much attention to her appearance. The undisciplined mass of auburn hair, for instance, bespoke both a lack of concern for elegance and an unruly will, while the second finger of the right hand bore inky tribute to her acquaintance with the pen. That, and her age, indicated a type: the American spinster abroad, greedily consuming every delight of the excursive experience, and writing volumes about it in the form of letters home.
But there seemed to be more to Miss Ardleigh than that, Charles acknowledged. The unruly hair was quite lovely and the forthright hazel eyes under straight dark brows unusually striking. She would photograph well. And more, she had intrigued him with her odd remark about Mark Twain's use of fingerprints. It had betrayed an unusual interest. What sort of woman read detective stories?
Three-quarters of an hour after leaving the station, the carriage with its four passengers turned off the road and onto a curving lane lined with mist-cloaked beeches. Miss Ardleigh seemed to be holding an excited expectation in stern check. 'I suppose Bishop's Keep is very medieval,' she said in an offhand way, glancing across the fog- wreathed landscape.
'Medieval?' Eleanor asked in surprise. 'Why, no. Why did you- Oh, of course. The Keep.'
Charles suppressed a smile. Americans harbored endless misconceptions about England. All the fault of Byron and Wordsworth and those other soulful purveyors of the Romantic view. Caught up in a New World whirlwind of invention and innovation, Americans loved to take a holiday from progress to revel in the picturesque, the macabre, the mist. That's what came of having virtually no history of their own, and no castles. And very little fog, either.
'You have been reading thrillers,' Bradford remarked. 'Towers and turrets and dead bodies in great chests, and bats in all the belfries.'
Charles was distracted from his reflections on the American temperament. 'Ah, bats,' he said energetically. 'D'you
know, there is a bat in this locality that is quite a rare little fellow, a-'
Eleanor's laugh was a melodious tinkle. 'I am sure Kath-ryn will have more exciting things to do than spy out bats for you, Charles.'
'Are you saying that Bishop's Keep is not really a castle?' Miss Ardleigh asked, clearly disappointed but trying not to seem so.
'There once was a castle,' Bradford said carelessly, 'the country seat of some great churchman or another. But Cromwell pulled it down during the Civil War, and there is little left save the odd flint rubble wall. The present residence is less than seventy years old. Not as romantic as a castle, but a damned sight less drafty, I warrant.' A little of his flirtatious good humor seemed to be coming back, and he grinned. 'If it's romance you're after, Miss Ardleigh, you must visit Marsden Manor. No ruin, but we have our own resident ghost.'
At the word 'ghost,' Charles noticed, Miss Ardleigh leaned slightly forward, her face eager. She was no doubt impressed by Bradford's attention, as were most women. The brief sigh that escaped his lips as he turned away was largely unconscious.
Sir Charles could not know, of course, that Kate was far less impressed by Mr. Marsden's person and manner than by his last remark. 'Is there truly a ghost?' she asked, trying to keep the hopeful note out of her voice.
'Truly,' Bradford said solemnly.
Eleanor patted her hand. 'Do come and be introduced to him, Kathryn. Bradford will give you the life story of the wretched creature, and I shall show off my wedding dress.'
Kate smiled. 'I certainly shall,' she said. 'I don't imagine your ghost goes to weddings,' she said, hoping to prompt Mr. Marsden to say more.
The corners of Bradford's mouth twitched and his pale blue eyes were amused. 'No, but he's quite civil, all the same. If you will do us the honor of staying over the night, we can put you in the chamber which he frequents. In search of his missing head.'
'His head!' Kate exclaimed. 'You mean, he was murdered?'
'Bradford!' Eleanor protested.
'Ah,' Bradford said knowingly, and to Kate's disappointment, lapsed into silence. Eleanor launched into a lengthy description of the gown she planned to wear to the next ball, while Kate feigned interest. Eleanor's chatter seemed to plunge her brother further into gloom. Sir Charles sat quiet, thinking, perhaps, of his bats.
Kate was half listening to Eleanor and watching the mist-draped groves on either side of the road when the carriage turned a sharp bend, a meadow opened, and Bishop's Keep loomed through the silver fog. She suppressed a little 'Oh!' and leaned forward eagerly.
But what Kate saw before her was not the splendor of castle walls that Beryl Bardwell had conjured up in her novelistic imagination. It was instead a large and rather dull-looking Georgian residence built of gray brick and decorated only by monotonous rows of tall windows capped with white-painted pediments. A pair of stone lions, more like sour toads than royal beasts, flanked the slate steps that led down to the drive. Kate's disappointment stuck in her throat like a bitter pill. Bishop's Keep, despite its romantic name, was only an ordinary house. No doubt the life she would lead there would be equally ordinary, conventionally routine, and boring.
Sir Charles glanced at her, the corners of his mouth amused. 'Does Bishop's Keep meet your expectation?' he asked mildly.
Kate's lips thinned. The man had seen through her. How intolerable!
'In every detail,' she lied tartly. She gathered her skirts, accepted Bradford Marsden's hand, and alighted from the carriage.
The farewells took but a moment and, after a round of promises to exchange calls, Kate found her bags sitting beside one of the lions and herself standing on the lowest step, waving. The coachman's whip cracked, the Marsden carriage disappeared into the mist, and Kate turned reluctantly to face her fate. She stood looking for a moment, then stuck out her
tongue at one of the lions and marched up the stairs and down the walk to the massive oak door. She lifted her hand to the brass knocker.
Bishop's Keep might not be a castle, but like it or not, she was here.
9
'The majority of servants would be judged criminal if their backgrounds and tneir actions were fully known. Many were previously discharged for lying or theft and have obtained their present places with forged credentials, while not a few supplement their honest wages by acting as paid informants for housebreakers. The careful mistress must beware of those who pretend to serve.'
I continue to believe, Sabrina,' Bernice Jaggers said, feeling quite cross, 'that you are making a most dreadful mistake. This young woman's reputation is not personally known to you, and it is the utmost folly to trust the word of some Pinkerton person on the other side of the Atlantic. We must be vigilant. Persons hired into our household must be of the most trustworthy sort.'
Sabrina Ardleigh put down her pen and turned from the small rosewood desk in the withdrawing room. 'I am not hiring a servant, Bernice. I am employing Brother Thomas's daughter.'
'I hardly see the difference.' Bernice sat down on a carved mahogany chair and twitched the skirt of her black bombazine, which she wore in mourning for her husband, Captain Reginald Jaggers, of whom in the last years of
