attention in the center of the massive black-and-white-tiled entrance hall. She saw Nicholas and Rosalind and quickly dropped a curtsy. 'Oh, dear, here ye are, standing right here in front of me eyes.' She bobbed another curtsy. 'Me name's Marigold. Me mum loves yellow, she does, that's why she named me Marigold.' And she curtsied again.
Block said, 'Marigold laughs when the old earl sings. Or sings along with him, depending on her mood.'
'He doesn't carry enough of a beat for me to dance,' Marigold said. 'But we do make lovely harmony.'
Rosalind smiled at her and said, 'This is Matilde. If you would show her to her room, Marigold, and introduce her to Cook, Mrs. Bates, Chloe, and the tweeny.'
'The tweeny would be Mrs. Sweet, my lady. She's fair to doddering, but still can polish an armoire to a high shine. Not as high a shine as Mr. Block's suits, but high enough to remark upon.'
Rosalind hadn't met many tweenies, but she'd never heard of one older than sixteen. 'How old is Mrs. Sweet, Marigold?'
'Older than me mum, my lady, got three teeth left in 'er mouth, all in the front, a good thing, me mum says, else she'd have to gnaw 'er food with 'er gums.'
'I see. I would also like you to give Matilde a tour of the house. Matilde, when you are finished, come to my room. Go along now. Thank you, Marigold.'
'Yes, my lady.' And yet another curtsy, this one deeper, nearly toppling her onto her face. 'Matilde, now that's a purty name too, I'll ask me mum what she thinks of it.' And off they went.
Nicholas was looking toward the library, listening.
Block said, 'I suppose even a ghost must occasionally take a respite.'
At that moment, they heard a strong loud bass voice sing out,
I went to sea as a wee young goat. I crossed the waves in a very small boat. I learned to swim-I can tell you that! And never once did I wear a hat. Hey ho. Hiddy ho.
The sun burned and blistered but there I sat And not once did I wear a hat.
There were three more eminently forgettable verses, then silence, dead and utter silence.
Peter gave them a crooked smile. 'The hair on my arms no longer rises. To become used to the presence of the ghost of my old master, now, doesn't that bespeak a tortured brain? But the fact is he is indeed here and so what is one to do?'
Nicholas saw a pallet lying in the corner. Peter's had, he supposed. 'Rosalind, why don't you accompany Block upstairs and I will go bid Grandfather hello.'
Like that would ever happen, she thought. 'Oh, no, I'm coming with you. Do you know, perhaps the two of us can sing a duet.'
Peter Pritchard gave her an amazed look, then laughed and coughed behind his hand.
Nicholas gave one final fond thought to his huge bed upstairs with Rosalind naked on her back in the middle of it, perhaps beckoning to him, smiling, then took a resolute step toward the closed library door at the end of the long corridor.
'I leave the door open,' Peter said, 'but it always closes. Always. At first I was disconcerted, frightened to my booted heels, to be honest about it, but now-' He shrugged and gave Rosalind another smile. 'You do not appear to be afraid, my lady.'
'Oh, no, I adore singing,' Rosalind said and gave the young man with the clever eyes and tousled bronze hair a sunny smile.
29
Silence, dead silence. Appropriate, Nicholas thought, given his grandfather was dead and really shouldn't have anything to say about it.
He and Rosalind stepped into the huge library, so shadowed and so long you couldn't see either end of it. It was rather narrow and there were more books than Rosalind had ever seen in a single library in her entire life, and that was saying something, given Uncle Douglas's immense library at Northcliffe Hall, not to mention Uncle Tysen's vast collection at the parsonage.
'Are there windows anywhere in this room?' she asked.
'Yes,' Nicholas said and strode to the front end and flung back the thick dark gold velvet draperies. He looped the thick braided cords over golden hooks. Then he flung open the windows. Light and fresh spring air flooded into the room. He sucked in the blessed fresh air, then mined to say-
There was a moan.
Both Nicholas and Rosalind froze where they stood. I m sorry, I forgot to tell you,' Peter said, now coming into the library, 'but I suppose he doesn't like the light. Perhaps if you've been dead a long time, you're quite used to the dark. If you wait a bit, those draperies will close themselves again.'
Nicholas didn't look away from his grandfather's old wing chair that sat at an angle to the fireplace, perfectly empty. He said, without looking away from that chair, 'Have you actually seen him, Peter?'
'No, I haven't.'
Nicholas nodded. 'Thank you, Peter. Leave us now.'
'Er, you are certain, my lord? I worry that her ladyship-'
'Her ladyship could face down a band of Portuguese bandits,' Nicholas said, smiling. 'She will be fine. Leave us, everything is all right. My grandfather returned because she was coming, that is what Block said, so let him meet her.'
When Peter walked out of the library, he left the door open, a demonstration, Rosalind supposed. As they watched, the door very slowly closed itself.
'Well, Grandfather,' Nicholas said to the empty chair, 'it seems you're causing quite a commotion. I would just as soon not hear another moan, to be honest here. Come, speak to me and Rosalind. That's why you're here, isn't it? To meet her?'
Nothing but silence, then, a very soft old voice chanted in a singsong voice,
At last the girl comes home A girl who never belonged To her is owed the debt Well met, my lad, well met.
Nicholas would have fallen over if he hadn't been leaning against the mantelpiece. The debt, he thought, the bloody debt. He still didn't understand this debt business but it was deep inside him, spun out in the dream that had filled his youth, and with it the need to pay this debt. He looked at Rosalind. She was no longer the little girl in his dream, but she was his debt, this woman, now his wife.
The old voice sang again, from everywhere and nowhere, surrounding them, yet sounding hollow, puffed out of an old reed, ancient as yellowed parchment.
The little girl nearly died The monster nearly won The debt was paid by another But the race must still be run.
The wispy voice faded into the soft air and they were alone, quite suddenly they were utterly alone, and both of them knew it. The draperies remained open.
Rosalind sang softly into the still air, toward the empty wing chair,
The ancient chair toppled onto its side. The draperies flew closed.
'Well, that certainly got a rise out of the old boy,' Nicholas said. He pulled Rosalind close. 'What do you think of my home now?'
'I think,' she said, looking up at him, 'that we have something very important to accomplish.'
