cooper's son and how things went awry over a beer barrel.
Rosalind moved closer to the library door, listening, then, finally, a scratchy old voice sang out,
Three girls are better than two Two girls are better than one Nail one and it's fun Nail two and swoon Nail three or more And the lion wars.
Praise be, Praise be. I always nailed three Until I had to wed
And take the fat cow to bed. Alas, my cock fell dead, so dead.
She heard Mrs. McGiver's sharp voice, 'What a nasty thing to sing, my lord! It was somewhat funny, I'll grant you that-but I must say your words aren't what the vicar would consider respectful. And what is this about a cow for a wife? Your wife was never fat. She was a thin little mite as I recall. For shame.' And in the next moment, Mrs. McGiver, plump cheeks flushed, came striding out of the library. She shut the door sharply behind her. She pulled up short when she saw Rosalind.
'Oh, my lady, did you hear that nasty old-' She waved a work-roughened hand toward the library.
Rosalind said, 'I heard you sing very prettily, Mrs. McGiver, and yes, I heard the old earl's reply.' There was no need to tell Mrs. McGiver which old earl-a two-hundred-year-old ghost might not go over as easily as one who'd just gained his ghostly wings only ten years before. Still, Mrs. McGiver was clearly outraged, not because she'd heard a ghost sing, but because of the words of his bawdy song. Rosalind couldn't help herself, she burst into laughter. She cleared her throat, and quickly said, 'Do forgive me, but don't you see? Our ghost listened to you. He was probably enchanted by your lovely voice and trying to think of a song to flatter you, to amuse you, but unfortunately those appalling rude verses were all he could think of. Don't forget, Mrs. McGiver, he was still a man, and you know what men are.' Rosalind herself didn't know much about what men were and weren't, but she was married, after all, and so she gave it her best.
To her surprise and relief, Mrs. McGiver's outrage disappeared. 'Hmm. My lady, do you think he really liked my song? But, take the fat cow to bed -I mean, how spiteful-well, perhaps you have the right of it, perhaps our old earl couldn't think of a more uplifting tune. The odd thing is, though, I can't ever remember the old earl harking so often to the pleasures of the flesh. You don't think that ghosts-?'
'No, no, surely not. The thing about our ghost… He realizes that he upset you, Mrs. McGiver. Perhaps next time, he will moderate his content.'
To Rosalind's astonishment, Mrs. McGiver giggled. Then she harrumphed and cleared her throat. 'Well, as to that, I must say now that I think about it, it was fairly amusing. Now, I left him, my lady, all upset, perhaps his ghostly innards twisted with shame and embarrassment, and I realize I must go back in the library and dust. Mrs. Sweet told me it fair to shriveled her liver to work in the library, particularly after the old earl's chair tilted from one leg to the other to work itself closer to the fireplace, right in front of her.'
'I know. Mrs. Sweet has a fine set of lungs. You're an example to all the staff, Mrs. McGiver.'
'Well, that's as may be. I told Mrs. Sweet that since he was a ghost, there was little if anything at all left to him now, so didn't it make sense that he had to have more warmth?'
'But the fireplace isn't lit.'
'Aye, that's true enough, and I'll admit I did hold my breath, but luckily Mrs. Sweet accepted the explanation. Aye, in addition to singing like an angel, I'm a very brave woman, and that's what my father told me when I married Mr. McGiver. Of course it didn't take much bravery to crack Mr. McGiver's head with a cooking pot when he sent his fist to my jaw, now did it?'
'You were fast?'
'Oh, yes, it only required a couple of smacks right in his face-a man with a black eye doesn't like to be questioned about it by other men-and Mr. McGiver turned into a model husband. As you said, my lady, the old earl was still a man, whatever else he is now.'
'Hmmm.'
Mrs. McGiver whirled around at the sound of the deep male voice, a deep male voice that warmed Rosalind to her toes, and she would swear that deep male voice made those toes flush. She'd been working with Peter Pritchard, and hadn't seen Nicholas for two hours-too long a time without him. Mrs. McGiver quickly bobbed the new earl a curtsy. 'Oh, my lord. So you're here and not somewhere else. Well, these sorts of things must occasionally happen, I suppose. It is still a pity you were close by, if, that is, you chanced to hear anything you should not have heard.' And Mrs. McGiver bobbed him another curtsy and took herself off. 'I'm a critter?'
'Doubtless a model critter, my lord.' She saw that he was carrying several old books, and raised a brow.
'I found these in an ancient trunk on the third floor.' He stepped closer. 'They're Captain Jared Vail's journals, Rosalind.'
'Oh, my.' The books he held were ancient cracked black leather, laden with dust, and looked ready to crumble. She eyed those books. 'They are very old indeed. You told me your grandfather said Captain Jared kept a journal, but how did you know where to find it?'
'Come into the library. I don't want any of the servants to hear this. They'd think I am quite mad and send for the magistrate. Wait, I am the magistrate. Unfortunately, I still might just declare myself ready for Bedlam.' He gave her a crooked grin and led her back into the library. He closed and locked the door. 'I don't know how good Captain Jared's ghost is with locked doors. Perhaps we'll find out' He looked down at the books lying in the palm of his hand. 'Or maybe he's seated right there. If so, perhaps he'll want to sing about the journals.'
She didn't tell him that the ghost had just sung a bawdy ditty to Mrs. McGiver. 'But how did you find them, Nicholas?'
'Fact is, I think when the old fellow saw I'd figured out who he really was, he knew it was time to direct me to his journals.'
He touched her cheek with a dirty finger. 'Sorry.' And he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped her cheek.
'Perhaps you will believe me when I say I knew, I simply knew. From one moment to the next, I knew there would be something in a corner room on the third floor in the east wing, and so I went up there. Sure enough there was this ancient trunk tucked snug under a window beneath a pile of equally ancient draperies, so moth-eaten they fell to pieces when I lifted them off the trunk. Nothing else in the room, just that old trunk. Inside the trunk was a mound of clothes, and at the bottom of the trunk, wrapped in a tattered yellowed petticoat, were these three volumes.' He grinned. 'What's wonderful is they aren't in code. I can actually read them.'
Rosalind was frowning at him. 'I don't understand, Nicholas. As a boy, you must have explored every inch of Wyverly. Why didn't you find the trunk?'
He frowned, stared toward the library door he'd firmly closed and locked when they'd come in here. Now it was the tiniest bit open. He hadn't heard a key turning in the lock, he hadn't heard a thing. How had Captain Jared managed to unlock it? He walked over and closed it again, and once again turned the huge old key in the lock, saying over his shoulder to her, 'Yes, I did explore every inch of this place during the seven years I lived here. So did my grandfather-he would brag that he knew where every splinter was, where every creaky stair step was. But even though he knew about Captain Jared's journals, he didn't know where they were.' He stared down at the key a moment, then pulled it from the lock. He looked around the room as he waved the key about. 'Come and get it, you old sea dog,' he said, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
'So the trunk with the journals just somehow appears? This is getting rather alarming, Nicholas.'
He shrugged. 'Who knows? I think I shall wrap the journals in cheesecloth and take them on our picnic. We can study them in private, with no ghost or servants to peer over our shoulders.'
36
An hour later, Nicholas helped her down from Old Velvet's back in a maple copse set at the back of the Wyverly property. Rosalind was carrying the cheesecloth-wrapped journals as tenderly as she would a baby.
Old Velvet, he'd told her when he'd introduced her to the bay mare with lovely white socks, had been intended to mate with Beltane. Unfortunately, Beltane wasn't interested, a blow to Nicholas and to Velvet, who proceeded to eat every oat she could find and became quite fat. 'They still ignore each other,' he said, and patted the old mare's nose.
