she slipped away on the morrow.
‘How rude,’ Mrs Beresford said, looking at the door that closed behind him. ‘I suppose one can’t expect manners from a coalminer’s son, even if he does have a title.’
‘I think he has shown a great deal of forbearance,’ Mary muttered.
Gerald grinned at her. ‘You did hear the White Lady, didn’t you?’
‘Certainly not,’ she said truthfully, giving him a bland look. It wasn’t a lie, because she was now certain it had been Gerald all along.
Jeffrey raised a brow. ‘I’m glad to hear it, Miss Wilding. As Gerald said this morning, any sighting of her ghostly form usually heralds a death in the family. And one is enough, don’t you think?’
He looked so dashed innocent that perhaps it was him playing cruel jokes and not his younger cousin. Or they were in it together. Her stomach dipped. ‘Then we certainly have something to be grateful for,’ she replied and put down her knife and fork at the loss of her appetite at what felt like a threat. Another one. ‘One is certainly enough for any family.’
‘Will you take tea in the drawing room, Miss Wilding?’ Mrs Hampton asked with what she must have considered a great deal of condescension to one as so far down the social scale.
Mary gave her a polite smile. ‘No, thank you. I find I am quite tired. I think I will retire.’
‘Oh, but we should really pull out some fashion plates. Discuss colours, if we are to go shopping tomorrow.’
Discuss fashion plates after all that had been implied? ‘Another time.’ She hurried from the room.
* * *
Back in her own chamber, she held her hands out to the fire and then rubbed her palms together. Her room seemed even colder than usual. In fact, there was a definite draught. She got up and went to the window to see if it had been left open, although with the curtains so still, it hardly seemed likely.
No. It was closed. She tugged at the latch just to be sure. Put her palms to the edges. Nothing.
Then where was the chill coming from?
Frowning, she toured the perimeter of the room, trying to feel the direction of this strange blast of cold air.
Here. Beside the fireplace.
She ran her palm along the corner beside the chimney-breast and distinctly sensed cold pressure against her skin. Was there something wrong with the chimney? Bricks coming loose, walls falling down? Like those old tunnels?
She probably should report it to the earl. Or his steward. But not now. It was far too late and the earl would be busy with his guest.
She reached out again just to be sure she was not mistaken, running her palm up the wall. The draught stopped at eye level and was forceful enough to send the adjacent candle in the wall sconce flickering and smoking. She pulled her scissors from her reticule and on tiptoes trimmed the wick, grasping the base of the brass sconce for balance.
A grinding noise. Vibration under her fingers. She jumped back, her heart in her throat.
She could have sworn the wall moved towards her. It wasn’t moving now and the odd noise had stopped. It had definitely come from inside the wall, not from above like before.
Or at least she was fairly certain it had. And the wall looked odd, out of line.
Once more she put her hand on the base of the sconce. It moved, twisted under her hand. The grinding started again.
The sconce turned upside down as she pushed harder. Quickly she blew out the candle. The last thing she needed was to start a fire.
A section of wall slowly swung inwards, stopping at right angles. Cold air rushed past her. She wrinkled her nose at the musty smell. In the distance she could hear the sea, much as she had done when the earl had led her to her room by way of the basement. And again before those strange noises above her head. Pulling her shawl tight against the sudden chill, she stared into pitch blackness.
A priest’s hole? It would make sense for a house with a connection with the Roman Catholic Church to have such a thing. She’d heard about them countless times when reading history books. She also read about such things in Gothic novels. They always led to something bad for the heroine. Only this wasn’t a Gothic novel and she wasn’t a heroine. She was a sensible schoolteacher.
Hopefully, whoever had used the priest’s hole had managed to get out, though,