A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(22)

His grandmother gave him a fond look. “He’s a right little gentleman, isn’t he?” she asked me. “Always reading books about his betters and practicing his manners.”

“Good manners will take him far in the world,” I observed.

“And he will go far,” Mother Nance said sagely. “I have seen it.”

“Seen it?”

“Gran is a witch,” the child said calmly.

There seemed no possible reply to this that could achieve both candor and politeness so I opted for a vague, noncommittal murmur.

Mother Nance gave another wheezing laugh as she petted her grandson’s curls. “Miss Speedwell thinks you’ve told a tale, my little love, but she’ll soon discover what’s what.”

The boy gave me an earnest look. “’Tis true, miss. Gran is a witch. Not the nasty sort. She shan’t put a spell on you and give you warts,” he said seriously. “She sees things. She has the sight.”

“The sight?”

“Things come to me,” Mother Nance said comfortably. “I do not ask them to come, mind, but come they do. Things from the past and things that have yet to be.”

“And ghosts,” her grandson reminded her.

“Aye, I have had more than a few chats with them that walk,” she agreed. She narrowed her gaze at me, but her expression was still kindly. “Miss Speedwell is a skeptic, poppet. She believes in what her eyes can tell her. She has yet to learn there is more to see than what the eyes can perceive.”

“I am skeptical, as you say. But I am willing to be persuaded,” I told her.

She laughed and exchanged a look with her grandson. “Persuaded! Lord love you, there’s no persuading to be done. Either you believe a thing or you don’t. And your believing doesn’t make it so. The ghosts don’t care if you see them or not,” she added.

I thought of Malcolm Romilly’s missing bride and experienced a shiver of curiosity.

“Have you seen ghosts?” I asked the boy.

He nodded gravely. “Twice. I saw a dark fellow with a funny sort of tin hat. He were on the beach, lying as still as the dead. Then he seemed to rise up and he kept looking behind him at the sea as though he were seeing something awful.”

“A Spaniard,” his grandmother said promptly. “An Armada ship was wrecked upon these shores, and one or two sailors washed up, half-drowned and despairing.”

“What became of them?” I asked.

“One was a priest, a chaplain to the vessel which sank. He was welcomed by the Romilly family, and it is said they kept him on secretly and he held masses for them, although no one ever saw a trace of him within the castle.”

“And the man on the beach?” I pressed.

“He drew his sword when the islanders came down to the shore,” the child told me calmly. “He did not have time to do more than that.”

“You mean they killed him?”

“He was an enemy,” he replied in the same matter-of-fact way.

“Never you mind, Miss Speedwell,” his grandmother said with a laugh. “We’re a far sight more welcoming to most visitors.”

“I am glad to hear it,” I said, taking another deep draft of my cider.

“There’s another ghost that walks,” her grandson went on. “But I’ve never seen her because she doesn’t leave the castle.”

My pulse quickened. “A ghost in the castle? A lady?”

“The bride,” he said, his dark eyes rounding in excitement. “She walks abroad in the night in her wedding gown, waiting to wreak her vengeance on those left behind.”

A chill passed over the room, but before I could respond, the boy leapt to his feet. “I am hungry, Gran.”

“There is cold meat pie in the larder,” she told him. “Mind you wash first.”

He scampered off and she completed several more stitches on her tatting before she spoke. “He was talking of Miss Rosamund, of course,” she said mildly. “Mrs. Romilly, as she was when she died.”

“You think she is definitely dead, then?”

Her gaze was piercing as it held mine. Her fingers fairly flew as if enchanted, never faltering, but she did not look down at her work once. “She must be,” she told me. “Otherwise how could her ghost walk? No, some folk want to believe she is still alive. But mark me well, miss. Rosamund Romilly is a dead woman. And she is coming for her revenge.”

I stared at her, but Mother Nance continued to stitch away, as placidly as if she had just told me the price of corn.

“Is that one of the things you have seen?” I asked after a moment.

She slanted me a sideways, inscrutable look. “Mayhaps.”

“Do you read tea leaves? Or peer into a bowl of dark water when the moon is full?”

Mother Nance pursed her lips. “You’re a nimble one, aren’t you, miss? You’ve made a habit of skipping lightly through life, no matter what perils besiege you. Troubles fall away from you like water off a duck, do they not? You’ve a high opinion of your abilities.” I started to speak, but she held up a hand. “I don’t say it is a bad thing. Too many women think too little of themselves, content to live by a man’s lights instead of their own. No, your pretty ways have served you well, and you could no more change them than a hen could learn to crow. But you won’t always be so lucky, you know. And mind you remember, ’tis no more than Fortune’s favor that has saved you thus far. If she should choose to turn her back upon you, there be none that can save you.”