The Strange Visitation at Wolffe Hall (Sherbrooke Brides 11.50)

“Mr. Straithmore, Mama knows how to shoot, and she put her little gun under her pillow, said she’d shoot into the abyss because who knew what was hiding down there?”

“Your mama knows how to shoot?”

P.C. nodded. “She told me since my papa—he died a long time ago when I was little—since he was sometimes involved in fisticuffs, she wanted to learn how to protect him. She fences too.”

He said, “Your mama sounds fierce.”

Barnaby snorted and looked disgusted. “If I was Miz Miranda, I’d beat the wickedness out of P.C., but all she ever does is stroke ‘er ‘air and kiss ‘er.”

“She kissed you once, frog-face, something I’ll never understand. You liked it so much I saw your back teeth you were grinning so wide.” She added to Grayson, “Barnaby is like our barn cat—he doesn’t have a family except for us. He needs us; we can’t leave.” A pause, then, “If it weren’t for Mama, I’d like to be a barn cat too.”

Even though the lantern light wasn’t all that bright, Grayson could tell P.C. was looking thoughtful. “What is it, P.C.? You’ve remembered something else?”

“I was thinking about Barnaby, Mr. Straithmore. I hadn’t realized it until now. His grammar is

very bad.”

Well, he’s a barn cat.

She snapped her fingers. “I know, after you’ve taken care of everything, Mr. Straithmore, I’ll ask Mama if she can teach Barnaby too. Otherwise, what will he make of himself when he grows up?”

“I expects I’ll still be a barn cat,” Barnaby said. He pulled up a piece of grass and began to chew on it.

“Mama and the Great wouldn’t ever let me marry a barn cat. That means you will learn to speak properly.”

Barnaby looked horrified.

P.C. patted his bony knee. “I wish we had some bubbly. Sir, you’ll come over tomorrow and fix everything?”

Grayson said, “Do you know, I wonder why only you and your mother have dreamed anything or heard anything or felt anything? Who is this voice? That’s the key. And what word is whooss a part of?”

CHAPTER SIX

Wolffe Hall

Friday, late morning

A storm blew in heavy, cold rain off the North Sea after midnight and dashed against the windows until dawn. To Grayson’s surprise, the sun came out right after breakfast and was now shining brightly on this glorious spring day. Grayson rode Albert, his gray gelding from the Rothermere stud, who, unfortunately, stopped without fail if he spotted a patch of strawberries. Luckily, there were few strawberries about Belhaven. Grayson breathed in the rich, briny smell of the North Sea only a half mile to the east.

Ten minutes later, he gently pulled Albert up in the middle of the long drive leading to the hall. Pip was bouncing up and down, pointing. “It’s bigger than our house, Papa, but it’s not like the pictures Mary Beth showed me. There were lots of columns. This one doesn’t have any.”

“No, it’s not in the Palladian style.” Wolffe Hall stood tall and proud atop a small hillock surrounded by acres of chestnuts, oaks, and larches. The three-story rectangular stone house had aged to a soft gray over the past three hundred years, a handsome property, a dozen well-run tenant farms supporting it nicely. The prosperity, however, wasn’t due to Baron Cudlow, he was told in confidence by the vicar, but rather to his steward, Max Carstairs, the second son of an impoverished knight from Kent, endowed with the patience of Job, more important than brains, it was said in the village.

Belhaven House was a mere hundred years old. When he’d purchased the property, his parents were surprised he didn’t change the name of his new home, but he admitted to them that the name—Belhaven House—sang on his tongue and tasted sweeter than green grapes from his uncle’s succession house in Sussex. They’d rolled their eyes.

“Let’s see what’s happening here,” Grayson said and click-clicked Albert forward until they reached the front of the entrance with its romantic ivy framing the portico and a dozen deep-set stone steps. The front door immediately flew open and out ran P.C., wearing a white dress with a bright green sash around her small waist, holding up the skirts as she raced down the steps, showing her white stockings and slippers. “Sir! Mr. Straithmore! You’re here!” She skidded to a stop, pointing. “Who is the little boy? He can’t be a barn cat like Barnaby, he looks too clean.”

“Hello, P.C. Pip, are you a barn cat?”

Pip said, “A barn cat—that sounds like fun. Would I have to eat mouses, Papa?”

“Mice,” P.C. said, frowning at him.

“I could eat them too. Are they better?”

“You’re too young to make jests,” P.C. said, rolling her eyes. “Your brain isn’t leavened enough.”

Pip looked her over. “You’re a little girl. How can you be Barnaby’s mistress?”