Hauntings of Claverton Castle, Chapter 61
Now for… what I thought was the final chapter, but it isn’t!
Well… sorry about that. How awkward. At one point, this novel only had sixty-one chapters. Make that “only,” since it’s still a large number of chapters. Now it has sixty-five. When preparing this manuscript for Substack, I shortened some chapters.
We still have over a week of Claverton Castle. I’m glad—that gives me more time to work on the next novel before I begin serially publishing it on Whimsical Words.
Chapter 1:
Chapter 60:
https://open.substack.com/pub/whimsicalwords/p/hauntings-of-claverton-castle-chapter-29f?r=5m2is&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
Hauntings of Claverton Castle, Chapter 61
Margot placed her hand softly on Samantha’s sleeve, only slightly minimizing Samantha’s agitation. “That must have been a dreadful shock.”
“Odd’s bodkin, yes!” Harriet already had an embroidery project in her lap. She leaned toward Samantha and gazed at her with a knit brow. Samantha reflected that Harriet wasn’t perfect, but she was a million times better than some.
Reginald returned to the drawing-room and settled into a chair across from Samantha. “To quote Shakespeare, he is a ‘bolting-hutch of beastliness.’ How did he discover your location?”
Samantha’s lips trembled. “He has probably searched for me these past two months.”
Harriet inhaled sharply. “He must have seen us together in the park in Bath. That was how he knew we were friends.”
“That is quite possible,” Samantha said. “He may not have known your name then.”
Roland turned to Harriet. “Did you not call on Samantha at her uncle’s house in Bath?”
“Oh, no,” Harriet said. “But Samantha called on me, at the house where we stayed with my aunt.”
Samantha exchanged a glance with Roland. Amusement twitched at the corners of her mouth. “You surely haven’t forgotten Uncle Bradford’s reception toward you and Margot.”
Roland smiled, undoubtedly remembering. Uncle Bradford hadn’t hesitated to dismiss Margot and Roland from the premises and forbid them to return, calling them immoral Sensitive aristocrats. Samantha scowled, recalling her uncle’s behavior hours before she ran away.
Margot said, “It seems even for such a fool, two months was enough time to make inquiries and find you.”
Harriet embroidered, Roland sketched what Samantha thought must be a demon with horns and scales, and Margot draped a comforting arm around Samantha’s shoulders. Blushing and wishing Margot and she were alone, Samantha closed her eyes and feared all present would notice her feelings for Margot. She knew Roland approved, fortunately.
Samantha slipped slowly from Margot’s arm and felt the latter stiffen slightly. Perhaps that was a good sign. She headed toward the pianoforte. She settled onto the bench and began playing an aria she’d composed in the past week. Serenity settled upon the drawing room, until
Mr. Prendregast stomped in, followed by his dogs, and glowered at everyone. “What the blue blazes has been happening in my home?”
Mr. Prendregast’s raised voice was a whisper compared to Uncle Bradford’s shouts. The dogs appeared unfazed by his foul mood; they rubbed against his legs and wagged their tails. Glaring around at the young people in the room, he bent down slowly and pet the collies. “Demmed knees,” he muttered.
“Samantha’s uncle found her, dear Father.” Harriet didn’t look up from her embroidery. “Let’s hope nothing comes of it.”
Samantha smiled in gratitude at Harriet.
Mr. Prendregast glowered toward the door, as though he saw Uncle Bradford from there. “Such a disruption! Such vulgarity!” He scowled at Samantha over his reading glasses, and she conjectured that Uncle Bradford had interrupted Mr. Prendregast’s reading. “This is my reward for harboring a fugitive.”
“Oh, Father, nonsense.” Harriet waved away his comment. Samantha widened her eyes. “He’s gone now. The footmen have positively dragged him out the front door.”
“You cannot blame Samantha for that brute’s behavior!” Margot said.
Samantha felt partially to blame for the unpleasantness. “I was convinced he would never find me here.” Her limbs trembled at this realization.
Mr. Prendregast crossed the room and sank into his customary armchair. He propped his feet up on his well-worn footstool and sat back. “Humph!” He reached for a book he’d left on the small, round side table beside his chair.
If Samantha had ever felt afraid of Mr. Prendregast, it struck her as absurd. Barely conscious of what she played, she ran her fingers across the keys. He was blustery but incapable of blowing her over. She no longer thought him like Uncle Bradford, who never would have allowed a stranger to take up residence at his home for an indefinite length of time.
“I have friends,” Samantha murmured. “I have protection.”
Roland looked up from his drawing and caught Samantha’s eye. “You did fine work protecting—or at least defending—yourself.” Setting aside his sketchpad, he rose from the armchair and approached the cabinet containing spirits. Mr. Prendregast looked up long enough to scowl at Roland, perhaps resentful that he was helping himself to the liquor.
Samantha paused in her playing and raised her eyebrows, having never seen Roland imbibe. “I couldn’t have done it without all of you. Thank you so much. All of you.” Feeling a lump in her throat, she realized Margot stood over the pianoforte.
“You are extremely welcome.” Margot clasped Samantha’s hand. Margot’s long and slender fingers felt soft. Samantha felt her face warm, as she thrilled at the kindly touch, and she didn’t raise her head. She didn’t wish anyone to observe her flushed cheeks. Margot released her but remained by the pianoforte.
Samantha noticed Roland’s black boots crossing the rug, and she glanced up. He handed her a glass of brandy. “I thought you might be in want of this.”
“Thank you.” Samantha took the glass. “You are very considerate.”
Mr. Prendergast stared in the general direction of the door. “What a vulgar, blustering fool!”
Margot raised an eyebrow. “As Elizabeth Shakespeare said, ‘A voice might be too soft, but verily a voice can easily be too loud.’”
Reginald played with his watch fob. “I memorized that quote, too, because it reminds me of my pater familias.”
Mr. Prendregast scowled at his son before turning to Samantha. He asked, “Think you that the fool will return?” He blinked and frowned whilst scanning all their faces.
“It is quite possible.” Samantha sipped the throat-burning beverage and winced. “He might return with the Bow Street Runners, for all I know.”
Harriet dropped her embroidery project. “That would be too absurd!”
“And highly unlikely, since you are no criminal,” Margot said. “The Bow Street Runners would take no part.”
Mr. Prendregast crossed his arms. “Whatever his intentions, that ruffian is not welcome at Claverton Castle.”
“He might bring large, strong men who sneak in under cover of night.” Harriet’s hands were too busy with her embroidery to flutter.
“That sounds like a bad plot device.” Roland put away the brandy. “Um, please do forgive me for speaking so bluntly.”
“No matter.” Harriet’s voice trembled, and her hands fluttered before she continued with her needlework. “I got the idea from a gothic novel.”
“Foolishness, girl.” Mr. Prendregast raised his eyes from his book and directed them at Samantha. “You, young lady, are the heir of a cottage, you say.”
“That is correct.” Samantha played a few notes on the pianoforte—notes that came seemingly from nowhere—and jotted them down on the sheet of paper before her. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Harriet rising and walking to the window.
Mr. Prendregast gazed at the fire. “Considering the general behavior of your uncle, I must wonder if he has designs to prevent you from acquiring your cottage.”
Samantha shook her head. “Oh, no, I highly doubt it. It wouldn’t be possible, never mind that nothing seems too low and devious for Uncle Bradford.”
“Such deplorable behavior!” Margot gazed at Samantha.
Samantha’s lips twitched into a faint, delighted smile. Any concern or attention from Margot was to her liking. “Certainly, he has robbed me of rent money. As soon as I reach the age of twenty-one, I shall most away to Thyme Cottage, even if I must evict tenants who have been paying my uncle instead of me.”
Reginald stepped back into the drawing room. “I wish you could demand the rent money from your uncle. That is, all of the rent money.” He held up a bundle of notes and carried them to Samantha. He’d accompanied the footmen and Uncle Bradford to the door, Samantha realized.
She smiled faintly, again conscious that she was not alone. Reginald handed her the bundle of notes, presumably slipped out of Uncle Bradford’s pocket, and she put them in her reticule. “Thank you ever so much, Reginald.”
Reginald held a glass of brandy, and he, Margot, and Roland joined Mr. Prendregast before the hearth. Roland lifted a volume from a tabletop beside his chair.
Unable to concentrate on music, Samantha drifted to the others, and sank onto the sofa beside Margot. “I desire no contact whatsoever with Uncle Bradford.” She picked up an embroidery project she had started, an image of birds and flowers on a fine white linen tablecloth.
“That is quite right.” Harriet bit her lip. “He absolutely must stay away from you.”
“That blackguard is light of brain, false of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand!” With each phrase, Reginald pounded his right fist into his left palm.
Samantha felt a warm glow from more than the brandy. Here sat Margot beside her, and with her Harriet, Roland, and Reginald reassured her with their presence.
Harriet frowned. “I fear Samantha is not the only one who has a family member with highly reprehensible behavior.”
Mr. Prendregast looked up from his book and scowled at his daughter as though anticipating she’d expand on her comment.
Samantha glanced at Mr. Prendregast. She knew someone must apprise him of the ghosts, regardless of whether he chose to believe. “Mr. Prendergast, I have been reluctant to inform you why I believe your genealogy has certain… confusing… issues.”