Hauntings of Claverton Castle, Chapter 20
Samantha hopes her childhood friends, Margot and Roland, will call upon Claverton Castle to talk to the ghosts.
Chapter 1:
Chapter 19:
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Hauntings of Claverton Castle, Chapter 20
Nearly a week had passed, when the Prendregasts and Samantha sat in the drawing room in the afternoon and listened to rain steadily pattering against the windows. The open shutters revealed a pale gray sky, and raindrops blurred the panes. In her haste to escape her uncle’s house, Samantha had not brought her own paper or writing and drawing utensils. Harriet had solved this dilemma by giving her a sketchpad as a gift, in which Samantha now composed whilst simultaneously playing the pianoforte. She was following her custom of alternating between playing and writing notes.
Mr. Prendregast looked up from his newspaper. “Gadzooks, girl, either play us music or refrain from playing us music. You have a talent for it, but I do declare you cannot make up your mind today.”
“I do not mean to displease, Mr. Prendregast, but I am composing this sonata.” Samantha woke from her focus on the music in her mind. She bit her lip and hung her head… to add a few notes. “Forgive me, but this is how I work.”
Mr. Prendregast scowled. “Humph! I suggest you do that later—when we are not in this room with you. Come over by the fire and socialize with us.”
Samantha glanced around at the others and perceived that both Harriet and Reginald had books open before them. Samantha wondered when she could compose on the pianoforte without incurring the wrath of her host, but she belatedly realized it probably was not the best manners to work now. The Border collies, relaxing at his feet, appeared undisturbed by the sound inflicted by her musical efforts. Samantha reluctantly rose from the instrument and, carrying her sketchbook and a small wooden pencil case, joined Harriet on the sofa.
“Would you like to hear more about our family history?” Mr. Prendregast asked, mollified, whilst Samantha opened her sketchbook to a blank page and took out a pencil. “You seemed considerably taken with the topic last time I brought it up.”
He reached down and stroked one of his dogs. The canine softly thumped her tail in pure delight. Samantha, with pencil poised over a white page, acknowledged that, for all his faults, her host had an affectionate heart for dogs.
Reginald said, “Father, she was merely trying to be polite—”
Samantha knit her brow at Reginald and shook her head. “I truly did find the topic interesting.” She began sketching an image of Reginald. Biting her lip, she recalled the ghosts and thought it best if Mr. Prendregast knew not the cause of her interest in his family’s history.
Fiona rolled over on her back. Mr. Prendregast leaned over and rubbed her white belly. “I am very glad, dear girl. I wish my own children were half as intrigued by their own family’s history.” He sat up and glared at his children. Harriet blushed and hung her head. Reginald shrugged and turned a rustling page.
Samantha took a deep breath, dreading the topic she considered her responsibility to broach. She kept sketching whilst she spoke. “I am not quite certain how to put this delicately, Mr. Prendregast, but your house is occupied by a terribly melancholy little girl ghost.”
Mr. Prendregast abruptly sat up and scowled at Samantha. Fiona remained lying on her back and looked up at him expectantly. “I think I should marry you off, Miss Ponsonby, before anyone discovers you’re mad.”
Samantha felt a flutter of panic in her chest. Neither Harriet nor Reginald stepped up in her defense. “Do you not believe in ghosts?” Samantha halted in her sketching to look up at her host. “That is a most uncommon disbelief. As many ghostly encounters as I have had, I would need to be mad not to believe in them.”
Mr. Prendregast scoffed. “No, I don’t believe in that which I don’t see with my own eyes. I’m an atheist, not a demmed Druid. None of that ghostly nonsense.”
“Father is quite pig-headed,” Reginald said.
“Humph!” Mr. Prendregast swiveled his head and glared at his son, whom Samantha resumed drawing. Her gut reaction was relief that Mr. Prendregast no longer glared at her, but she mentally chastised herself for such selfishness. “Dem your impertinence, boy.”
Reginald shrugged slightly and excused himself from the room. “I agreed to call on Douglas this afternoon.” He rose and snapped his book shut. Samantha widened her eyes at Reginald before returning to hastily work a bit more on her incomplete drawing.
“Be off with you then, boy!” Mr. Prendregast scowled. “But don’t you stay away all night as you do with some of your friends. You have uncommonly late hours, hardly the custom of the country.” Samantha knit her brow since it was only afternoon.
Reginald shrugged slightly. “Perhaps I aspire to live in London.”
“Foolish and decadent fop! Clodpole!”
“To quote King Lear, ‘This is the excellent foppery of the world’!"
Samantha leaned toward Harriet and murmured, “That does not sound like an insult.” With some regret, Samantha closed her sketchbook and watched Reginald depart. She suspected his comment about his father’s pig-headedness was the closest to defending her anyone would achieve in conversation with Mr. Prendregast.
Harriet looked up from her novel. “It stopped raining. I suppose Reginald will ride with his friend Douglas.” She closed her book and turned to Samantha, whose eyes drifted toward the window. The sky remained gray.
“Ha!” Mr. Prendregast said. “Don’t change the subject!” Samantha and Harriet exchanged puzzled looks. “When I say I shall marry you off, girl, I shall do so. I propose a ball in your honor.”
“Thank you so much.” Samantha’s voice trembled, and she grasped the arm of the sofa too tightly. “I am… honored.” She pictured herself sitting alone and watching couples dance. She knew she should feel more gratitude than anxiety.
Harriet darted her eyes back and forth between her father and Samantha. “But, Father, do you not think that would be inappropriate so soon after her aunt’s death? It is customary to wait at least six months after a family member’s death before casting off mourning and attending balls and soirees.”
“No matter.” Mr. Prendregast knit his brow. “Under the circumstances, she should secure an engagement as soon as possible. Best none of us speaks of Miss Ponsonby’s aunt during the ball or during social calls.” He turned to Samantha. “Understand my meaning, young lady?”
“Absolutely.” Samantha gulped.
“Don’t think this a mere diversion,” Mr. Prendregast said. “Like Harriet, you are of marriageable age. You’re a demmed sight better looking than her and have a great deal more sense, at least enough to not babble as much as she. It shouldn’t be that difficult to find you a match, never mind your less than admirable eccentricity.”
Before he reached that final sentence, Samantha felt another flutter of panic in her chest. Her checks burning, she hung her head.
The sketchpad lay in her lap, so Samantha opened it. Mr. Prendregast’s emphasis on her beauty, combined with his disapproval of her individuality, repelled her. Unsure what to draw, she removed a soft pencil from her case. Beginning a sketch of the fireplace, she exhaled and resolved to not dwell on such unpleasantness.
Samantha blinked, for Harriet and Mr. Prendregast had been speaking and she had not caught a word; it had been mere background noise. She realized she’d remained silent too long and resolved to at least pretend to enjoy the conversation.
Mr. Prendregast knit his brow. “Miss Ponsonby will have no trouble attracting suitors, as long as she says nothing about ghosts and such nonsense.”
Samantha gazed into the distance. “It would be easier to attract suitors if I were a greater heiress.”
Mr. Prendregast scowled at Samantha. “Then you had best behave amiably to all the eligible men at the ball, and not argue with them.”
Samantha inhaled and clenched her fist tightly around her pencil. She looked up from her drawing and glared at Mr. Prendregast. “Sir, I believe Harriet is every bit as pretty as I, indeed, considerably more so. Now, pray excuse us. Harriet, do let’s take that walk.” Samantha flicked her sketchpad shut and rose from the sofa.
Harriet jumped up and hastily curtseyed to her father. “Excuse me, Father.” She followed Samantha out of the drawing room.
The moment the door quietly closed behind them, Harriet grabbed Samantha by the elbow. “Odd’s bodkin, Sam, you have a will of iron!” The latter winced, for her friend’s grip was too tight. Harriet glanced down and released Samantha.
“Perhaps, rather, I have too hasty a tongue.” Samantha led the way down the corridor and mentally chastising herself. She must remember she was at the mercy of this man’s hospitality, and it was extremely generous of him to hold a ball in her honor. Harriet caught up with her, and they took the tower stairs. Such treatment was a privilege, not a right. Better to occupy a manor house with a disagreeable old man than to endure Uncle Bradford. She felt a flutter of panic and bowed her head.
“We must fetch our shawls and bonnets before walking,” Harriet said. “La, I must change into my new boots, too. You must see them!”
Samantha nodded without looking at her friend, who raced up the stairs ahead of her. The only options, in Samantha’s opinion, were to live under the roof of a friend and be obligated toward that friend’s family or dwell on the streets. She charged up the stairs behind Harriet and heard a door slam down the hallway. Even living on the streets and starving would be better than enduring her uncle. Reaching the top of the stairs, Samantha briskly headed toward her bedroom door.
She knew she was, in lifestyle if not on paper, a dependent on Harriet’s father. She also knew Mr. Prendregast was aware of this, never mind that he could effortlessly afford to support many children. No doubt he hoped to marry her off so she’d no longer depend on him.
Harriet stepped out of her bedroom wearing a white muslin walking dress, sensible boots, and a fringed silk shawl. Samantha dressed much the same but with a wool shawl, when the two young women met in the hallway and headed for the front door.
Harriet giggled as they crossed the courtyard. “It will probably rain again soon. Perhaps this isn’t the most splendid idea.”
Samantha adjusted her shawl. “I need to breathe.”
Harriet skipped a few steps before remembering to move with dignity and grace. “It felt suffocating in there with you and Father glaring at each other.”
Samantha smiled. “I was not aware I was glaring.”
Whilst they crossed the drawbridge, Harriet said, “It is best not to cross Father. He can be very… difficult, you know.”
“Difficult! Do you not find him exceedingly disagreeable and abrasive?”
“Oh! I—I have never considered him in such a way. It would be so—so disloyal to think of him like that. Do you not think, dear Samantha, that you judge him too harshly?”
“No, I find he’s entirely too judgmental toward you. I am grateful for his hospitality and generosity, mark my word. But that aside, I like not how he castigates you. He is such a harsh critic.”
“Oh,” Harriet whispered. She knit her brow and stared off into the distance. Samantha resolved to end the topic for now. She did not wish to distress her friend unduly, but neither did she wish to let Harriet’s relationship with her father continue as it had. Samantha suspected Mr. Prendregast’s opinions of his daughter affected too much Harriet’s own opinion of herself. A cold raindrop landed on the end of her nose.