Sandra Heath - Mistletoe Mischief

The portly butler, Fosdyke, hastened to greet them. His receding hair was concealed beneath a neatly powdered white bagwig, and he wore a gray coat and black breeches, both of which were somewhat strained by his girth. He was reckoned the finest butler in Brighton, and he and his wife, a fine cook who made excellent gingerbread, the local delicacy that was Evangeline's great weakness, oversaw the staff of Radcliffe House. They had charge of an assortment of footmen, maids, scullions, grooms, and coachmen. There were also two local gardeners who came in daily from the town, for there was not a great deal of garden to look after, just a railed semicircle of shrubs and flower beds on the Steine side, and a pocket handkerchief of walled garden on the Great East Street side.

"I trust your journey was expeditious, sirs?" Fosdyke inquired solicitously.

"Just a cast shoe to hamper our progress," Greville replied.

Rupert nodded, then looked at the butler. "I say, Fosdyke, I hope you managed to send word to Mahomed's Baths?"

"A running footman was dispatched as soon as your message arrived, my lord. Both you and Sir Greville are expected. Sheikh Mahomed himself will attend you."

"Excellent." Rupert raised an eager eyebrow. "And what has Mrs. Fosdyke prepared for our evening repast?"

"Mulligatawny soup, roast pork and apple sauce, and syllabub, sir."

Rupert's mouth watered. "I look forward to it. Convey my compliments to her even before we sit down, for I know it will be a feast fit for the Marine Pavilion itself."

The butler inclined his head. "I will tell her, my lord. Dinner will be at eight, sirs, but will you be requiring refreshment in the meantime?" Fosdyke asked.

Rupert turned to Greville. "What do you say?"

"I'd rather go straight to Mahomed's, the exertion will give us an excellent appetite for Mrs. Fosdyke's peerless roast pork."

Rupert nodded agreement, and then thought of something. "Tell me, Fosdyke, are Sir Jocelyn and Miss Holcroft in good health?"

"Oh, yes, my lord, and they will both be in Lady Evangeline's play."

Rupert went on. "And, Fosdyke, have you come across a person by the name of Oliver March?"

The butler cleared his throat. "Yes, I have, my lord. He has taken lodgings in Duchess Place, and is often seen driving Miss Holcroft in his curricle." Seeing the stormy expression this information produced on Rupert's face, Fosdyke hurried on. "Shall I send for fly-by-nights to convey you to the baths, sirs?"

"Certainly not!" declared Greville, appalled at the thought of being found in one of the wheeled sedan chairs that were peculiar to Brighton, and were trundled along by two men, one in front and the other behind. In his opinion such conveyances were best suited to the elderly and infirm, not to healthy young men who were perfectly capable of walking the short distance to and from the shoreside baths.

"As you wish, Sir Greville."

"That will be all for the moment, Fosdyke. Just see that our things are taken to whichever rooms have been aired for us. The usual ones, I take it?"

"Indeed so, Sir Greville. You have the blue chamber, and my lord the green." The butler bowed, then snapped his fingers at the footmen, who had now brought all the luggage in from the carriage. They immediately carried the first of it toward the staircase that led up from the Great East Street side of the hall.

Before setting off for the baths, Greville and Rupert went to the impressive double doors at the far end of the hall, and opened onto Greville's notion of purgatory. Aunt E's beloved private theater, was sandwiched between the main house and the Marine Pavilion next door. Rupert flung the doors open, and the light from the hall shone into a small auditorium decorated in red and gold. It seated fifty guests on elegant horseshoe-backed chairs, and boasted a fine stage with painted backcloths, a drop curtain, and an orchestra apse. Behind the stage there lay two changing rooms, a scenery store, the wardrobe, and even a small green room where the players could relax between scenes. Lady Evangeline took her passion for theatricals very seriously indeed, and at present regarded herself as Brighton's sole upholder of the acting tradition, the old town theater having closed and the new one not being due to open until the following summer.

Greville pulled a face. "Ye gods, how I loathe this place."

"Hee-haw," Rupert replied unfeelingly.

Greville suddenly noticed a black flat-topped tent in the orchestra pit in front of the stage. He knew that it would contain candles, oil lamps, mirrors, hand-painted transparencies, and projecting lenses for the phantasmagoric images that had become a drawing room novelty in recent years. "Well, well, it looks as if Lady E intends Twelfth Night to be a very dramatic production indeed," he said, nodding toward it.

"Yes, she told me there will be lighting experiments this year. She has notions of bringing scenes like the opening storm very much to life-you know, towering waves, a foundering ship, and so on."

"Spare me the awful details," Greville muttered. "Come on, let's go to Mahomed's."

Two hours later, when Greville and Rupert had enjoyed an herb-scented vapor-bath at the exclusive premises of Sheikh Deen Mahomed, shampooing surgeon to the Prince of Wales, and were strolling back for Mrs. Fosdyke's roast pork dinner, a second traveling carriage drew up outside Radcliffe House. Fosdyke was very startled indeed to admit Evangeline, followed by the gray-haired French maid, Annie, who immediately scuttled upstairs to prepare her mistress's apartment, which thankfully was kept aired at all times.

The butler did not observe Megan, who lingered nervously on the threshold, nor did he seem to see or hear Master Rollo Witherspoon, who marched boldly into the house as if he owned it. The sound of spectral footsteps rang out on the tiles as the ghost followed Evangeline to the fireplace; indeed he was apparently so close behind her that he trod on her train. She turned a little crossly. "Oh, do look where you're going, sirrah!" she complained.

Neither Fosdyke nor the footmen reacted in any way, yet they could not have failed to hear what she said; on top of which Rollo had passed within two feet of the butler! Megan was very aware of it all, however, as indeed she had been from that first moment in Wells. By now she knew that Evangeline was not mad at all, simply well and truly haunted; a fact with which her ladyship might be able to cope, but her new companion found rather difficult.

Having spent the entire distance from Somerset in the knowledge that a spirit was in the carriage as well, Megan was still a little uneasy about remaining in Lady Evangeline Radcliffe's employ. From the incident of the floating mistletoe at the lodging house, to Evangeline's asides to apparently thin air, and the mark of an invisible posterior on the carriage's velvet upholstery, Megan knew Rollo Witherspoon was there. Annie had not seemed to notice anything, and now that Fosdyke and the footmen likewise seemed not to notice anything, Megan was forced to conclude that they were probably ignorant of the ghost's actual existence, and were all making allowances for a mistress they thought to be a little eccentric.

This was the first time Megan herself had encountered anything supernatural, but in spite of her unease she was intensely curious. Who was Rollo Witherspoon? How old was he? What did he look like? Why was he haunting Evangeline? She longed to ask, but knew better than to broach such a delicate and potentially embarrassing matter. It remained to be seen whether or not the wraith realized that the new companion was aware of him, for as yet she had been very careful to show no sign.

Evangeline discarded her muff and held her hands out gladly to the fire as she glanced around the hall. "How very unseasonable we are, to be sure. Fosdyke, first thing in the morning I wish you to see that Christmas greenery is acquired. It must be lavish, because this holiday is going to be very special after all-at least, it is from New Year's Eve onward."