Edwina flipped openthe ledgers once more, wiggling on her chair at the soreness between her thighs. They’d parted quietly as pearl-gray light filled her room. Kissing her hard, Bascomb had whispered he would see her at breakfast, his big hand trailing down her body as if reluctant to leave her.
But Edwina hadn’t awoken until nearly nine o’clock, flustered and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Bascomb had already been gone when she’d reached the breakfast room, which was probably just as well. She wasn’t certain how to approach him after last night. Yes, he wanted her to stay, but in what capacity? Would they return to their slightly contentious, flirtatious relationship? Or would there be something more?
Frowning, she took in the still-thunderous skies outside the library window. The sun hadn’t yet decided to make an appearance at Rose Abbey. Mist hovered just above the grass as she looked out over the ruins of the abbey. Her eyes landed on the church, and she remembered her decision to search for the grave of the abbess.
“Good morning, Miss Collins.” Mrs. Page came through the doors, a tray in her hands. “I thought you might like tea and a bite of something to eat. You didn’t come down for breakfast.”
“No, I fear after my near tumble down the stairs”—she watched the housekeeper for any reaction—“I found myself tossing and turning.” A blush stole across her cheeks as she thought of her and Bascomb entangled on her bed. “I overslept.”
A sound came from the housekeeper. Disappointment at not succeeding in pushing Edwina down the stairs? She tried to discern Mrs. Page’s mood and failed. Accusing the housekeeper outright of trying to throw her down the stairs and dressing as a ghost would gain her nothing. Edwina would need proof to convince Bascomb that Mrs. Page was behind the haunting and skimming money from his accounts.
“An unfortunate occurrence, Miss Collins. You nearly broke your neck last night. I leave a lamp burning at the end of the hall for a reason—namely, for you to use.”
There wasn’t anyone else at Rose Abbey capable of manipulating the ledgers besides Mrs. Page. Or dressing up like a ghost. Mrs. Oates, the cook, never left the kitchens and was half-blind. Mr. Oates was seventy if he was a day and possessed a terrible limp. Meg, sweet and fragile, was far too timid. Thomas, though kind, was a simpleton.
That left Mrs. Page. But the question remained.Whywould Mrs. Page do such a thing?
“I appreciate the tray, Mrs. Page.” Edwina poured herself a cup of tea. “You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you? At Rose Abbey.” Perhaps if she engaged the older woman in polite conversation, Mrs. Page might inadvertently reveal something.
“All my life.” The housekeeper clasped her hands and looked up at the portrait of the abbess. “I was born here. You could say I grew up with Lady Renalda.”
What an odd and slightly morbid way to put things. “So you believe the abbey is haunted by Lady Renalda’s vengeful spirit?”
“Wouldn’t you find yourself vengeful, Miss Collins, if you were not only evicted from your home but also murdered in it? For gold? A title?” Mrs. Page raised a brow. “Add to it having your name and reputation sullied?” The housekeeper stepped up to the fireplace. “I’m sure McDeaver”—her lip curled slightly—“told you the entire tale. He seems to delight in informing Lord Bascomb’s secretaries of the gruesome history of Rose Abbey. What a collection of weak gentlemen. Afraid of their own shadows. London must be filled with milksops. Merrywimple in particular behaved as if there were monsters hiding beneath the bed.”
“But you aren’t frightened.”
“No.” The housekeeper pierced her with a sharp look. “I’ve nothing to fear from Lady Renalda.”
“So you’ve seen her ghost, then?” Edwina leaned forward, searching the woman for any tic or tell that would give her away.
“I feel her presence. The scent of roses that always accompanies her. Lady Renalda was a brave, courageous woman who deserved far better than to be reduced to a ghost story meant to frighten children.”
The housekeeper defended the abbess quite fiercely.
“Lady Renalda,” Mrs. Page continued in a crisp tone, “was my ancestor. A cousin, if you wish to think of her as such, many times removed. I am protective of her memory and Rose Abbey, as my mother was and her mother before her. My family has served the constant stream of Lord Bascombs for many years. Rose Abbey is my home.”
Her sense that the housekeeper was possessive of the estate hadn’t been in error. Rose Abbey belonged to Mrs. Page’s family as much as it did Lord Bascomb, considering how long her family had been here.
“When the first Lord Bascomb came to evict the nuns from Rose Abbey—”
“They knew each other, Lady Renalda and that first Lord Bascomb,” Mrs. Page interrupted. “Something I’m sure McDeaver leaves out of his tale. Far easier to paint her as a somewhat mad, greedy woman who merely refused to get out of the way.” Mrs. Page shook her head. “Lady Renalda rejected Alfred Duston’s proposal of marriage and instead chose to serve the church.” She glanced at Edwina. “That was the name of the first Lord Bascomb. Alfred Duston. He jumped at the opportunity to become a titled lord and evict the woman who’d once rejected him. Duston’s sword took her life. In this very room. Can you imagine? A woman you had once loved. All because your pride and greed dictated you do so.”
“No.” The entire story made Edwina slightly ill. Poor Lady Renalda.
“Alfred Duston left a journal of sorts. More a warning to those who would succeed him. I think it must be in His Lordship’s study, though I doubt he’s read it.” Her eyes caught Edwina’s.
She knows he likely cannot.
“Duston got his title but was haunted by the horror of his actions for the remainder of his days. He wandered about Rose Abbey, even after he married, speaking to Lady Renalda. Begging forgiveness for what he’d done to her and her nuns.”
“But notallher nuns.”
“No,” Mrs. Page said quietly. “Only a handful. The rest escaped. Perhaps they took the treasure of Rose Abbey with them or hid it. Because Duston never found the gold plate and jewels the abbey supposedly possessed. The Crown wasn’t pleased with his failure. His stature in London faded as a result, despite the title.” She shot Edwina a thin, smug smile. “No Bascomb has been happy here since.”
“Not even the previous one?” Bascomb had inferred to Edwina that the housekeeper and his uncle had had a long-standing affair.
Mrs. Page’s cheeks colored. “I’ve duties to attend to, Miss Collins. Now that the roads are clear, I have errands in Portsmith. Please excuse me.” She nodded to Edwina, brushed past her with a sweep of her agitated skirts, and sailed out the door.
