Aunt Toffy and the Ghost Read online

  “Whatever do you mean?” Adorna poured him a cup of tea and sliced off a disc of sausage for him. Cook had scrambled eggs and browned bread for their breakfast. “You look quite well this morning—one would never know your nose was broken.” She lied.

  “You know that is not the truth, but no matter. I was just thinking about the strange misfortune with the glass the other night, now falling or whatever happened—though I would swear I felt a pair of hands at my back…” His words drifted off as his brow furrowed in concentration. “It is as if something doesna’ want me here. Isn’t it common agreement that houses have personalities—spirits, if you will? Perhaps the spirit of this house is not fond of me.”

  Adorna was spared from any comment about her home’s supposed personality when her remaining lodgers filed into the dining room. They were chock a block around the table, a pleasant din of conversation and the companionable click of cutlery on china. Tea and good natured chiding of Rawly’s clumsiness flowed throughout the meal. Soon enough they were all fed and on their way to the day’s pursuits. Crosbie was on his way to the markets for the day’s needs.

  Adorna and Toffy were alone, still sipping tea.

  “Auntie, tell me a wee bit about your friend.”

  “Meridius? But you say you do not believe in him.”

  “Aye, but I am somewhat curious. Why don’t you begin at the beginning? I would hear more of this tale of yours.”

  “His family was old, comfortable but not rich. He had no aspirations for power. Meridius tells me he was content to tend his grapes, study old scrolls, and keep an account of his daily life.”

  “Do you—converse—with the ghost?”

  “After a fashion. At first it was difficult, I couldna’ ken what he was saying, the language being so different and all. But after a wee bit, it became easier. Now I understand, most of the time.”

  “I see. And why or how did Meridius come to our home?”

  “That is a bit of a puzzle even to him. It seems he and Mr. Miggins passed each other, or collided, or something of the sort, on whatever plane the dead inhabit. I think the dead must continue to inhabit the place where they died—or at least stay close to it. Evidently Mr. Miggins told him, or asked him, to keep an eye on us. He was worried, you see, about you being alone.”

  Adorna swiped a tear from her left eye. Toffy’s story was just like her—sentimental and complimentary to Henry Miggins. She had doted on him, and even in death she was spinning a yarn to show him in a good light. Perhaps this was all Toffy’s way of coping with recent grief. That was probably it! Toffy was grieving and creating a ghost was somehow comforting to her. Adorna sipped her tea and decided to humor her aunt.

  “Does he—does he still speak to Henry?”

  “My understanding of these matter is not good, but I believe Mr. Miggins has moved on to his reward. Meridius has not. He has something left unfinished that will not allow him to rest in peace. It is a bit of a mystery. He doesn’a understand it himself. He believes he is looking for something—something that is lost.”

  ****

  Afternoon tea was subdued. The weather had turned cold and wet. Once again there was a small fire burning, and the candles were lit against the gloom of the day. The kernel of doubt that Toffy had introduced was doing its best to sprout and grow in Adorna’s mind, but she was far too practical to allow it to take root. Her aunt was simply an eccentric Scottish woman with a fertile imagination who was doing her best to cope with the loss of her nephew by marriage.

  Rawly returned from his daily labors looking more a mud-lark than gentleman. Crosbie assisted him with a hip bath in his room, and when he arrived in the parlor an hour or so later, he was pink and damp from the scrubbing. However, when he sat near the fire, it was evident he was still chilled to the bone.

  “May I pour you something stronger than tea, Rawly?” Adorna offered. “You seem quite cold.”

  “I confess I wouldna’ turn down a dram.” He paused for a moment and rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture of fatigue. “On second thought, could I have a glass of Toffy’s wine?” He accepted the small glass and tossed it back.

  The vicar and his wife kept smiling to one another though they did raise their brows, presumably at the way he drained the glass. There was a pleasant sort of electricity between them—in spite of seeing a fellow lodger draining his cup.

  “I cannot deny you both seem extra happy today. I don’t wish to intrude, but have you received good news?” Toffy asked.

  “Oh, I am that glad you asked. I canna keep it to myself another moment. The vermin are gone from the vicarage. We have been delivered from the furry plague!” The lady beamed.

  The vicar nodded in agreement. “The ratters came, each had a brace of stoats, vicious wee beasties—sharp toothed, it was quite a sight to behold. They were blood thirsty—”

  “No, do not say it husband, bless their hearts. The lord made them to do the task, and they did it well. They—eliminated—the rats with efficient dispatch.”

  “Aye, that they did. Eyes agleam they entered the house. Teeth bared, tails straight as pokers, they went about it with much enthusiasm. In a nonce they cleared the nasty buggers! We are rat free, I swear.”

  “Husband!”

  “Forgive me, I am quite overcome with happiness. I did not mean to swear. We will be leaving on the morrow, Mrs. Miggins, and I thank you heartily for your kindness in housing us even though it was so much shorter a span than we had thought.”

  “I’m very pleased for you.” Adorna meant it, but she could not banish the niggling worry that had returned. Once again she had empty rooms. She had hoped for at least a month of nearly full lodgings. She felt her spirits waning as strategy for economic cut backs once again filled her mind. If they eliminated meat to only thrice a week, and halved the coal down, and if the weather would turn mild…

  “You appear somewhat downtrodden today, Rawly,” Toffy offered. “Are you having no success—in whatever it is that you are doing each day?”

  Everyone looked up sharply. Her pointed hint at some candor on Rawly’s part was not missed. Everyone wondered where he went and what he did.

  “I have stumbled upon one or two things, but not what I am looking for,” he said wearily. He rose and went to the entry, where he could be heard rummaging in his large, leathern bag.

  Finally, Mr. Scrum broke the silence in the parlor. “I wonder where Mr. Rawlings has got up to? He seems to be searching for something in his luggage.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Adorna said. “He has the appearance of a badger digging in for the winter. And he doesna’ seem very happy.”

  To Adorna’s surprise Rawly returned to the room holding a small object wrapped in dirty sodden cloth, tied with grubby twine. He handed it to Toffy.

  “Oh, how exciting!” Toffy clapped her hands as if she had been given a sweet in an elegant presentation of fine tissue instead of dirty cloth.

  “Since you have expressed an affection for things Italianate. Please accept this from me.” Rawly shivered as if touched by a cold wind. He stepped nearer the hearth and extended his hands to warm them. He truly did appear to be exhausted and half frozen.

  Toffy unwrapped her gift. “Look, Adorna.”

  Adorna rose from her chair and stood beside her aunt’s chair. It was a classic scene of a white stone villa, surrounded by tall trees. At first glance it appeared to be an oil miniature, but upon inspection it proved to be a mosaic of the most magnificent workmanship. The tiny chips of color were meticulously placed and arranged. One could almost be looking at the villa from a long distance, it was so real.

  “I say, that is a stunner,” Mr. Scrum said. “I believe it is Roman.”

  “Wherever did you get it?” Toffy asked.

  “I am—” He looked up as if startled. “Do you see that? Out there in the street?” He was pointing to the street beyond the window.

  “What?” Mr. Scrum moved toward the window.

  “A man.�
� Rawly said.

  “’Tis no so unusual to see a man.” Mr. Scrum chuckled shaking his head.

  “Aye, ’tis so—but this man is round and jolly looking and dressed in the manner of a Roman nobleman. He has a stylus in his hand and what appears to be a wax sheet. I canna be suffering from heat stroke for the sun has hardly shone.”

  They all rose and went to the window to peer out into the rain.

  “A trick of the light?” Mr. Scrum asked. “Or perhaps you have a fever—you have taken a chill. Rawly, perhaps you are not well.”

  Adorna squinted at the gray day, seeing nothing at all but the rain when suddenly Toffy gasped.

  “Oh dear. Oh dear,” she whispered. At the same moment, a gust of air blew through the room guttering the candles and causing a great gout of smoke to issue from the fireplace. For a moment there was silence in the smoke filled room.

  “I don’t think Meridius is happy,” Toffy whispered to Adorna in the partial darkness. “He is not happy at all.”

  Chapter Three

  Little by little the smoke cleared. The candles resumed burning normally. Adorna blinked. Had she imagined it all? Was it a trick of the light from the drenching storm?

  Then she looked at Rawly. No more was he pink and damp, fresh scrubbed. Now he was a soot covered form, only his eyes were rimmed by white where he had shut them tight against the onslaught. His hair was covered in bits of coal grit, his clothes ruined. The veriest chimney sweep of Edinburgh was cleaner than Rawly. And strangely, the rest of the occupants of the room seemed to have escaped the same fate. They were coughing a little from the smoke, but they were not coated with soot.

  “I am convinced, madam, your house hates me.” Rawly sounded tired and defeated.

  As if to answer her statement in the affirmative, a small puff of soot belched from the hearth and pooled around his head like a wide brimmed hat. It was most extraordinary.

  Then suddenly Rawly began to laugh. He appeared mad as a hatter, standing filthy in the soot covered room, laughing, choking on the fouled air.

  Adorna wished she too could see the humor, but she had worries enough. Now because of this disaster she was faced with the added expenditures of restoring her parlor. Oh, what were they to do?

  ****

  The next day began with the bustle of the vicar and his wife leaving the house. It was a sad affair for more than one reason. Adorna was quite fond of the couple.

  Then there was all the chore-work to put the parlor to rights. She couldn’t expect to rent rooms with the parlor in such a disgraceful state. So the precious money she had put aside would have to be spent.

  Cook had a sister-in-law that had been recently widowed who was looking for a position, so Selma came to the house, working for less than most would, and soon had everyone dancing to her tune.

  “Don’t fash yourself missus, I will have the room to rights in a tick of the clock, never fear,” she told Adorna with a gap-toothed smile. She bustled around in a flurry of dull brown skirts, cloths, and buckets of hot soapy water. Selma gave orders to Meg while scrubbing. Not a moment was wasted. The entire chimney breast, the hearth, and the walls were soon awash with a lye concoction that striped away the coal smoke. The wool rug was taken outside and beat until not a sign of coal grit remained. Adorna didn’t doubt Selma’s promise to see the parlor back to its former tidiness very soon.

  Very early the next morning just after sunrise, a knock came at the door. Crosbie took a letter from a young man who darted quickly away after getting a copper for his trouble. Her entire fortune seemed to be heading out the front door. Adorna had just emerged from the kitchen with Toffy.

  Her aunt peered at the message in Crosbie’s hand. “Rawly, you have a missive,” Toffy said to him as he descended the stairs.

  He was dressed in his usual fashion, ready it seemed to leave on whatever secret endeavor took him out each day.

  He opened it with a frown on his face. With a whispered oath, he turned and went back upstairs. Within moments he returned with his baggage. He started to scoop up his battered bag of tools as he prepared to leave but then hesitated.

  “I’m sorry to leave, but I have been summoned.”

  “Summoned?” For a moment Adorna found her thoughts sliding to bailiffs and the toll-gate—a part of her still suspicious of this strange man and the mystery of what he did. He did not behave like a criminal—but what had they really learned about him?

  “Aye, summoned home to see my grandfather.” His words had all the levity of a death-sentence. “I will have no use for these where I am going. If it is not too much trouble, I will leave them in your care.”

  “When will you return?” She felt the worry squeeze tighter around her heart. If Rawly also left they would have no meat in the pot at all, but at least if his tools were here it would be a reason to return. A diet of turnips and cabbages would be almost more than they could afford if he did not.

  “I’m not sure. He gives no indication of the matter, only that it is urgent I come home.”

  “Godspeed,” Adorna said. “Return soon.” And she meant that with all her heart.

  ****

  Rawly didn’t need to put his heels to the horse. The rented beast was only green broke and Rawly thought what training he had received must have been as a racing animal. The stallion carried his head high, his nostrils flared, the bit clamped between his teeth. He could reach Dullinmuth long before nightfall at this wild pace.

  The summons from his grandfather had been terse and more in the manner of a decree than a request. Come home. At once. I must see you urgently.

  Rawly tried not to think about the many reasons that could account for the old man demanding to see him after so long a time.

  The one he tried to tamp down beyond all others was that the aging patriarch might be ailing. For though they sparred like two stags among the heather, he loved his grandfather dearly. The gruff old laird had been mother, father, confessor, and tutor for most of his life. And though Rawly cut his teeth on the fact that as a second son he could expect nothing in the way of land or money, he had known he was loved. Basil Rawlings poured love into both his grandsons.

  Bartholomew, the first born, had known the security and the restriction of being the son to inherit. Scottish land, coin, halls, and title would be his by ancient right. Bart had been bred to lead and be the next Rawlings laird.

  Rawly was fine with that. It had left him free—free to explore, to wander, and wonder. He never had to fill his head with the boring details Bart had to master. His life was his own, and he was much content with that situation.

  Rawly gave the stallion his head, and he gazed at the far horizon, using muscles that had been lazy of late to keep his seat. Almost before he knew it, the tall spires of Dullinmuth Hall appeared.

  He dropped down into the vale, mist swirling around the stallion’s hooves. Sparks flew from his iron shoes as he galloped across the ancient stone bridge and onward to the very gates of Dullinmuth.

  When he rode through and under the great stone gate and beyond the gatehouse, his heart swelled with pride. The old pile had been home to the Rawlings since the 1530s. Bought, stolen, or won on a game of chance, he didn’t know, there was a story for each explanation, but whatever the truth, it was theirs now.

  A young groom appeared and took the reins as soon as he swung from the saddle.

  “Fergus, lad! Walk him out, rub him down, grain him, and give him dry bedding for the night, he has earned it.”

  The boy nodded with a grin, and Rawly hurried away. He took the steps two at a time and flung open one half of the thick oaken doors.

  “Grandfather!” he shouted into the emptiness of the hall. “I am here!” He tilted his head toward the upper chambers.

  “And aboot time.” A shaggy silver head peered down from the dimly lit stairs above.

  He was whip thin, keen as a hawk, and as hearty as a man could wish for his years. Relief flooded through Rawly.

  “What has happ
ened?” Rawly raced up the stairs until he was standing in front of his grandfather. “When I received your letter, I feared for your health.”

  “Nay, not me. “’Tis Bart.” The silver head bent.

  “Is he—?” Rawly could not even allow himself to form the question.

  “Aye, he is.” His grandfather’s dour words nearly brought Rawly to his knees.

  “How? He is a young man—how did it happen?”

  “Joined up with a gaggle of missionaries and sailed off for Africa! That is ’ow it happened,” his grandfather said in disgust.

  “You mean he isn’t dead?” Rawly expelled the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

  “Dead? Whatever gave you that notion? Nay, the lad is no’ dead, just taken leave of his senses. Mad as a randy stoat.”

  Rawly grinned at his old relative. “’Tis plain you have worked yourself up into a grand high dudgeon over this. I think we both need a whisky, and then you must give me the tale from the beginning.”

  “Aye, that I will do. Now let us take ourselves off to the kitchen and see if we can find a bit of bread and a joint. I have a jug of usquebaugh. We will have a dram, and I’ll tell you the entire sorry tale.” He pulled Rawly into an embrace. “’Tis good to see you, lad.”

  Their boots rang on the polished stone as they walked to the long, scrubbed, nicked oak table in the kitchen. This heart of the home was original to the house, and the enormous hearth, big enough to hold an entire bullock, dominated the north wall.

  Mrs. Guinty, red-faced from the heat of the cooking fire, greeted him warmly. Then she rubbed her palms on her apron and turned the spit where meat was sizzling. Then she continued pummeling the dough she was turning out in flour.

  “Sit you down. Missus is there some bit we might have?” Basil asked, pouring out two generous measures of whisky from a jug he snagged from a board.

  “I have a cold hen in the larder. There is a wheel of cheese and yesterday’s bread.”