Chapter Three

L ouisa had awakened from a fitful sleep. The air was still and thick in her chamber. The curtains at the open window did not flutter at all. And yet her skin was ice cold. The sensation was so similar to what she'd experienced earlier in the library that she knew it could not be simply her imagination.

Alexandra, if she were there, would blame it on a spirit. And perhaps it was, but Louisa wasn't brave enough to call out to it in the dark of night. Instead, she lay there in her bed, willing the sensation to go away. At long last, it did—the cold receded. No. It did not recede. Rather, it moved away from her. It didn't simply dissipate. It moved over her body like a caress.

The shiver that racked her was not born of that cold but of fear. What was it? If it were a spirit, what could it possibly want with her?

The absurdity of it all was too much. "It's not a spirit. Such things are nothing more than fiction," she said aloud, her voice barely more than a whisper. "It's been a trying day with a great deal of... upheaval . You are overwrought and questioning the decisions you have made."

And she had made her decision, if one could even term it that.

Married. But not really married. A wife for one year, and then a wife in name only. She had accepted Mr. Blackwell's proposal and would be his bride—living in his home for one year.

However much she might have weighed it, measured it, and turned it over and over in her mind for dozens of times that day, she was still confounded by it all. Each time, she had come up with the same answer. It was the best opportunity she'd ever be presented with in her life. And she wasn't about to let a drafty house and an overactive imagination get the better of her.

When she'd come to Kent seeking employment, she'd never imagined that the course of her future might be altered so dramatically. While it wasn't something every girl dreamed of, it was something that a girl such as herself—one who had known the misery of true poverty—could not ignore. Even if it wasn't in the normal way of things, it was still beyond anything she might have imagined for her future. But it wasn't the wealth, the position, or even the very enigmatic man to whom she'd found herself betrothed. Instead it was that indefinable feeling which she sometimes had, an intuition of sorts that led her down the paths she was supposed to go. It was that same feeling she'd had when presented with the option to attend the Darrow School on Effie's charitable nature. She'd known it was the right thing to do instantly. It had been the same with the proposal. Rational arguments aside, she'd heard that voice inside her urging her in that direction.

But now, in the dark hours of the night, alone in the great house save for the servants two floors above and an elderly woman at the opposite end of the corridor, one she had yet to even meet—and her prospective husband, wherever he might be—that certainty wavered. Doubts crept in, along with dozens of questions. Not least of which was why a man who was handsome, well connected, and on the verge of being incredibly wealthy would need to marry a woman with no pedigree and nothing beyond a grasp of etiquette and decorum to recommend her. The nonsense he'd uttered about wanting an orderly life rang hollowly. Men who truly wanted an orderly life got themselves a wife to make it so. To marry and then just eschew it to live like a bachelor—it was nonsensical.

Rolling from her side and onto her back, she stared up at the canopied ceiling of the bed. She was wrestling as much with the decision she had made as with the prospect of informing Effie what she had done. And she was wrestling with the realities of being married to a man she knew nothing of.

In the end, the mystery of whatever the problem was that required such a drastic solution pricked at her mind in a way that left her decidedly unsettled. Too unsettled to even think of sleep.

Pushing back the sheet, she rose and padded on bare feet to the window. There, she looked out at the garden below. Movement caught her eye, and as she turned her head to see what it was, her breath caught. She blinked, rubbing her eyes to be certain that they were not deceiving her.

A wraith-like mist moved through the garden. Stark white against the darkness, it drifted to and fro, winding around hedges and bushes in a serpentine fashion until it simply vanished. There was no gait. No steps. It appeared to simply float until it vanished beyond the hedgerow where it flanked the lane.

"It is a mere trick of the light," she whispered to herself. "Nothing more. There are no phantoms here... nor anywhere else." And yet, even as she backed away from the window and retreated to the confines of her bed, she was not fully convinced of that fact. Certainly not as convinced as she ought to have been.

A cold chill snaked over her skin, despite the oppressive heat. And yet it was different from the cold sensation she'd experienced before. This came from within. A warning from her own intuition. It was accompanied by a sense of foreboding. There were ominous goings-on afoot—not ghostly, but ominous —at Rosehaven Manor. What they might mean for her future there was as yet unknown.

"Please let me know if I have made a terrible mistake," she whispered in nearly silent prayer against her pillow. "Let this not be the first time my intuition leads me astray."

*

It was mid-morning when he returned. He'd left at first light to make all the necessary arrangements. Now, Douglas bore the common license tucked inside his coat as he led his mount up the graveled drive and toward the hulking shape of Rosehaven Manor. But he hadn't reached the house when he drew up short. There was a lone figure walking along the lane. No phantom, but a flesh and blood woman who was poking and prodding at the bushes with a stick. His betrothed. Miss Louisa Jones.

"Did you lose something?" he asked, as he neared her.

She looked back at him, wide eyed. There was a leaf stuck in her hair. "No, I... well, I was just admiring the foliage."

Lie. That was immediately apparent. Why? And then it simply came to him. Had she heard the stories of the White Lady of Rosehaven? Or had she seen her? "Foliage," he mused. "Or perhaps some remnant of a white gown trapped in the brush?"

Her guilty flush was confirmation. With a heavy sigh, Douglas dismounted and approached her. "Did you see Rosehaven's infamous phantom, Miss Jones?"

"I saw something," she countered. "I do not believe in phantoms."

Her reasonable response was not unexpected, but it was very welcome. It was also not entirely convincing. But Rosehaven was no place for anyone given to hysterics. "Perhaps I can aid you in your search, or answer any questions you may have about what you saw."

"What I thought I saw," she stressed. "It was very late, or very early depending upon one's perspective. It was very warm last night, so I moved to the window hoping for a breeze. There was someone walking through the garden and then along the lane here. Wearing white."

"Someone. Not something?"

Her lips firmed into a thin hard line, her expression revealing just how dubious she found that option. "I realize that many people are given to flights of fancy and succumb to superstitious notions. I am not one of those people, sir."

"Indeed, I can see that you are not. I would caution you, Miss Jones, about asking too many questions to servants or to those in the village—assuming they would speak with you at all," he said. "The Blackwell family is not thought very kindly of here. You will find that out soon enough."

"You make it sound as if they see you as some sort of villain!" she protested.

"Not me, Miss Jones. All the Blackwells, but specifically any who reside at Rosehaven. Our history with the village is not a pleasant one, and they are entitled to view us as such. You will not receive a warm welcome there, I am afraid."

"My lord, I am the illegitimate child of the disgraced daughter of a baronet. My mother's family has refused to acknowledge me, and my father's family is entirely unknown to me. I have not been warmly welcomed anywhere. I daresay that I will survive their snubs," she answered.

Her tone was matter-of-fact, her delivery of that sad statement revealing the pragmatism that was likely responsible for her decision to agree to his proposal. "Yet you have thrived, Miss Jones. Where most would have crumbled, you have risen above your humble origins."

"They are less than humble. Some would even call them ignoble," she pointed out. "Most people in the upper classes tend to frown upon those in the lower classes rising above anything."

It wasn't an accusation, but simply an observation. And it was an observation he could not refute. "Perhaps my years in the army, seeing more of the world than simply what exists here, has given me a more egalitarian view of things."

"Perhaps it has," she mused. "So who is this phantom people speak of?"

"Her name is unknown," he replied. "But for the last century, there have been tales of her wandering the grounds here and even being seen in the village. The White Lady of Rosehaven is presumed to be the tragic love of one of my ancestors... a woman who paid the ultimate price for loving unwisely."

"Or the guise of a phantom affords young women an opportunity to sneak about at night without anyone being the wiser," she countered.

A smile tugged at Douglas's lips. "You are very suspicious of your own sex."

"I've lived in a school with other girls for the past decade. I know precisely how sneaky we can be. I also know we have no choice but to be sneaky because so many limitations are placed on us by society," she pointed out. "Such ruses are not unheard of."

"No, they are not. But do not be so certain it's a ruse that you blind yourself to the dangers it might present. Many think that seeing her is a harbinger of tragedy to come," he warned. "And on that note, I have the license. I've spoken with the vicar at the local church, and he's agreed to perform the ceremony tomorrow morning at nine. Mr. Hatton and the vicar's wife will act as witnesses. If you have no objections, of course?"

"No. I have no objections."

Douglas nodded. "Mr. Hatton will meet with you later today to discuss the terms of our arrangement and the support that will be afforded to you once you leave Rosehaven." And imagining that she would leave Rosehaven in a year, that for an entire year, he would face the temptation of her daily—both of those things were a source of unease. "I shall see you at dinner, Miss Jones. Do not wander too far. The ground is uneven, and the rain has left pockets of mud that are quite treacherous."

*

Louisa watched him walk away, leaving her standing in the middle of the lane. Alone. And as puzzled as ever. This man who was to be her husband was a mystery to her—a puzzle that demanded solving.

"My own curiosity will be the very death of me," she murmured. But even as she continued her exploration of the gardens and the surrounding grounds, she was mindful of his warning.

When she reached the back of the house, where the formal and decorative gardens gave way to the more functional herb and vegetable gardens of the kitchens, she caught sight of a maid sneaking a rest. Leaning against the side of the house, well away from the windows and the prying eyes of a strict housekeeper or cook, the girl's face paled when she caught sight of Louisa. But Louisa offered a reassuring smile to the young woman. Instantly, the girl's expression changed. It became closed, guarded—perhaps even hostile.

They all knew, Louisa realized. Everyone in the house would know what sort of marriage she had entered into. That she was not there to stay. And that meant she would have little authority there. He, her betrothed, couldn't possibly understand the dynamics at play. But she'd known there would be problems of that sort. The servants would not respect her. In truth, she wondered if she would still be able to respect herself.

She was one of them—one of the serving class, and she'd dared to rise above her station, but not for any reason so noble as love. It was a mercenary agreement, and they would all know. The next year would be interesting, indeed.

Retreating to the house once more, she made her way to her chamber. She would wait there until her meeting with Mr. Hatton. But eventually, she knew the issue would have to be addressed.