on a conversation with someone other than the odd poltergeist roaming through from time to time (Cousin Henry ’s dreary spirit having at last quitted the house some fifty years previously) was an exciting prospect indeed.
“ I am,” she ventured at last, “Lady Sybil Harroweby . . . Er, could you actually hear that, child?”
“ Oh! Lady Sybil Harroweby!” Lucy breathed in ecstasy. “Why, I knew of course you must be some sort of relation of ours, you look so much like Selinda, but I’d no idea you were Lady Sybil!”
“ You have heard of me then?” Lady Sybil inquired with a mixture of confusion and ghostly pride.
“ Why, of course! After all, you are the only one in the family who was ever—” Lucy stopped short, suddenly remembering her manners. “Oh, I am truly sorry! I did not mean to be indelicate, but I own I quite forgot that my favorite bedtime stories are your life! That is, were your life... That is ... Oh, dear!”
“ Oh, do go on, child!” the ghost pursued, “I was the only one who was ever what?”
“ Why . . . murdered! I really am most sorry, Lady Sybil,” Lucy apologized. “I should never have opened my mouth. Indeed, it must have been a dreadful, dreadful blow to find that your own husband—”
“ My husband!” Lady Sybil exclaimed, astonished. “Whatever do you mean, child? What on earth could my husband have had to do with the silly business?”
“ Well,” Lucy continued guardedly, as she wondered about the advisability of launching into an explanation, “it was never proved, of course, but when you were found poisoned and Lord Harroweby suddenly sailed for parts unknown in the company of Viscountess Linfield—”
“ Sally Linfield!” the ghost cried out in anguished tones. “Why that false—! That unfaithful—! My dearest friend! Oh, Sally!”
Lucy watched fascinated as the ghost floated back and forth, doing her ethereal best to pace. After decades of having fabricated her anger toward her supposed murderers, it was a new experience for Lady Sybil to feel out and out rage. Sally Linfield had been her bosom friend, or so she had naively tho ught: so gracious and accommodating, even taking special pains to see that Geoffrey was sufficiently diverted so that Lady Sybil could maintain her own dalliances without fear of discovery and embarrassing scenes. What utter betrayal for Sally to have used those little deceptions for her own disloyal ends! Was there ever an equal to it?
“ Lady Sybil?” Lucy interrupted contritely after a time. “I am so very sorry to have brought up such an unpleasant subject. I really do forget myself too often. Even Selinda says so.” Lady Sybil had, for a moment, forgotten the child’s presence. With a concerted effort of will, she set about calming her rattled vibrations and momentarily turned her attention from this most upsetting revelation.
“ So, child,” she continued with forced equanimity, “tell me the rest of it. What about my son? Little Roderick, was it not?”
As Lady Sybil uttered her son ’s name, she felt a momentary twinge of guilt. She had dutifully produced an heir, but he had occupied very little of her time after his birth, the wet nurse being an accommodating soul who had taken the infant to her bosom in more ways than one. Her Ladyship, of course, had visited the nursery on occasion. Why, she could almost swear she had a distinct memory of it. But then again, life had been so very hectic, had it not, and her time so much taken up with social obligations! In any case, the baby had been an exceedingly dull little person who had done nothing but cry, burp, and wet himself. What on earth did people find so attractive about that sort of behavior?
“ Well,” Lucy shrugged and recited a bit more from the history which had been her personal study ever since she could read the family Bible, “As I recall, Roderick was raised by your cousin, Lord Rookesleigh, and inherited the Harroweby title when he reached
“ I am,” she ventured at last, “Lady Sybil Harroweby . . . Er, could you actually hear that, child?”
“ Oh! Lady Sybil Harroweby!” Lucy breathed in ecstasy. “Why, I knew of course you must be some sort of relation of ours, you look so much like Selinda, but I’d no idea you were Lady Sybil!”
“ You have heard of me then?” Lady Sybil inquired with a mixture of confusion and ghostly pride.
“ Why, of course! After all, you are the only one in the family who was ever—” Lucy stopped short, suddenly remembering her manners. “Oh, I am truly sorry! I did not mean to be indelicate, but I own I quite forgot that my favorite bedtime stories are your life! That is, were your life... That is ... Oh, dear!”
“ Oh, do go on, child!” the ghost pursued, “I was the only one who was ever what?”
“ Why . . . murdered! I really am most sorry, Lady Sybil,” Lucy apologized. “I should never have opened my mouth. Indeed, it must have been a dreadful, dreadful blow to find that your own husband—”
“ My husband!” Lady Sybil exclaimed, astonished. “Whatever do you mean, child? What on earth could my husband have had to do with the silly business?”
“ Well,” Lucy continued guardedly, as she wondered about the advisability of launching into an explanation, “it was never proved, of course, but when you were found poisoned and Lord Harroweby suddenly sailed for parts unknown in the company of Viscountess Linfield—”
“ Sally Linfield!” the ghost cried out in anguished tones. “Why that false—! That unfaithful—! My dearest friend! Oh, Sally!”
Lucy watched fascinated as the ghost floated back and forth, doing her ethereal best to pace. After decades of having fabricated her anger toward her supposed murderers, it was a new experience for Lady Sybil to feel out and out rage. Sally Linfield had been her bosom friend, or so she had naively tho ught: so gracious and accommodating, even taking special pains to see that Geoffrey was sufficiently diverted so that Lady Sybil could maintain her own dalliances without fear of discovery and embarrassing scenes. What utter betrayal for Sally to have used those little deceptions for her own disloyal ends! Was there ever an equal to it?
“ Lady Sybil?” Lucy interrupted contritely after a time. “I am so very sorry to have brought up such an unpleasant subject. I really do forget myself too often. Even Selinda says so.” Lady Sybil had, for a moment, forgotten the child’s presence. With a concerted effort of will, she set about calming her rattled vibrations and momentarily turned her attention from this most upsetting revelation.
“ So, child,” she continued with forced equanimity, “tell me the rest of it. What about my son? Little Roderick, was it not?”
As Lady Sybil uttered her son ’s name, she felt a momentary twinge of guilt. She had dutifully produced an heir, but he had occupied very little of her time after his birth, the wet nurse being an accommodating soul who had taken the infant to her bosom in more ways than one. Her Ladyship, of course, had visited the nursery on occasion. Why, she could almost swear she had a distinct memory of it. But then again, life had been so very hectic, had it not, and her time so much taken up with social obligations! In any case, the baby had been an exceedingly dull little person who had done nothing but cry, burp, and wet himself. What on earth did people find so attractive about that sort of behavior?
“ Well,” Lucy shrugged and recited a bit more from the history which had been her personal study ever since she could read the family Bible, “As I recall, Roderick was raised by your cousin, Lord Rookesleigh, and inherited the Harroweby title when he reached
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