The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [38]
“I say, Mrs. Griffin, what is going on here? Why is the vicar standing in our bedchamber in his nightshirt? By all the bloody saints, man, I will not let you seduce my wife! How dare you, sir! And you call yourself a vicar? You have gall, sir! I will kill you with my bare hands!”
Mrs. Griffin never turned to look at her husband, just raised her hand and hit him in the head. “Calm yourself, Mr. Griffin. In this case the man isn’t trying to gain my corporal affections. He’s too far away from me to succeed in any case.”
Mr. Griffin said, “You told me he was a paltry fellow. Are you quite sure there is no attempted seduction on his part, Mrs. Griffin?”
“Yes, Mr. Griffin. You will see that he is keeping his distance. He has stepped only one foot inside our bedchamber. I believe he must have hurt himself—he was holding his foot for a while.”
“My foot is fine now, Mrs. Griffin. Actually, it is my toe that hurts.” Tysen shook his head at himself. He wasn’t making any sense of this.
Seduce Mrs. Griffin?
He nearly fell to his knees with that blow. He cleared his throat, but didn’t go any closer to Mrs. Griffin’s bed. Mr. Griffin’s face was now vaguely illuminated just beside his wife’s. Tysen said slowly, “You believe you saw the Kildrummy ghost, ma’am? Who is this ghost?”
But Mrs. Griffin was now staring over at the commode with its large, flowered ceramic basin set on top, a water pitcher next to it. He followed her line of vision, but there was still nothing there, nothing at all.
“She is gone,” Mrs. Griffin said, furious now that she was no longer afraid. She threw back the bedcovers and jumped out of the bed. She was wearing a dark wool nightgown that covered her from chin to heels. She seemed suddenly to remember that he was there, a man wearing naught but his own nightshirt, a man her husband feared was there to seduce her, and she yelled, “Begone, sir, begone! It is not proper for you to stare at a lady in dishabille. It is enough to raise the beast in any man, vicar or no.”
And she flapped her hand at him. She needed but her griffin-headed cane.
“You heard her, sir,” Mr. Griffin yelled, “begone before I rise out of my bed and thrash you within an inch of your life! Staring at my wife when she is wearing naught but her nightgown. You are not a gentleman, sir.”
“But—”
Mrs. Griffin was looking again toward the commode. “She is no longer here. Ah, but her presence—I can still feel it. It is a moldy essence, and far too old. Can you not smell it? Mr. Griffin, do you not feel the mold crawling on your limbs? She doubtless came because the Englishman has taken over. She is upset, and she found her way into the wrong bedchamber. Do you hear that, ghost? If you want him to leave Kildrummy, you must secure proper directions to his bedchamber.
“Ah, but it is cold in here, like the grave she must spend some time in when she is not here, scaring me. Mr. Griffin and I are leaving this wretched place, right this minute. We will not remain in this room with this long-dead Lady Barthwick watching me from the commode.”
It sounded like a fine idea to Tysen.
And so at dawn, not even an hour later, Tysen, now dressed and shaved, his toe no longer hurting inside his boot, stood on the steps of Kildrummy Castle to watch Mr. and Mrs. Griffin’s carriage drive through the outer gate. He did manage a smile and a little wave. He could hear the driver muttering curses as he pulled the collar up to his ears. He saw Mr. Griffin’s pale face glaring at him from the window. It was a chill morning with fog lying heavy just above