High Spirits at Harroweby

Mary Chase Comstock

Chapter 1

Lady Sybil Harroweby perched airily on the edge of a marble balustrade, a gauzy wrap draped carelessly over her lovely shoulders. From this vantage point she could easily view both the flirtatious couples gathered in the crowded ballroom, as well as their more passionate counter-parts in the secluded pathways of the gardens below.

Both scenes were exceedingly diverting. Lady Sybil had always loved the feverish atmosphere of a ball and all the romantic entanglements, both public and private, which blossomed there. The fact that she had been dead for more than a century dampened her interest not at all.

Lady Sybil had haunted Harroweby House with characteristic good humor ever since her untimely murder in the frolicsome years after the dull and sanctimonious Puritans had been supplanted by the restoration of Charles II to his throne. With the return of Charles’s festive court, London had suddenly become as thoroughly debauched as it had formerly been devout.

With more than sufficient time for reflection on her ghostly hands, Lady Sybil had thought more than once that perhaps she had thrown herself a little too energetically into the riotous spirit of the times. She could, perhaps, have practiced some restraint. She had been a rare beauty, though: a rose without a thorn, as a poet of her acquaintance had written; and if numerous bees had swarmed about her blossom, why, what was a helpless flower to do? Lady Sybil had blithely opted to enjoy their buzzing attentions.

Just who had murdered her, Lady Sybil did not know, nor, to be truthful, was she particularly interested. Between her husband’s ambitious mistresses and her own host of jealous lovers, the number of likely suspects was embarrassingly large. Whoever was responsible, their poison had worked quickly and painlessly, and for this she was duly grateful.

What Lady Sybil had ascertained was that the spirits of the murdered were required by some vague set of spectral regulations to haunt the scene of their demise until they were reconciled to their fates and had forgiven the author of their departure. The gloomy spirit of Sir Henry Harroweby, a fourth cousin several generations removed, had explained it all to her one day when he took a break from rattling his chains on the attic stairway.

“It’s all quite simple,” he had told her. “As soon as you forgive your murderer and turn your thoughts to everlasting peace, you will be quite free to go.”

“Go where?” she had asked.

“Why to your reward, of course,” he answered irritably.

She looked at him blankly. Lady Sybil’s religious training had been scandalously neglected.

“Heaven, you know. Angels, harps, solemn hymns. That sort of thing.”

Lady Sybil suppressed a shudder. The ghostly sphere had its drawbacks, of course, but thus far it certainly proved to be more interesting than celestial realms promised to be. “I think I see,” she said slowly. “If I persist in condemning my murderer, I stay here?”

“Yes,” Sir Henry sighed heavily. “I have very nearly overcome my own lack of charity. If my favorite nephew had not done me in, I would have been released some thirty years ago. However,” he continued with a self-righteous sniff, “family betrayals cut to the quick. Forgiveness comes slow indeed.”

“I doubt very much,” she replied with measured calculation, “that I shall ever forgive the villain (or villainess) who tampered with my tea. In fact, I vow I shan’t.”

“Careful!” Sir Henry hissed. “You’ve just added ten years to your stay.”

“Never, never, never!” Lady Sybil cried fervently as she envisioned angels, harps, and solemn hymns fading obediently into the distance.

“It’s your future,” Sir Henry had moaned with a gloomy shrug.

So Lady Sybil had entertained herself quite satisfactorily over the years, even though the family had abandoned the house for more cheerful settings several decades earlier. The escapades and affaires of the staff who maintained the residence were just as diverting as those of their betters. Lady Sybil observed, and often promoted by supernatural means, the romantic enterprises underway. Moreover, the house was now and then let to various families who wished to enjoy the London season, but had not purchased (or could not afford) their own establishment. Their presence allowed her to keep pace with the various on-dits of the social realm so dear to her heart.

For the most part, Lady Sybil’s ghost was confined to the house and gardens, but early on she had discovered that if any item which had previously belonged to her were taken off the premises, she was free to follow it. Opportunities for excursions into Town had been limited, however, and one occasion in particular had taught her that it was best to remain where she was. In this instance, she had followed a footman entrusted with taking a small ormolu clock for repair. She had anticipated only a brief outing, but, much to her dismay, found herself confined to the clockmaker’s shop for two full weeks! Not only was the shop small and drab, but so was the clockmaker himself, and to make matters worse, his only romantic designs were on his own apprentice. Upon her grateful return, she was content to concentrate her curiosity on the denizens of Harroweby House.

* * * *

Lady Sybil now turned her attention to the two gentlemen who sauntered onto her balcony: the Earl of Slaverington and the Marquess of Bastion, two of the most disreputable and perpetually impoverished rakes of the ton. Within thirty seconds of an introduction, they could, if the rumors she had overheard were correct, calculate the size of an heiress’s fortune and the likelihood of their acquiring it by marriage or, failing that, lay odds on the chances of their deflowering the damsel. Their conversation, Lady Sybil determined with a knowing smile, should prove most informative.

“Damnably slim pickings tonight, eh, Bastion,” Slaverington drawled. “If it weren’t for the champagne, I’d have left an hour ago.”

“Fine champagne,” Bastion agreed with a resonant belch. “Any champagne is fine champagne. Seedy-looking crop of fillies, though. Not ten thousand pounds among ‘em, I’ll warrant.”

“All but that little Harroweby chit,” Slaverington concurred, weaving slightly. “Where the deuce have they been hiding her these last months?”

Lady Sybil’s attention was riveted. Harroweby? Why the girl must be some relation! She had realized in a vague sort of way that one set of tenants had been replaced by another in recent days, but she had paid no attention to their name. This was news indeed!

“Gets the whole estate when she’s twenty,” the earl went on. “Just look at that pack queuing up to claim their dances. A fellow can’t get near her.”

Lady Sybil peered into the ballroom. Her newfound relation was a pretty little thing indeed, blushing as she lowered her abundant eyelashes, soft brown ringlets stirring gently as she escaped for a moment behind her fluttering fan. The ghost sighed nostalgically. The child was also the very image of herself at that age. Not more than six months away from her governess, she decided.

“Yes, Lady Selinda Harroweby. A tempting little piece of baggage, if ever I saw one,” Bastion leered speculatively. “Fortune, face and . . .”

“... and a trio of suspicious Gorgons for chaperons,” Slaverington finished glumly.

“That’s that, of course. They might be got around,” Bastion mused speculatively.

“Not likely,” his friend protested with an eloquent snort. “That oppressive aunt would skewer you with one look and serve you up on toast points. I wager twenty pounds you’ll never get near the girl. Fifty that you’ll never see her alone.”

“No faith, Slaverington. It’s the curse of our age. No faith at all. Make it a hundred,” Bastion declared recklessly, downing his glass, “and I vow I’ll either wed her or bed her.”

“You don’t have five pounds to your name, Bastion!” his comrade protested. “Let alone a hundred.”

“But I shall in ten minutes. I see my cousin Waverly has just arrived.”

“Ah, yes. The well-heeled Lord Waverly. You are fortunate in your relations. Bastion, if not your wagers.”

“The well-heeled, eccentric Lord Waverly,” the marquess amended. “Were it not for the fact that I sometimes find myself under the hatches, I am afraid that even I would be tempted to avoid his company. Fortunately, I am one of his many good causes. Are we on, Slaverington?”

“For a hundred pounds? Why not, Bastion? I’m simply wasting for some good sport.”

Had Lady Sybil been capable of real physical violence, the two libertines would by now have been nursing their wounds. She would have dearly loved to have seen the railing on which they were leaning give way and send them tumbling into the prickly embraces of the rose bushes below! As it was, however, she was forced to content herself with several violent (and thoroughly unladylike) curses which manifested themselves in an exceedingly chilly breeze. Fun was fun, she told herself, but family, after all, was decidedly family. Trifle with her descendant, would they? Not if she could help it!