The Phantom Lover by Elizabeth Mansfield Page B

hand is clenched rather nervously at your side. And your nightcap’s askew.”
    Nell’s hand flew to her cap. It had slipped over her left ear. Tossing a challenging glance in the direction of the candle, she set the cap on her head firmly. “There, is that better? You know, you are quite a rudesby to spy on a girl in her nightclothes.”
    â€œNonsense,” came a prompt answer, the voice quite unghostly and with an unmistakable touch of amusement lurking in it. “Such things don’t matter to us , you know.”
    â€œWell, they matter to me !” she said, pattering back to the nightstand and replacing the pitcher.
    â€œThen why don’t you hop back under the covers?” the ghost advised.
    â€œNo, I shan’t. This nightgown covers me well enough.”
    The ghost chortled wickedly. “We apparitions have very good eyesight, you know. We can see through walls.”
    â€œWhat—? Oh! ” Nell gasped, looking down at her thin linen gown in horror. Without another word, she dived for the bed and drew the coverlet up to her neck. The ghost seemed to be struggling to keep back a very human laugh. “You needn’t laugh,” she said, putting her chin up defiantly, “for I don’t believe a word of what you’re saying. Come now, be honest. Tell me who you are! I shan’t call the magistrates if you’re straight with me.”
    The voice became sepulchral. “I am the spirit of the late Harry D’Espry, smuggler and thief, born on the twelfth day of March, 1645, and died of sword wounds on the third of October, 1669.”
    â€œDied so young!” Nell said mockingly. “How sad! And have you been haunting this place ever since?”
    There was an affirmative moan.
    â€œOh, dear,” sighed Nell, “are you resorting to that dreadful moan again? What a pity!”
    â€œYou must go-o-o-o!” the voice said in a low, breathy wail.
    â€œWhy must I go?” she asked reasonably.
    â€œThis a place of danger!” he said in a frightening monotone. “You must go-o-o-o-o!”
    â€œI’m not a bit frightened, Mr. D’Espry. And I intend to remain right here.”
    The candle began to swing crazily. “You must go-o-o-o!” the low voice insisted.
    â€œStop swinging that candle, you fool!” Nell said, alarmed.
    But the light had disappeared. Nell peered into the sudden darkness. “Mr. D’Espry? Mr. D’Espry? Are you there?”
    The answer came from a long way off. “You must go-o-o-o-o!” The voice wailed and faded away.
    Nell jumped out of bed, lit her own candle and stared at the window alcove. She could see nothing behind the white curtains. Taking a deep breath, she moved carefully toward them. Bravely drawing them aside, she raised her candle and looked around. The heavy window drapes were drawn just as she had left them, but she opened them anyway. The window was firmly latched. There was no sign of anything at all out-of-the-way, except for the puddle of water on the floor. She carefully scrutinized the panels of the thick walls, but they offered no clue. With a shrug and sigh, she pattered back to her bed. This time she left her candle burning. She reviewed and reviewed the entire conversation with the “ghost,” but sleep overtook her before she could make any sense of the incident.
    While the rest of the household still slept, Mrs. Penloe carried his lordship’s breakfast tray up the back stairs. She found him dressed in his riding breeches, waiting only for his breakfast before taking off on his morning ride. “Be ’ee set on ridin’ today?” she asked in concern. “What if one o’ the ladies should see ’ee?”
    Lord Thorne felt no anxiety on that score. “No one will see me. London ladies are not known to rise before ten in the morning,” he said cheerfully. “Besides, I’ll stay close to the edge of the