Haunting Miss Trentwood (illustrated paperback) signed

A timid raindrop splashed on Hartwell’s hat brim. He scowled at the gathering clouds. It was most definitely going to rain, and he was most definitely going to be caught in it. Did that butler give him an umbrella? Oh no, that would have been far too sensible, and what did sensible thinking have to do with a house governed by a haunted lady?

Nothing, that’s what. Absolutely nothing.

Hartwell felt so exasperated he could have stomped his way down the gravel drive, through the wrought iron gate, and down the English lane to find Mary. But Hartwell was sensible and knew that stomping that distance would exhaust him, let alone take far too long. Hartwell threw the blanket over his shoulder, shaking his head. He knew what he was in Compton Beauchamp for, he just wasn’t sure it was worth all this nonsense.

Hartwell had little difficulty following Mary’s hasty retreat to the lonely gathering of trees in the middle of an empty pasture. He slowed his pace at the end of the clearing in the middle of the trees, hearing voices.

Rather, not voices, but one low voice, carrying a stilted, one-sided conversation.

Hartwell ducked behind one of the larger beech trees and shivered in the cold. On the front step before an opening that seemed to lead underground sat a woman in all black. She was looking to her left as though listening for something.

To something.

To someone?

She lifted her veil with trembling fingers. Hartwell was too far away to see her face clearly. This was definitely Mary Trentwood, however. He couldn’t think why that rascal Pomeroy would lead him elsewhere.

The wind blew, racketing a shudder through Hartwell, who hadn’t dressed for chill weather. Had he not been so cold, he might have held onto his exasperation. There was something frightening about the way Mary spoke to herself. It was almost as though she believed she was haunted.

“Oh, I am,” she said to nothing and no one. “Just not enough to ask about it.”

Hartwell stepped closer to get a better look. He winced when a branch snapped beneath his foot. He swallowed when she swiveled to fix her serious, alarmed, hazel gaze at him. Oh well. Best to satisfy his curiosity and hope the answer would alleviate the queasiness in his stomach.

“Who are you talking to?” he asked, stepping into the clearing.

Mary jumped to her feet. She readjusted her veil so it guarded her face. “Who are you? Are you following me?”

The panic in her voice reminded Hartwell that if she was haunted, then the last thing he wanted to do was raise the ire of her ghostly father. He shook his head. What am I thinking? There are no such things as ghosts. I’m tired, that’s all.

“My name is Alexander Hartwell. I watched from the library window as you escaped the manor house.” He held up the blanket. “Your butler sent me with the message that a storm is coming.”

He wasn’t sure, what with the veil masking her expression, but Hartwell thought Mary might have allowed a wry smile before a blush crept over her cheeks.

“Well,” Mary said, “if Pomeroy sent you, then I suppose I’ll have to speak to you, shan’t I?” She didn’t wait for his response before reclaiming her spot on the stone. She brushed her skirts briskly, arranging them until she was satisfied, and looked at Hartwell expectantly.

Hartwell stepped closer, incredulous. “You want to talk here?”

“What’s wrong with here?” Mary looked around the clearing, though what she saw in it, Hartwell had no idea. “It’s quiet here.”

Hartwell frowned at the sarsen stones, the way they were stacked like a deck of cards to make a shelter, of sorts, but with a flat top. “It looks like a tomb.”

Mary shrugged and flicked a speck of dust from her skirt. “I think it is.”

“It is what?”

“A tomb.”

“And you see no problems with holding a conversation here?”

“Not at all, it’s very quiet here, we won’t be interrupted.”

“That’s because it’s a tomb,” Hartwell exploded. He was going to continue, but the tree boughs swayed overhead. Not a good sign. True to his suspicion, the rain began to pour onto his hat and shoulders. He grunted.

Mary stood, brushing off her backside, and turned to stare at the tomb’s opening. If anyone was buried there, they would be nothing but bones. But still she hesitated. The woman had obviously lost her mind, Hartwell figured, or was somehow still in shock over her father’s death. Indeed, the latter explained the ghost farce quite nicely.

In any case, Hartwell, having had the misfortune of having to stand through too many rain showers, saw no reason to stand through this one. He threw the woolen blanket over his head and shoulders before dashing to Mary’s side. He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her inside the doorway of the tomb.

“For someone who seems quite averse to the idea of tombs, you’re rather ready to jump into one,” Mary said. She pulled away from Hartwell to crouch as close to the doorway as possible.

There was hardly room for standing in the little cave-like structure, and it smelled of mildew. Better that than decomposing bodies, Hartwell thought darkly. He stooped, his shoulders scraping the top sarsen stone. He shuddered to know what his coat would look like after this unforeseen romp.

There was a bed of rotting leaves beneath their feet, adding to the sickly sweet smells assaulting Hartwell. A gust of wind threw a sheet of rain into the tomb, and Hartwell backed away from the opening. Mary, however, remained where she stood.

Hartwell clamped his jaw. “Would you rather stand in the rain and catch your death of cold than stand beside me?”

Mary gave him a steely glare. “I will die eventually, Mr. Hartwell, but it won’t be from catching cold, not if I can help it.”

Hartwell resisted the urge to scratch his head, puzzled as to why he felt he had royally put his foot far into his mouth. Maybe it was the way Mary’s shoulders were hunched. Or the way she was inching as close to the door as possible, and therefore as far away from him as she could get without venturing into the rain. Or maybe it was the way she had said, “Not if I can help it.”

He still couldn’t see her face very well, what with the veil firmly in place. But then, he didn’t need to see her face to talk to her.

“Miss Trentwood, I feel we’ve started on the wrong foot.”

“To say the least,” she replied.

She had no reason to be so terse with him, she could have no idea why he was in town. As he mulled over her reactions, he realized he was still holding the blanket over his head.

Mary looked very little standing there, rocking back and forth ever so slightly, shivering as she hugged herself. It must be her mourning weeds that made her so small—she looked nearly his height, and he was tall by anyone’s measure. Ashamed by his callous behavior, Hartwell stepped close enough to wrap the blanket around Mary’s shoulders gingerly. She stiffened, but when he stepped away, she relaxed. Marginally.

“Well, we won’t be going anywhere anytime soon,” Mary said. “Why don’t we share the blanket and you can tell me why you destroyed my mother’s bell pull, frightened my aunt so that she locked herself in her bedroom, and dragged me into this tomb.”

Mary looked at him then, her hazel eyes transfixing him. “Whatever it is, it must be very important.”

Hartwell coughed. In all his thirty-five years, he had never been as uncomfortable as this moment. He couldn’t tell her the real reason. For all he knew, she was part of the plot.

No, he wouldn’t tell her the truth, but some approximation of it. Something close enough to the truth that he could remember the details, as he had always been, and probably would continue to be, an awful liar.

“My sister was schoolmates with your aunt, Mrs. Durham,” he began.

“What?”

Hartwell repeated himself, unsure why Mary frowned so.

“Then you’re not my father’s solicitor? Or related to him in any way?” Mary asked, her voice flat.

Hartwell’s responding frown wavered, then exploded into an understanding smile that threatened to become a laugh. Hartwell liked to think her voice was flat with embarrassment and a sort of sheepish dismay.

“You thought I was a solicitor?” At Mary’s nod he did laugh, a little. “No wonder you ran away.”

“I didn’t run away, I went for a walk.”

“A walk to a tomb.”

“It’s my favorite spot. No one bothers me here, usually.”

Hartwell didn’t mistake her meaning. “I’ve come, Miss Trentwood, at the behest of my sister. She heard of your sorrows, from your aunt, I assume.”

Mary stood very still, her neck craned to see him. It was obvious she hadn’t noticed his scar yet. She still considered him an annoyance rather than someone to be feared. He had every intention to use this to his advantage, and made sure to stay shadowed as long as possible.

Mary shifted, pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders. “And what does your sister intend for you to do, Mr. Hartwell?”

“My sister has asked me to help in any way I can, being such friends with your aunt. Perhaps,” he said, hesitating slightly, “when the real solicitor’s representative arrives I can be of service?”

“So you are familiar with solicitors, then?”

“Oh yes, my father was one.”

“That only makes you familiar with the person. What does that mean in terms of a solicitor’s business? I thank you, but no.”

Hartwell inhaled, not expecting such a blast of sharp logic thrown at him. He fought the urge to study her expressions and guess her responses before she had the chance to make them. She was the trial, he realized, that Frank Brown had warned him about. Not the death in the family, not the unwillingness of Mrs. Durham, but Mary Trentwood.

She had a logic that rivaled many of his schoolmates. That rare sort of common sense that cut to the point and left casualties in its wake.

“I am often in the company of solicitors, Miss Trentwood,” he began.

“Do you often require their services?”

“Yes,” Hartwell snapped, “I do. I’m a barrister, Miss Trentwood. It is my profession to require the services of solicitors.”

Mary was quiet far too long for Hartwell’s liking. She seemed to be looking behind him, listening intently to something he couldn’t discern. Her expression seemed to go slack for a moment, and then tightened as though she had just heard most unpleasant news. When she spoke, finally, Hartwell jumped, bashing his head into the stone ceiling.

“Well,” Mary said, pausing for him to shake away the stars from his eyes. “First, you better sit down in case you’ve hurt yourself.” She scooted to the side ruefully, giving him room to plop beside her.

Hartwell hesitated. She had given him space to sit to her right, which would have put his scar in view. For whatever reason, he wanted to postpone the unveiling; he was, he found with great amusement, enjoying her odd manner of speaking. He didn’t want to discourage this frank dialogue by startling her. He sidled to her left and waited for her to shift positions to afford him a space to sit. She did so with her brow wrinkled in confusion.

“Second,” she continued, the way a prodded child might, “you might as well stay for dinner, since you’ve come all this way.”

Still rubbing his head, Hartwell said, “Thank you. What’s the third item?” It sounded as if Mary wasn’t quite finished.

“Third, I don’t believe your story about your sister, and I don’t like you, but we’ll have to see what my aunt says, given her supposed history with your family.” She glanced at him with a very slight curl in her lip. If Hartwell hadn’t been looking, he might have missed it altogether. “Pomeroy saw something in you, though I’m not sure what, so I’ll have to give you a chance, I suppose.”

Hartwell’s mouth dropped open. What a pert mouth on this one! Had it been anyone else, he might have given them the benefit of the doubt and excuse her manners for grief or shock. But the words and tone came too easily—this was how she was, he suspected dourly.

“Technically,” he said, keeping his tone light, “wouldn’t those be items three, four, and five? You had conjunctions in there.”

Mary narrowed her eyes at him.

“Oh look,” she said, “the rain is letting up. Do let us return and show Pomeroy he doesn’t get to hurt you.”

“Oh yes, let’s,” Hartwell said sarcastically.

Romantic rating: No or low heat content with a focus on emotion and kissing.

Why you'll love Haunting Miss Trentwood

• Grumpy father, charming suitor: A ghostly father with strong opinions and an unexpectedly delightful suitor.
• Annoyances to lovers: She just wanted to read in her library. He just wanted to find a blackmailer.
• Ghost matchmaking: No one asked for a ghost to play cupid.
• Found family: It’s not just about the living; it’s about who’s there for you, even after they’re gone.
• Comedy of manners: Proper Victorian decorum with a side of ghostly chaos.
• Slow-burn romance: Two people forced into each other’s lives… and slowly realizing they don’t mind.
• Victorian fantasy charm – A cozy, whimsical world full of ghosts and heartwarming moments.