The Ghost and Jacob Moorhead Read Online Free PDF Page A

said to the ambient air, “that it must be a trifle confusing, her place in life. But she is my granduncle’s granddaughter and that is how she should behave.” Leaning back and running the quill’s barbs through his fingers, he continued softly, “In fact, I think it is time for Mrs. Jennings to retire. There is no reason at all why she cannot live here with the two of us. But—” he straightened up and laid aside the quill, “even if I can convince her to do so, Cousin Mary will be the more acceptable chaperon. Acceptable to the neighborhood, I mean.” He folded and sealed his letter.
    Across the room, perched cross-legged on top of the globe, the late Lord Everston nodded. A very good thought that , he said.
    Jacob’s head snapped around—but there was nothing to see. He looked at the glass of burgundy he’d poured, blinked, shook his head as if to chase away a ringing in his ears. Pushing the glass away, he stood, stared at the wine. Once again he glanced around the room and then drew in a deep breath, which he blew out slowly. “Maybe I’ve been dipping a little deep lately?” he asked.
    Told you you have , said that voice. This time it sounded cross rather than approving.
    Jacob stiffened. Without another glance, he picked up his letter to Verity’s Aunt Mary and left for the stables. He didn’t relax until he was speaking with the head groom. The head groom chose a good steady man, who, after packing a saddlebag for a few days on the road, left High Moor Hall carrying the letter for Lady Mary Tomlinson who lived on a small estate, situated on the Thames between London and Richmond.
    “And what about you, sir?” asked the head groom. “We’ve not so many horses as we once had but I think I can find something you’ll like.”
    Jacob decided a ride, reacquainting himself with all those places that had once been favorite haunts, was an excellent notion. Anything that would take him away from that blasted voice. A voice that did not, could not, exist. Had he really been drinking so much he was on the verge of requiring a place in a bedlam?
    Jacob looked over the gelding led out for his inspection. “Moorland’s Ghost?” he asked, thinking of the irony of the name when it was a ghost—or rather it wasn ’ t a ghost—that had chased him from the library. “He’ll do very well,” he said approvingly and was soon on his way across broad acres populated with clumps of white where fat sheep grazed. He wondered idly when they were sheared, something he’d always wanted to watch but which he’d never before been present to see.
    This year , he thought, I ’ ll be here . He was surprised by the satisfaction he felt at the knowledge.
    Half an hour after leaving the stables, he reached the riverbank where he’d once spent hours and hours fishing, casting his line as his granduncle taught him to do. Occasionally, just often enough to keep him interested, he’d catch something. It was a nice swift-running stream, tumbling over rocks as it fell down from the hills that bordered the northern edge of the estate and, older now, Jacob saw the natural beauty surrounding him as well as the opportunity for sport. He breathed in cool fresh air—air untainted by harsh coal smoke and the acrid odor left by too many horses pulling too many carts, the equally unpleasant stink of open sewers that every breeze wafted into all parts of London. The better areas had solved only part of that particular problem, getting rid of open sewers and allowing the dealers in night soil to grow wealthy off the, um, leavings of the rich…
    Jacob breathed in deeply and smiled. A feeling of satisfaction filled him. And, setting his mount to an easy canter, he continued on his way. This time he headed for the home farm where he used to visit Mrs. Green’s kitchen, enjoy her excellent baking…and, having missed his breakfast, he rather hoped that perhaps he might once again be so indulged.
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    Verity compressed her mouth