Haunting Miss Trentwood

ONE
Compton Beauchamp (three days ride west of London), February 1887

At two in the afternoon the coffin of Mary Trentwood’s father was lowered to its grave. The sun shone unseasonably bright. Mary squinted through burning eyes. She heard the wooden box hit the bottom of the hole. She heard the whispers of her servants and father’s friends behind her. However quietly they thought they were speaking, Mary heard every word. The whispers grew louder and moved closer, crowding her ears.
“Right barmy, that’s what she is.”
“I heard she hasn’t any feeling at all.”
“Certainly would explain the lack of tears.”
“Making us stand here and watch the digging of the grave, it’s indecent, that’s what it is.”
“Well, I certainly don’t know how you can expect any better from hermits, they’re not fit to be gentry, I say.”
Mary didn’t know who they were, these people whispering about her as she stood a mere four feet in front of them. She didn’t care. They weren’t there for her, they—whoever they were for she hadn’t invited them, no, that had been the workings of her aunt Mrs. Durham—only cared about their gossip mongering. The local farmers and tenants would never treat her thus. But the funeral guests were certain to spread their hissing rumors across the countryside. Mary hated that unnamed mass of huddled, whispering heads standing behind her. She hated her father for dying, for making this entire ordeal necessary in the first place.
The vicar finished his sermon and snapped his Bible shut.
Mary hunched her shoulders as the mourners filed past. She gritted her teeth, but allowed the men to solemnly brush their lips against her gloved fingers. Her jaw all but shattered in her effort to not scream at the women making tut-tutting noises.
And then Mary was alone, her black netted veil scratching her pale cheek as the wind blew. She stared at that father-sized hole. She stepped closer. How close to the edge did she dare tread? How soon before her nerves, strained to their last, snapped, rendering her as lifeless as her dear father at the bottom of that dark pit?
Mary jumped when Mrs. Durham’s hand touched her arm.
Mrs. Durham was a squat woman, with soft features that hinted at great beauty, once. Once upon a time, a very long time ago, Mary figured. Mrs. Durham had been her mother’s twin, fraternally speaking. Mary was glad she didn’t resemble her aunt in the slightest. Mrs. Durham’s cheeks arched upward—reaching, straining, pushing—trying to touch the topmost curve of her eye sockets. Truly an appalling sight; Mary decided her aunt should never squint, if she could help it.
“Come away,” Mrs. Durham murmured, “let the men folk do their job.” She shifted so Mary’s view of the gravediggers filling the grave was blocked. She began pushing Mary back to the manor house, where a light luncheon waited for them.
Whatever suggestive power Mrs. Durham had on Mary could not prevent the horrifying vision of a man, muddy and coughing, clawing his way from the grave site. He hung from the edge of the hole into which Trentwood’s coffin had descended, his elbows digging into the dirt as he wriggled his way out.
Mary stared open-mouthed.
He was dismayingly flexible, able to swing a leg over the edge and roll onto the disturbed ground. He stood, brushing himself off almost apologetically though no dirt clung to his clothing. He gave Mary time to study his determined chin, firm mouth, and snappish eyes. He combed his sandy hair back from his forehead while clearing his throat, revealing streaks of gray running from temple to crown. The overall effect was chilling familiarity.
Mary wrenched free of Mrs. Durham. “Father?” she said, her voice hoarse from not speaking the week since his death. “Papa?”

Mary sat upright, kicking her bed sheets away from sweat-soaked legs. A lock of her dark hair was plastered to her cheek. Her head ached from the bobby pins still shoved into her scalp. She lifted her hand to pull the bobby pins out and noticed she was wearing black crepe sleeves, the same she wore in her nightmare.
Her hands shook. She hadn’t been dreaming. Mary knew she hadn’t been dreaming. She had buried her father, and he had crawled from his grave right before her eyes.
Her bedroom door opened to reveal Mrs. Durham with a tray of tea. “Oh good,” Mrs. Durham said with false cheer, “you’re finally awake.”
“Finally?” Mary said. Her voice was no more than an awkward croak, but it seemed Mrs. Durham understood her.
“You’ve been sleeping for three days.”
Mary shook her head. She gasped. Three days? Had it been three days since she had buried her father? Panting, she unbuttoned her dress to her collar bone, unable to inhale with the neck buttoned to her chin. She felt so hot. Why hadn’t anyone undressed her? Right, that’s right, she had dismissed her maid after her father died to alleviate costs.
Mary shook her head again as Mrs. Durham placed the tea tray on the little table beside her bed. Everything felt fuzzy.
Mrs. Durham sat in the vanity chair that had been dragged to the bedside while Mary slept. Her black dress rustled sweetly as she moved, the fabric shining in the gray sunlight. “You fainted dead away after the coffin went down.”
Mary sighed. “Yes, I just—I thought I saw Papa.”
“But you did, my dear.”
Mary’s hazel eyes narrowed to slits. “I did?”
“Well, do forgive my callousness, but I’m not certain who else you think we buried.”
Mary felt a retort forming, but she held her tongue. She had to remember her aunt had lost her dear husband only four months ago, and was still out of sorts. She took the time to study Mrs. Durham shiny black earrings, the way her hands folded in her lap, the perfection of her graying hair pulled into a tight chignon topped with white lace.
Do I tell her? Do I admit I saw Father crawl from his grave? No, Mrs. Durham was not one for believing such “folderol” as she called it when Mary confided her nightmares or shared folklore and haunting stories with the servants.
Mary looked at the bedroom door, not hearing the raucous laughter of the funeral guests. “Where is everyone?” Mary asked instead, accepting a lukewarm cup of tea.
“Ah, I sent them home. Well,” Mrs. Durham chuckled, “they left fairly quickly on their own. They were quite startled when you announced you wanted everyone to follow the coffin to its grave. What in the world made you do such a thing? It simply isn’t done.”
No, it wasn’t done, but then, there were a great many things that Mary had done to satisfy Society, and she had decided that Society, in turn, could grant her this one aberration. Mary swallowed the last of the tea and placed the cup on the tray. “I’m rather tired.”
Mrs. Durham frowned, hearing the finality in Mary’s tone. “Of course,” she replied, standing. “I trust you will send for me should you need me?” At Mary’s silent nod, she took her leave, looking none too pleased.
As soon as the door was shut, Mary threw her hands to her face. “I did not see my father’s ghost.” She shivered despite being drenched with sweat. “I must be mad.”
“A bit dramatic, I suppose, but mad? Would I allow you to run my household if you were mad?”
Mary screamed. She grabbed her skirts and scrambled atop her headboard.
At the foot of her bed stood her father. At least, she thought it was her father. It certainly looked just like him. Trentwood stood as he always had when lecturing her, hands clasped behind his back with a stern look on his face. “So you didn’t see me, eh?”