“You’re sweet on the dairy maid?”

“I didn’t say that, did I?” He winked. “I said she’s sweet on me.”

Oh. The thought of Colin kissing the dairy maid made me feel queer inside.

He leaned on his elbow while I told myself it was ridiculous to feel cross. “Maybe I’ll run away with the dairy maid and live in a cottage and eat ice cream all day long and you’ll live in London with your prince and drink out of gold teacups.”

“Gold cups wouldn’t be at all practical,” I felt the need to point out. He grinned. His black hair fell into his eye, as it always did. He could never be bothered to use pomade to sleek it back like the fashionable gentlemen did, and he was more handsome for it. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong wrists and muscular arms. He sprawled, utterly comfortable and utterly confident. I could see how the dairy maid might think he was a bit of all right.

I concentrated on scraping the pink ice cream at the bottom of the pot. It was cold and sweet on my tongue, melting away as it slid down my throat. I nearly purred.

Colin cleared his throat. “Like the ice cream then?”

I opened my eyes. I hadn’t even realized I’d closed them. “Heavenly.”

“Thought you might.”

We ate in a companionable silence. A honeybee drifted between us. A warm breeze ruffled the mint. Birds sang in the hedgerows and someone was playing one of the pianofortes in the house. I refused to think about the ghost in the parlor, the water in my room, or Tabitha. I wasn’t going to spoil this moment. I was sitting in grass with ants crawling over my boots and sticky ice cream on my lips and I was happier than in my best dress under the crystal chandeliers. It was the first time I’d felt myself since we’d left London.

I wondered if there really was something wrong with me.

CHAPTER 6

I barely slept that night.

Instead, I played the incidents over and over in my head: Rowena’s ghost dripping onto the flagstones, the water running down the walls, Tabitha glaring at me. I’d made her angry and vulnerable and I didn’t need to be told she wouldn’t forgive me for it. I knew girls like Tabitha—I’d been raised by one. She would need some kind of revenge. I didn’t know how to tell her she needn’t bother expending all that effort on my behalf; I was hardly competition. If I could convince her of what she already suspected—that I was beneath her notice—things would be easier for me.

And it was easier to worry about Tabitha than it was to wonder how I was going to keep all of this a secret from my mother. Because although I might not know very much about actual conversations with the dead, I did know my mother. She would have me talking to the deceased members of every influential family in the entire city of London, right down to the queen, if she had her way. I had no wish to pursue this newfound talent for seeing spirits. It was already getting me into trouble, and it had been only two days.

Referring to myself as a medium did nothing for my humor.

I had never really considered that other mediums might truly have psychical experiences. I assumed they used the same tricks we did, with varying degrees of success. But I couldn’t deny, however much I wanted to, that something out of the ordinary was occurring.

I punched at my pillow a few more times before giving it up as a lost cause. Clearly, sleep would remain elusive. I sighed and sat up, reaching for my little book of Tennyson’s verse, but even The Lady of Shalott couldn’t keep my attention. It was too easy to imagine myself in a barge seeing visions and floating to my doom. I tucked the book under my pillow, feeling wild, as if I’d had too many honey cakes.

The moon shone through the windows. I’d left the drapes open as it seemed a shame not to take advantage of the view. My window at home was a quarter the size of this one and showed only a scraggly elm and the bricks of the house next door.

I pulled my shawl around my shoulders and opened the glass door leading out onto a wedge of balcony. The night was warm enough that I was comfortable in my faded nightdress and a mended lace dressing gown that had belonged to my mother. The stars flickered like candles, and the wind was full of roses and larkspur.

I couldn’t ignore the pale glimpse of moon-touched water from where the hills gave way to the manicured lawns of Whitestone Manor.

The bushes rustled beneath my balcony. There was a muffled curse.

“Keep your voice down. Do you want to wake the entire house?”

I knew that tone, bitter, disapproving. Caroline Donovan, Tabitha’s governess.

“Darling, you worry too much.”

I didn’t recognize the second voice, male and all smug condescension. I crouched down so I wouldn’t be seen and peered through the gaps between the stone railings. The ground was cold under my feet.

“Everyone’s asleep,” the man reassured her, sounding vaguely bored. I could see only the cuff of his dark jacket and the gleam of his boots. Caroline was half wedged into the yew bush, staring all around her. What on earth was Tabitha’s governess doing here at this time of the night?

“I don’t know about this,” Caroline murmured.

“It’s too late now,” he said cheerfully.

“Be serious, won’t you?”

“Why bother? You’re serious enough for the both of us.”

“We have to be careful.”

“Did you pull me out here for that? I’ve cards to play and brandy to drink.” The answering silence was strained, brittle. Not that he noticed, apparently. “At least give us a kiss.”