The Ghost and Lady Alice

M. C. Beaton/ Marion Chesney

Copyright

The Ghost and Lady Alice
Copyright © 1981 by Marion Chesney
Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

First electronic edition published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.
ISBN Mobipocket edition: 9780795320293

For Charlie,
My Son,
With love.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Wadham Hall stood high among the Sussex Downs, a magnificent example of Elizabethan architecture. Its structure was a rectangular block with six towers. It was surrounded by walled courtyards and gardens, turrets and gatehouses. Since it had been built in an age when glass was a status symbol, it was more glass than brick, its mullioned windows blazing in the sun.

All this magnificence was the property of the Tenth Duke of Haversham. He entertained in a lavish style and his house parties were legendary. His guests considered themselves honored to be invited. The Hall was beautifully run with every luxury and comfort, as an army of servants flitted silently to and fro, catering unobtrusively to every need.

The upper servants did not consider their life very hard although they worked long hours. At least they were housed and fed.

But the lower order of servants lived in a state which was little more than slavery. Their wages were practically nonexistent, there was no escape for them for there was little other work to be had in the surrounding countryside, their living quarters were disgraceful, and they cringed under the all-powerful tyranny of the Groom of the Chambers, Mr. Bessant.

But there is a lot to be said for having never known anything better, and certainly that was so in the case of Alice Lovesey, the little scullery maid.

At least, not that she could remember.

She could certainly remember the hard, calloused feel of the hand that had pulled her toward the servants’ wing of Wadham Hall, but could remember nothing more about the person who had brought her there. She remembered it had been a cold evening, probably autumn, and that the many windows of the Hall had burned in the setting sun like a sheet of flame, and she had cried aloud with terror and had been cuffed into silence.