1
“N ay, Father! I refuse his offer of marriage for I love another!” John the Maid looks up from the script he has clutched in one hand, the skirt of his heavy brocade gown gripped in the other. “Nay? She isn’t a horse, you know.”
“Cut! Cut!” Mr Pennington lowers the dark, old-fashioned conical megaphone. “Mr The Maid”—he frowns beneath the black beret he has set at a jaunty angle on his head—“John…”
“The Maid,” the huge man corrects in his customary flat tone.
“Excuse me?”
“John the Maid.”
“Yes, quite,” Mr Pennington huffs. “Mr John… the Maid. I have asked repeatedly that you don’t break character. Yes, the language is somewhat archaic, but this is a historically set work of theatrical entertainment. Which I spent a great deal of time writing, by the way.”
“Lady Clare was a local woman born only a couple of hundred years ago, according to the legend, she’s not Lady bloody Guinevere.”
“Alas, Guinevere, Arthur, and Lancelot. Another tragic love triangle,” Mr Pennington laments with a sigh.
“I’m surprised you wanted to write a play about the legend. I thought you wrote horror novels?”
Mr Pennington blinks. “Well, the tale of Lady Clare is sort of a horror.”
“It’s not,” I finally chime in, flicking through the pages of a book on local history I found in the library. “It’s a romantic tragedy. Lady Clare was forced into a loveless marriage by her callous father even though he knew her heart belonged to another. Then, when she planned to escape and run away with her one true love, her husband murdered her.”
“Whereupon her lover murdered her husband and then killed himself.” Mr Pennington waves his hand. “It was a bloodbath! Ergo, a horror story.”
“Hmm, I think you’re missing the whole romance of it,” I reply.
“The stupidity of it you mean.” A disgruntled voice scoffs, followed by a loud clattering sound stage right. We all look over and see the short, plump figure wearing an ill-fitted suit of armour push up their helmet visor. “Do you think you can argue about this some other time?” rings out a loud Scottish brogue. “Some of us have a ton of veggies to prep for this evenings stew.”
“Sorry, Aggie.” I smile at our cook as she waves her sword about.
“And besides, I have to agree with John the Maid.” She clomps awkwardly to the front of the makeshift stage and looks down at us. “Lady Clare and the Legend of Lovers Hollow wasn’t set in the Middle Ages. She came along after Cromwell, around the time of The Restoration, so why am I wearing a suit of armour?”
“Because you’re supposed to be Lady Clare’s cruel and jealous husband, Clement St. John!” Mr Pennington rolls his eyes and gives a long-suffering sigh.
“The way I heard the legend, Clement St. John was landed gentry. The man had money but no title. He wasn’t a knight.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of artistic licence?”
“Is that why I look like a cross between one of the Village People and the town mayor?” Rosie interrupts, absently scratching her fake moustache and adjusting the huge golden chain of office slung around her shoulders.
“No, it’s because you’re Lady Clare’s father. You’re supposed to look commanding and authoritative.” He pauses. “Plus, we didn’t have a costume budget so we had to use whatever we could find in the attics and the storage room.”
“Can I go?” Rosie wrinkles her nose and wiggles her mouth as if the moustache is tickling her. “No one is actually manning the front desk right now.”
The hooded figure of Lady Clare’s lover stands to Rosie’s right and suddenly hops up and down, raising his hand and waving it.
“Are you alright there, Wally?” I ask our newest member of staff.
He pulls the hood back to reveal messy hair the colour of bark, warm brown eyes, and rounded cheeks that are stained pink. “Um, can we take a break? I really need to use the um… bathroom.”
“Does no one have any kind of artistic work ethic? Whatever happened to suffering for your art?”
“I am suffering.” Wally dances from one foot to the other and fists the sides of his long cloak in his hands. “I’ve been holding it for the last twenty minutes. It’s really not good for the kidneys, you know.”
Mr Pennington flings his script over his head dramatically, sending the sheets of paper scattering across the shiny floor. “Oh, why not!” he cries loudly. “Let’s all just take a break willy-nilly, why don’t we? May I remind you that the newest influx of guests arrive this afternoon and our debut performance is scheduled for three days’ time?!”
“Don’t you mean three days hence?” John the Maid says dryly and then stares at the papers that now litter the ballroom floor before raising his gaze back to Mr Pennington. “I hope you’re going to pick those up.”
“Ah,” I interrupt in the hope of avoiding an argument. And because Wally looks like he’s in quite a bit of distress now. “Wally, this isn’t school. You don’t have to ask permission. If you need to use the bathroom, just go. I mean, obviously, don’t just go .” I point to his trousers. “I mean, you know, go.” I hike my thumb over my shoulder towards the door.
“Thank you!” The breath rushes out of him in relief.
He scurries across the stage towards the stairs, but in his haste, he trips over the corner of his cloak. My mouth falls open as he barrels into John the Maid, who stumbles, catching his own heel on his gown. Aggie’s eyes widen but she can’t move quick enough to get out of the way, and the two men crash into her.
The three of them collapse in a pile with an almighty clang and pieces of armour skitter across the stage. One of the freestanding backgrounds teeters alarmingly, and even as I open my mouth to shout out a warning, it slowly topples forward on top of the three upturned, wide-eyed faces.
“Oh my god!” I dart forward, Mr Pennington hot on my heels, and race up the stairs and across the stage. Between the two of us, we lift the backdrop and prop it up against the back wall. “Are you hurt?” I reach for the first person I can see, who happens to be Wally.
“I’m okay. I’m s-so sorry, it was my fault,” he stammers, his previously pink cheeks now burning bright red.
Wally scrambles to try and right himself, but as he’s draped over John the Maid’s back, he just ends up looking like he’s trying to hump the man. Poor Aggie is on the bottom of the pileup, only distinguishable by the arms and legs sticking out from beneath our mountain man of a cleaner.
Mr Pennington and I help Wally up, and John the Maid rolls to the side. “Are you alright, Aggie?” he asks before I can.
“I think you broke my sword,” she wheezes, then lifts her arm. The blade of the weapon she’s still gripping in one hand is now bent at an odd angle. “I bet William Wallace never had to put up with this shite,” she grumbles as I struggle to help her into a sitting position. With that armour on, she’s like an upturned turtle.
“I’m fine.” She removes her helmet and takes a deep breath, knocking it against her breastplate. “This getup may be heavy and uncomfortable, but it fucking works. Might have to consider wearing it full time around young Wally here.”
“I’m so sorry,” he says again, looking absolutely mortified and still jiggling uncomfortably on the spot.
“What the hell is going on here?” A loud, familiar voice echoes across the room.
My heart starts to do a glorious chorus-line can-can, and a wide smile breaks across my face. I twist around so quickly I almost lose my balance, and when I catch sight of the object of my affection— “Morgan!”
I leap off the stage and take off at a run, then launch myself into his arms and wrap my arms and legs around him like a monkey.
My gorgeous boyfriend stumbles back a couple of steps, his hands instinctively cupping my arse to stop me from falling—and to have a quick grope, I hope. He opens his mouth to say something, but I don’t give him a chance. I’m too happy to see him.
Seriously, if I had a tail, it would be wagging.
Instead, I plant one on him, groaning a little too lasciviously for the workplace, but I can’t help myself. I love the taste and feel of his mouth, his full lips, the rasp of his midafternoon stubble against my chin.
He indulges me for an all-too-brief moment of madness, but being a bit more professional than me when in front of staff, he pulls back and sets me on my feet. After pressing a soft, more chaste kiss to my lips, his lips curve into a half smile.
“You’re home.” I beam up at him. “I missed you.”
“Missed you too, sunshine.” He smoothes my collar down and straightens the shiny manager badge on my new suit jacket. “Now, do you want to tell me what on earth you’re all up to?” He nods towards the makeshift stage.
I take his hand and give it a tug to get him moving. “Come on, I’ll show you.” He lets me lead him over to the stage, where the others continue helping Aggie to her feet. That armour is no joke. “We’re putting on a show for the new guests.”
“A show?” His gaze falls on Wally, who’s still holding himself and now practically dancing on the spot like a toddler. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Wally, he’s new. He’s a waiter, but he kinda helps us with a bit of everything until we can afford to take on more staff. Plus, he agreed to live-in as part of his wages, so that helps keep the costs to a minimum.”
Wally hurries in the direction of the stage steps only to trip over his own feet and stumble several paces forward.
Morgan turns to me, one brow raised. “He’s a waiter? You trust him to carry trays of piping hot food and breakable items?”
I smile. “He’s lovely.”
“Ellis,” he sighs. “Lovely is not a qualification. Does he have any hospitality experience?”
“Well, not exactly, but as I am the manager now, it’s my call. I’m sure he’ll fit in just fine.” I tap my shiny new badge and wink at him. “How was your trip?”
“Boring, endless meetings with dull board members who love the sound of their own voices, and don’t change the subject.” He frowns and I just want to kiss that grumpy mouth all over again.
There’s a squeak followed by a startled cry, and Morgan and I turn our heads in time to see Wally step on a piece of armour that I think had been on Aggie’s arm. He skids to the edge of the platform and, windmilling his arms in an attempt to regain his balance, clutches the first available thing.
That just happens to be one of the temporary red velvet stage curtains.
There’s a loud tearing sound and then Wally is swinging out like Quasimodo on a belfry sash.
There’s another crash as more of the curtain rips away under his weight and he hits the ground on his back with a loud, “Oof.”
“Wally? Are you okay?” I hurry over to him.
“I’m fine,” he croaks. He rolls over and pushes himself to his feet, then untangles his cloak, which is probably for the best. He does seem to trip up a lot.
“Wally, this is–” I begin to introduce Morgan, but Wally’s eyes widen in panic.
“Sorry, I’ll be right back. It’s lovely to meet you, but I’m like two seconds away from having an accident.”
He turns and sprints for the door—well, it’s more of a power walk.
“More like he’s two seconds away from causing an accident,” Morgan mutters under his breath. He turns his attention back to me. “Was he really the best candidate?”
“He was the nicest.”
“Nicest?” he parrots slowly.
I give an enthusiastic nod. “I have a feeling about him.”
“Is that feeling ‘we should take out more accidental coverage on our liability insurance’?”
I take his hand again and pull him over to the few chairs set up in front of the stage.
“Seriously.” Morgan looks up at John the Maid as he chats to Rosie. I regard her thoughtfully. She does look a bit like a cartoon villain with that moustache; perhaps we should give her a beard too.
“What are you lot up to?” Morgan asks, drawing my attention back to him. “Is there a reason why John the Maid is wearing a dress?”
“Well.” I pick up a flyer from the pile stacked in a box on one of the chairs to hand to him. “We’ve been brainstorming ideas to help save the hotel, and we decided we needed an event to draw in more guests, but we also need to make sure they have such a good time that they leave brilliant reviews for us.”
He looks down at the flyer in his hand and scans through the information, then looks back at me. “A ghost-hunting weekend? Didn’t you learn anything from the murder mystery weekend fiasco?”
“Well, I do feel confident lessons were learned from that experience,” I say sagely. “Which is why this will be totally different. Since this weekend is Valentine’s Day, we thought that we’d do a long weekend of events based on the Legend of Lovers Hollow.”
“The what of what?”
“The Legend of Lovers Hollow.” I scoop the tourist guidebook off the floor from where I’d dropped it earlier and thumb to the right page. “It’s quite a famous tale around here, although there are several different versions of events and no one can agree on which is correct. Basically, back in seventeen hundred and something, there was a Lady Clare who lived right here at the Ashton-Drake,” I tell him excitedly. “Well, back then it was just called Ashton Manor, I think. We’re pretty certain she was part of your family tree. Cedric is looking it up in the family archives.”
“You’ve dragged my grandfather into this insanity too?”
“It isn’t insanity.”
“Forgive me if I reserve judgement until something goes hideously wrong,” he mutters.
“Anyway, Lady Clare was forced into a marriage her father arranged with a local landowner named Clement St. John, but Lady Clare was madly in love with someone else, someone she was having a torrid affair with.” I sigh and clutch the book to my chest, feeling the wild, clandestine romance of the story wash over my soul.
Morgan’s frown softens, and he reaches up, tugging one of my curls affectionately. “So Lady Clare was having an illicit affair with her secret lover. I’m guessing it didn’t all end well?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Lady Clare planned to run away with her lover. They had arranged to meet at the old hollow tree—which is still on these very grounds, in the forest past the bowling green—but before Lady Clare and her lover could escape, they were discovered by her husband. He murdered Lady Clare, and her lover killed St. John in a fit of rage, and then, in utter despair at losing his love, he killed himself.”
Morgan raises one brow. “Not exactly a Hallmark movie, is it?”
“Apparently, this all happened around Valentine’s Day,” I continue. “And, as Lady Clare seems to be tied to the hotel and your family, we thought we could do a whole event centred around the doomed lovers. We’re putting on a historical re-enactment.” I point to the stage.
“Why does Rosie look like one of the Beatles during their Sgt. Pepper phase?” – Morgan stares at the stage, his eyes narrowing– “And what is Dilys supposed to be?”
I blink and scrutinise her costume. It’s rather obvious, but I answer anyway. “Dilys is the hollow tree.”
Dilys is standing in the centre back of the stage, having not moved a muscle through all the former chaos of her castmates’ mishap. She stares blankly ahead, her tiny, stooped body motionless. Paper leaves are stapled to her floral dress and pastel cardigan, but she’s still wearing her carpet slippers. In each hand she holds a twig.
“Is she okay?” Morgan frowns as he stares at our centennial bartender. “Has she died standing up?”
Rosie reaches out and tentatively nudges Dilys with one finger. For a moment, we all watch with bated breath to see if she keels over, but she swivels her eyes toward Rosie, the rest of her body held immobile.
“Um, I think we’re done, Dilys. You can move now,” Rosie tells her.
Dilys slowly hands Rosie the two twigs and painstakingly shuffles to the edge of the stage and down the steps, then heads towards the door.
“Well, as fun as it was to almost get pancaked by the housekeeping staff and the new waiter, I have to get back to the kitchen.” Aggie rattles down the stairs, still wearing the majority of her armour. “Welcome home, Morgan.” She nods as she passes by.
“I should get back to work too.” John the Maid, in all his six foot four, thickly muscled glory, lifts the hem of his gown with one hand and flicks his fan open with the other, fluttering it in front of his face as he descends the stairs with more grace than expected. “After all, this isn’t Fantasia . Those rooms aren’t going to hoover and dust themselves.”
He nods to Morgan and follows Aggie out the door.
“I’ll go man the front desk in case any of the new guests arrive early.” Rosie smiles. “Good to have you back, sir.”
“I think I’ll have a bit of a re-write. I’m still not feeling the epic tragedy of it all.” Mr Pennington shakes his head and mutters as he trails after Rosie with his arms full of the loose papers he’s collected from the floor. “Nice to see you again, Morgan,” he adds absently as he passes by.
Finally, the door swings closed, and it’s just me and Morgan, who’s now turned his attention back to me.
“Let me just get this straight.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a pained sigh. “You thought the best way to save the hotel was to air my potential ancestors’ dirty laundry in a play put on by our motley crew of misfit hotel staff? A play written by a horror fiction author who’s been suffering with sporadic bouts of writer’s block?”
“Yes.” I smile widely.
“I still think you should have let us play the part of the ghostly lovers. We could do it so much more justice than you fleshies,” a familiar and snarky voice chimes in from beside us.
“With the added bonus of scaring the guests, of course,” another familiar but gruff voice adds.
“Oh, good. Bertie and Roger are here.” Morgan looks upward and sighs.
“That’s Aunt Bertie to you, lad,” our resident chief ghost says gruffly.
Morgan turns towards his deceased great-aunt several times over. His tone, when he speaks, is droll. “Must I?”
“Well, I suppose not. It’s more a request.”
Roger bounces on the toes of his neatly laced tennis shoes, his hand in the air. “Ooh, ooh, if we’re making requests, I request to call him Daddy.”
“No,” I say firmly, and he pouts.
“Spoilsport.” He huffs, his little blond moustache ruffling as he purses his lips sulkily.
“What are you doing here, Bertie?” Morgan frowns.
“I live here. Pay attention, lad.” Bertie tuts. “I swear, you’re getting as scatterbrained as that grandfather of yours. It comes down the male line, you know,” Bertie whispers to me. “They’re all like it, not as robust as the female line.”
“No.” Morgan rolls his eyes. “What are you doing here, in this room? I thought you’d been told to stop showing yourself to the living.”
“Pfft,” she scoffs, waving her hand. “We’re here to offer our help with Ellis’s ghost-hunting Valentine’s extravaganza.”
“Extravaganza?” Morgan turns back to me.
“Well, the play is only part of it. We’re making the Legend of Lovers Hollow a whole weekend event. On Valentine’s night, there’ll be a midnight ghost hunt out to the old hollow where the murders are supposed to have taken place, and Rosie’s planning a whole Valentine masked ball too. It’s going to be so much fun! Oh, we’re also doing a scavenger hunt and an escape room!”
He stares. “What are they escaping from?”
“Well, hopefully not murderous, bloodthirsty ghosts,” Bertie says.
“I sincerely hope that’s a joke.”
“Well, we thought–” Bertie turns to me.
“Please don’t, that never ends well,” Morgan cuts her off, but she ignores him and instead focuses on me.
“We thought we could put on a bit of a show. You know, hit the guests with a bit of the old paranormal razzle-dazzle. Give ’em a good ole scare.”
“Bertie, we don’t want to actually scare them, remember?” I remind her patiently.
“We don’t?” She huffs. “But I thought we’d decided that we were aiming for this place to become known as a highly haunted hotel? To bring in the tourists.”
“Well, yes, but we don’t want to cause anyone undue distress. We’ve already talked about this. Plus, Morgan is right. You aren’t supposed to be showing yourselves to the living. Aren’t all the ghosts still under investigation by the Bureau of Domestic Hauntings?”
“That gets crazier every time I hear it.” Morgan shakes his head.
“Isn’t that Stanley bloke, the ghost from the Bureau, still hanging around here somewhere?”
“Don’t you worry about him.” Roger wiggles his eyebrows. “We’re keeping him busy.”
“Just”—I let out a heavy breath—“I don’t want you all to get in trouble.”
“Fear not.” Bertie grins. “We have everything under control. Trust me, the guests will be talking about this weekend for years to come.”
“Oh, I don’t think–”
But it’s too late. Bertie and Roger have both disappeared.
“Tell me I’m not the only one with a bad feeling about those two loose in the hotel during an amateur ghost-hunting weekend?” Morgan says sourly.
“I’m sure it won’t be too bad,” I reassure him. “They mean well.”
“I’m sure the lookouts on the Titanic did too, right before they hit an iceberg.”
“You know”—I rise up onto my tiptoes and wrap my arms around his neck—“I haven’t seen you for a whole week. We’ve got at least a couple of hours before the guests arrive.”
“Is that so?” He smiles, teasing his lips over mine.
“I think we should find somewhere more private so I can show you exactly how much I missed you.” I rub my nose against his and tilt my head so he can fit his lips more perfectly to mine.
He leans in, and my belly jumps in anticipation. But before I get the chance to taste him, the door to the ballroom crashes open. We both startle at the sudden noise and look over in time to see Wally stumble through the door.
“Whoops, sorry!” he calls, climbing to his feet and jogging slowly towards us. By the time he stops, he’s red-faced and out of breath. He looks around. “Hey, where did everyone go?”
Morgan scowls, clearly annoyed at us being interrupted. “Back to work.”
“Wally.” I smile at my newest member of staff, trying to soften the rough edges of my boyfriend’s grumpy but adorable temperament. “This is Morgan Ashton-Drake. Morgan, this is Wally.”
“Ashton-Drake?” Wally squeaks at the same time as Morgan says, “Wally? Is that short for Walter?”
“Um.” He flushes, and I can’t blame him; my boyfriend is yummy. “It’s short for Walbert… Walbert Hobson.” He holds out a shaky hand.
“That’s an unusual name.”
“It’s an old family name, and it was my grandad’s,” he says proudly. “Speaking of grandfathers. Is, uh… is Mr Ashton-Drake your grandfather? Father?”
“Father?” Morgan’s eyes narrow. “I’m not that old.”
“I didn’t mean–” Wally squeaks again. “I just—” He turns to me, obviously deciding I’m the safer option. “Mr Ashton-Drake is wandering around the third floor in his underpants again. Do you want me to try and convince him to put some trousers on before the new guests arrive?”
I chuckle as Morgan sighs in resignation. “It’s okay, Wally, I’ll go and speak to him. Why don’t you go and see if Rosie needs any help?”
“Will do.” He gives Morgan a timid smile and scurries out of the room.
“He gets nervous,” I say as I take his hand. “You could try to be a little less scowly.”
“This is my natural face.”
“And it’s gorgeous.” I press a kiss to his lips. “But maybe you could try a little harder with Wally. A little smile would go a long way.”
He huffs. “I’ll smile when the hotel is back in the black and the resident ghosts stop getting into trouble with the afterlife bureaucracy.”
“Come on.” I tug his hand and lead him towards the door. “Let’s see if we can convince Cedric to put his trousers back on.”