'Who is she?' Blair mused, eyeing the portrait that hung on the wall before her.
It wasn't a particularly skilled work, and nestled in a corner, certainly not the one the small gallery's curator had intended for the viewer's eye to be drawn to. But Blair was transfixed, though, staring intently at the young subject's regal, sloping nose, pert mouth and inquisitive stare.
The who in question was a wide-eyed teenager, her chestnut hair twisted in ringlets, her body robed in expensive silks.
'That's The Wicked Lady.' Chuck murmured, reading the plaque from behind her. 'Don't look into her eyes for too long or she'll get you.' He whispered against the shell of her ear.
'Hush.' Blair scorned the thought. 'She's clearly just an innocent girl.' She was barely able to hear her own voice over the noise of the picture in her brain.
'That's how she lures you in - trickery – then she goes for the kill.' He countered, squeezing suddenly at her waist.
Blair squealed, jumping back into his grasp. She smacked his chest.
'Don't be afraid, Blair. I've got you.' Chuck grinned wide.
'Right.' She scoffed, still breathless. 'You expect me to be scared of a four-hundred-year-old painting? You just made me jump, that's all.'
He shrugged pulling her arm away from the portrait that had so captured her attention. 'I'm certainly beginning to feel plagued by a horror- boredom. Let's go back to the hotel and have dinner. One of my connections has recommended a place in Mayfair.'
She didn't protest with her movements, but her eyes hesitated, not wishing to tear immediately away from the painted girl's enthralling gaze.
It wasn't until after their dinner, lying in the middle of the grand bed, that Blair reached for her phone to quench her thirst for more information on the girl, whose likeness had so inexplicably moved her.
'Katherine Ferrers.' She spoke aloud, pushing through the pages of gruesome myth to find out more, more and more.
'Who? Is that someone you know here?' Chuck called from the bathroom, where she knew he was preening in the mirror.
'No.' She tutted. 'That was her name, The Wicked Lady.' She told him, confronted once more by her eyes, just as curious and questioning as they had been when she'd seen them in oil.
'You're not still on that, are you?' Chuck grumbled, emerging from the bathroom with his palm full of hair wax.
'She was a highwaywoman.' Blair read from the webpage, ignoring his protestation. 'They say she terrorised Hertfordshire before dying from gunshot wounds sustained during one of her robberies.' She mused.
'Why do you sound so impressed?' Chuck snickered. 'Should I be worried about your plans for me? You do stand to inherit rather a lot.'
Blair ignored his questions. 'You know, she didn't live that far away- and the house is for sale. Could we visit it tomorrow?' She widened her eyes slightly, fluttering her lashes in the way she knew he could rarely resist.
Chuck rolled his eyes. 'You want to visit some decrepit old house, that isn't even a museum, under the guise of hoping to buy it? Why?'
She regarded the old house, its vastness and its mystery, and marvelled at the thought of walking its old halls.
'I'm just curious about her.' She admitted. 'I feel drawn to her history- you know how I feel about disobedient women.' Blair pouted.
'Can't you be curious about somewhere like Blenheim Palace instead?' He grumbled, though she knew she had him on the backfoot.
'My mother and father took me there for Christmas one year, I want to go here.' She stabbed her finger at the image on the screen.
'You're a perplexing woman at times.'
'It's called Markyate Cell.' Blair continued, brushing his comments off. 'I want to see where she grew up.'
'Why?' He watched her with eyes narrowed and brows pinched. 'Anyone would think you knew her.'
Blair could not truly explain that she felt like she did know her. 'Nor could she explain the strange compulsion she felt to visit the expanse of land where Katherine had spent her youth and met her untimely demise. She simply knew she couldn't leave the country without doing so.
'Don't you think it's thrilling? A noblewoman living a double life that went against her position and her sex, to commit crimes on darkened, country lanes?' Her eyes glittered.
'If this is a roleplay thing, can't we just do a dramatic reading of Black Bess to satisfy your cravings?'
'Black Bess is about a man.' She frowned, though not entirely moving his suggestion off the table. They'd return to that thought another time.
He stared at her incredulously, but seeing she was gravely serious, disappeared for a moment to wash off his hands, then reached for the phone.
'It's not even the house she grew up in, Blair.' Chuck protested after some moments spent skimming through the information she'd presented. 'They built this place on the land she once owned, hundreds of years after her death.'
'I'd still like to go.' She whined, folding her arms in front of her chest.
Chuck sighed heavily. 'Fine. We'll take a trip into the country if we must.' He passed the phone back. 'But I'm not buying the place.'
'Why? Are you afraid it's haunted?' Blair poked him gently in the ribs.
'No.' He insisted. 'But if you want me to take you back to Boodles before we leave, you'd better zip it.' Chuck warned with a grin.
She ran the zip across her lips and twisted the key for good measure.
That night, Blair dreamt of Katherine; she followed her through a dimly lit passage beneath the big house, no light but that from a flickering candle to light the crimson trail she'd left behind her.
'Katherine?' Blair called out, stumbling through the darkness that never seemed to end. 'Where are you?'
No reply came, but a far-off, ghostly giggle haunted the walls.
'Where are you?' She cried again, growing more and more frantic with each tread of her feet into the dark, muddy trail.
The deafening sound of one gunshot, then another, ricocheted around the tight passageway.
A sharp pain below her ribs caused Blair to sharply draw air through her clenched teeth, the candle almost slipping from her fingers. She pressed her hand against the tender spot and found it saturated by moisture. With trembling fingers, she held the candle close to her abdomen. Her corseted gown was soaked in scarlet.
'Blair?'
Woken with a start, she felt Chuck's hands around her stomach, holding her fast in the same spot her life had been seeping so readily from mere moments before her eyes had opened.
'Blair, are you alright? You haven't had a nightmare in a long time. I thought they were gone.' He murmured soft and sad, crushing her close to his chest.
For some time after Bart's death, she'd suffered bad dreams about the events that had brought them so rapidly together the year before. But those had been absent from her nights for months now.
'It wasn't that.' She assured him groggily, twisting to look at his guilt-stricken eyes. 'It wasn't.'
'Then what?'
She bit her lip, studying his face. He'd never take her there if she told him, and she needed to go, needed to see it for herself.
'I dreamt that Serena was kidnapped.' She lied, her voice wavering.
Chuck frowned but did not press her for the truth. Instead, he held her tighter as she fell back into another troubled cycle of sleep.
They left for Markyate Cell early the next morning. It had taken some persuading, but the agent representing the seller had finally agreed to give them a spot to view the house. She'd told them, over and over, how the house was listed, how they'd not be able to change anything significant about it- not that she would have in any case, the house would never have allowed it.
The weather as they approached the small village had taken a turn for the worse, the sky clouding with stretches of grey that threatened to spill over at any second.
'Horrid day for it.' The agent mumbled as they'd stepped out of the limo.
'Indeed.' Chuck agreed, shaking the woman's hand. Her suit was too shiny, her shoes a size bigger than she required.
'I'm afraid it might be too misty to properly see what the gardens have to offer today.' The agent said, gesturing to the miserable skies again. 'But there's a nice pub that does Sunday lunch, just across the village, if you're around for long.'
'Reminds me of the poem.' Blair hummed. 'The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.' She recited the words, peering around the agent at the immense building.
Its bricks were many and the faded red of old blood stains. It was lined by scores of wide windows, lamely lighting the inside with the greyness above.
'So, I see you've not arrived unaware of the house's much-romanticised history, then.' The agent chuckled. 'A lot of people around here wonder if there's any truth to it all.'
'Blair is worried the place might be haunted.' Chuck taunted, as he slung an arm around her shoulder and squeezed gently.
'I can guarantee you there are no ghosts here.' She assured the couple quickly, eyeing the worth of their belongings and perhaps spotting a better opportunity for a sale than she'd ever seen before. 'If you like that sort of thing, though, there's an old, abandoned Church over in Clophill that people promise me is terribly haunted- allegedly it was used as a site for practicing black magic.'
Blair smirked. 'Chuck is too nervous to admit it, but it's he who's afraid.' She sang sweetly, pulling down on the hand that still lingered around her neck. 'So, can we see the place?'
'Of course, follow me.' She led them towards arched doors, gaping like a vast mouth hung open. 'Forgive me, but the owner has requested that we do not go into the cellar.'
'Why?' Blair grimaced.
'Something about cobwebs.' Her lie was poor and non-committal.
Blair wasn't so sure anymore that lot of people around there did wonder at all about the much-romanticised truth of the tales.
'Right.' She agreed, now more determined than anything else to get down there. 'Where is the basement?' Blair asked. 'Just out of interest.' She ignored Chuck's warning glance.
'Down there.' The agent motioned to a door off the left of the entrance. 'Shall we look at the kitchen first? The owner has installed top-of-the-range appliances.'
The kitchen was as big, bright, airy and top of the range as promised. In fact, there was little left of its original state - only hints in the ornate coving - with wide, square tiles, modern, marble counters and needless gadgets occupying all the space. There was a strange sadness about the difference between the house's outside and its inside, like its character had been eaten up from within.
After being led through more and more doors, and feigning interest in the off-putting contrast constructed by the house's modern upgrades, Blair made her excuses.
'Did I see a bathroom downstairs as we came in? Sorry, it was a long ride from the city.'
'Sure, just downstairs. Do you remember the way we came up?'
She didn't bother to answer. Fleeing the spacious bedroom for the staircase, Blair flew downstairs and back towards the basement door. She approached it cautiously at first, but hearing Chuck and the agent pacing around in the upstairs rooms, reached out for the cold, brass handle and twisted without hesitation.
The open door revealed a concrete staircase that led down to another door. Emanating from up the stairs, a chill sent a shiver across Blair's whole body. But Katherine's eyes, those wide, curious eyes, spurred her forward. She took the first step.
Every instinct in her body told her to go back. She took the next step.
Every nerve-ending in her brain lit up and told her no. She took the third step.
The chill grew colder. She took the fourth step.
'Don't go down there, please.' A small voice behind Blair made her yelp as she spun round to confront the interruption.
A young girl stood no more than a few steps away from the door she'd just flung open.
'Who are you?' Blair demanded, regarding the slip of a girl. Her hair was long, brown and immaculately styled in curls, she had dark eyes and skin even paler than any of the sun-deprived Brits Blair had seen thus far on her trip.
'I live here.' She answered, her chin lifting with pride. 'Who are you?'
Blair's sense of shame returned to her then, and she clambered back up the steps. 'I'm sorry, I'm just viewing the house, I wondered what was down there.'
'There's nothing to see down there.' The girl maintained, her gaze fixed on the door at the bottom of the stairs for more than one unnerving moment.
'So, why can't I look?' Blair queried the precocious child.
'She doesn't like it.' The girl insisted. 'You mustn't.'
'Who is she? Your mother?' Blair turned to look back at the second door too, all that had kept her from seeing the basement she'd felt so drawn towards. 'I just want to see it.' She whispered, before turning back to face the child.
Without even a whisper of sound, the girl had vanished. Slamming the door behind herself, Blair blinked furiously, turning left and right to find the strange thing.
'Are you alright?' The voice of the agent was the next grounding thing that came to her, appearing from the top of the stairs with her husband close behind.
He went to her quicker than she could stumble towards him. 'What's wrong?' Chuck's hands moved from the top of her head to her clammy cheeks, then her shoulders.
'Is there a child living here?' Blair demanded of the agent.
'Oh.' She smiled a knowing smile. 'I thought Charlotte was at her grandmother's today, but perhaps I was wrong.'
'Charlotte… Dark hair, very pale?' Blair questioned hurriedly.
'That'll be her- the owner's daughter. She grew up rather quiet and alone with no siblings, so she's got a bit of a habit for sneaking up on people, I'm afraid.'
Blair sighed, the painfully held breath leaving her chest at last.
'And there's nobody here to occupy the child? To watch her?' Chuck asked.
'She's fourteen, her mother leaves her at home alone fairly often.' The agent admitted.
Blair felt Chuck stiffen at her side.
'Come on, let's get away from here. Now.' Chuck whispered to her, leading her by the hand towards the door. 'We'll be in touch.' He shot back to the befuddled agent, before they slipped out of the door.
The gravel crunched noisily beneath their quick feet, as he hurried her back to the limo and barked orders at the driver to take them to the closest appropriate establishment.
'You looked like you were going to pass out back there, Blair.' Chuck said, when the car began rolling off the estate.
'That kid gave me a fright.' She agreed breathily, leaning her head against the comforting headrest, inhaling its familiar leathery scent. She turned towards Chuck, his own face had grown ghostly pale. 'What's wrong with you?' She demanded.
'The kid was upstairs, Blair. I opened the door to her bedroom by mistake, seconds before we heard you slamming the door downstairs. She was reading a book in her room.'
'She can't have been, she was right there. Pale skin, long brown curls.' Her image of the child was unfaltering.
'Her hair was black, Blair, and straight. She introduced herself to me as Charlotte.'
Blair felt frightened tears spring to her eyes and dabbed at them almost manically.
After a while, she got her breathing back under control. 'There's got to be some logical explanation for this.' She promised, both for him and herself.
'Got to be.' He agreed, uncertain.
Chuck held onto her tight as they got out of the car and walked towards the old pub. It wasn't their usual style, but in perfect opposition to the manor, it was warm and inviting, bright and noisy. Grinning red faces turned to welcome their entrance, with hands that sloshed around glasses of golden, malty beer which, at any moment could have, but never quite did slop over the brimming rims of glasses
'You two look like you've seen better days.' Jested the landlady. 'What can I get you?'
'I'll have a very large glass of white, preferably French.' Blair said shakily.
'Same for me.'
The two glasses of nondescript white wine slid across the bar and Chuck handed back a crisp note.
'We don't often get your kind all the way out here.'
'We were just viewing Markyate Cell.' Blair mumbled quickly.
'Oh- that place seems to be unsellable. Did you like it?' The woman pondered with one eyebrow raised.
'It was alright.' Blair said, hoping to get away from the bar and the conversation as quickly as possible. 'A little nouveau inside, in places.'
'Yeah- the locals can't stand the place. Most wanted it given to The National Trust, but it was bought up by some big money from London. He let his wife pretty much gut the inside- she stripped it of all the old features she legally could. The place is just a shell these days. Pardon me, though, I'm talking your ear off.' She mused, offering Chuck a handful of coins.
'Keep the change.'
They both stayed silent a while, nursing their slightly vinegary wine, while nestled in a small booth as close to one another as they could have possibly got.
'The basement, that's where they didn't want us going, that's where I saw her.' Blair spoke after a few peaceful moments.
Graciously, and as usual, he overlooked her proclivity for snooping in places she'd been expressly prohibited from entering. 'When we were upstairs, that's how the agent said the highwaywoman used to leave and enter the house in her disguise. I mean before, back when it was a different house, of course.'
'Did she say much else?' Blair's eyes darted back and forth, searching for more pieces of the puzzle from him.
'That apparently that's where they found her, how they knew it was her. She was down there and had died of her wounds. All around were her weapons, men's clothing and other damning artefacts.' Chuck listed the facts of Katherine Ferrers' crimes and death in quick succession, almost stumbling over them in his haste.
'God this is freaking me out. We need to stop, ghosts aren't real.' Blair hung her head in her hands.
'Of course they aren't.' Chuck agreed, nodding over the brim of his already half-finished glass.
'I need to use the bathroom.' She slid out of the booth and hurried towards two doors; one was teasingly marked highwaymen, the other, highwaywomen.
With a shudder, Blair pushed on into the ladies room and shut herself into a stall, hurrying to get back to the warmth of her husband's arms at the snug table. She scurried towards the sink and scrubbed at her hands violently, then looked up at the mirror to assess her slightly-frazzled appearance.
Terror like she'd never known struck her heart again, when a mop of brown curls disappeared behind a crack in the door that was barely visible in the edge of the mirror she looked into.
Her hands still dripping, Blair flew back to the table and pulled at Chuck's arm hurriedly.
'Blair, your hands are soaking.' He complained, not seeing her face. When he did, he stood immediately, needing little more instruction that that.
'We need to go, now!' She insisted, pulling him out of the building and back into the car.
Whether it was her mind running in overdrive, or something more, Blair knew she could never tell anybody about what had occurred that day.
'We're never speaking about this, to anyone, and we're never coming back here.' She told him firmly.
'Agreed.' Chuck whispered, staring out into the quickly blurring fields of the countryside.
So, what do you think? A genuine ghost, or a sneaky conspiracy to stop outside purchase, put together by a village of people who don't want their history bastardised any further?
Happy Halloween!
The Wicked Lady is actually a real story and I grew up around the area (not that I've ever encountered any highwayghouls or prank-playing locals). Have a look into her story if you're interested, this barely scratches the surface. The abandoned, black magic church is real too!
