The Ghostly Brides of Mercer Hall

CHAPTER 1

Tomorrow, my life will forever change. I can't do anything about it, and I'll probably hate Fridays for the rest of my life.

Never again will I sit in my office at Newnham Women's College before class and observe my students strolling through the university gardens, engaging in spirited conversations. Never again will I walk with them. Never again will we laugh together. Never again will I laugh. Never again.

Forever will I imagine how this morning should have been, when we'd discuss how wonderful the sun is on our skin after days of gloomy skies and torrential rains. Forever, my life will be gloomy skies and torrential rains. Forever is a long time to be unhappy. Forever is eternal. Forever.

The time I spend with them outdoors is more enjoyable than sitting here absent-mindedly fiddling with the edge of a newspaper clipping. Yet, I'm troubled by a mystery that threatens my future and can't drag myself from my office. And knowing this will be my last moment of hope for the foreseeable future, my heart is filled with sorrow. They'll pick up on it from my silence.

Three sharp knocks at the door startle me, pulling me from my reverie.

"Come in," I say, hurrying to hide the article under a pile of classical philosophy texts, a habit born from the secrecy of my investigations.

The door opens and Amelia, my research assistant and closest friend, hurries inside. As always, she brings a smile to my face. Her vibrant energy is a welcome contrast to my somber atmosphere.

"Good morning, Cordelia. I thought I'd find you hiding in here. What mystical pondering has consumed you today?"

I point to the newspaper clipping. "I was just reading about Mercer Hall. The reports claim a ghostly bride wanders the manor."

"Oh," she says, her eyes widening as she leans in. "How deliciously chilling!"

"Beyond the ghostly sightings are questions concerning ancient family secrets."

As an adventurous, free spirit, Amelia shares my fascination with the supernatural. We have investigated many paranormal occurrences over the years. Not publicly, for the elite paranormal societies exclude women. However, they hire us covertly and then claim credit for our work.

"It certainly warrants further investigation," Amelia says, perching herself on the edge of my desk. "I wonder what tormented history could have produced such a restless spirit."

I frown. "My thoughts exactly. She was Vivienne Ashford, the bride of the last heir to Mercer Hall... and her many doctors concluded she perished from a strange, undiagnosable illness."

My curiosity stirs, arousing that familiar tingle I often get when pieces of a mystery beg to be fitted together. But before I can ponder further, Amelia clears her throat.

"I came to tell you we've been asked to visit Thornhaven, an estate about 200 kilometers from Cambridge as the crow flies. Strange disturbances... objects moving of their own accord... the usual."

She inspects her nails casually, but I detect a gleam of intrigue in her eye.

"How thrilling. But with my family drama, I can't get away right now. Is anyone residing there in immediate danger?"

"I don't think so. The letter spoke of mostly benign encounters."

I sigh, frustrated I can't help them. "I hate ignoring those in need. Please let the family know we will come as soon as possible. And ensure them they are in no immediate danger."

She nods. "I suspected as much, given everything you are dealing with. Not to worry, I'll pen them a diplomatic reply and make your regrets clear."

I smile, giving her a quick hug. "Your charm and composition skills have saved many social headaches."

"I know. You'd be lost without me."

"Oh, I almost forgot. I am going on a trip for the weekend. If I am late for my afternoon class on Tuesday, will you start the lecture?"

"Of course."

"Great. I will leave my lecture notes on the desk just in case."

"But where are you going?"

I glance at the clock. "Goodness, I am late for my lecture. The students will be waiting." I gather a stack of notes and start for the door, knowing I haven't quelled her curiosity. I hope she will someday understand why I didn't share my plans with her.

"I'll go draft that letter."

I kiss her cheek as she passes. "Thank you. We will catch up on Tuesday."

As I bustle about, tidying my desk, the newspaper clipping beckons.

Vivienne Ashford's pitiful black-and-white likeness calls to me from beyond the veil that separates the living from the dead.

"What dreadful fate befell you, Vivienne?"

On impulse, I pick up my quill, dip it in my inkwell, and scribble a single line beside the article's hand-drawn image of the deceased: What happened to Vivienne? Then I circle the image and place a question mark across her dress.

Donning my plum tweed cloak, I hurry out the door, leaving the cluttered office for what will probably be the last time.