Amanderellaand the Punctual Ghost Chapter 4.

Chapter 4.

 

At Boddals.

 

The landlord accompanied Amanderella to the door. “Sorry, “he said quietly “If I turned him out, I’d have to give him his money back, and I’ve no wish to do that.”

“I understand,” said Amanderella. “I will try The Boddals.”

The landlord nodded. “You’ll want t’upper lane. Go left and then past the butcher’s shop. When you get to the trough that doesn’t hold water no more, take the little turn by the hawthorn tree that looks like it's trying to run away."

“Mind the stile. It wobbles. You’ll see a gate with a stone post that leans a bit. Go past that. House is on the rise above it. Can’t miss it.”

He paused, reconsidered.

“Well, you can, but most folk don’t.”

Amanderella smiled her thanks and, carrying her luggage set out to find Boddals. The street was quiet, the air clearer now she was no longer sharing it with St. John von Vroom, and the rise toward the house showed itself between the roofs like a reasonable alternative.

 As soon as Amanderella stepped out of the inn, the landlord called to a boy sweeping the yard.

“Run up to The Boddals, lad. Ask if they can take a stranded traveller for a night or two. Tell ’em she’s respectable.”

The boy nodded, wiped his hands on his trousers, and set off at a trot up the rise, disappearing round the bend with the easy speed of someone who knew every shortcut between every house.

Amanderella, unaware of the small flurry of organisation behind her, walked at her own steady pace, repeating the directions under her breath.

By the time she reached the leaning gatepost, the message had already been delivered, considered, and approved.

She adjusted her hat, the hat pin catching the late afternoon light, and set off along the lane, leaving the Bramblewick Arms and its over‑friendly guest behind her.

The village seemed to settle around her in its own unhurried way.

A curtain twitched in an upstairs window.

A cat paused mid‑wash to consider her.

Somewhere, a door latch clicked, the sound carrying in the stillness.

 The houses thinned as she walked, giving way to low stone walls and the faint smell of damp earth. The road began to rise almost at once, a steady incline that made no fuss about where it was leading.

Halfway up, she paused to shift her luggage to her other hand. From here she could see the village spread below: the inn sign creaking gently, the butcher’s roof, Joe Pye’s garage with its solitary petrol pump standing like a sentry. A dog barked once, then thought better of it.

Ahead, The Boddals came into view, a tall grey house set just below the crest, its windows catching the shifting light. It had a watchful look, as though it had been keeping an eye on the village for years and saw no reason to stop now.

Amanderella took in the garden wall, the leaning gatepost, the narrow path that ran behind the property toward the cutting. Everything about the place suggested a house that had once had more land and had learned to make do with less.

She walked on, the light softening around her, the rise levelling out beneath her feet. The Boddals waited, quiet and self‑contained, as though it had expected her all along.

Amanderella reached the front door and paused. The bell‑pull beside it was not the usual brass handle but a length of twisted cord, faded to a respectable grey, ending in a small carved wooden acorn. It looked as though it had been installed by someone who trusted rope more than electricity.

She gave it a firm, polite pull.

Somewhere deep inside the house, a system of ancient mechanisms stirred. First came a faint whirr, then a hesitant clank, followed by the unmistakable sound of something travelling along a wire that had not been oiled since the previous century. A moment later, a bell rang, not near the door, but far away in the recesses of the house, as though it were announcing her arrival to the cobwebs in the cellar

The sound echoed up through the floorboards, travelled along a corridor, and finally settled into silence.

Amanderella waited, luggage at her feet, listening to the last faint tremor of the bell fading into the bones of the house.

It was, she thought, exactly what one would have expected from the look of the outside of the house.

The door opened. Honoria Wocal-Eardew stood there with a welcoming smile. “You’ll be the young woman from the inn. The Landlord sent a message.” she said. “I am Honoria Wocal-Eardew. Come in please. We’ve put the kettle on.”

Amanderella stepped inside, relieved and grateful.

The house, which had been listening, seemed to approve.

Honoria led Amanderella into the hallway, where the tiled floor echoed faintly under their steps. She paused beneath the long wire that ran along the skirting board, the bell‑system’s visible backbone, and called, “Avarine!”

A young woman appeared almost at once, wiping her hands on her apron. She had the composed look of someone who had been trained to move quietly and think ahead.

“This is our guest,” Honoria said. “Her motor‑bicycle has given up. She’ll be staying until it’s mended.”

Avarine nodded politely. “Yes, Aunt Honoria.” Her eyes flicked to Amanderella’s luggage. “I’ll take that up.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Thank you. I’m Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler.”

Avarine’s eyebrows lifted a fraction, not in surprise, but in the way of someone mentally filing a name under unusual but manageable. “Welcome to The Boddals, Lady Gottsnobbler.”

Before Amanderella could reply, a door opened further down the hall and a man emerged, tall, thin, and carrying a sheaf of papers that looked as though they had grown there. His spectacles were perched halfway down his nose, giving him the air of someone who had been interrupted mid‑thought.

“This is my husband Osric,” Honoria said, with the resigned fondness of a woman accustomed to living with a man who forgot meals but remembered footnotes.

Osric blinked at Amanderella. “Ah. A visitor. Yes. Good.” He adjusted his papers. “You’re not the motor‑car man, I hope.”

“No,” Amanderella said, with a small smile. “I am not.”

“Excellent. He asked me whether Romans preferred straight roads because they lacked imagination. I told him that was a gross oversimplification. He took notes.”

Honoria gave a small sniff. “Osric, let the girl breathe.”

Osric stepped back, chastened but curious. “Your name, miss?”

“Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler.”

He brightened. “Splendid. A memorable name. I shall not forget it.”

Honoria gestured toward the stairs. “Come along, Lady Gottsnobbler. We’ll get you settled. Avarine, take her case. Osric, stop hovering.”

“I’m not hovering,” Osric said, already hovering.

“Please,” said Amanderella, “call me Amanderella. Lady Gottsnobbler is so formal.”

“Amanderella. Very well. Avarine, take Miss Gottsnobbler’s case up to the blue room.”

Avarine gave a small, approving nod. “Yes, Aunt Honoria. This way, Amanderella.”

The name settled into the house as though it had been waiting for it.

Before Amanderella could follow, a door along the passage opened a cautious inch. A worried eye appeared in the gap, then half a face. Lucian Wocal‑Eardew, earnest and anxious, peered out like a man checking whether the weather had improved.

Honoria sighed. “Lucian, do stop lurking. Come and say hello.”

The door widened by a reluctant two inches. Lucian stepped out just far enough to be seen, but not far enough to commit himself to the room.

“H‑hello,” he said, giving Amanderella a small, nervous bow. “I’m Lucian. I live here.”

Amanderella smiled. “How do you do.”

Lucian nodded, reassured by her calmness, and with the quiet relief of a man who had survived a narrow escape, he retreated behind the door.