The Haunting at Hawke's Moor

by Camille Oster

  The Haunting at Hawke’s Moor

  By Camille Oster

  Copyright Camille Oster 2016

  Published at Smashwords

  Copyright 2016 Camille Oster

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the work of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Camille Oster – Author

  www.camilleoster.com

  http://www.facebook.com/pages/Camille-Oster/489718877729579

  camilleosternz@gmail.com

  @Camille_Oster

  Chapter 1:

  London, 1873

  Anne Kinelly stood on the raised platform next to the judge's podium—or was it a pulpit. No surely, it wasn't called that. Whispered noises sounded throughout the courtroom as she stood there, trying to keep herself strong. Maybe her surname wasn't Kinelly anymore. Her husband sat on the other side of the courtroom avoiding her eyes. His mouth was drawn and tight, his hair neatly combed.

  All eyes were on her, judging her as inadequate and defective. Stanford was living with his mistress, but she was the one accused of adultery. Never had she committed adultery, but a man she barely knew was complicit with Stanford's accusations, declaring to the world how welcoming she had been of his advances.

  Her ruination was complete.

  She had taken lodgings in a boarding house, but her meager provisions were running out. Her husband had cut her off and she had no means to support herself in the future.

  Finely dressed ladies and gentlemen were whispering amongst themselves, some of them amused by her devastation, others looking sorrowful. There was no coming back from this. She was as welcome in her society as a leper, feared in case the contagiousness of whatever deviousness, character fault or other unsuitability had forced her husband to take this drastic step.

  In truth, he wanted to marry again, his mistress having grown tired of being hidden, not when his wealth and position could be enjoyed around London. Anne would be swept away with the dust of years past, to be forgotten and ignored. A solitary maid was her only company now, a surly girl who was less than happy at the reduced circumstances which extended to her as well.

  Perhaps if she wasn't named Kinelly anymore, she could go back to her maiden name, Sands. At least her parents were not alive to be devastated by this fate. She could spare them that, at least.

  The judge pounded the gavel, finalizing the divorce. It was done. The murmur grew louder and Anne could feel the disapproval emanating from the audience, burning her skin. People started leaving, but there were still questions unanswered. Stanford was the first to go, ignoring the question on her lips. He didn't care; he hadn't for many years, only viewed her as a nuisance that blighted his house. Harry, her son, had been the only thing they had in common, but his disapproval was as deep as his father's. She hadn't seen him for months, since he returned to Oxford for his education. Thinking of the tall, gangly young man sent a warm feeling through her frozen and battered heart. But her letters were now returning unopened, and that had probably hurt her more than anything else in this madness.

  No one spoke to her as she slowly stepped down and walked toward the large doors in the back of the courtroom. She was no one now, a person of no consequence. Men weren't polite, one of them even bumping into her without apologizing. Rubbing her aching arm, she walked through the large, cavernous hall and out onto the streets, feeling stunned.

  Unrelenting poverty loomed before her. Not even a small annuity had been provided for her. Tears stung her eyes as she watched the costermongers along the street shouting at passersby, pushing their goods. She needed to establish some means of supporting herself or she would end up in the workhouse. The world as she knew it had fallen apart, but the city around her went about their business without noticing.

  Stanford had likely convinced himself she was guilty, because he wanted it to be true, alleviating himself from responsibility and guilt. He had never been a generous man, but she had tried her best to love him during the years, the latter of which he wanted very little from her but her absence.

  Holding her reticule close, she walked down the streets that were getting increasingly rougher and darker. She hated living in this part of the city, but she could afford little else. Better to stretch the few pennies she had than to spend them at once in Mayfair. Distraught washed over her again, but Harry's desertion still hurt the most.

  Divorcees tended to not live long and she understood why. A mountain of uncertainty faced her now and she had few skills to deal with this. She'd only ever been expected to be a wife, and she would never be that again. She had no useful skills, but could perhaps manage some sewing. It was dismally paying work and it probably wouldn't support her. Her disgrace kept her from any honorable profession, such as companion or governess. It all seemed impossible.

  "You're looking lost there, love," a grimy man said, smiling, his rotten teeth black and the stench of him assaulted her. She was smart enough to know that help was not forthcoming in this city and this man was probably looking to steal the few coins she had left.

  "I am not," she said as harshly as she could.

  "You sure I can't assist you now?"

  "Go away. There is a constable around the corner I just came from."

  The man's eyes narrowed and for a moment he looked uncertain what to do, but the fear of the law finally won and he slunk away.

  She would have to watch for him so he didn't follow and accost her in some dark alley, having picked her as a victim for his devious deeds. Perhaps she shouldn't be showing how despondent she felt, thereby attracting anyone willing to pick on the weak and lost. Straightening herself, she walked at a brisker pace, but it was still so very far to her horrid little rooms, which smelled of boiled cabbage.

  Anne sat in the small parlor of her new lodgings, where Lisle slept at night, adjoining the one bedroom. There was no kitchen so all their provisions had to be purchased down on the street below. Each day, her small stash of coins shrunk and the day would come when she couldn't afford to pay for her lodgings.

  What options did she have? She would have to send a letter to Stanford, or maybe even Harry, asking for assistance. Feeling the prickling of tears and distress in her nose, she pinched its bridge to stop herself from weeping yet again.

  The door opened behind her, the hinges years since seeing any oil. "There is a letter for you, Miss." Even Lisle was complicit in pointing out her reduced stature. No doubt she would lose Lisle soon, preferring a grand house to live and work in, instead of here with the colicky baby upstairs and constant pounding as people walked up and down the stairs just outside their rooms.

  But there was a letter, the first communication she'd had since the divorce. She noticed the seal of Mr. Charterham, her solicitor, a reproachful and disapproving man her husband had hired to represent her through the divorce. No doubt to Stanford's disappointment, a woman could not divorce without some form of representation.

  Cracking the seal, she saw a request for her to come see him. It said nothing more. Traversing the city to the Charterham offices seemed such an onerous task, it almost seemed insurmountable, but she had nothi
ng else to do, other than to spend another day staring at the damaged and faded wallpaper. Maybe this missive even came with some hope. Perhaps Stanford was on the deepest level admitting he orchestrated her demise and finally felt some guilt, enough to perhaps keep her out of the dreaded workhouse.

  "I will need my coat," Anne stated.

  "You're leaving the house today?" Lisle said in a manner too forward for a servant. Her regard had changed with the respectability of their address and now barely kept the derision out of her voice.

  "It appears so," Anne said, more for the sake of talking than any real interest in discussing her affairs with Lisle.

  Anne pinned her hat in the broken mirror by the door and accepted the coat Lisle assisted her with. She buttoned it and noticed the coat was larger on her frame than a few weeks ago. The uncertainty and distress had chased her appetite away, not helped by the tasteless and dubious food they purchased on the street.

  As sad as it was, this missive from her solicitor was the only faint hope she had on her horizon. Surely he wouldn't call her to his office for no reason whatsoever. Perhaps Stanford had decided to forward some of her personal effects, which she could in turn sell. Anything was needed right now, if only to stop her from sinking into the dark abyss that threatened to engulf her unless she steeled herself.

  The streets were a jumble of activity, carriages and hacks, carts and people. Costermongers were on every available space, touting their goods, while the black smoke of coal lingered.

  Anne walked past a coffee house and the smell made her insides clench with craving, but she refused to divert any coins to such pleasures. Would she ever have a cup again? Were all small pleasures in life lost to her? At thirty four years of age, she would perhaps never taste the sweetness of pastries or the taste of good wine.

  She walked down Fleet Street, barely being missed by a cart, which tore a rip in her coat. On the whole, she was lucky to be alive, but a rip didn't help. These clothes would likely have to last her a long time. Again, she felt like turning around and slinking back to her rooms to barricade herself inside, but hope was at the end of this journey and she needed that more than she needed to hide.

  Mr. Charterham's offices were up a set of stairs, down a dark hall clad in heavy mahogany, until she reached a door with his name in gold lettering.

  A clerk sat at the desk, scribbling in a large tome. "Ah, Mrs. Kinelly," he said with a humorless smile. "Please take a seat."

  She did, not bothering to correct him on his address. What did it matter? Perhaps he did so on purpose so not to highlight her abject reduction in station. It was kind of him if it were so. Kindness was something she'd seen rarely, of late.

  Another set of doors opened and Mr. Charterham appeared. "Miss Sands, please come in." Charterham took no such pains preserving her station. She smiled tightly and rose, hoping Mr. Charterham would not expect payment for this visit, as that would be as devastating on her as the divorce at this point. It was funny how smaller and smaller things represented devastation.

  "Please take a seat," he said and returned to his chair. Documents were strewn over his desk. The chair creaked as he sat down and now blatantly considered her. She had never felt comfortable in his presence. "It is not a nice thing what has happened to you, and I have felt pity for your circumstances."

  "Thank you," she said, unsure where this was going.

  "So, I thought I would see what can be done for you," he said more brightly, picking up a set of spectacles and putting them on. He picked up a piece of paper. "And we have had some success."

  Anne blinked, hope surging.

  "In fact, we have found you a house."

  "A house," Anne repeated breathily.

  "A manor even, but don't get excited. It is old and unoccupied. I'm not sure it's fit for living."

  "Where I am now is not far off," she conceded in a rare show of honesty about how poor her situation was.

  Mr. Charterham smiled indulgently. "It has been placed in trust by one of your great aunts, but no one wanted it, so it's been sitting there since. The location is equally desolate, I'm afraid. Yorkshire. But it is something."

  A house. She had a house, untouchable by Stanford, who had kept everything else. This was a stroke of luck she could scarcely believe.

  Charterham reached for an envelope, which showed the signs of dust and stains. He opened it. "And here is the key, apparently; been sitting in wait for someone to come claim it." He pulled out a black, iron key. It was large and heavy, made in a bygone era. Anne clasped her hand around it and felt the coolness of the metal seep into her hand. Hope lay in her hand. A house, and she could grow vegetables, maybe even the odd livestock. She would not be starving and the specter of the workhouse faded away.

  "I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Charterham," she said, tears again prickling her nose, but of joy this time.

  "I am simply glad this came about. I don't like seeing ladies in such reduced circumstances. It reflects poorly on us as a society, I think. So I am pleased. Best of luck for your future." Maybe Mr. Charterham was one of the few people she had met who didn't actually believe in the stigma divorce brought. She wasn't actually a different person from a week ago, but he had taken the time and effort to help her, and now she had a future thanks to this man.

  Again, she thanked him profusely, walking out a much lighter person, the key still clasped in her hand. This house was hers and no one could take it away from her. Now she even had somewhere Harry could come visit if he chose to acknowledge her again, but being merely seventeen, other concerns occupied his mind.

  Chapter 2:

  The train stopped at the station they sought and Anne rose, excusing herself and Lisle as she navigated her skirt around the knees of the man sitting opposite them. Taking the handle, she opened the carriage door and pushed out her umbrella. It had started raining and the scenery had been lost to them the last hour or so, but finally, there was fresh air.

  A porter came and unloaded their trunks, rushing in the rain while they retreated toward the small, slate station building. Passengers embarked and rail engineers ran around filling the locomotive with water. The steam plumed white over them and then started the deep, heavy chugs at the train inched forward again, the steam plume carried by the wind. The rattle of the carriages built as the train gained speed, then receded, leaving a ringing in Anne's ear with the absence of noise.

  "Welcome to Goathland Station," the old porter said, water dripping off his cap. "I am David Canning," the older man said, water dripping off his cap.

  "Miss Sands," Anne said with a nod. "Would you be able to tell us how to organize some transport for ourselves and our trunks?"

  "I certainly can, Miss," the man said. "Where'd you be going onto?"

  "Hawke's Manor," she said, having to speak loudly over the increasing rain.

  The man blinked and didn't say anything for a moment, just looked at her.

  "Do you know where it is?"

  "I do," he finally said. "That's some way out, close to the Turner farm."

  "Oh," Anne said, pleased to hear that there were some people close by. For a moment, she feared it would be totally desolate, judging from the blank look on Mr. Canning's face.

  "We need to cross the bridge there," he said, pointing at an arched structure reaching over the tracks to the other side. "Jonah," he called back toward the station building and a boy came out, hurriedly putting his cap on. They grabbed the trunks and walked ahead. "Watch you step. It can be slippery in the wet."

  Anne grabbed the railing and started walking across the bridge, catching sight of a river running along not far away. Beyond that, it was difficult to see anything through the rain. The warmth inside the carriage was dissipating and she started to feel the moist cold creeping up her skirt hem.

  Other than the station, there wasn't much to Goathland—a store, a tea room and a pub, and a few houses for the people living in this village.

  "I'll see if Tom can drive you," Mr. Canning s
aid. "The parson has a carriage he might be willing to lend you seeing as the weather is blowing. There is a tea room here if you wish for refreshment."

  "We might buy some provisions," Anne said, pointing at the general merchant store.

  Mr. Canning tapped his cap and strode off, throwing a last look back. Lisle was miserable in the rain, holding her coat over her head, hurrying as they walked toward the store. A bell rang as the door opened and she saw a man standing behind the counter in a white apron, with a neatly manicured mustache. He watched impassively as they walked closer. Anne smiled, but the man didn't smile back; instead, his eyes traveled down her navy blue satin cloak. So far, the people she'd seen around here all wore gray wool, so her clothes might identify her as foreign to these parts. Her London accent would, as well.

  "Some flour perhaps. Five pounds?" She looked around and saw some ham under a cloth. "And a pound of ham. Do you have any seeds?"

  "What kind of seeds?" His voice was gruff with a heavy Yorkshire accent.

  "Peas?" Anne said brightly. "Onions. Kitchen garden seeds."

  "Over in the back there," he said without moving to assist and Anne walked over, her skirt dripping over the dusty floorboards. Paper packets held seeds and she picked a few different varieties. Vegetables were not something she'd grown before. Flowers had been her interest, but her needs were different now, particularly if she was to live so very far away from people. Except these Turners, for which she could only have high hopes for.

  The man's disposition didn't improve and Anne felt unwelcome in his store. She paid and carried the packets outside again, waiting under a covered entranceway for whoever was to assist them in reaching their destination. If Mr. Canning decided they were too much trouble, she didn't know what to do, but before long, a man came, wearing an oiled coat and hat, driving a modest carriage that really only suited one person. They had to squeeze in, the oval glass in the rear steaming up with their wetness.