In an alcove, she saw Alfie leaning over Lisle. They were whispering and both turned to her when they noticed her, hard eyes considering her.
She wanted to call out, ask them how to get… where? Instead, she kept walking and they returned to their whispering. They were much too close; it was inappropriate. Lisle would lose herself if she wasn't careful.
A thought crawled through her mind as if spoken, saying they would have the house if it wasn't for her. She could disappear and no one would bother looking for her, and they would have the house all to themselves. Unease sat like dampness between her shoulder blades. Everything felt cold and damp. There was a window open and rain was coming in, ruining the carpet.
Anne woke with a start. It was still dark, but the unease of the dream followed her. Leaning over, she lit the nub of the candle and soft light spread through the room. It wasn't dawn yet, but she had no idea what time it was.
Sitting up, she tried to shake the remnants of the dream. It was just her anxiety finding a voice, she told herself. The notion that Lisle and Alfie would covet the house was ludicrous. They barely knew each other, but then they barely knew Alfie. In reality, they had no claim to the house, even if it had been forgotten for a hundred years. Someone would eventually notice. Harry would notice. He would inherit the house.
Perhaps Anne had developed a distrust for Alfie. There was nothing in his behavior to suggest he was untrustworthy, and the reverend had recommended him. That stood for his good characters, at least.
The candle burned. The longer it burned, the sooner she would be without one. She had to blow it out to conserve it, plunging the room back into near darkness. Her heart was still beating. Was her life to be endless worry from now on? When would she find her balance again? Could she even remember a time when she had felt balanced?
Chapter 7:
The moors were actually a good place to think if you had a moment to spare. There was still so much work to do, but it felt to Anne like the manic phase was lessening. Yes, there was work, there would always be work, but the used parts of the house were clean and habitable. The soft furnishings still needed to be re-stuffed, which would remove the last of the ill smells, but that had to wait until she had some straw.
Dirt caked around the hem of her skirt as she walked the overgrown path to the main road. Her hands were freezing, even encased in their gloves, and she had to fist them to get the blood going. Egton was apparently where the mail for the manor was sent. And she could send letters herself, and she had one for Harry and one for her aunt, sitting in the beaded reticule hanging off her wrist.
She had a list of provisions and not enough money to buy them, certainly not for the sherry she wished she had. Such simple things were luxuries now. She also didn't know if a cart would come along, or if one would later head back this way. If not, she might just have to spend the night in Egton.
With aching feet, she finally reached the road, and she was in luck—a cart came along within two hours, and she could sit in the back amongst the baskets of what looked like potatoes and other root crops. The cart trundled along at a steady pace, although the farmer showed little interest in speaking.
Egton was a small village sitting in a gentle valley, surrounded by greenery. A village with a scattering of thatched roof cottages and a church. The general store and postal office was in the center, and Anne went straight there. A bell pinged as she walked in, goods stored in piles around the store and along the wooden counter.
She smiled at the proprietor, who seemed a little friendlier than the last she'd met in Goathland. In fact, he was Scottish and older, with a fine, white beard. She bought candles, paraffin, flour, tea, saddle oil, lye, polish, sugar and salt. And matches; she couldn't forget the matches. Lighting fires would be much easier if they had matches.
Paying the man, she inquired if he knew of anyone heading along the western road. The man stroked his beard with his palm while he considered. "Anders might be heading out that way later this afternoon. I can send the boy to enquire."
"That would be much appreciated," she said, relieved that there was, at least, a potential to head home. "Also, is there any mail addressed to Hawke's Manor?"
The man chuckled. "Funny you should mention. There is, and the first one in the time I've been here."
Gladly, Anne took the letter and saw her aunt’s handwriting. The realization that there was no letter from Harry hit home and Anne felt an ache in her chest. Harry had still not forgiven her for the scandal this divorce had caused.
"Did you say Hawke's Manor?" a woman said, stepping closer. Anne hadn't seen her. She was elderly and wore ruffled lace over her white hair. "What business have you with Hawke's Manor?" She didn't say it brusquely, and lay one of her lace-gloved hands on Anne's arm.
"I reside there. I've inherited it."
"You don't say," the woman said. "I am Miss Thornby. You must come have tea with me and my sister. Tell us all about it."
Anne felt a bit stumped how to reply, but the woman seemed kind and Anne was certainly not in a position to turn an invitation down.
"I'll see if Anders is heading out and I'll send the boy around the let you know," the merchant said.
"Come," the elderly woman urged, walking awkwardly down the two steps to the bare earth street. Anne followed, unsure what she was heading toward, but she didn't have long to wait. The sisters' cottage was just down the street—a small, stone cottage with dormant roses along the fence.
"Hilda, I have brought a guest," the woman said as she opened the door. "You will never guess what this lovely girl has just told me."
A slightly younger version of the woman arrived, with neatly tied hair. "Miss Emily Thornby," she presented herself.
"Miss Anne Sands," Anne said, gently touching hands, conscious of how rough her hands were underneath her gloves.
"This young woman says she lives at Hawke's Manor. Come, dear,” Emily said.
A young maid brought tea in a silver service as they sat down in the parlor filled with lace and embroidery. The furniture was dainty, made for a woman's sensibilities. Anne wondered if the sisters had lived here all their lives. They were of gentler birth, obviously unmarried.
"Yes," Anne replied. "I have inherited it." These women’s attitude to her would definitely be diminished when they discovered Anne was a divorcee. She felt torn between telling them or not. They might think even worse of her if they discovered it afterward and she'd tried to hide the fact. But there was no easy way of bringing it up in conversation.
Both of the sisters stared at her and she felt self-conscious.
"No, that can't be. You must leave, dear." Hilda looked at her with clear concern in her eyes.
Anne wondered if they'd already found out about her less than respectable status. The back of her eyes stung with the unfairness of it. She had never done anything to deserve such disregard—except lose her husband, which perhaps she needed to take responsibility for. "I'm afraid I won't be leaving." There was the small matter of her not having anywhere to go.
"That house is evil. It always has been,” Hilda said.
It wasn't the first time she'd heard this superstitious nonsense. "It is only a house. It is actually quite charming, now that we have achieved some semblance of order. I don't mind telling you that it has taken quite a bit of work. My hands have suffered," she said nervously.
The sisters still stared at her. "Back in grandmother's day, there were tales of people fleeing that house. They say it's haunted," Emily stated.
"Well, if that's the case, it's had no one to haunt for quite a while, so it's likely given up. There is nothing untoward in the house," Anne said reassuringly.
"I hope you are right."
Hilda shuddered. "I haven't seen that house in years. I'm surprised it's still standing."
"The construction seems to be quite sturdy," Anne said, taking a sip of her tea.
A knock sounded on the door and Anne heard murmuring when the maid answered. The young girl
appeared. "There is a message saying Mr. Anders will be leaving shortly and he has agreed to take you."
"I don't have a horse," she said with an embarrassed smile. "There is a carriage, but it needs attention that is beyond my capabilities."
The sisters looked pityingly at her, and Anne hated it, being pitied, but then perhaps her situation was pitiable, she conceded.
"I am afraid I must depart. It has been so lovely being invited into your home."
"Next time you are in the village, you must come see us."
"Of course," Anne said, glad she had made some acquaintances, although a friendship that was still tentative as she hadn't had a chance to be honest about her situation yet. The friendship might not survive the revelation. "Thank you, again."
It was dark by the time she arrived home. Mr. Anders had been kind and taken her most of the way to the house, although he couldn't take her all the way. She carried the provisions in a wooden box, except the flour which was too heavy to carry. She’d had to leave it under a rock formation that would hopefully keep it dry if inclement weather intruded.
Only the moon lit the manor as she approached in the dark, taking care not to stumble as she was carrying both paraffin and matches in one box. She could go up like a firecracker if she didn't take care.
The door was unlocked and creaked as she pushed it open. The saddle oil would help with the hinges in the house, she thought as she heaved the heavy door shut again. The house was silent and Anne was glad to be home, free of worry she would be stranded out on the moors that night.
The thought of the absent letter from Harry weighed on her again and she sighed. He was just very busy, she told herself, but she knew in her heart that Harry was angry with her, maybe even disgusted. The boy that had been her reason for living for so many years wasn't a boy anymore and he had no need for her. It hurt just thinking it.
Placing the box of provisions on the table in the parlor, she walked toward the kitchen. Finally, there was some noise, but it was disturbing noise. Opening the door slowly, her fears were confirmed with the sight of Alfie lodged between Lisle's thighs, pounding into her as she lay on the kitchen table, her bare knees around his hips.
Anne withdrew, covering her mouth with her hand. She didn't know what to do. Should she barge in there, demand an explanation? What could she do—fire them? She should, but she'd have no one here and no chance of replacing either of them.
Alfie's grunts turned guttural and Anne backed away, escaping upstairs, forgetting to grab a new candle for her room.
This new knowledge turned her stomach. And Lisle had been stupid the first opportunity she'd had. Didn't she understand what she was gambling with? She could be with child after tonight.
Anne curled up on her bed, her fingers still over her lips. This could end in disaster, but then maybe Alfie had good intentions corresponding with these actions. Anne hoped so.
Chapter 8:
Anne was stuck in the corridor again, not knowing how to get out; they just went on and on. But there was something else now, something after her. It hadn't been there before, but she felt its presence now, like darkness emanating from behind her.
Her breath bounced off the walls and she walked as quickly as she could, fearing that if she ran, she would provoke it into chasing her.
Finally, she saw a window covered with netting, bright with the sun behind it. At least if she could see outside, she would know everything was alright, but when she pulled the netting aside, it was a mirror showing the corridor behind her. Dread and disappointment flared in her. She was stuck and there was no way out.
Then there was the scuttling noise, like a crab walking, scurrying. She couldn't see anything, just heard it. Stopping, she listened, but it was quiet. Whatever it was copied her or waited for her to do something. Unease crept up her spine, making her heart beat painfully. The only sound she heard was her own breathing, which sounded amplified. Then she felt it coming, something was coming. Her fear soared, overwhelming her senses.
She woke with a start, the scuttling noises ringing in her ears. Or were they? It was still there, the scuttling noise. Frantically she moved, seeking the candle with her hands as icy air prickling her skin. Finding the cold metal of the candle stick, her fingers searched, but the candle was burned down to the nub. In her haste in the evening, she'd forgotten to grab a new one.
Rising, she sat against the headboard of the bed and tried to calm, tried to be rational. It was only a dream, a terrible, anxiety-riddled dream. Even knowing she was being ridiculous, her heart beat painfully in her chest. Taking a breath, she tried to calm, her hands shaking as she gripped the blankets closer.
Her legs tucked tightly into her, she took some deep breaths. These dreams had plagued her of late. Calm, sweet dreams had turned darker and more tense since her husband had informed her of the impending divorce. He'd called her to his study and informed her in a similar way he would dismiss the service of a servant. There had been no emotion in him at all, just a task he was taking in hand.
Tightness gripped her throat, but her heart stopped as she heard the noise again, the scuttling noise, which echoed across the walls. Her dream had come to life. Maybe she was still dreaming and only thought she'd woken. Gripping her blankets, she held them to her, seeking protection and warmth.
Thoughts raced around her mind, trying to explain this. There it was again. She jumped at the noise, turning her head to listen, but met aching silence. Her mind screamed at her—danger. Something was there in her room with her.
What was it? What could it be making that noise? No, there had to be a rational explanation for this. Obviously, there weren't crabs running through her room. Stilling herself, she listened, but heard nothing. It had to be something—rats maybe. Yes, that was it. There must be rats in the walls, or ceiling.
She felt silly now, getting terrified over the noise of rats in the ceiling. Getting out of bed, she tiptoed to the fireplace and placed a log on the grate, lighting kindling to set it afire. Alfie had found some implements to clean the chimney with, which had been a dirty affair, but she could now have a fire in her room. The quality of wood they had access to might not be the best, and it burned quickly, but for a little while, there was heat. She couldn't invest in a cart full of coal as her increasingly meager funds might be needed for something more important.
Sitting on the floor by the fire, she rested her head on her knee. When would she stop feeling so scared? Things were going okay. She had the house and they were making progress toward being self-sufficient. There was no reason to be terrified at every drop of a hat. Hurt maybe, considering Harry hadn't bother writing. It hurt to think she was going through this ordeal, which was disturbing her to no end, and he didn't raise a finger to help. It was only youth that made him so careless, she assured herself. The lovely, sweet boy she'd raised hadn't been an uncaring monster, but then half the influence on him had been. She dreaded to think he was taking after his father.
The fire created some heat and she returned to her bed to lay down, drawing the blankets tight around her. She would be alright—everything would come right. It already was improving, slowly. She needed to stop being so frightened.
Lisle was quiet in the morning and Anne walked into the kitchen, having no idea what to say, or even if she should. She wasn't Lisle's mother or family, or responsible for the girl's choices.
"I think we have rats in the house," Anne finally said.
"Is that what you think it is?" Lisle said sullenly, not pausing in kneading the dough for the daily baking.
"Lisle, you need to be careful with your tone. I know our situation is all less than ideal, but I am still your employer."
"Sorry, Miss," Lisle said, finally looking admonished.
Although for how much longer she was employed here, Anne didn't know. She wished the girl wouldn't make stupid choices, but she was headstrong and stubborn with anything Anne told her to do.
Anne returned to the parlor and sat down, finally br
inging out her aunt’s letter. She’d been looking forward to opening this all morning.
My Dearest Anne,
How pleasing it is to hear a house has been settled on you. I worried myself to pieces for you when I heard what that scoundrel of a husband was doing. Your father would be turning in his grave if he knew what that man has done. He will get his just desserts in the end, that bounder.
I had not been aware that the property in Yorkshire was still in the family. I had not heard it mentioned in years and I had actually forgotten about it. What fortuity that it is now yours.
From my recollection, the house is very remote. Still, this is such an exciting development. While serving as a companion to Lady Willowford has afforded me a level of comfort I will always be grateful for, there is nothing as important as family. If you should need me, I would, of course, come. You have but to say the word and I will be on my way.
Anne felt her heart twinge that her aunt would sacrifice all the comforts of living in a large, wealthy house to come join her. Obviously, it was not something she could ask while there was still so much work to be done in the house.
She understood her aunt's position. While a life in luxury had it benefits, the lack of freedom ultimately grated. It was the thing that had been given her with this divorce, the freedom to lead her own life.
When there was order in the house, Anne would invite her aunt to come stay as long as she wanted. She would always be welcome, and it please Anne to no end to be able to offer that to her aunt.
It was getting colder outside; she wouldn't be surprised if it snowed.
The Haunting at Hawke's Moor Page 4