He'd felt alive, but his body was dead and buried. That was not in doubt, but in this other world, he'd felt real, even warm. His fingers had been around her neck; she'd felt the pressure of them as they'd tried to choke her. Was it an illusion? She wished Mr. Harleston was there so she could ask. Most importantly, if he could bleed, could he die?
Blinking, she couldn't believe she was even considering murdering a person. But he wasn't a person; he was a ghost, who chose to stay here rather than face whatever judgment he had coming. As she'd accused him, he truly was a coward, she determined. He hadn't liked that, being called a coward.
Perhaps declaring war on a battle-hardened soldier was not the best course of action, but her options were few. There had been nothing soft about him. The youth in the portrait was nothing like the man she'd met. It was night and day. On some level, it was sad to see a man hardened so. She would hate that to happen to Harry. But they were different times back then, brutal, and the men reflected it. Things were softer now, better. Well, perhaps not more caring, but at least men didn't show their lack of care with swords anymore. There was progress if she ever knew it.
The cow roamed past the window outside. It seemed it had returned. Yesterday she'd been of a mind to flee this place, but things had changed now. There was a face to the enemy, and that took away some of the irrational fear. Now she only had to contend with the more tempered fear of an awful man trying to strangle the life out of her.
Sighing deeply, Anne considered the chores she had for the day. Now that the cow had returned, she'd better go and milk it. Maybe some hard work would take her mind off the problems facing her, particularly her vengeful ghost.
The cow was in the stable waiting when she got outside and she grabbed the little pail and patted the beast along its flank. "When I can, I will get a companion for you," she said and sat down to milk. "Would that make you happier? Everyone deserves a companion." Maybe she should sell something else in the house and get another cow.
After taking the daily milk to the kitchen, Anne decided to go for a walk. It was perhaps not the best day for it, but it wasn't nearly the worst weather the moors could generate. There was no wind and the mist sat like cloying wetness. It obscured vision and left the world feeling small and cramped. Before she knew it, she was following the old and overgrown path to the small cemetery. The low, curved iron fence around it only came up to her knees and she stepped over into the overgrown plot. The grass was halfway up the stones, although Alfie's grave was still a fresh mound of earth.
Anne chuckled at the thought that if she died, she would be buried here, right next to her murderer. Walking over, she looked down on his grave stone. His name was written in bold letters. She wondered who had commissioned the grave stone. He'd been thirty-six when he'd died. So young and had died in a brutal war. She tried to recall the things she knew about him. He'd burned in his house along with his children. It was the most awful death she could think of. The letters in the strongbox had warned of betrayal in his house. Was that what had killed him, betrayal? Actually, she could sympathize. She'd been undone by betrayal in her house as well. It was a harsh reality to know that you weren't safe even in your own home.
Moving over, she saw the gravestone of Elizabeth Hawke, who'd been fifteen when she'd died. Anne had seen her spirit, had seen her trying to stop her father from attacking. Mr. Harleston had said there was someone protecting her and it had to be this girl.
Suddenly, Anne felt immense sadness. Sad for the loss of life and that this girl's spirit was stuck protecting strange women from her hateful father. That was not right and it left Anne feeling drained. If Mr. Harleston could do anything to release her, that would almost be worth all the trouble of this.
Shaking the chill off her, Anne returned home. The house loomed in the distance and she could see a man in the yard. The mist made it difficult to see him, but it was a man. Stopping short, she tried to calm her beating heart. For a moment, she feared the ghosts, but after checking herself, she knew the ghosts couldn't be seen during the day.
As she forced herself to move close, she saw it was Mr. Turner and breathed a sigh of relief. He stood watching her approach. "Hello, Mr. Turner," she said. "I had not expected you."
"I brought you a cut of beef," he said gruffly. "Thought I'd see how you were."
"That is most kind of you."
He looked annoyed, as if he didn't like being referred to as kind, but it really was. They hadn't had meat for a little while now. She accepted the bundle wrapped in muslin. "I have been wondering if my cow would benefit from a companion."
"They like company."
"I might have to consider purchasing another. Perhaps a bit old and not much use other than companionship."
"Or you could consider a bull."
"I don't think I can afford a bull."
"I did not mean buying one."
Anne looked confused for a moment, until she realized what he meant. She flared red. "No, of course. That seems logical." She felt mortified having this discussion with him, but he was a farmer, and these things were part and parcel of what he did.
"Normally have to pay for such service, but I'm sure the old lad won't mind. Just bring her to the far dale and you'll find him."
"Thank you," she said and there was an awkward moment when Anne didn't know what to say.
"Best be going, then," he said and made to turn.
"Mr. Turner," she said and he paused, looking annoyed, which he usually did. "This house is haunted."
"Aye. So they say."
"Do you know any of the history of what happened here? There was a fire."
"Aye. The tale says he was betrayed by his wife to his enemies."
Anne blinked. "His wife?"
"She betrayed him to parliament's men and they came and burned him."
"And her children."
"'Spect that weren't her intention, but betrayal is rough business. Don't think she were thinking the house would be half destroyed either." With a nod, he kept walking. Anne just stared after him. That couldn't be true, could it? It seemed too outlandish.
If it were true, it would explain his pathological hatred of women. It was kind of ironic that a woman who had been betrayed by a man was now haunted by a man who'd been betrayed by a woman. Anne closed her eyes and stroked the palm of her hand across her forehead. What an utter mess she found herself in.
Obviously two hundred years hadn't done much to temper his anger. He was still furious and she bore the brunt of his fury. He doesn't seem to attack Lisle, but then perhaps that was because she didn't set herself up in the master's bedroom. Would he leave her alone if she slept elsewhere? It was worth a try.
Chapter 21:
The mist didn't clear all day and the sun set quickly. One minute it was light and then it was dark, and the kind of dark where there was no light at all outside, the windows inky black. Anne ate supper in the kitchen with Lisle. They had beef stew with parsnips and it was lovely. Her belly hadn't felt so contented for a while, and they had beef left for a few more days.
Anne didn't know what to say to Lisle. The girl would only accuse her of madness if she discussed her experiences. It seemed this ghost focused its attention on Anne, so perhaps Lisle was safe. "It think it is best that you stay out of the master's bedroom. I am going to sleep in one of the other rooms tonight."
Lisle stopped chewing and looked at her. She didn't say anything, just returned her attention to her stew. Anne told her about Mr. Turner's suggestion for the cow.
"I can walk the cow over there tomorrow," Lisle offered. "At least someone in this house will have a sweetheart." Lisle got up and put her plate away. It was so hard to read Lisle. "Perhaps it is time we enquire about another field hand. I'm sure Mr. Whitling knows of some other person who needs a position. We should perhaps consider setting some of the fields to work to, start growing a crop to sell."
"I am weary of bringing more people into this house."
Lisle sighed. "That's
a poor excuse for not making this land productive."
Anne couldn't argue. "I'll think about it." She'd been too caught up with her immediate problems to even consider tomorrow, let alone next week.
Lisle walked out of the kitchen and went upstairs. Anne rose and took herself to the parlor, where she sat down. She wished she had a bit of sherry—actually anything would be nice, but they had nothing but water. When spring came, perhaps she could pick a bit of elderflower.
Tension was creeping up her shoulders, distracting her from any thought on the future. Her immediate problems were insidiously encroaching. That man was upstairs, probably waking as she spoke, waiting to wrap icy fingers from the grave around her throat. An urge to have a look at his picture again surfaced, wanting to keep in mind that there had been a human behind the hatred. Or was there? Was hatred all that was left of the man that had been?
Well, tonight, she would sleep in another room. Perhaps that would give her a peaceful night. There was a chance her problems stemmed from occupying what had at one point been his bedchamber.
Still, she didn't relish going upstairs and conducting her little experiment. She felt safe down here. Well, not entirely. Alfie had appeared to her down here and the thought made her anxiously look around her. The house was quiet now and every corner had grown dark, filled with shadows that moved as the candle flame did. Lisle had retreated to her room and it was only Anne and whatever ghosts roamed the halls.
A book would distract her. The idea of making the fields productive and earning an income was appealing. They could afford food and maybe even a few books she actually relished reading, books that would transport her to foreign places. If she survived the night, she would have to consider what Lisle had proposed. For now, an agricultural book would while away an hour or two.
Getting up, she walked toward the hall and turned the corner. The sight of Alfie made her stop in her tracks. Tension rose up her back, making her skin crawl. He stood in the dark hall, not moving, only watching her. His form wasn't entirely solid, his face holding no expression. This apparition stood between her and the library.
"Go away," she said, taking a step back.
He raised his eyebrows. "Wish I could, but I can't." His voice didn't sound right, as if too distant from where his form appeared.
"You're stuck here?"
The corner of his mouth rose slightly. He looked up. "He keeps us here."
"Who?"
"You know who. You met him."
"How does he keep you here?"
"He won't let anyone leave. If you die in this house, you belong to him. He is too strong to break free of." His attention returned to her. "Don't die," he warned. There was a slight grin on his lips now.
Anne's throat had gone completely dry and swallowing hurt. Tension ached across her brow.
"Or you'll be spending eternity here with us. A sea of never-ending darkness." His sentence ended with a hiss.
"How can I help you?"
"You can't." He looked up to the ceiling. "She might though. Be with me." He looked back at Anne and smiled.
"Leave her alone."
"She loves me."
"You're dead. Leave her alone."
"Why? What do you offer her?"
"Life. You have nothing to offer her."
He stared at her then faded before her eyes. Anne listened but only heard her heart beating. Bursting into activity, she raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time. "Lisle!" she called, banging on her door when she reached Lisle's floor. If something happened to Lisle, Anne wouldn't forgive herself.
"What's the matter with you?" Lisle said, throwing the door open.
"I saw Alfie."
"You're not taking the laudanum," Lisle said calmly.
"It doesn't help."
"The doctor said you need to take it if you become hysterical. I'll get you some."
"I don't want the laudanum. Alfie seeks to hurt you."
"Alfie's dead and buried."
"Lisle, he is trying to hurt you."
"I will not listen to this," Lisle said sharply. "You're being hysterical."
"I'm not," Anne said, recognizing that, yes, there might be some hysterics involved, but she had good reason. "Please believe me, Lisle. He seeks to sway you for his own designs."
"And which designs are those?"
"To not be trapped here alone."
"You're an awful person," Lisle said and Anne took a step back, shock that she would be accused such.
"I am only trying to protect you."
"Please leave. I will hear no more of this."
Anne couldn't do anything but step back into the hall and watch as Lisle firmly closed the door. She'd never been accused of being an awful person before. Her intentions had only been to help, but Lisle refused to listen. Lisle thought she was mad and refused to listen to anything she said. She probably wouldn't even listen if Anne terminated her employment. Not that it was much of an employment as Anne had little to pay her with at this point.
Feeling deflated, Anne retreated downstairs and took herself to one of the spare rooms. It was much smaller than the master's room, with little more space than the bed and an empty wardrobe. An oval mirror sat in the front of the wardrobe door, which had a crack along the middle.
She placed down the candle holder she had clasped in her hand on the bedside table. This was the room Harry had slept in and Anne thought fondly of him as she sat down on the edge of the bed. She pulled out the rusty blade she had found in the stable and put it beside the candle holder.
Undressing and lying down in bed, she prayed for a peaceful night. She grabbed the blade and put it under her pillow. It made her feel better having it there.
Sheer exhaustion made her sleep, the kind with no dreams, until the smell of smoke stung her nostrils. A warning sounded through her mind, and now it wasn't the fear of fire, but the fear the unctuous smell heralded the arrival of unworldly things. There was also the sound of wind when she knew there was none. Something in the house slammed shut, the sound echoing down the hall.
Nothing was seen when she opened her eyes, but she knew without a doubt he was there. The air had a heaviness, a gelatinous quality, which felt too unmoving to draw into her lungs.
Cold fingers gripped around her ankles, and instinctively she pulled her feet up. Before she could react further, weight pressed down on her chest. Her fingers sought the rusty blade and wrapped around the split wooden handle. The bed ropes dug into her back as the weight came down on her. But she couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything, just felt the weight of him. The blade would have no use unless she was brought into that other place. "Too cowardly to show your face. You hide behind your invisibility. You lout."
There was pressure and light, and he lifted her by the neck. She felt her body leaving the mattress. Everything changed, even the air. "You will not stay here," he said, his voice harsh and deep. "I will not allow it."
She was in the other room, the master's chamber. Somehow she'd been transported there. His face was shadowed and she couldn't see him eyes, only the grim line of his lips, the strong arms holding her.
"I am not your wife," she hissed through her aching throat. "I am no man's wife." The blade was still in her hand and she swung it up as hard as she could into the side of his ribs. It met flesh as she pressed it into him. The expression on his face showed surprise and his hands loosened. He stepped back and she fell into darkness and again hit the floor. Ache flared up her thigh as she'd landed on her side. She was back in the other room, the knife still in her hands.
Rising, she marched into the master's room. It was utterly dark and cold. "This is my house and you will not chase me away," she said, her voice trembling with anger. "I am done with men trampling over me. This is my house. You are the one who don't belong here and I will fight you with everything I can, until you are gone."
The room was utterly still. There wasn't a sound in the entire house. There wasn't even wind outside, only the distant
hoot of a lonely owl.
She was still trembling with anger, noticing the wetness on her hand where she held the blade. Looking down, she saw blackness and knew it was blood—his blood. She had stabbed him. On some level, it was astonishing that she had been capable of such violence, but apparently she'd had enough of being bullied and she didn't care if he was dead and buried. He needed to stay that way and if she had to stab him every night, she would.
Grabbing a piece of cloth, she angrily wiped her hand and the blade as clean as she could. She crawled under her blankets, which were freezing cold, and placed the blade back under her pillow. Tucking her hands under her, she brought her knees up and considered her own actions, acknowledging how angry she was, and not just at the ghost, at her husband as well. Her husband might have divorced her, but she had also disowned him. As she said, she was no man's wife—least of all some hateful ghost's.
Chapter 22:
The rider approaching was a young boy, no older than fourteen. Anne stood, waiting for him by the time he arrived. The wind had picked up a little and the mist had started to clear. It was still cold as Anne waited. The boy stopped and she walked forward, taking the letter he held out to her. He tapped his cap and continued riding back the way he'd come. She'd planned to offer him some refreshments, but he hadn't stayed. She supposed he had other errands to complete.
Looking down, she saw it wasn't a letter at all, instead a telegram. Her insides clenched with nerves. A telegram was never good news. With trembling fingers, she opened it, hoping it was not bad news related to Harry. Checking the signature first, she saw it was from Harry.
GREAT AUNT HORTENSE PASSED STOP COME TO CRICKLEY STOP
Anne gasped with the news. She'd received a letter only a few days back. All had seemed well and now she was dead. An ache clenched in her breast. This was awful. Her lovely aunt.
For a moment, she couldn't do anything, was caught in the loss, which ached through her. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. She was supposed to come here and they were to be companions—well, provided the spirits hadn't gotten in the way.
The Haunting at Hawke's Moor Page 11