The Haunting at Hawke's Moor

by Camille Oster

  "I have not met him," Anne said.

  "He is more retreated."

  "Would you like some tea?"

  Mr. Harleston turned to her as if he hadn't quite heard. "Marvelous," he said and followed her into the parlor, where they sat down at the table. "It seems I didn't need to come. You have things quite in hand. I am pleasantly surprised. I feared a much worse situation, I don't mind telling you. I worried so much I could not stay away."

  "I appreciate your concern, Mr. Harleston, and that you came all this way. I would not go so far as to say I have anything under control. There were times when I thought I would freeze to death out of the moors. He did chase me out of the house a few times, but we have reached a truce." Anne blushed. "But there is one that still causes me trouble," she continued carefully.

  "The master?"

  "No, someone other." Well, that wasn't entirely true, the new development with the master was disconcerting, but not perhaps in a supernatural way. Her cheeks reddened even more. "One of them… tried to touch me."

  Mr. Harleston's eyebrows rose. Anne couldn't bring herself to look at him. "Oh, I see. Yes, well," he said, taking the tea off the tray Lisle had placed down. "With the deeply oppressive weight of the house lifting, other things come to the forefront."

  "Am I in danger?"

  He blinked repeatedly and took a sip of the tea. "Repression does have its consequences. Later, we shall go upstairs, if you permit, and see what we find."

  Anne smiled. It seemed she now had access to many of the answers that had been bouncing around in her head. Perhaps Mr. Harleston could speak some sense into Lisle, too. "Is she still here?"

  "Who?"

  "Elizabeth."

  "No, she walked down the hall."

  "Is she unhappy?"

  "No, I think she is pleased with the development in the house. She said as much."

  "Oh."

  Mr. Harleston took the offer of resting from his journey in one of the spare rooms. He had agreed to stay the night—or rather, he had suggested it.

  Anne sat waiting as he joined her in the parlor, and he appeared, wearing a different suit. Anne had to help Lisle carry his trunk up while he slept and they left it by his door. He'd obviously found it.

  "This is remarkable," he said as he seated himself. "The entire house is its replica."

  "Can you see it?" Anne said, feeling hopeful, because she had not been able to describe entirely what it was she experienced.

  "Oh, yes," he said, his eyes still traveling all over the place, seeing things she did not. "Quite remarkable. This extent is quite rare."

  "I have seen it, but only if I am brought there."

  "You must be careful not to stay too long, or you won't be able to return."

  "I fear that is what happened to my field hand."

  "I met the young man."

  "He seeks to harm Lisle."

  "My belief is that he will not act against the girl's wishes. They… commune."

  Anne's breath hitched. She wasn't entirely sure what he meant, sure it was a euphemism for the continuation of things they had done before he'd died. "That cannot be natural."

  He shrugged. "People are people, and they had the same follies. Energies build, and this house has been repressed for a very long time. Other energies are coming alive, even earthly instincts with those who bind themselves to the earth, or are bound by others."

  The man's words were making Anne feel uncomfortable, but she pushed it down. "Are they bound?"

  "Of yes, the master still binds them. He keeps them here. It is he that has created this whole… oasis."

  "He does not wish to leave," she said.

  "You have discussed it with him?" Mr. Harleston said, obviously fascinated.

  "Yes," she said, and the man looked her up and down, perhaps wondering if she was also communing within the spirit world. She felt offended. "Yes, we called a truce—after I explained I am not the woman he seeks to wreak his vengeance on."

  Mr. Harleston considered her. What was going through his mind, she couldn't read, but there was more to Mr. Harleston than the kind man he presented himself as. Not unkind, or resentful, but a man who'd seen more than most.

  "He wishes I do not disturb him further," she filled in to ensure Mr. Harleston did not misunderstand their dealings. "He said that he does not remember he is dead unless I remind him."

  "That is not uncommon in spirits, particularly those less cognizant of the living as our Miss Elizabeth. Many never realize they have passed from this world to the next. The injuries that bind them here are too distracting."

  They dined on a stew and Anne was embarrassed she could not offer something better, but Mr. Harleston was gracious about the simple meal.

  "Now, my dear, shall we see what else this house has to offer?"

  "Please," she said. "I have been told there are seven or eight spirits here." His arm was extended to her and she took it.

  They walked out of the parlor and Mr. Harleston stopped. "Ah, there is the stable hand. I remember seeing him on my previous visit," he said as they reached the hall where Anne often saw him. She didn't now, but Mr. Harleston obviously did. "What is it you seek?"

  Anne looked down the space, but there was no response. Mr. Harleston took her by the elbow and led her to the library. "He is young and mischievous, that one," he said. They walked through, and Mr. Harleston turned toward the portrait. "Is that him, the master?"

  "It is."

  "Handsome."

  "That was some years before he died. He was a soldier for many years before his death, and hardened by it. Are you to meet him?"

  "No, I think it is still best to stay clear of him."

  "Oh," Anne said, not knowing if that was a bad thing.

  "Shall we proceed?"

  They retreated toward the stairs and Mr. Harleston looked around constantly. "You see their world without being drawn into it?" she asked.

  "That I do. It is created from the master's memories, as the house was during his time."

  "He built the house."

  "Partly why he is so attached to it, I don't doubt. Ah," Mr. Harleston said. "I suspect we have your assailant."

  Tension tightened Anne's whole body as she watched Mr. Harleston staring into space. He said nothing and Anne's discomfort only grew.

  "He was the elder son of a family who lived here in the house, died of a fever. I understand he is unrelated to the master's family, but trapped here all the same. Quarrelsome man."

  Mr. Harleston pushed her down the hall and then stopping as if listening. "There is a woman crying. I can hear her anguish."

  "I haven't heard her."

  "It is faint." Mr. Harleston walked toward a room Anne rarely went into. He stared and listened. "She cries for a child, a lost child. It seems this woman is of a later generation to the master and his contemporaries."

  Anne crossed her arms, sure she felt fear and anguish that wasn't her own. She hadn't felt like this before walking into the room. It must be this woman's feelings. Heartbreak for a child. Anne couldn't help but respond.

  "Her child would have passed long ago, but she was trapped in this house, still searching for it."

  "Can we help her?"

  "Like the others, she is trapped."

  "There must be some way of releasing her?"

  Mr. Harleston frowned. "Let's continue."

  This woman's anguish played on Anne's heart and it didn't feel right to walk away.

  In the servant quarters, Mr. Harleston found one of the master's manservants, Mr. Thompson, and a maid, Beatrice, who both perished when the house burned down. Apparently there was some intelligence with the manservant, but he wasn't terribly helpful, while the maid was catatonic, according to Mr. Harleston's words.

  So now she knew who was in the house. The grieving woman still bothered her and she couldn't let it go. And the catatonic maid, that could not be an enviable fate for anyone.

  "Now, I think I must retire," Mr. Harleston said. "Even
for me, this is taxing."

  "Of course," Anne said, her mind still whirling with all the new things she'd heard. Her guest retreated into the guest bedroom and Anne stood in the hall, until she remembered that the lewd eldest son was likely there with her, which made her hastily retreat into the master's bedroom.

  These people had to be released, if only for the woman to find her child. It was cruel of Hawke to keep them there.

  Chapter 30:

  Mr. Harleston left the next day, making her promise to take care of herself. He wasn't quite as eager to get away as he had been the last time she'd seen him, but he didn't dawdle either. An energetic hand waved through the carriage window as he was driven away, and a moment of sadness washed over Anne. It was a perfect stranger who came running out of concern. As much as she appreciated his worry, it didn't diminish the fact that her own family hadn't.

  Turning back, she gazed up at her troublesome house. There were so many emotions battling inside her. She didn't know what to do with all this new information, and it weighed heavily on her—particularly the woman in the front room. Something had to be done; she just didn't know what. Mr. Harleston had been little help on that account, unwilling or unable to breach Hawke's hold on this house and its inhabitants.

  Not long ago, she saw him as an evil presence, but not exactly so now. He was… well, he wasn't evil as such. Kind wasn't the right way to describe him either, because he'd shown no kindness, although he'd tolerated her being in his space. Was that kindness, even if grudgingly given?

  Then again, he had more or less threatened her the last time they'd spoken. Her hand reached up toward her collar bones again. She didn't know how to deal with this; she had precious few skills in dealing with men.

  There had been times when she'd wondered what it would be like to be with a man who wanted her, but now she felt chased and cornered by his overt suggestion. The worst was that there was a part of her that was thrilled down to her very bones.

  Clearing her throat, she collected herself and walked inside the house again. The plight of the woman upstairs, as well as the other spirits trapped in this house, returned. She had to do something, but she didn't know what. If she sought him out again, she was putting herself in his power—he'd said as much, and he'd more or less laughed at the concept of his gentlemanly duties. Perhaps she was the ridiculous one, expecting a two-hundred-year-old ghost, who had terrorized this house in his rage, to act with proper decorum to a lady.

  Anne paced around the parlor, trying to think of some way to deal with this, but what tools did she have? Mr. Harleston had been adamant that everything came down to Richard Hawke. But it was still daylight and she couldn't deal with any of this until after dark. Instead, she donned her shawl and her apron and went outside to prepare the kitchen garden for the spring planting.

  Her mood had not approved during the afternoon. Concern for the woman grieving her child sat there, but it masked other feelings—feelings she didn't want to admit or attend to.

  Supper had been hurried. Lisle was tired and wanted to retire, although Anne understood that what Lisle really wanted was to seek other company. Even though she'd admitted it, she still refused to discuss it further. Anne still worried for her.

  Darkness had fallen as Anne sat down on the sofa, her small sherry glass in hand. It had been nice to have company, to have someone to talk to during supper last night. That was something Lisle couldn't, or wouldn't, provide.

  "Elizabeth?" Anne said with a quiet voice. "Are you here?"

  Anne listened and heard a small sound, as if there was someone in the room. They had spoken once, although she had been under the effects of laudanum at the time.

  "Is there something we can do to help that woman upstairs? Can you speak to me?"

  She felt the presence of the girl more than saw her, as she sat down next to her.

  "Can you draw me into your realm as well?"

  A cool touch stung on her arm and then the familiar feeling of being absorbed into another place. The parlor looked very different. The furniture was different, and they'd even shifted locations in the room. Wood instead of coal burned in the hearth, and she was sitting in a hard chair instead of a sofa. Elizabeth sat beside her, her dark hair braided behind her. So very young, Anne thought, and felt a rush of sorrow.

  "There is little we can do for her," Elizabeth said.

  "Can't he release her, any of you?"

  "I don't know. I know he won't."

  "But that is cruel. She pines for her child. It all just feels so hopeless."

  Elizabeth grabbed her hand. "No, it is so much better now. You don't understand what you've done for us. We have been released."

  "You're all still here."

  "But we are no longer consumed by his rage and alarm. It took everything and now it's gone. You did that. You stood up to him and we are slowly emerging into something new, something freer."

  "He is a tyrant keeping you trapped here. This isn't right."

  "He is keeping us together, and I have my father back now. Me, my brother; we are together. That is all that matters."

  "But you are bound here."

  "Where else would we want to be? Wouldn't you want to be with your family when you die? And now we can be together. His rage consumed everything, but now we have him back. Don't you understand how much this means?"

  Anne couldn't help tears from falling. She felt so awful. What Elizabeth was saying wasn't strictly awful. "But that woman is caught also."

  "Well, in a way."

  "And the maid."

  "Beatrice?" Elizabeth said disbelievingly.

  "Mr. Harleston said she suffered so much, she was catatonic."

  Elizabeth snorted. "I'm surprised she wasn't playing dead. That was probably what she tried to do. Don't worry about Beatrice. She is not suffering. Who do you think seduced your stable boy?"

  "Alfie?"

  "She will seduce any man who comes here. She had a go at your son, too."

  Anne’s eyes widened with shock.

  "I suppose he didn't mention that. Probably thought he was dreaming. Men don't always question things. No, she'll have a go at anyone, except William, who she purposefully will not indulge."

  "Who's William?"

  "The son who lived here and died of a fever. Mr. Harleston told you of him on the landing yesterday. So ravaged by passion, he doesn't know what to do with himself, and Beatrice only teases him. But he’s somewhat depleted tonight, as I suspect your visitor drained some of his aching need last night."

  "What!? Mr. Harleston?" Anne couldn't have been more shocked. The images refused to conjure in her head, or she refused to entertain them.

  "William isn't fussy. Young, old, female, male—anyone. He will literally let anyone play in his drawers, although he pines for Beatrice—solely for the fact that she refuses him. He wouldn't deign to lower himself to a maid otherwise. Saying that, there is nothing he likes more than guests coming to the house. Your son was lucky Beatrice beat him to it."

  These sentiments coming out of Elizabeth's innocent-looking countenance was disconcerting, but Anne had to remember that she wasn't a fifteen-year-old girl. Anne had been utterly clueless to anything at fifteen, but then she had to remember that Elizabeth wasn't a girl, she was over two hundred years old. And who would have guessed that their ghosts were so debauched? Mr. Harleston probably had, she conceded. She had expected ghosts to be utterly solemn, but then she struggled to understand anyone.

  "And what of the manservant?"

  "Thompson? Well, he wouldn't leave even if he could. There was bad blood between him and his family. He will stay here just to avoid facing his father."

  "But the woman."

  "Yes, Lady Sorrow."

  "Is that what you call her?"

  "Yes. She isn't quite like us. Not entirely sentient, instead caught in a moment, in a memory, living it over and over again."

  "That is awful." The shock of Elizabeth's revelations fading, the underlying sadness ret
urned.

  "You are troubled today."

  "How can I not be? There is a woman in my house, pining in the most aching way for her child. It tears at my heart." Maybe because Anne knew exactly how that felt, wanting your child but being unable to reach them.

  "Is that how you feel? Your son is here. There is nothing stopping you from going to him, or even calling him here, although I wouldn't recommend it, considering William is still prowling the guest bedrooms looking for his next victim."

  "There's a caveat for inviting guests. I was even thinking of bringing my aunt here before she died."

  "William would have been delighted."

  Anne could see the humor in the abstract concept of a young nobleman crawling into bed with her aunt, an amorous ghost haunting the halls—even if she'd been terrified. Maybe being terrified had grown so commonplace in this house, she no longer felt the tragedy in it. Now that was a sad state of affairs.

  "So why don't you go to your son if you miss him so?" Elizabeth asked.

  Anne could only stare down at her lap, the glass of sherry in her hand. It had followed her into this realm, it seemed. But she couldn't be distracted from her heavy thoughts for long by the curiosities of their realms. She swallowed and sighed. "It seems no one is what they appear to be," she said quietly.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Of all of the people I have met, no one is quite what they seem. Mr. Harleston is so kind, but sometimes there is a real hardness in him, there beneath the exterior he shows the world. My husband. I never thought he could be so callous, so uncaring. I knew he never loved me, but to be so mercenary… "

  Elizabeth sat still, listening. Even Elizabeth, the innocent-looking girl was more understanding of everything and everyone than her appearances would suggest. Her father, the raging monster, was just a man.

  "I don't know if I trust any of the people in my life," Anne admitted. It hurt to say it, but it was true. Her parents had led her into a loveless marriage, to a man who eventually threw her out of the streets for fend for herself. Her ghost? Well, she certainly couldn't trust him to have her interest at heart—although, he didn't hide the fact he felt no loyalty to her. And her son?