The Midnight Hour: All-Hallows’ Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque, Meara Platt, Scarlett Scott, Mary Lancaster, Maggi Andersen, Chasity Bowlin, Sydney Jane Baily, Violetta Rand

  He was still smiling at her but he turned back to the painting, back to the woman who was either running from something or running to something.

  Hope.

  “That painting was done by a blind man,” he said quietly. “Not in the literal sense, but it was commissioned by an ancestor of mine who had lost his sight in an accident. That painting is his wife, whom he called Hope. Whether or not that was her real name is up for debate, but that’s what he called her. It’s even on her tombstone. He couldn’t see her, so he had an artist come to Blackmoor and paint the picture from his mind’s eye. This is how he saw his Hope. Not bad for a blind man, wouldn’t you say?”

  Lee looked at the painting in awe. “Not bad at all,” she said. “I hadn’t heard that. What an amazing story.”

  “Would you like to hear the whole tale?”

  “Definitely. But what about the generator?”

  “That can wait.”

  Lee couldn’t have agreed more.

  Chapter One

  Eulalie

  Blackmoor Hall

  1811

  The ticking of the clock was normally a faint and delicate thing but, at this moment, it sounded like hammer blows against an anvil.

  Tick, tock…

  The never-ending passage of time, no matter if one was prepared for it.

  The sound echoed through the corridors of Blackmoor Hall, known as “The Black” to the locals who gazed upon it, or traveled by it during the course of their tasks. Settled against the backdrop of towering trees and bordered by a rocky granite cliff to the east, Blackmoor Hall was a vast place with spires on the rooftop and old gargoyles hanging from the eaves, creatures without faces because the centuries of elements had worn them away.

  Tick, tock…

  It was a shrine of broken dreams.

  “Does he know?”

  A thin man in rumpled clothing spoke softly to an older woman in a well-used mob cap and worn frock, a servant.

  “No,” the woman said, wiping her nose with her apron. Upon closer inspection, her red-rimmed eyes suggested she had been weeping. “How can we tell him such a thing, doctor? He is fighting for his life as it is. To tell him that she…”

  “She is dead,” the doctor hissed. “He must know, Madam. He has been asking for her and I fear that I cannot put him off any longer. He must be told.”

  The woman shook her head because she didn’t want to be the one designated to tell the young master that his lady had been killed. The accident had been horrific; the young master, so careless when he drove his beautiful and sleek phaeton, had been showing off to her, driving too fast and too recklessly.

  It had been fun, at first. It was a new vehicle and he had a new matched set to pull it, horses that were too wild and too fast. The young lady, from a fine family and very pretty, had squealed with the thrill of the phaeton that was going too fast down the lanes on Blackmoor’s estate, screaming with delight as they’d taken the turns too sharply.

  Her cries rang out all over the grounds.

  The young lord never left his property. He didn’t need to, for it was a vast and impressive property that he’d recently inherited upon the death of his father. He wanted to show the young lady what she would be mistress over when she accepted her marriage proposal, which she had refused at first because of the young lord’s irresponsible ways.

  So, he took her out in the phaeton.

  He proposed to her repeatedly, making the vehicle go faster when she refused, taking sharp turns and laughing as she screeched in both thrill and terror. They were both laughing, as it was a game, flirting and teasing on a whole new level. She refused his proposal, so he spun the phaeton around as he demanded she recant and accept.

  The antics went on for quite some time.

  Even the stablemaster had come away from his post, standing in front of Blackmoor’s stable block to listen to the distant screams, knowing what was happening and wishing he could stop it. The matched pair that the young lord had hitched to the phaeton were far too much power for the vehicle. It was a recipe for disaster.

  And then, it happened.

  The screams of delight abruptly ended. The stablemaster stood there, listening, waiting for the next cry but, as the moments ticked away, all that remained was silence. He was increasingly concerned over the silence, something that even the gardener was concerned about because he came to stand next to the stablemaster, listening.

  Then, they heard something that made their blood run cold.

  The matched set, still in harness, came thundering down the road, heading for the stable. The stablemaster immediately sounded the alarm as he and the gardener and other grooms rushed to contain the runaway pair. Still other servants were running for horses, preparing to rush out to find the phaeton, which had undoubtedly come to harm.

  They were right.

  And that was where they found themselves now.

  A wounded lord and a dead lady.

  “Very well,” the doctor grunted unhappily when he realized no one was going to do his dirty work. “I shall be the bearer of bad tidings.”

  As the maid continued to weep softly and wipe her face on her starched apron, the old doctor sighed heavily and headed back into the bedchamber of richly paneled walls and the stench of alcohol. The young lord’s mother had forbidden him his tobacco within the confines of his bedchamber, so there was no heady scent of smoke to linger in one’s nose.

  But the liquor was something the young lord’s mother could never break him of.

  That smell was everywhere.

  Now, it mingled with the smell of medicines that the doctor had been using to tend the young lord’s battered head and neck, the right broken arm, and the right leg so mangled he would probably never walk again.

  The doctor headed for the bed where the young lord lay. He’d been returned to Blackmoor unconscious, which was a blessing considering how badly he’d been injured. It had afforded the doctor the ability to tend his wounds and not listen to his screams of pain. But in time, he came around and began asking questions, only to fall asleep and awaken to ask the same questions, forgetting he’d asked them before.

  The doctor’s assistant was lingering next to the bed, an apothecary he’d picked up years ago who helped him a great deal with his patients. The apothecary, named Cicero – although there was some conjecture as to whether or not that was his real name – was holding the young lord’s wrist as he counted his pulse.

  “Well?” the doctor said. “Has he awoken again?”

  Cicero didn’t answer immediately, finishing his count before dropping the young lord’s wrist to the bed.

  “He has stirred,” he replied. “He has been silent this past hour.”

  “I have been silent because you have been avoiding my questions.”

  The voice came from the bed and both the doctor and Cicero looked to the pile of unwashed linens to see the young lord moving his head slightly, though his eyes remained closed.

  “Mayhap you could tell me how you feel,” the doctor said, once again avoiding the issue with his questions. “You gave us quite a scare, Ash.”

  Asher “Ash” de Russe shifted his good leg on the bed, wincing when he tried to move the one that was splinted and bandaged.

  “Tell me the damage and be quick about it before I move too much and make the injuries worse,” he snapped softly. “Will you please answer my questions this time?”

  “What is it you wish to know?”

  “What happened?”

  The doctor had known Asher his entire life. He knew how spoiled and reckless the young man was; he’d seen him grown up and knew of his antics. He’d been known to harass girls as a child, putting bugs in their hats or dropping them onto a soft arm, or stealing apples from the merchant in the village. Always with that same bright smile, that impish grin that told the world he wasn’t really naughty, but simply lively and daring.

  But that daring had cost him this time.

  The doctor tried not to s
cold.

  “You wrecked your phaeton,” he said frankly, bending over the broken leg and checking his splint. “It was a nasty wreck, Ash.”

  Asher groaned softly as he tried to move his broken arm. “As I seem to be a nasty wreck, also,” he muttered. “The horses?”

  “Without a scratch.”

  Asher grunted. “I will never hear the end of this from Eulalie, you know,” he said. “She is on the other side of the door right now, isn’t she? She is going to admonish me and tell me how foolish I am. Bloody hell, I’ll never get the woman to marry me now. Is she even here? Has she run home to tell her father what I’ve done?”

  “No,” the doctor said. “Ash, be still. You must listen to me.”

  “Listen to what?”

  The doctor tried to couch the news as carefully as he could manage, but the truth was that he was angry with Asher. That mischievous, careless lad had finally done serious damage and it was difficult not to voice that anger.

  “Eulalie is dead,” he said quietly. “When the carriage rolled over, it landed on her. Broke her neck. She felt no pain and that should give you some peace, but she is gone. Her father and mother have already come to take her home.”

  Asher’s eyes rolled open and, for a moment, he simply stared up at the ceiling. Big, dark eyes gazing up at the ornate ceiling of his chamber as the doctor stood there and watched him, waiting for his reaction. But all Asher did was emit a long, heavy sigh.

  “It is not possible,” he said after a moment. “There must be a mistake.”

  “No mistake, Ash. I wrapped her body myself so her parents could take her. So… young.”

  Asher’s eyes flickered. “No,” he finally hissed, a noise that sounded as if it came up from his feet. “It’s not true. You’re lying.”

  “I have no reason to lie to you, Ash.”

  Asher’s face began to turn shades of red as something began brewing inside of him – shock, disbelief, rage – all of it building. His good hand gripped the side of the bed so hard that his knuckles turned white.

  “I want to see her,” he growled. “I want to see her, do you hear? And open up the curtains, damn you. It is so dark in here that I cannot see a thing. If she is dead, I want to see her body!”

  Surprise rippled across the doctor’s face as he turned to look at the windows in the chamber, of which there were several. It was nearing sunset but there was still plenty of light coming through the glass, filling the chamber. In addition to the sunlight, several candles were alight, so the chamber wasn’t dark by any means.

  But it was to Asher.

  When the doctor realized this, he leaned over Asher and waved his hand in front of the man’s face, watching to see if his eyes reacted. They did not; the young lord kept staring at the ceiling.

  No response.

  It was the doctor’s turn to sigh heavily.

  Asher de Russe’s recklessness had finally caught up to him. Telling him of Eulalie Cropton’s death had been relatively straightforward, but telling the man that his injuries may have some devastatingly lasting effect…

  That was an entirely different matter.

  And it was the decent of Asher de Russe into a self-imposed exile. It wasn’t just Eulalie Cropton who died that day; all of Blackmoor did, too.

  That’s when the darkness came.

  Chapter Two

  Emma

  Yorkshire Moors, south of Easingwold

  1814

  Lost.

  She couldn’t even remember when she’d begun this journey.

  It seemed like endless hours of travel, of rainstorms and bad roads, of horse changes because the mail coach was so heavily-laden with people and baggage, parcels and satchels, that the poor horses could only pull a mere few miles before they were exhausted and worn. Endless hours that blended into each other until time itself seemed like one long day and one long night.

  But she had no choice.

  She felt… lost.

  It was the rumor of a job that lured her towards some place called Blackmoor Hall. Maids were always wanted, and she’d heard this by way of her parish priest. Her village of Ayton was just outside of Scarborough and they tended to hear rumors and news flying from Yorkshire to Scarborough and back out again, and when Father Laurent had heard of the positions at Blackmoor, he’d made haste to tell her.

  But with an admonition.

  I’ve heard they need servants at Blackmoor, but it is a dark place, he’d told her. Be cautious.

  But she didn’t have the luxury of caution.

  She needed a position.

  Therefore, she’d packed her meager possessions and set off during a particularly wet spring to seek out Blackmoor Hall and the lure of a position. Her first leg of the journey had been with a farmer and his wife as they traveled east with their empty wagon, covered with dirt from their delivery of a soggy crop of radishes to the market in Ayton. The priest had arranged the travel and she’d hopped onto the rear of the wagon, her straw bonnet pulled down over her cap, the only cap she had, and tied off with an old scarf that covered most of her face.

  Covered the damage.

  Even as the wagon had bumped out of town on a road that hadn’t been well repaired because of all the rain, she kept her satchel clutched to her chest with one hand while the other held tight to her scarf so it wouldn’t move around with the jostling of the wagon. They’d gone as far as the village of Eberston before she was dropped off to seek another form of transportation for the next day’s journey.

  The only inn in town was a mail stop, and those carriages tended to run through the night, so she’d made her way to the inn, discovering that there were a good many people also waiting for the next mail coach. The inn, known as the Cross Gate, was loud and smoky, full of bodies, with ladies and children shoved into a separate room so they wouldn’t have to associate with the rest of the rabble.

  She’d found her way into that room, perching on a bench in the corner, with her hat and scarf still on until a little boy bumped into her. The hand clutching her scarf lurched, partially dislodging both her scarf and straw hat.

  The little boy stood there and stared at her.

  “What’s wrong with your face?” he asked.

  He was very young, perhaps five or six years of age, but he knew an oddity when he saw one. She forced a smile as she straightened out her hat and scarf.

  “An accident,” she said simply. “What is your name?”

  “Peter.”

  “Peter, I am Emma.”

  But that was as far as the conversation went before the boy’s mother pulled him away, away from the lady with the heavy scars on the left side of her face.

  Away from the aberration.

  It had reminded Emma of times when people hadn’t studied her with distaste, when both men and women would look upon her for her unearthly beauty. That beauty was still there, for the most part, as long as one didn’t look at the left side of her face. And the corner of her left eye was scarred, just a bit from where the flames had singed her. That had been four years ago.

  It was something she’d accepted, but something she didn’t like to think of.

  It was the day she’d lost everything.

  God, so much had happened in that time. So much that she now found herself at a stale, stuffy inn, awaiting transportation to a job that may or may not be available. But she had no choice.

  She couldn’t remain in Ayton.

  Somewhere around midnight, the next mail coach came. It was laden with people, the majority of whom disembarked to the warmth and shelter of the inn. When the weary bodies wandered in looking for tables and food, those waiting for the mail coach rushed out to gain a seat. Emma was one of them and she managed to get a good seat right inside the cab by the door. She was severely impeded by a heavy-set couple, a man and a woman trying to squeeze onto the small bench, but she wasn’t going to give up her spot.

  They weren’t going to give up theirs.

  So, they traveled all night lik
e that, stopping at least twice to change the horses in various villages along the way. Rain came and went as they traveled and when morning came, there was yet another deluge. Another day of slow travel in the stormy weather while the mail coach soldiered on until, finally, it lost an axle just south of Easingwold.

  And that was where Emma found herself now – lost and standing next to a broken coach.

  The endless hours of travel were about to come to a close.

  “That coach ain’t going any further,” the coachman said as he stood on the muddy road, looking at the broken wheel. He glanced up to a host of concerned passengers. “Ye’d do better to walk to Easingwold and find another coach. This one is finished.”

  The passengers began to climb off of the coach, grumbling and groaning, collecting baggage and already heading northward, towards Easingwold, which was perhaps a couple of miles away. The rain had let up, but it was still misting, and people were moving quickly, eager to be out of the elements.

  All but Emma.

  She stood near the horses that were exhausted and wet, watching the coachman as he continued to examine the wheel. When he looked up and saw her standing there, he scowled.

  “Well?” he said. “Didn’t ye hear me? The coach is finished. Ye’ll have to find another one.”

  Emma nodded patiently. “I heard you,” she said. “Do you know this area well?”

  The coachman wiped the water from his eyes. “Aye,” he said. “I’ve been traveling the roads here for almost ten years. Why?”

  “Because I’m looking for a place called Blackmoor Hall. I was told it was near Easingwold.”

  His head came up sharply, jowls quivering. “That place?” he said, incredulous. “Why?”

  “Because… because I have a job there.”

  “What kind of a job?”

  “A… a maid.”

  His gaze lingered on her as if he didn’t believe her, but he finally pointed off to the west. “In the moors,” he said. “It’s that way.”

  “How far?”

  He shrugged, looking up and down the road to get his bearings. “I think if ye take the road we passed back a ways, it should take ye near it. Ye can’t miss it – it’s a big place, standing out on the moors. It doesn’t look like it belongs.”