by Linn Chapel
Tressa shook her head wryly as they made their way through the garden gate in the darkness. She wished Peter luck, for Holt wasn’t keen on giving explanations these days.
Once inside Cup Cottage, Tressa found a bag in the kitchen full of purchases her brothers had brought back from a store in Wells. She unpacked an assortment of snacks, a set of guidebooks and maps, and bottles of shampoo and conditioner.
Carrying the bottles upstairs, she entered the small bathroom with its antique fixtures. Tressa had already taken a bath in the footed white tub and was looking forward to the luxury of showering and washing her hair, for at some point in its long career, the antique bathtub had been fitted with a modern shower head – modern being a relative term at Langley.
As Tressa set the bottles down next to the sink, a small spider crawled up over the rim. She cried out, startled.
“What’s wrong?” Luke called out from the bedchamber he shared with Peter.
“It’s just a spider,” she called back lightly.
Tressa knew just what to do, for often in the past, she had been called upon in the capacity of older sister to eliminate spiders and other nasty critters that had terrified her younger siblings. Stepping over to the window, she swung it open on its rusty hinges, and then she found a broom in a tall, narrow cupboard and hefted it up.
Taking careful aim, she brought the broom swiftly down and tried to sweep the spider to the open window.
But spiders could be cunning, she knew from experience. This one evaded the bristles and crawled upward along the wall with surprising speed. Tressa whacked again, but the spider escaped a second time and hid within a light fixture. She hesitated, for the fixture was made of delicate vintage glass.
“Come out of there! I don’t want to have to kill you, but if you give me any more trouble, you’ll be sorry,” she cried in frustration.
Out of the corner of her eye, she suddenly noticed a dark figure standing in the doorway. “Tressa, I had no idea you were capable of such violence,” came a mocking voice.
Tressa stiffened and turned. Dressed in black as usual, Holt was leaning against the doorframe, watching her with his arms crossed over his chest. His lean face was devoid of any expression save a faint look of ennui, but his dark, clever eyes gave him away.
“Stop laughing at me!” she shot back. “This is harder than it looks.” Using the broom handle, she tried to tease the spider from the light fixture without breaking the glass.
Holt sighed and reached for the broom. “Allow me to assist you.”
Tressa had already begun to feel hot and flustered and now, at his easy assumption that she would only fail in the end, her emotions boiled over. She lifted the broom high, keeping it out of his reach.
“I’m not helpless, Holt, even if you think I am!”
She suddenly realized how close they were standing in the limited space near the bathtub and she uttered a small gasp. With both of them reaching up for the broom handle, there was only a tiny gap between them; one slight move and she would be pressed up against his chest. They hadn’t been this close since... since the last time he had kissed her.
Holt must have been just as startled, for he drew in a sharp breath and froze.
Tressa was the first to step away, but she had forgotten that the bathtub was just behind her. The rim hit her squarely behind her knees and she fell backwards into the tub with a cry, dropping the broom on the way down.
Once she had caught her breath, she looked up to see that Holt’s eyes were glittering with humor.
She glared at him and rubbed at one of her elbows, which had been bruised by the fall. Aside from that, she was unharmed and only her dignity was wounded.
Then Peter’s face appeared around the edge of the doorframe. His eyebrows went up.
“Tressa, how did you manage to fall into the bathtub?”
“Never mind, Peter. It’s too hard to explain.” She lurched to her feet.
Peter shrugged and turned an inquisitive gaze on Holt, next. “I see you’re back from London,” he prompted, clearly wanting to know more.
“I met with Wesley, that’s all.”
Peter must have realized from the cool note in Holt’s voice that no more information would be forthcoming. He retreated down the hall, leaving Tressa alone again with Holt.
“Shall I turn on the tap for you? It seems you’re eager for a bath.”
Tressa frowned at him. “This is all your fault, Holt. First, you’re gone most of the time, and then you show up out of the blue, just when I least expect it.”
“And now you’re in a pickle, as they’re fond of saying in America,” he murmured. He took her firmly by the hand and helped her out of the tub.
As soon as Tressa was steady on her feet, Holt released her hand and picked up the broom. The spider had ventured out from the light fixture and was now skittering toward the ceiling. Holt brushed it once with neat precision and it disappeared out the open window.
Holt shut the window and stowed the broom away. “Any other troubles, Tressa?”
Her embarrassment faded as her thoughts turned to the episode that had been bothering her ever since that morning. With a thoughtful look at Holt, she nodded. “Come with me into my room. I need to ask you about something.”
Closing the door once they were inside her bedchamber, Tressa sat on the edge of the bed and told him about finding the dead rabbit in the Langley woods, with no sign of it having been wounded or caught in a snare.
Holt paced restlessly around the room, listening. When she had finished speaking, he turned to her. “Show me the place, Tressa.”
“But it’s too dark now, Holt.”
“I can still see well enough in the darkness to make my way at night. We’ll need a source of light for you, though.” Holt opened her chamber door and stepped out into the hall. “Wait for me downstairs. I’ll borrow an electric torch from Hugh.”
Tressa’s nerves were on edge now, for she’d been hoping that Holt would dismiss the incident as harmless. She had no desire to explore that wooded spot at night, but she bundled up anyway in a thick sweater and went downstairs to wait for Holt by the door.
It wasn’t long before he returned. Stepping inside the cottage, he handed her a flashlight. “You must carry the torch, Tressa, so that my hands are free.”
“Why? Do you think we’ll meet anyone?”
His face was unreadable. “My old powers are waning and I must rely upon my wits, now.” He opened one side of his jacket. Tressa could see the tops of two short but hefty wooden stakes protruding from a pocket in the black lining.
The fresh shavings she’d seen on the workbench in the barn must have been left by Holt, she realized. “I hope there won’t be any need for you to use those!” she said in a tight voice.
He ushered her out the door. “They’re just a precaution.”
Tressa decided not to mention the wooden stakes she’d made for herself. Holt would never believe she could protect herself with them.
Together they walked down the dark lane with Tressa shining the beam of the flashlight over the shadowy hedgerows. Finally, the silver handle of her umbrella glinted in the beam.
“Here’s the spot!” she cried out softly. “My umbrella was snagged by the branches but I was in such a hurry to get away that I left it behind.”
Holt stepped quietly up to the hedgerow, bending his head to examine first the ground and then lifting his gaze to inspect the branches overhead. Nothing seemed to alarm him so far, and with a few twists and tugs, he freed the umbrella and tucked it under his arm.
Pushing through the tangle of ivy and branches, he held the vegetation aside for her to follow.
“Show me the spot.”
Tressa beamed the light over the forest floor, finding the open patch of ground where she’d seen the rabbit. “The body was right there, next to the roots of that tree.”
But the was spot was empty now.
Tressa swept the flashlight beam over the leaf-cover
ed ground and all the shadowed crannies she could find, but there was no sign of a furry body anywhere.
Near the spot where the rabbit had lain, Holt leaned over, studying the ground. He straightened. “It’s time to leave.” His hand was firm on her shoulder as he guided her back the way they had come.
Tressa ducked through the hedgerow with Holt close on her heels. They walked swiftly together up the lane, without speaking. Tressa strained her ears to listen, but she could hear only the topmost branches of the trees shifting in a night breeze, and the sound of their footsteps on the damp, rain-soaked lane.
“Could a large animal have dragged the body to its den?” she finally asked as they neared the lights of Cup Cottage.
“Only foxes and martins live in the woods of Langley. Nothing larger.”
“Did you see any tracks – or footprints?”
Holt was silent for a moment. “No, and that is what worries me most.”
“Then...”
Holt muttered, “We can’t rule out the possibility. From now on, you mustn’t walk alone outside.”
Tressa knew it was the sensible thing to do, but she balked at such a measure. Now she’d have nothing to occupy her time. “But Peter and Luke won’t take me with them to Wells anymore. I can’t stay inside the cottage, day after day.”
Holt unlatched the garden gate of Cup Cottage so that she could step inside the enclosure. “You mustn’t wander about Langley on your own, Tressa,” he said even more firmly.
“Parts of the estate have to be safe enough for walking. I crossed the bridge and found the old manor house yesterday morning,” she told him calmly, trying to reason with him. “The clearing with the manor house and its grounds seemed safe, to me.”
Holt latched the gate behind them. “No, the manor is too distant from the cottages.”
“Then we could go there together,” she countered. “You could give me a tour of the rooms inside the manor. You know how much I like history!”
They had reached the doorstep of Cup Cottage by that time, where the soft lamplight shining from the front windows revealed the expression on Holt’s face.
He wanted nothing to do with such a tour, she could tell. Her heart sank at his obvious reluctance.
But to her surprise, he murmured, “Very well, Tressa. We’ll visit the manor together in the morning. I shall count it a blessing if it keeps you out of trouble, at least for a while.” He turned and left her at the door.
Pensively, Tressa entered the cottage on her own.
Tomorrow, when she was alone with Holt, she’d ask him about that form of communication that she was sure they shared, the psychic link.
Twenty-eight
As Holt unlocked the entrance doors of Langley Manor the next morning and ushered Tressa inside, his glance kept darting her way, as if he expected her to be repulsed by the number of cobwebs hanging from the ceiling of the entrance hall and the pervasive scent of mildew.
At first, Tressa was started by the decay, but then a sense of wonderment took over as they entered the Great Hall and her gaze ran over the massive, empty hearth and the heavy beams that ran overhead.
As they crossed the floor together, their footsteps echoed in the vastness. Musingly, Tressa thought of the centuries of Holt’s ancestors who had lived and gathered in that space. It almost seemed to her as if the faint sound of long-ago footsteps and voices still hung in the musty air.
Holt showed her the east wing next. Together they peered into the quaint, empty bedchambers, each with its own small hearth. His commentary was sparse as they proceeded with the tour, but his attachment to the place of his birth was obvious.
Following Holt into one of the bedchambers, she ran a hand over the dark wooden paneling on the walls and then crossed the room to stand by a mullioned window. The wooden frame was badly rotted but by some miracle, the diamond panes of glass still stood intact within their niche. Outside the window, masses of ivy and undergrowth pressed up against the glass in mottled shades of green, the leaves and branches so dense that the chamber itself was bathed in a greenish glow.
Soon Holt led her into the west wing, where they walked along elegant passageways with high ceilings. The bedchambers were larger here, and the walls had been finished with plaster instead of paneling, and then painted with the delicate pastel hues of the Georgian era. It was a pity that water stains had marred the walls, adding drab brown splotches to the pastel hues, thought Tressa.
The windows were much taller here and the green tangle of undergrowth outside the manor pressed only halfway up. The light that entered the upper panes of the windows fell upon the fine wood floors, making them glow even under the layers of dust and the plaster debris that had fallen from the ceilings.
Opening a pair of large doors, Holt led her next into a spacious drawing room, but he told her very little about the dances and social gatherings that had once taken place there, despite her questions. Countless young women must have set their caps for him, she silently mused, attracted not only by his dark good looks but by his prospects as the heir of Langley.
They finished their tour in the library, an airy room of classical proportions that had been added in the same decade as the Georgian west wing. Along one wall, light filtered in through a set of tall French windows that overlooked the terrace and the old, weedy gardens.
Dark and silent, Holt stood with his back turned to her, looking out at the gardens. “Now that you’ve had a proper tour, Tressa, what do you think of the pile?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Holt, how can you call it a pile? It’s not just a heap of stones! It’s marvelous. I’m not an expert, but it seems to me that all of the stains and rotting wood could be put right. Then the rooms would only need a thorough cleaning. Does the current owner have any plans to restore the manor?” she asked.
Holt laughed bitterly. “He’s like the wind, blowing this way and that upon the matter. A temperamental fellow. I can’t recommend his acquaintance.” He stared out the windows in brooding silence.
With a sigh, Tressa’s gaze swept over the library. Ever since they had entered, she had been puzzled about the large desk that stood at the far end of the room and the small collection of books that rested on one of the otherwise vacant bookshelves. “Holt, why isn’t the library as empty as all of the other rooms?”
Holt replied shortly, “A few things have remained from former times, and the current owner has made no protest.”
Curious about the titles of the books, Tressa passed by the hearth where she was surprised to see a heap of charred logs and ashes within the grate. She wondered if some provision had been made to heat the library and protect its contents from the cold and damp.
She walked on past the hearth until she came to the little collection of books. The volumes were all very old, by the look of the bindings. Sliding one of them from the shelf, she was prepared to blow a heavy layer of dust from its cover, but to her surprise, she found it was clean.
Opening the book to a random page, she found poetry inside. The title at the top of the page was Remembrance, and as her eyes ran downwards, her attention was caught by one of the verses.
As the wood when leaves are shed, as the night when sleep is fled, as the heart when joy is dead, I am left lone, alone.
Turning back to the title page, she saw that the author was Percy Shelley, and that the volume had been printed in 1821. With a sense of amazement, she realized it was probably a first edition of one of Shelley’s works.
She silently read the rest of the poem and set the book gently down on the desk, wanting to ask Holt about it, for it had to be extremely valuable. As she did so, she noticed that the fine-grained surface of the desk was also free of dust. Her gaze went back to the small collection of books. Narrowing her eyes, she read the titles. They were all works of poetry – old poetry.
“Holt, you’re the current owner of Langley, aren’t you?” She turned sharply in his direction.
“Yes, of course I am.” He seemed t
o find nothing remarkable about the matter.
“How could that be?”
Holt turned from the windows to gaze somberly at her. “In the beginning, I simply allowed my brother and his descendants to inherit the estate. But I was forced to intervene about seventy years ago, when my brother’s line died out and Langley was almost broken up and sold in pieces, to gain the most profit. How I resented the surveyors!” Holt gave her a wry look. “Poor fellows.”
Tressa’s eyes widened. “What happened to them?” she whispered.
“I went to their lodgings at night,” Holt said with a gleam in his eye, “and I frightened them away. Nothing more horrible than that, Tressa. Once they were gone, I stepped forward and claimed to be my own descendent.”
“But how?”
“It was quite simple to forge my own birth records. It was a deception that I justified to myself with hardly a qualm. After all, I was the heir. I had been the true lord of Langley all along, ever since my father’s death.”
Tressa said, “But what happened as the years went on? Someone must have noticed that you never aged.”
Holt laughed. “Shall I shatter any illusions you may have left about me?” He turned and stared out the window at the weeds that had overtaken the old gardens. “I forged as many documents as I found necessary. I’ve kept a collection of old papers and inks, and I’m able to copy any hand, any signature. As the years passed, I became my own son and then my grandson. It was very simple.”
Tressa digested that. Finally, she said, “Holding onto Langley means more to you than I ever realized. Is it a way to relive the past?”
Holt shook his head. “No. I may hate modern times, but I also hated too many things about the past to want to relive it. No, Tressa, the real reason I went to such lengths is because I’m English. I feel an Englishman’s love of his own land.” He glanced over his shoulder at Tressa. “It must seem odd to you. Americans are proud of their land as a nation, as well they should be, for America has beautiful mountains and shores, and all manner of wild and untrammeled places. But Americans treat their own land as mere property,” he mused, “a piece of earth that surrounds a house. An investment to be bought and sold for profit,” he added in a withering voice. “One’s land should be loved for its own sake.”