The Haunting at Hawke's Moor (2 page)

Mr. Charterham's offices were up a set
of stairs, down a dark hall clad in heavy mahogany, until she
reached a door with his name in gold lettering.

A clerk sat at the desk, scribbling in a
large tome. "Ah, Mrs. Kinelly," he said with a humorless smile.
"Please take a seat."

She did, not bothering to correct him
on his address. What did it matter? Perhaps he did so on purpose so
not to highlight her abject reduction in station. It was kind of
him if it were so. Kindness was something she'd seen rarely, of
late.

Another set of doors opened and Mr.
Charterham appeared. "Miss Sands, please come in." Charterham took
no such pains preserving her station. She smiled tightly and rose,
hoping Mr. Charterham would not expect payment for this visit, as
that would be as devastating on her as the divorce at this point.
It was funny how smaller and smaller things represented
devastation.

"Please take a seat," he said and
returned to his chair. Documents were strewn over his desk. The
chair creaked as he sat down and now blatantly considered her. She
had never felt comfortable in his presence. "It is not a nice thing
what has happened to you, and I have felt pity for your
circumstances."

"Thank you," she said, unsure where this was
going.

"So, I thought I would see what can be done
for you," he said more brightly, picking up a set of spectacles and
putting them on. He picked up a piece of paper. "And we have had
some success."

Anne blinked, hope surging.

"In fact, we have found you a house."

"A house," Anne repeated
breathily.

"A manor even, but don't get excited. It is
old and unoccupied. I'm not sure it's fit for living."

"Where I am now is not far off," she
conceded in a rare show of honesty about how poor her situation
was.

Mr. Charterham smiled indulgently. "It has
been placed in trust by one of your great aunts, but no one wanted
it, so it's been sitting there since. The location is equally
desolate, I'm afraid. Yorkshire. But it is something."

A house. She had a house, untouchable
by Stanford, who had kept everything else. This was a stroke of
luck she could scarcely believe.

Charterham reached for an envelope,
which showed the signs of dust and stains. He opened it. "And here
is the key, apparently; been sitting in wait for someone to come
claim it." He pulled out a black, iron key. It was large and heavy,
made in a bygone era. Anne clasped her hand around it and felt the
coolness of the metal seep into her hand. Hope lay in her hand. A
house, and she could grow vegetables, maybe even the odd livestock.
She would not be starving and the specter of the workhouse faded
away.

"I don't know how to thank you, Mr.
Charterham," she said, tears again prickling her nose, but of joy
this time.

"I am simply glad this came about. I
don't like seeing ladies in such reduced circumstances. It reflects
poorly on us as a society, I think. So I am pleased. Best of luck
for your future." Maybe Mr. Charterham was one of the few people
she had met who didn't actually believe in the stigma divorce
brought. She wasn't actually a different person from a week ago,
but he had taken the time and effort to help her, and now she had a
future thanks to this man.

Again, she thanked him profusely,
walking out a much lighter person, the key still clasped in her
hand. This house was hers and no one could take it away from her.
Now she even had somewhere Harry could come visit if he chose to
acknowledge her again, but being merely seventeen, other concerns
occupied his mind.

The train stopped at the station they
sought and Anne rose, excusing herself and Lisle as she navigated
her skirt around the knees of the man sitting opposite them. Taking
the handle, she opened the carriage door and pushed out her
umbrella. It had started raining and the scenery had been lost to
them the last hour or so, but finally, there was fresh
air.

A porter came and unloaded their
trunks, rushing in the rain while they retreated toward the small,
slate station building. Passengers embarked and rail engineers ran
around filling the locomotive with water. The steam plumed white
over them and then started the deep, heavy chugs at the train
inched forward again, the steam plume carried by the wind. The
rattle of the carriages built as the train gained speed, then
receded, leaving a ringing in Anne's ear with the absence of
noise.

"Welcome to Goathland Station," the
old porter said, water dripping off his cap. "I am David Canning,"
the older man said, water dripping off his cap.

"Miss Sands," Anne said with a nod. "Would
you be able to tell us how to organize some transport for ourselves
and our trunks?"

"I certainly can, Miss," the man said.
"Where'd you be going onto?"

"Hawke's Manor," she said, having to
speak loudly over the increasing rain.

The man blinked and didn't say anything for
a moment, just looked at her.

"Do you know where it is?"

"I do," he finally said. "That's some way
out, close to the Turner farm."

"Oh," Anne said, pleased to hear that
there were some people close by. For a moment, she feared it would
be totally desolate, judging from the blank look on Mr. Canning's
face.

"We need to cross the bridge there," he
said, pointing at an arched structure reaching over the tracks to
the other side. "Jonah," he called back toward the station building
and a boy came out, hurriedly putting his cap on. They grabbed the
trunks and walked ahead. "Watch you step. It can be slippery in the
wet."

Anne grabbed the railing and started
walking across the bridge, catching sight of a river running along
not far away. Beyond that, it was difficult to see anything through
the rain. The warmth inside the carriage was dissipating and she
started to feel the moist cold creeping up her skirt
hem.

Other than the station, there wasn't
much to Goathland—a store, a tea room and a pub, and a few houses
for the people living in this village.

"I'll see if Tom can drive you," Mr. Canning
said. "The parson has a carriage he might be willing to lend you
seeing as the weather is blowing. There is a tea room here if you
wish for refreshment."

"We might buy some provisions," Anne said,
pointing at the general merchant store.

Mr. Canning tapped his cap and strode
off, throwing a last look back. Lisle was miserable in the rain,
holding her coat over her head, hurrying as they walked toward the
store. A bell rang as the door opened and she saw a man standing
behind the counter in a white apron, with a neatly manicured
mustache. He watched impassively as they walked closer. Anne
smiled, but the man didn't smile back; instead, his eyes traveled
down her navy blue satin cloak. So far, the people she'd seen
around here all wore gray wool, so her clothes might identify her
as foreign to these parts. Her London accent would, as
well.

"Some flour perhaps. Five pounds?" She
looked around and saw some ham under a cloth. "And a pound of ham.
Do you have any seeds?"

"What kind of seeds?" His voice was gruff
with a heavy Yorkshire accent.

"Peas?" Anne said brightly. "Onions. Kitchen
garden seeds."

"Over in the back there," he said
without moving to assist and Anne walked over, her skirt dripping
over the dusty floorboards. Paper packets held seeds and she picked
a few different varieties. Vegetables were not something she'd
grown before. Flowers had been her interest, but her needs were
different now, particularly if she was to live so very far away
from people. Except these Turners, for which she could only have
high hopes for.

The man's disposition didn't improve
and Anne felt unwelcome in his store. She paid and carried the
packets outside again, waiting under a covered entranceway for
whoever was to assist them in reaching their destination. If Mr.
Canning decided they were too much trouble, she didn't know what to
do, but before long, a man came, wearing an oiled coat and hat,
driving a modest carriage that really only suited one person. They
had to squeeze in, the oval glass in the rear steaming up with
their wetness.

Lisle fell asleep, but Anne watched
and the countryside changed, becoming more and more starkly
desolate. Everything felt wet, including her clothes, and it
chilled her, even as the inside of the carriage developed a sticky
warmth.

They passed a few farm houses, but
they were few and far between. Checking the watch in her reticule,
which had belonged to her husband before he'd bought a finer one,
they had now driven two hours. It would not be an easy task getting
back to the railway, or perhaps even to provisions. They would have
to learn to be self-sufficient, for now at least.

The driver didn't say a word the entire
time, the horse going at a steady pace down the narrow gravel road.
Rain stopped and started again, but it was uniformly gray.

Despite the dismal weather, Anne held
hope in her heart. All things considered, she was fortunate to have
this. There may not be much company on the moors, but her status as
a divorcee would carry all the way out here, from now until the day
she passed. She would just have to get used to a more solitary
life. No doubt full of work from dawn to dusk, in the immediate
involving getting the kitchen garden sorted. If no one had lived in
this house for quite a while, it would likely be overgrown, maybe
even unrecognizable.

In truth, she had no idea what to
expect. It was a manor so it was larger than a cottage. Probably
built in the same gray stone as every other building in this area.
Hopefully, it had a roof. If it was a ruin, things would be
infinitely tougher. But if she had to learn the skill of roofing,
she would. She had absolutely no choice.

Eventually, the carriage turned off
into a smaller road—a track was perhaps a better description, that
led, meandering and overgrown up a hill. Two thin stone tracks led
the way. There were no signs that any types of vehicles had been on
the track, and other than the lain stone, there was nothing to
indicate this was a road.

The carriage was unstable and pitched
awkwardly in places. Even Lisle couldn't sleep through this and
they held on tightly to the handles. The horse strained to pull
them up over the uneven surface.

Cresting the hill, they saw the house
in the distance. Three stories, with a roof. Anne breathed a sigh
of relief. The roof was, at least, there, and looked to be intact.
Windows interspersed the gray stone, a few missing panes. A couple
of outbuildings stood on one side, but nature had claimed back the
yard. A birch tree grew next to the stairs leading up to the main
entrance.

The carriage pulled across the deeper gravel
around the front, crushing a few bushes that had grown through. The
rain had lessened to a drizzle.

Anne and Lisle got out. "Don't think
anyone's been here in fifty years," the man said. "Some say better
that way." He looked up at the house and Anne could have sworn he
shivered.

Gazing up, Anne looked at the man who
eyed the structure with suspicion. "The Turner family is nearby,
Mr. Canning said," she stated.

"Thata way," the man said, pointing
over to the right. "Quite some way, though." He looked
uncomfortable. "You sure you want to stay here? I can take you back
to the village."

"This is our new home," she said, handing
him some coins.