The Haunting at Hawke's Moor (26 page)

"They're still here."

Mr. Harleston's eyes traveled up to
the ceiling toward where the Master's bedroom was. "So very
strong," he said, "but such a shift. The darkness that hung over
the entire house has retreated. Still so powerful,
though."

Wide, excited eyes shifted into the
parlor, as if he watched someone walking in. Anne couldn't see
anyone. "A young girl," he whispered as he continued watching empty
space, his eyes shifting with this spirit's progression. "Dark
hair. Elizabeth." Mr. Harleston bowed deeply. "She is the most
earth-bound."

"What do you mean?"

"She is the one who has been watching
over you, the one more cognizant of the living residents of the
house. The others do not necessarily know you are here." A silent
noise seemed to distract him and he looked up again. "And a boy,
slightly younger. Her brother."

"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.

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.