The Haunting at Hawke's Moor (6 page)

With a heavy mood, Anne closed the
door to her bedroom. Luckily there was moonlight that night so she
could conserve what was left of her bedside candle. Perhaps they
needed to get a beehive so they could produce their own wax and
honey, but she had no idea how one procured a beehive. Why was she
so utterly unprepared for everything? Because she was supposed to
have a husband that took care with her and did what was necessary.
Now she was discarded like an old newspaper, left to fend for
herself like an abandoned dog no one wanted anything to do
with.

Sadness threatened to envelop her again as
she lay down underneath her blankets, having hung up her gown. No,
she had to be grateful; she had this house and it was everything.
This house was her savior. She would just have to learn to fend for
herself. Others managed.

Weariness set in and she couldn't keep
her eye open, falling asleep short moments later.

She walked down corridors
that didn't seem to end. She'd lost track of where she was. Was she
on the third floor? Nothing looked familiar. The paintings on the
walls stared down at her accusingly, as if she was an impostor in
the house. She couldn't even remember where she was trying to go,
but she had to get there, there was something important
there—something she couldn't forget.

Now it was dark and there
was coal dust. The heady smell of coal and smoke tickled her nose.
It looked like a basement, but there wasn't a basement in the
house. But everything seemed familiar, and yet not, as if she was
supposed to know it.

A set of stairs led up and
she followed them, returning to the corridors which stretched along
each side.
Looking down, she noted the
candle holder in her hand, but the candle had burned down to
nothing. If she put it down, she'd lose it and she'd never find it
again. She needed a candle holder, but then it was gone. She had
put it somewhere. Turning, she tried to find it, but there were
only vases on the few tables she saw.

In an alcove, she saw Alfie leaning over
Lisle. They were whispering and both turned to her when they
noticed her, hard eyes considering her.

She wanted to call out, ask them how to get…
where? Instead, she kept walking and they returned to their
whispering. They were much too close; it was inappropriate. Lisle
would lose herself if she wasn't careful.

A thought crawled through
her mind as if spoken, saying they would have the house if it
wasn't for her. She could disappear and no one would bother looking
for her, and they would have the house all to themselves. Unease
sat like dampness between her shoulder blades. Everything felt cold
and damp. There was a window open and rain was coming in, ruining
the carpet.

Anne woke with a start. It was still dark,
but the unease of the dream followed her. Leaning over, she lit the
nub of the candle and soft light spread through the room. It wasn't
dawn yet, but she had no idea what time it was.

Sitting up, she tried to shake the remnants
of the dream. It was just her anxiety finding a voice, she told
herself. The notion that Lisle and Alfie would covet the house was
ludicrous. They barely knew each other, but then they barely knew
Alfie. In reality, they had no claim to the house, even if it had
been forgotten for a hundred years. Someone would eventually
notice. Harry would notice. He would inherit the house.

Perhaps Anne had developed a distrust for
Alfie. There was nothing in his behavior to suggest he was
untrustworthy, and the reverend had recommended him. That stood for
his good characters, at least.

The candle burned. The longer it
burned, the sooner she would be without one. She had to blow it out
to conserve it, plunging the room back into near darkness. Her
heart was still beating. Was her life to be endless worry from now
on? When would she find her balance again? Could she even remember
a time when she had felt balanced?

The moors were actually a good place
to think if you had a moment to spare. There was still so much work
to do, but it felt to Anne like the manic phase was lessening. Yes,
there was work, there would always be work, but the used parts of
the house were clean and habitable. The soft furnishings still
needed to be re-stuffed, which would remove the last of the ill
smells, but that had to wait until she had some straw.

Dirt caked around the hem of her skirt
as she walked the overgrown path to the main road. Her hands were
freezing, even encased in their gloves, and she had to fist them to
get the blood going. Egton was apparently where the mail for the
manor was sent. And she could send letters herself, and she had one
for Harry and one for her aunt, sitting in the beaded reticule
hanging off her wrist.

She had a list of provisions and not enough
money to buy them, certainly not for the sherry she wished she had.
Such simple things were luxuries now. She also didn't know if a
cart would come along, or if one would later head back this way. If
not, she might just have to spend the night in Egton.

With aching feet, she finally reached
the road, and she was in luck—a cart came along within two hours,
and she could sit in the back amongst the baskets of what looked
like potatoes and other root crops. The cart trundled along at a
steady pace, although the farmer showed little interest in
speaking.

Egton was a small village sitting in a
gentle valley, surrounded by greenery. A village with a scattering
of thatched roof cottages and a church. The general store and
postal office was in the center, and Anne went straight there. A
bell pinged as she walked in, goods stored in piles around the
store and along the wooden counter.

She smiled at the proprietor, who
seemed a little friendlier than the last she'd met in Goathland. In
fact, he was Scottish and older, with a fine, white beard. She
bought candles, paraffin, flour, tea, saddle oil, lye, polish,
sugar and salt. And matches; she couldn't forget the matches.
Lighting fires would be much easier if they had matches.

Paying the man, she inquired if he
knew of anyone heading along the western road. The man stroked his
beard with his palm while he considered. "Anders might be heading
out that way later this afternoon. I can send the boy to
enquire."

"That would be much appreciated," she
said, relieved that there was, at least, a potential to head home.
"Also, is there any mail addressed to Hawke's Manor?"

The man chuckled. "Funny you should
mention. There is, and the first one in the time I've been
here."

Gladly, Anne took the letter and saw
her aunt’s handwriting. The realization that there was no letter
from Harry hit home and Anne felt an ache in her chest. Harry had
still not forgiven her for the scandal this divorce had
caused.

"Did you say Hawke's Manor?" a woman
said, stepping closer. Anne hadn't seen her. She was elderly and
wore ruffled lace over her white hair. "What business have you with
Hawke's Manor?" She didn't say it brusquely, and lay one of her
lace-gloved hands on Anne's arm.

"I reside there. I've inherited it."

"You don't say," the woman said. "I am
Miss Thornby. You must come have tea with me and my sister. Tell us
all about it."

Anne felt a bit stumped how to reply, but
the woman seemed kind and Anne was certainly not in a position to
turn an invitation down.

"I'll see if Anders is heading out and
I'll send the boy around the let you know," the merchant
said.

"Come," the elderly woman urged,
walking awkwardly down the two steps to the bare earth street. Anne
followed, unsure what she was heading toward, but she didn't have
long to wait. The sisters' cottage was just down the street—a
small, stone cottage with dormant roses along the fence.

"Hilda, I have brought a guest," the
woman said as she opened the door. "You will never guess what this
lovely girl has just told me."

A slightly younger version of the
woman arrived, with neatly tied hair. "Miss Emily Thornby," she
presented herself.

"Miss Anne Sands," Anne said, gently
touching hands, conscious of how rough her hands were underneath
her gloves.

"This young woman says she lives at
Hawke's Manor. Come, dear,” Emily said.

A young maid brought tea in a silver
service as they sat down in the parlor filled with lace and
embroidery. The furniture was dainty, made for a woman's
sensibilities. Anne wondered if the sisters had lived here all
their lives. They were of gentler birth, obviously
unmarried.

"Yes," Anne replied. "I have inherited
it." These women’s attitude to her would definitely be diminished
when they discovered Anne was a divorcee. She felt torn between
telling them or not. They might think even worse of her if they
discovered it afterward and she'd tried to hide the fact. But there
was no easy way of bringing it up in conversation.

Both of the sisters stared at her and she
felt self-conscious.

"No, that can't be. You must leave,
dear." Hilda looked at her with clear concern in her
eyes.

Anne wondered if they'd already found out
about her less than respectable status. The back of her eyes stung
with the unfairness of it. She had never done anything to deserve
such disregard—except lose her husband, which perhaps she needed to
take responsibility for. "I'm afraid I won't be leaving." There was
the small matter of her not having anywhere to go.

"That house is evil. It always has
been,” Hilda said.

It wasn't the first time she'd heard this
superstitious nonsense. "It is only a house. It is actually quite
charming, now that we have achieved some semblance of order. I
don't mind telling you that it has taken quite a bit of work. My
hands have suffered," she said nervously.

The sisters still stared at her. "Back
in grandmother's day, there were tales of people fleeing that
house. They say it's haunted," Emily stated.

"Well, if that's the case, it's had no
one to haunt for quite a while, so it's likely given up. There is
nothing untoward in the house," Anne said reassuringly.

"I hope you are right."

Hilda shuddered. "I haven't seen that
house in years. I'm surprised it's still standing."

"The construction seems to be quite sturdy,"
Anne said, taking a sip of her tea.

A knock sounded on the door and Anne
heard murmuring when the maid answered. The young girl appeared.
"There is a message saying Mr. Anders will be leaving shortly and
he has agreed to take you."

"I don't have a horse," she said with an
embarrassed smile. "There is a carriage, but it needs attention
that is beyond my capabilities."

The sisters looked pityingly at her, and
Anne hated it, being pitied, but then perhaps her situation was
pitiable, she conceded.

"I am afraid I must depart. It has been so
lovely being invited into your home."

"Next time you are in the village, you must
come see us."

"Of course," Anne said, glad she had
made some acquaintances, although a friendship that was still
tentative as she hadn't had a chance to be honest about her
situation yet. The friendship might not survive the revelation.
"Thank you, again."

It was dark by the time she arrived
home. Mr. Anders had been kind and taken her most of the way to the
house, although he couldn't take her all the way. She carried the
provisions in a wooden box, except the flour which was too heavy to
carry. She’d had to leave it under a rock formation that would
hopefully keep it dry if inclement weather intruded.