The Haunting at Hawke's Moor (19 page)

She placed down the candle holder she
had clasped in her hand on the bedside table. This was the room
Harry had slept in and Anne thought fondly of him as she sat down
on the edge of the bed. She pulled out the rusty blade she had
found in the stable and put it beside the candle holder.

Undressing and lying down in bed, she prayed
for a peaceful night. She grabbed the blade and put it under her
pillow. It made her feel better having it there.

Sheer exhaustion made her sleep, the kind
with no dreams, until the smell of smoke stung her nostrils. A
warning sounded through her mind, and now it wasn't the fear of
fire, but the fear the unctuous smell heralded the arrival of
unworldly things. There was also the sound of wind when she knew
there was none. Something in the house slammed shut, the sound
echoing down the hall.

Nothing was seen when she opened her eyes,
but she knew without a doubt he was there. The air had a heaviness,
a gelatinous quality, which felt too unmoving to draw into her
lungs.

Cold fingers gripped around her
ankles, and instinctively she pulled her feet up. Before she could
react further, weight pressed down on her chest. Her fingers sought
the rusty blade and wrapped around the split wooden handle. The bed
ropes dug into her back as the weight came down on her. But she
couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything, just felt the weight
of him. The blade would have no use unless she was brought into
that other place. "Too cowardly to show your face. You hide behind
your invisibility. You lout."

There was pressure and light, and he
lifted her by the neck. She felt her body leaving the mattress.
Everything changed, even the air. "You will not stay here," he
said, his voice harsh and deep. "I will not allow it."

She was in the other room, the master's
chamber. Somehow she'd been transported there. His face was
shadowed and she couldn't see him eyes, only the grim line of his
lips, the strong arms holding her.

"I am not your wife," she hissed through her
aching throat. "I am no man's wife." The blade was still in her
hand and she swung it up as hard as she could into the side of his
ribs. It met flesh as she pressed it into him. The expression on
his face showed surprise and his hands loosened. He stepped back
and she fell into darkness and again hit the floor. Ache flared up
her thigh as she'd landed on her side. She was back in the other
room, the knife still in her hands.

Rising, she marched into the master's room.
It was utterly dark and cold. "This is my house and you will not
chase me away," she said, her voice trembling with anger. "I am
done with men trampling over me. This is my house. You are the one
who don't belong here and I will fight you with everything I can,
until you are gone."

The room was utterly still. There wasn't a
sound in the entire house. There wasn't even wind outside, only the
distant hoot of a lonely owl.

She was still trembling with anger,
noticing the wetness on her hand where she held the blade. Looking
down, she saw blackness and knew it was blood—his blood. She had
stabbed him. On some level, it was astonishing that she had been
capable of such violence, but apparently she'd had enough of being
bullied and she didn't care if he was dead and buried. He needed to
stay that way and if she had to stab him every night, she
would.

Grabbing a piece of cloth, she angrily
wiped her hand and the blade as clean as she could. She crawled
under her blankets, which were freezing cold, and placed the blade
back under her pillow. Tucking her hands under her, she brought her
knees up and considered her own actions, acknowledging how angry
she was, and not just at the ghost, at her husband as well. Her
husband might have divorced her, but she had also disowned him. As
she said, she was no man's wife—least of all some hateful
ghost's.

The rider approaching was a young boy,
no older than fourteen. Anne stood, waiting for him by the time he
arrived. The wind had picked up a little and the mist had started
to clear. It was still cold as Anne waited. The boy stopped and she
walked forward, taking the letter he held out to her. He tapped his
cap and continued riding back the way he'd come. She'd planned to
offer him some refreshments, but he hadn't stayed. She supposed he
had other errands to complete.

Looking down, she saw it wasn't a letter at
all, instead a telegram. Her insides clenched with nerves. A
telegram was never good news. With trembling fingers, she opened
it, hoping it was not bad news related to Harry. Checking the
signature first, she saw it was from Harry.

GREAT AUNT HORTENSE PASSED STOP COME TO
CRICKLEY STOP

Anne gasped with the news. She'd received a
letter only a few days back. All had seemed well and now she was
dead. An ache clenched in her breast. This was awful. Her lovely
aunt.

For a moment, she couldn't do anything, was
caught in the loss, which ached through her. This wasn't how it was
supposed to be. She was supposed to come here and they were to be
companions—well, provided the spirits hadn't gotten in the way.

Absently, she returned inside and
leaned back on the door. Sadness washed through every part of her,
but she had to waylay it. She had to go to Devon and quickly. Her
mind tumbled through the logistics of it. The mail coach. She would
have to hurry if she was to catch it.

"Lisle," she called. "I must leave for
a while." She had no money for a journey across the country. Lisle
appeared from the kitchen, dough sticking to her fingers. "My aunt
has passed. I must go." Her mind was jumbled. "I can't leave you
here alone. You must come."

"We don't have money for both of us.
You go; I'll stay."

Unfortunately what Lisle said was
true. They didn't even have money for one to travel. "I'm not
comfortable leaving you here alone."

"Well, needs must," Lisle said, returning to
the kitchen. "And perhaps you need to see the doctor while you're
in town."

Anne drew her lips together. No, she refused
to go see a doctor about her issues, so she could describe how she
stabbed a ghost and how she was hovering between alternate
dimensions. That would most certainly have her detained in some
sanatorium somewhere, probably chained in a room with every lunatic
in the country. She'd rather tackle her ghost.

Rushing upstairs, Anne laid out her
traveling cloak, gloves and shawl. Searching through her closet,
she found her mourning dress and pulled it on. It smelled musty,
but that couldn't be helped. She had no time to air it.

On her way downstairs, she grabbed a vase.
She had no idea where it came from or who it originally belonged
to, but it would have to pay for her journey to Devon. The few
coins she had left would only get her on the mail coach. The vase
would have to be sold on the way.

She refused to relent to her sadness
the whole journey to Devon, which took close to thirty-six hours.
Sleep had been hurried and uncomfortable. London had been a hive of
activity and she had grown unaccustomed to the busyness. To her
surprise, a carriage waited for her at the train station closest to
Crickley Hall. The driver, seeing her mourning dress, inquired if
the hall was her destination.

Harry was already there when Anne was
introduced, shown into a parlor, where Lady Willowford and
assembled party were. There were other people Anne didn't know. A
man who looked to be the vicar, very old with white hair, and a
number of women, which Anne assumed were from the district. Aunt
Hortense would have had acquaintances and it was nice they came to
her funeral.

"We weren't sure you would make it,
but we estimated you would be on this train. A very correct
estimation and here you are," Lady Willowford said. Anne got the
feeling Lady Willowford wasn't entirely embracing her appearance,
but perhaps that was not a surprise. As a divorced woman, she was
not far from a leper. "We should perhaps commence with the
procession," she said to the vicar.

"Yes," the man said. "No point delaying
further."

Anne wasn't entirely sure what was going on
and looked to Harry as he joined her. "Lady Willowford has offered
to pay for the funeral, so she will be buried at the church in the
village." Anne felt a huge weight come off her. During the journey,
she had been considering her options. Transporting the body to
Yorkshire would prove prohibitively expensive and Anne wasn't sure
she had enough to sell in the house to cover it.

"That is very kind of her," Anne said.

"They were good friends. And I think the
expense is nothing to her." The hall was inordinately grand, so
Anne suspected Harry was right.

"This all happened so quickly. I received a
letter a few days ago and there was no indication she was ill."

"Apparently a stroke. Went to sleep
one night and didn't wake. They say it was very
peaceful."

Anne did take some comfort in that. "Too
much death." She shivered.

"She was very old. It is hardly surprising.
No one else has died," Harry said, looking at her.

"Oh, my field hand passed away. It was quite
traumatic. He was very young. Too young to die."

The assembled party moved outside
where the black burial carriage had appeared, the coffin behind
glass, a reef covering most of its surface. A set of four black
horses with plumes of feathers on top their bridles pulled the
carriage at a slow pace and the party walked behind. Lady
Willowford, Harry and Anne walked first, then the rest of the
party, who all wore black.

It took an hour to reach the church, where a
grave had already been made ready, breaking the well-kept grass. It
was a far cry from the wild graveyard Anne had buried Alfie in. But
here she was at another burial. The reverend started the sermon and
Anne held her handkerchief to her nose to ensure she held herself
with composure.

It didn't last long and Anne watched
as men lowered the coffin into the ground. Anne wanted to stop it,
to say that was enough, they were to undo this whole thing and
Hortense would be alive. Wanting people to be alive didn't make it
so, neither did wanting her life and family not to be ripped
apart.

Anne felt the loneliness stretch in front of
her. Her aunt was more or less the only supporter left in her life.
Harry was there out of obligation, but he didn't want to be.

Once the sermon was complete, everyone
walked in silence back to the Hall. Anne could have asked how
Stanford's wedding was progressing, or had it already occurred, but
she couldn't be bothered. She didn't care. Her husband deserved
none of her regard and she was happy to pretend he didn't exist.
She had to acknowledge this was difficult for Harry, having to be
supportive of both parties.

The reception was held in the same parlor
they had gathered in. Tea was served, along with little cakes.
Harry joined her on a sofa by a window. He was uncomfortable, but
it was his duty.

"I am sorry things have been difficult for
you," he said.

A smiled passed over Anne's lips, but
faded. "That house is uniquely difficult," she admitted. "It seems
unsettled."

"What does?"

Anne considered whether she wanted to
continue with this discussion. "Well, the house has a sordid
history and it seems an ominous place."

"It is a place you are lucky to have," Harry
said sharply.

"Your father divorcing me wasn't my
fault," she stated.

"Wasn't it?"

"No," she said. "He chose not to honor his
vows."