The Haunting at Hawke's Moor (27 page)

Anne paced around the parlor, trying
to think of some way to deal with this, but what tools did she
have? Mr. Harleston had been adamant that everything came down to
Richard Hawke. But it was still daylight and she couldn't deal with
any of this until after dark. Instead, she donned her shawl and her
apron and went outside to prepare the kitchen garden for the spring
planting.

Her mood had not approved during the
afternoon. Concern for the woman grieving her child sat there, but
it masked other feelings—feelings she didn't want to admit or
attend to.

Supper had been hurried. Lisle was tired and
wanted to retire, although Anne understood that what Lisle really
wanted was to seek other company. Even though she'd admitted it,
she still refused to discuss it further. Anne still worried for
her.

Darkness had fallen as Anne sat down on the
sofa, her small sherry glass in hand. It had been nice to have
company, to have someone to talk to during supper last night. That
was something Lisle couldn't, or wouldn't, provide.

"Elizabeth?" Anne said with a quiet voice.
"Are you here?"

Anne listened and heard a small sound, as if
there was someone in the room. They had spoken once, although she
had been under the effects of laudanum at the time.

"Is there something we can do to help that
woman upstairs? Can you speak to me?"

She felt the presence of the girl more than
saw her, as she sat down next to her.

"Can you draw me into your realm as
well?"

A cool touch stung on her arm and then
the familiar feeling of being absorbed into another place. The
parlor looked very different. The furniture was different, and
they'd even shifted locations in the room. Wood instead of coal
burned in the hearth, and she was sitting in a hard chair instead
of a sofa. Elizabeth sat beside her, her dark hair braided behind
her. So very young, Anne thought, and felt a rush of
sorrow.

"There is little we can do for her,"
Elizabeth said.

"Can't he release her, any of you?"

"I don't know. I know he won't."

"But that is cruel. She pines for her child.
It all just feels so hopeless."

Elizabeth grabbed her hand. "No, it is so
much better now. You don't understand what you've done for us. We
have been released."

"You're all still here."

"But we are no longer consumed by his rage
and alarm. It took everything and now it's gone. You did that. You
stood up to him and we are slowly emerging into something new,
something freer."

"He is a tyrant keeping you trapped here.
This isn't right."

"He is keeping us together, and I have
my father back now. Me, my brother; we are together. That is all
that matters."

"But you are bound here."

"Where else would we want to be? Wouldn't
you want to be with your family when you die? And now we can be
together. His rage consumed everything, but now we have him back.
Don't you understand how much this means?"

Anne couldn't help tears from falling. She
felt so awful. What Elizabeth was saying wasn't strictly awful.
"But that woman is caught also."

"Well, in a way."

"And the maid."

"Beatrice?" Elizabeth said
disbelievingly.

"Mr. Harleston said she suffered so
much, she was catatonic."

Elizabeth snorted. "I'm surprised she wasn't
playing dead. That was probably what she tried to do. Don't worry
about Beatrice. She is not suffering. Who do you think seduced your
stable boy?"

"Alfie?"

"She will seduce any man who comes here. She
had a go at your son, too."

Anne’s eyes widened with
shock.

"I suppose he didn't mention that. Probably
thought he was dreaming. Men don't always question things. No,
she'll have a go at anyone, except William, who she purposefully
will not indulge."

"Who's William?"

"The son who lived here and died of a
fever. Mr. Harleston told you of him on the landing yesterday. So
ravaged by passion, he doesn't know what to do with himself, and
Beatrice only teases him. But he’s somewhat depleted tonight, as I
suspect your visitor drained some of his aching need last
night."

"What!? Mr. Harleston?" Anne couldn't
have been more shocked. The images refused to conjure in her head,
or she refused to entertain them.

"William isn't fussy. Young, old,
female, male—anyone. He will literally let anyone play in his
drawers, although he pines for Beatrice—solely for the fact that
she refuses him. He wouldn't deign to lower himself to a maid
otherwise. Saying that, there is nothing he likes more than guests
coming to the house. Your son was lucky Beatrice beat him to
it."

These sentiments coming out of
Elizabeth's innocent-looking countenance was disconcerting, but
Anne had to remember that she wasn't a fifteen-year-old girl. Anne
had been utterly clueless to anything at fifteen, but then she had
to remember that Elizabeth wasn't a girl, she was over two hundred
years old. And who would have guessed that their ghosts were so
debauched? Mr. Harleston probably had, she conceded. She had
expected ghosts to be utterly solemn, but then she struggled to
understand anyone.

"And what of the manservant?"

"Thompson? Well, he wouldn't leave even if
he could. There was bad blood between him and his family. He will
stay here just to avoid facing his father."

"But the woman."

"Yes, Lady Sorrow."

"Is that what you call her?"

"Yes. She isn't quite like us. Not entirely
sentient, instead caught in a moment, in a memory, living it over
and over again."

"That is awful." The shock of Elizabeth's
revelations fading, the underlying sadness returned.

"You are troubled today."

"How can I not be? There is a woman in my
house, pining in the most aching way for her child. It tears at my
heart." Maybe because Anne knew exactly how that felt, wanting your
child but being unable to reach them.

"Is that how you feel? Your son is
here. There is nothing stopping you from going to him, or even
calling him here, although I wouldn't recommend it, considering
William is still prowling the guest bedrooms looking for his next
victim."

"There's a caveat for inviting guests. I was
even thinking of bringing my aunt here before she died."

"William would have been delighted."

Anne could see the humor in the
abstract concept of a young nobleman crawling into bed with her
aunt, an amorous ghost haunting the halls—even if she'd been
terrified. Maybe being terrified had grown so commonplace in this
house, she no longer felt the tragedy in it. Now that was a sad
state of affairs.

"So why don't you go to your son if you miss
him so?" Elizabeth asked.

Anne could only stare down at her lap,
the glass of sherry in her hand. It had followed her into this
realm, it seemed. But she couldn't be distracted from her heavy
thoughts for long by the curiosities of their realms. She swallowed
and sighed. "It seems no one is what they appear to be," she said
quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"Of all of the people I have met, no
one is quite what they seem. Mr. Harleston is so kind, but
sometimes there is a real hardness in him, there beneath the
exterior he shows the world. My husband. I never thought he could
be so callous, so uncaring. I knew he never loved me, but to be so
mercenary… "

Elizabeth sat still, listening. Even
Elizabeth, the innocent-looking girl was more understanding of
everything and everyone than her appearances would suggest. Her
father, the raging monster, was just a man.

"I don't know if I trust any of the people
in my life," Anne admitted. It hurt to say it, but it was true. Her
parents had led her into a loveless marriage, to a man who
eventually threw her out of the streets for fend for herself. Her
ghost? Well, she certainly couldn't trust him to have her interest
at heart—although, he didn't hide the fact he felt no loyalty to
her. And her son?

"Including your son?"

It ached to admit it, but she nodded.

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth said and Anne felt
another welling of tears. Sorry was perhaps better than some
insistence that she was wrong in her perception. Could love and
uncaring exist in the same instance? Richard Hawke had defied death
itself to keep his family together. Harry resented the discomfort
of her social standing, happy to have her hidden away out here, far
away from any disturbance she would cause. Would he care if he
never saw her again?

Maybe it was his youth that made him
so uncaring. He did love her; he certainly had when he'd been
little. She just wasn't so sure that love had survived his
maturing. And that hurt most of all.

Biting the end of her thumb, Anne paced
around her bedroom. His bedroom. She could never quite forget that,
particularly now that he was so very much on her mind. Now that she
knew there were people in the house, real people with personal
traits, ambitions and thoughts, she couldn't ignore them.
Particularly the woman who grieved. She might not be entirely there
as Elizabeth had said, but she was still there, even if only the
part that grieved.

"You must release them," she finally said,
swallowing the nervousness she felt.

There was no response. He was ignoring her.
That familiar feeling of being unwanted intruded. She'd felt it for
most of her marriage and she hated it. Saying that, he had every
right to not want her there. He had no obligation to her, but she
wasn't going to fade away either.

"It is selfish of you to keep them all here.
This is your doing. You must release them."

The faint smell of smoke rose and she
suspected she had made him angry. Would he attack her again? She
would think less of him if he did, she thought and straightened her
spine.

"So very self-righteous," she heard him
hiss. "What you want is irrelevant." His back was turned to her and
he had something in his hand he was paying closer attention to.

"This isn't a matter of what I want.
It's about what’s right."

"And what do you know of what’s right?
Have you ever had to make a choice?"

"That is unfair." She had never been in a
position where she was allowed to choose. Things had always been
chosen for her.

"Life is never unfair."

"Death is supposed to be."

He turned. "Really? Should my children
have died at the young age they did? Betrayed by their mother? Is
that fair, Miss Sands? You can wait around for fair play all you
like; the people who get what they want are the people who take
it."

Anne’s mouth drew tight. "What of the
woman?"

"What of her?"

"Are you utterly uncaring? She pines for her
child. You must release her, release everybody."

"Should I sacrifice my children for her
sake? And for what? There are no guarantees she will find her
child. There are no guarantees there is anything beyond this house.
My children could simply cease to exist, fade into nothingness. How
exactly am I serving them, or even this woman? Should we risk
everything because you deem it right?"

"Scripture says—"

"Scripture, if you take it at its
word, says I will go to hell. Is that what I deserve? Maybe it is.
I am a soldier and there are no innocent soldiers. I choose to be
with my children. I choose to protect my children." He turned away
from her; there was a brass box in his hand and he was trying to
get it open. "I have failed them once; I will not fail them again.
They are safe here. We are safe here. Yes, the woman suffers, but
no one can guarantee that she will not, no matter what I
do."