A Haunting at Havenwood (Seasons of Change Book 6)

by Sally Britton

  “I wanted to make certain to keep my arrival a secret.”

  Mr. Douglas, who had been lowering himself back into his chair, halted the movement. His wife turned, a ladle full of stew in one hand.

  “A secret?” Mr. Douglas resumed taking his seat. “Is something the matter, lad?”

  “Are you in trouble, sir?” Mrs. Douglas held perfectly still, her eyes wide.

  Ras shook his head quickly. “No. Nothing like that.” He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “It is only that I want privacy while I am here. I have no wish to entertain or be entertained by my neighbors. I have come in search of peace and quiet.”

  The room was silent except for the sounds of rain outside the lodge, until Mr. Douglas began to nod slowly. “I imagine London isn’t a quiet place. Never been meself, but I heard tell there’s over one million people living there. More people than trees in a forest.” He tapped the table with one finger. “Isn’t natural, everyone stuffed in one place like that.”

  Mrs. Douglas clicked her tongue upon the roof of her mouth. “It’s no wonder you want some peace, Mr. Grey. We’ll be sure to tell Billy and Jill that they’re not to talk of your being here.”

  Ras accepted the bowl of stew she placed before him. “Thank you. You should both know that I won’t need much looking after. I’ll need use of a bedroom and the old study downstairs. No formal meals. Just a tray will do.”

  “Of course, sir.” Mrs. Douglas fetched him a mug of ale, then went to work cleaning up. Mr. Douglas stayed at the table and passed a bit of time asking after the condition of the roads and relaying what his work consisted of in the autumn.

  Once his bowl and mug were empty, Ras asked Mr. Douglas to lead the way upstairs, carrying a lamp. He insisted on carrying his own trunk, knowing its weight might be too much for the older man.

  It was likely time for Mr. Douglas’s son, Billy, to take over his father’s duties. Perhaps Ras would see about that arrangement while at the lodge.

  “The room will need proper airing tomorrow,” Mrs. Douglas said, following along behind them. “But we did a cleaning out of the bedrooms a fortnight ago.”

  “I’m certain everything will be comfortable.” Ras followed them down the hall to the master’s chamber, the largest of all the bedrooms.

  The Douglases bid him good evening, then went away, leaving him one of the lamps. He heard them talking to each other as they returned down the corridor, back to the kitchen most likely. Ras shut the door behind them, then leaned against it as he surveyed the room.

  He heard Mrs. Douglas’s voice, the words growing softer as she and her husband walked away. “Did you hear how fine he spoke? Not a hint of that stammer….”

  Despite his long struggle with the stutter, or perhaps because of it, his heart momentarily lifted with pride. They had noticed.

  His smile faded quickly though, as he took in the room before him.

  He had never slept in the room that had always belonged to his parents. His father had been alive at their last visit; a large bed draped in deep blue velvet curtains sat in the center of the room. Large windows on either side of the bed were closed and shuttered, muffling the sound of the storm outside.

  Ras stared at the scene, lit only by the dim glow of the lamp, and his mind worked upon it.

  “‘There the baronet slept, surrounded by ancient wealth, yet as alone and poor in spirit as the old hermit living in the woods.’ Hm. Not a bad start to a chapter.” Ras went to his trunk, unlatching it in haste. While the line was not brilliant, it was something. He had struggled for weeks to come up with an idea for a new book, and his publisher had sent several letters asking Ras if he had another story.

  “He’s talking to himself again,” a voice, familiar and unwanted, said with disapproval.

  The female voice, as usual, came to his defense. “He is a writer. It is part of his creative process.”

  “A writer.” The Scottish male snorted. How could a voice snort without a nose? “He could be talking to us, but he’d rather talk to nothing. Just his fiction humbug.”

  Ras refused to look up from his search for writing implements.

  “Must you use that horrid word?” the woman’s voice reproved.

  “It’s common vernacular now.” The Scot sounded amused.

  “A lowborn word will always be lowborn.”

  “You English. Always so proper.” Though the words were dismissive, the tone sounded oddly affectionate.

  Ras found everything he needed and took his armful of supplies to the table. He used a pencil and his workbook to jot down the line from before, studiously ignoring the disembodied bickering happening inside his mind. They continued on, lobbing mild insults at each other until the man’s language changed to something indecipherable. Celtic, perhaps?

  Tipping back on the legs of his chair, a thing for which his mother would rap his knuckles, Ras had nearly succeeded in tuning out the argument. He was considering his baronet, and why the man might be aware his life was empty, when the lady’s voice sounded once more.

  “Erasmus Grey, if you think you can wag that tongue at me—”

  The crash of Ras’s chair hitting the ground, with him in it, cut off whatever it was the woman had been prepared to say. He scrambled to his feet, looking around wildly. “That’s my name.”

  He hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but apparently the voices were stunned to speechlessness. There were several moments of absolute silence, stretching on so long that Ras wondered if his fall had frightened the voices away.

  Then, in a low tone, the male voice answered him. “Aye, lad. You were named after me.”

  And then, to Ras’s shock, a man appeared standing before him. A man…in a kilt.

  “Erasmus, you old fool.” A woman appeared next, directly beside the man, wearing a gown almost two centuries out of date.

  Ras fell to his knees. Thankfully upon a carpet, though he still winced. They were there. His voices were in the lodge with him.

  “I have lost all sanity,” he whispered. Then he fell forward, everything going black an instant before his nose hit the carpet.

  Chapter 4

  Far away, Ras heard birds singing. Birds. In London?

  He groaned and turned, his whole body aching and stiff with cold. Why was he wearing shoes? And what—no. How had he fallen asleep on the floor? With questions spinning through his fuzzy head, Ras pushed into a sitting position and looked about. The room was dark, with only narrow slants of light coming in through the windows. One of the shutters had blown open a crack during the storm the night before.

  Havenwood. That’s where he was. In the woods west of Harbottle.

  He rose with a groan, all his muscles protesting, and went to open the windows. As soon as he pushed the shutters open, the sunlight hit him full force. The lodge faced east, and it was late enough that the sun had begun peeping over the trees.

  Ras backed up until he sat upon his bed.

  The night before he must have fallen and hit his head. In his sleep he had dreamed up people to match the voices in his head. As a writer, he had an active imagination.

  “That’s all it was. Dreams.” Ras rubbed at his head, looking for the bump that caused it all, but he found nothing.

  He saw the old bell pull from the corner of his eye. Rather than spend another moment alone, he reached for it, only to still when he heard the sound of church bells in the distance. Alwinton’s church, St. Michael and All Angels, was the only place for the faithful in the parish to flock. That meant Mr. and Mrs. Douglas were likely not home.

  No matter. He could care for himself well enough. After dressing, he would poke about the kitchen for food, then go on a ramble through the woods.

  His story. Hadn’t he written notes the night before—?

  Ras went to the small desk in the room and found his notebook and pencil. He read the single line written from the night before. He had a lonely baronet as a character. Surely there was a great deal he could do with that.
>
  Food and a walk might shake loose more ideas from his unreliable head.

  Ras dressed himself hastily, with his cravat knotted rather than elegantly tied, and he tucked his notebook and pencil in a pocket of his coat. The silence of the lodge pressed in on him as he left his room, entering the dark corridor. The air was still and cold, the corridor lit by the windows on either end and nothing else.

  Though he navigated through the shadows with some haste, Ras kept his shoulders squared. He wasn’t afraid, after all. He’d never been afraid of the lodge.

  Portraits and landscapes hung along the corridor, but it was too dark for him to make out any distinguishing features of the artwork. A few even had sheets thrown over them, likely to protect them from sunlight and dust given that no family members were at home to enjoy them. At the top of the stairs, more light streamed in from a window on the opposite wall, above the front door. The moment Ras stepped into the sunlight, his posture relaxed.

  He went down with a lighter step.

  As he had suspected, the kitchen was empty, but a fire had been banked and the stove glowed with warmth. He found a pot of coffee, as well as a covered plate with eggs, bacon, and toast. Though the food was no longer hot, he ate it gratefully, and without bothering to sit.

  Ras pilfered an apple and several biscuits, wrapping them up in his handkerchief, before leaving by the kitchen door.

  The woods called to him. The cheerful whistles of birds and the friendly rustling of leaves tugged him into the paths of his childhood. With a fine day before him, the October sunlight cold and bright, Ras pushed away all thoughts of the voices and his strange dream from the night before.

  Where London closed in upon Ras, crowding out all ability to think, the countryside allowed him to breathe deeply and well. Nature would prove a better muse than any of the young ladies his mother wished him to court. In the woods, Ras could be himself. In drawing rooms he could hardly speak without fear of stuttering over his words or else saying the wrong thing entirely with perfect enunciation.

  His rambling down a familiar path brought him at last to the old cemetery. It had belonged to the family for centuries and had been where the majority of his ancestors and their most trusted servants were buried, back when the Lodge had been their only home. Back when, in fact, another building entirely stood where the lodge now stood.

  Ras settled beneath a tree, looking out over the old, crumbling headstones and monuments. There were perhaps thirty stones, with names mostly lost to the weathering of the rock.

  As a boy, he had most irreverently climbed all about the place, making up stories about the people whose earthly remains were under his feet. He invented his ancestry and told himself fabulous tales about dragon slayers and pirates who had been buried there.

  “This one was a knight at the old castle,” he would say. “Defending England against the Scottish.” Then he’d pretend to be that knight, spying on Scotland’s border, or daring them to cross and make war.

  For the most part, he played alone. Not many children came into the woods surrounding the Lodge, and still fewer would have wanted to make a graveyard their playing ground. There had been a handful of children at the Castle, on the other side of Harbottle, who played with him from time to time. But he found they mostly lacked the dramatic ability necessary for his particular games.

  And they had teased him rather mercilessly when he stammered.

  Ras took out his notebook and pencil.

  “The baronet spent his days wandering the woods in search of occupation.” He nodded to himself. Beginning a story with a restless hero would work. But what adventure would he make the man stumble upon?

  Ras folded his arms and leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes in thought.

  Upon waking, Louisa was given the message that her great-aunt wished to see her at once. As Louisa’s mother had often sent an early-morning summons to her daughter, Louisa could not be put out by the instruction. Sarah helped her mistress dress quickly, and it was less than a quarter of an hour after getting out of bed that Louisa appeared in her aunt’s room.

  Aunt Penrith remained abed, a cloth upon her forehead and the housekeeper at her side. “Oh, there you are, dear girl.” Aunt Penrith sounded rather hoarse, though she smiled amiably and removed the cloth. “I am afraid I overdid things yesterday. I woke with a swollen throat and aching head.”

  "I am terribly sorry, Aunt. Should we send for a doctor?” Louisa approached slowly, hands clasped before her. She had never attended a sickroom before. Mother always sent Louisa away and wished for no one to see her in anything other than perfect health.

  “Dear me. A doctor in Harbottle.” Her aunt’s eyes sparkled at the idea. “No, dear one. There is no doctor to attend to us here. But the apothecary in Alwinton will come by after church services, which I will no longer attend. I thought to ask if you would like to go yourself or wait until I am well so I might make introductions.” She winced when she swallowed, her voice rasping out the last words.

  “I will wait for you, of course, Aunt Penrith.” Louisa came another step nearer the bed, putting her hand to the post on one corner. With some hesitancy, she asked, “Might I do anything for you?” Although Louisa could not think what her aunt might want. What was it people did in sick rooms? Fed the invalid broth? Hovered with a basin in case one needed to cast up their accounts? Her insides squirmed. Surely there was something else she might do. But her mother’s lessons on being a gentlewoman had never included looking after others.

  It occurred to Louisa that it was a gross oversight in her education.

  “You are kind.” Her aunt leaned back against her pillows. “But what I want most for myself is rest, and what I want for you is good health. Perhaps you may read to me this afternoon. At present, I should like you to have a good breakfast and then go for a walk. A girl used to the dirty air of the city ought to enjoy a cleansing walk in the countryside. I do not wish you to be ill.”

  Louisa stared at her aunt without knowing what to say. She had never walked about in the country. What if she became lost? “Do you—do you have a place you would like me to go?”

  “Down the road, perhaps. A good public place for a young lady.” Aunt Penrith closed her eyes, though she continued speaking. “Perhaps to the church and back again. It is only a mile, and you will not become lost.”

  Louisa’s cheeks warmed. Had her uncertainty been so apparent? Or perhaps her aunt only guessed at Louisa’s reasons for hesitating.

  “The weather will close in on us soon enough, dear girl. Winter will be here before we are ready.” Her great aunt brought a handkerchief to her nose and sniffed. “Best to enjoy the clear days while we can.”

  After exchanging an uncertain glance with the housekeeper who was as old as her great-aunt and had a kind, smiling face, Louisa stepped back from the bed enough to curtsy. “As you wish. I will fortify myself for the exercise. Perhaps I will find an adventure to bring back, or at least some wildflowers.”

  Her aunt’s eyes opened again, shining with humor and kindness. “There is a pretty thought. Go on with you, dear. I expect to hear all about your adventure when you return.”

  The kind admonishment made Louisa feel more a child of nursery age than a woman grown. Yet when last had anyone encouraged her to do something merely for the sake of enjoying herself? Louisa’s mother meant well enough, attempting to secure her daughter’s future, but every outing and purchase made for the last several years had been with the hopes of Louisa securing a husband, or a better place in Society from which to continue her husband hunt.

  In most places, no one would let Louisa out of doors without a maid or chaperone, but Aunt Penrith hadn’t seemed to think either necessary. At least, she had not mentioned Louisa taking anyone with her.

  A walk would not be a true adventure, like those found in the books her mother would not allow Louisa to read. Still. The idea of going out on her own was somewhat exhilarating. Even if it was only down the road to a nearby v
illage and back.

  She entered the small dining room to find Sarah waiting with a covered dish. “I was told to keep your breakfast warm for you, miss.” Sarah curtsied, then took the cover off a plate of eggs, ham, and toast with jam.

  “Thank you.” The table was small, seating only six people at the most. Her aunt must not be given to entertainment. Sarah excused herself, leaving Louisa alone.

  Though she did not have a gaggle of friends to follow her about, nor a particular friend with whom to spend her idle hours, Louisa had never truly been alone. Her mother was always about to tell Louisa how to act, or a servant waited upon Louisa, or someone gossiped nearby. The silence of the room as she ate pressed in upon her.

  A clock somewhere in the house chimed the hour.

  No noise of traffic upon the street, of carriages and bridles rattling as people passed by, made everything entirely too still and quiet.

  Perhaps it would be easier to be out of doors, where at least the birds would be about to make noise.

  Louisa drank her tepid coffee quickly, then rose from the table and went to her room. Once there, she gave a quick tug to the pull-cord beside her bed. She would dress and be on her way, enjoying fresh air and freedom for the first time in her memory.

  With her traveling clothes yet to be pressed, and nothing else in her trunk specifically for walking, Louisa found her sturdiest gown of dark brown. The color reminded her of chocolate and coffee, and the fabric itself was warm and comfortable. Mother detested the gown, saying it made her look like a brown blotch upon a painting, given her hair and eye color were the same shade.

  The door opened and Sarah slipped in. She curtsied. “You rang, miss?”

  “Yes. Will you help me put these things on? I wish to go for my walk right away.” That sounded rather lovely. If the walk proved as enjoyable as she hoped, it might become a regular part of her schedule.

  “Yes, miss.” The maid came forward, neither smiling nor frowning. What did Sarah make of their change in circumstance? She hadn’t had much say in things. No more than Louisa, in fact. Her choice had been to seek employment elsewhere or to spend another year waiting on Louisa.