A Haunting at Havenwood (Seasons of Change Book 6)

by Sally Britton

  Almost, Louisa asked Sarah how she fared. But Mother discouraged familiarity with servants. A conversation of such a personal nature would certainly be frowned upon. As Louisa had already flouted her mother’s opinion in her choice of clothing, she kept her lips closed over the question.

  Freedom beckoned, and there was no reason to dampen her excitement by thinking of her mother’s disapproval.

  Louisa wore the brown gown with her deep purple pelisse for warmth. Black gloves and her bonnet finished the outfit, with the shoes from the day before.

  “Will you be all right, miss?” Sarah asked, avoiding Louisa’s eyes. Did the maid disapprove of Louisa wandering about without an escort?

  Louisa attempted to speak lightly. “I think so. If I am not back in two hours, perhaps send out a search party.” Hopefully, nothing of the kind would prove necessary. Going down a country road a mile and then turning ‘round ought to be simple enough for even her.

  When Louisa stepped out the front door, the path to the gate clear and lined by little flowers, she pulled in a deep breath. The air was crisp, with a hint of the rain from the day before still in its scent. Her lungs ached a moment until she breathed out and in again to accustom them to the chill.

  “A beautiful day,” she murmured to herself.

  The sky was more gray than blue, but there was no threat of rain. The clouds were too high and mere wisps rather than the big, dark things they had been the day before. With a nod to herself, Louisa firmed up her resolve and stepped onto the gravel path.

  Once through the swinging gate, her eyes swung eastward. The trees blocked her view of Harbottle and the castle ruins, though she knew they were near. And she could hear the river, just across the road, as well as catch a glimpse of where it bent toward her. With the birds singing in the trees above, she began her walk in earnest.

  How did one walk in the countryside? In Scarborough, there was always a destination in mind, such as a shop or a house to visit. Her mother had rarely let her go to a park, unless Mrs. Banner accompanied her in the hopes of seeing a particular friend or person of note.

  There were no time constraints as Louisa walked along the road, her great-aunt’s stone wall to her left. No one expected her. No one waited upon her or walked with her. If she did not go to the church, no one would know but herself.

  The feeling of independence flooded her with energy, and her step quickened. She made it all the way to the corner of the Penrith property, where the stone wall met another at a right angle. The road met with a path there, less trodden upon given the amount of grass springing up between patches of pebbles. There was no sign, so the road was likely a private one to a house.

  Her aunt hadn’t mentioned any neighbors to the west.

  Louisa’s eyes traced the path, and her imagination wandered to who might live in that direction. An enormous pine, split and growing in a v-shape, stood at the precise spot where the path diverged from the road, as though it too were divided as to which path would prove more interesting.

  With a sigh, Louisa continued around the small bend and saw the road open into a long, straight line beneath the trees. She had lost the sound of the river, and the wall of stone to her right had nearly crumbled away. Far ahead, between branches, she saw a bare hill that likely served as more pastureland for sheep.

  She kept walking, the long path stretching before her far less interesting than she had hoped.

  Until her eye caught something purple growing on her left. Louisa turned, searching out the little bits of color among the green and brown drabness of the forest floor. Tiny bell-shaped flowers grew on bending stems, the purple petals as delicate as lace.

  Louisa went to them without thought, smiling to herself. She had said she would gather wildflowers, after all, and these looked rather perfect.

  Further in, near a clump of wet leaves, she spotted several little white blooms growing from a reddish stem. Though she had hoped for flowers she knew, such as bluebells, daisies, and forget-me-nots, these were just as lovely, though sparse. October was apparently not a good month for flowers.

  A thought gave her pause. Her mother always ordered flowers in from hothouses, no matter the time of year. Then she instructed a servant in their arrangement. Before the flowers withered, they were replaced, without fail. Wildflowers were never permitted in the bowls and vases strewn about the house.

  The forbidden element of her activity served to increase Louisa’s enjoyment.

  Perhaps I am a wicked creature for feeling so. But she didn’t stop to dwell upon that thought.

  Louisa followed the flowers deeper into the wood, accumulating a handful of blooms, each lovely and smelling more beautiful than the arrangements in her mother’s vases.

  A lock of hair fell from her bonnet, brushing across her cheek. Louisa tucked it back as she straightened and stilled. A large, fat raven sat on the lowest branch of a tree. It stared at her, head tipped to one side, as though confused by her presence.

  “Good morning.” Louisa couldn’t help but speak the greeting, and the sound of her voice in the restful sounds of the woods brought her back to herself. She turned around, to where she thought she had entered the wood. But there was no path behind her, only a wall of trees.

  The raven cawed at her, pulling her attention back to him. He was preening, without care for her predicament. No matter how slowly she turned in her circle, searching through the trees, she saw no sign of the road, nor anything else familiar.

  “Botheration. The woods cannot be too large. There was that clearing ahead on the road, and there are pastures all about for the sheep.”

  This time when the raven looked up at her, it cackled, like an old crone laughing.

  Louisa shuddered. Her predicament had all the makings of a scene in a gothic novel. “Stuff and nonsense,” she whispered, the phrase a familiar one often uttered by her mother whenever Louisa expressed a nonsensical notion.

  “If I begin walking in one direction, I must find my way out of these trees. Eventually. Then it is only a matter of getting around them, back to the road.” Louisa looked to the raven, as it was her only audience. “I don’t suppose you wish to be helpful?”

  With one last squawk, which sounded decidedly rude, the bird hopped off the branch and into the air. He flew low through the trees, making a terrible racket as he went.

  With no better indication of where she ought to walk, Louisa followed the bird. Her eyes continually swept the woodland floor, looking for a path or perhaps her own shoe print to follow back the way she had come, but she saw nothing. Nothing but old wet leaves and mossy rocks.

  The woods were dark with shadows, though many trees were already shedding their leaves in preparation for their winter sleep. So when Louisa saw a break in the trees, with light streaming down ahead of her, her heart leaped.

  “That didn’t take long.” Heart lighter, her steps quickened. She kept her flowers in one hand and lifted her skirt higher with the other, allowing for a longer stride and ease stepping over sticks and stones.

  She emerged into the sunlight; her face tipped upward. Her breath escaped in a laugh of relief.

  The cackling call of the raven brought her attention back down before her, where the bird hopped about on a stone. A tall, flat stone with words engraved upon it. Words and dates.

  Here Rests Casper Elias GREY. B. 1712, D. 1759.

  An inscription in Latin underneath had been overcome by grass and leaves.

  Louisa’s gaze swept the clearing; it was quite small, surrounded by trees, and dotted with tombstones and grave markers. Some were so old the gray rock had turned entirely green. There were curved stones and stones with carved scrollwork. A few were lopsided, and one stone appeared broken in half.

  “Gothic novel indeed,” Louisa whispered, clutching her flowers closer to her chest. At least the sky was bluer than before, and there was nothing at all frightening waiting for her amid the stones.

  Indeed, this was a stroke of luck. There had to be a p
ath leading away from the cemetery to a house, road, or chapel. If she picked her way around the edges, she would find her way.

  As she went, walking along the right-hand side, Louisa read what she could on the tombstones. Some names were quite familiar, such as Mary and William, but others made her smile to herself. Barnabus, Eugenia, Delphinium, and Aileana. The dates went as far back as the sixteen-hundreds.

  She made it to the far corner, then walked along with her eyes on the woods to her side, then back to the stones.

  Alfred, Edina, Mary, Brownwyn, Forba, Richard, Erasmus…

  When, exactly, the man appeared ahead of her, she did not know. But one moment she knew herself to be alone, except for her feathered friend tapping his beak upon a stone, and the next there was a man beneath the trees.

  The shadows covered him enough so as to hide his features, but she could at least tell the man was tall and without a hat. He stood with feet apart and shoulders squared, and she saw the flash of his eyes in the shade, staring at her.

  Her heart thrummed against her chest with alarm, reminding her with its haste how precarious a position she was in. Lost, without a chaperone, in a strange wood. If the man attacked, would there be anyone near enough to hear her scream? What was she to do?

  Stupidly, she spoke as she had to the raven. Quiet. Calm. “Good morning.”

  The man did not move, nor did he speak for the space of several heartbeats. When he did, his voice was quiet, and almost hoarse. “Good-good-good morning.”

  Was it difficult for him to speak? Why?

  “Please, sir. I am lost.” It would be best to find out right away what sort of man he was, she reasoned. If she appealed to him for help, and he gave none, she would flee. “My name is Louisa Banner. I am staying with my aunt in Harbottle.”

  “Har-Har-Har-Har-Harbottle?” The man took a step back, then he slowly raised a hand and pointed to the opposite side of the yard.

  Louisa dared to look in that direction, glimpsing a small archway. Perhaps a path lay beneath and beyond. She looked back at the man. “Thank you, sir. You are most kind.” She twisted the stems of the flowers in her hand. “Are you—that is, might I know your name?”

  This time he seemed to experience no difficulty in speaking, and his voice remained low. It sent her shivering to hear him speak, though the tone was not at all unpleasant. “Erasmus Grey.”

  Louisa’s breath caught. She took a step back, looking down at the stone closest to her again. There was the same name. Erasmus Grey. Loyal Subject to the King. Loving Husband to His Wife. B. 1575. D. 1638.

  No. Surely not.

  She looked up again, but the man had vanished.

  Louisa clutched the flowers to her chest, looking about for the man but to no avail. He was truly gone. Her raven ignored her as she ran past him, through the memorial stones, and to the archway. Beneath the arch, she found a gravel and dirt path, nearly overcome by grass. She followed it with haste, each step making her wince at the crunching sound they made.

  She came to a wider path, meant for carriages and horses, and followed it downhill until she stumbled upon the same road with the pine tree at the divide. Her aunt’s house was near, around a small bend. She had not been far away from the Manse at all.

  But she had certainly had something of an adventure.

  With hands shaking, she put all thought of visiting Alwinton away, and instead walked at a fast clip back to where she had started.

  First talks of ruined castles and treasure, then a meeting with a ghost in a graveyard.

  “No, there must be some other explanation.” Louisa shook her head, trying to clear away the fear, but it did not well and truly go until she had her hand upon her aunt’s gate. She bit her lip and looked back to the edge of the woods. “I do not believe in ghosts,” she whispered to the air.

  A raven called in the distance. Louisa shuddered once more, then hurried back into her aunt’s house where she might find a warm fire, a cozy blanket, and absolutely nothing of a sinister nature.

  Chapter 5

  “I am a thousand times a fool,” Ras said aloud, long after the hauntingly beautiful Miss Banner had disappeared from sight. He had taken the opportunity to hide the moment her gaze had left him. Like a coward.

  He hadn’t stuttered that terribly in months. Mostly due to the fact he hadn’t spoken to any lovely women in that time. The fairer sex never failed to bring his stammer out, and the stammer never failed to drive the women away.

  Sitting beneath the same tree where he had been when she appeared in the graveyard, Ras leaned his head back against the trunk and stared up into the foliage. The green leaves were all turned orange, the bright color mocking his dismal mood.

  It had been the same woman from the inn. He felt certain of that. He could not soon forget the dark-haired beauty, with her wide eyes and heart-shaped face. She had appeared pale today, and worried. All his instincts had been to step from beneath the tree and give her aid, whatever trouble she had was his to vanquish.

  But then he had opened his mouth.

  Ras lowered his head and covered it with both hands. His mother, and their physician, insisted that Ras didn’t stammer as much as he used to. And their never-ending stream of advice to make certain he didn’t have difficulty trickled through his mind.

  “Think before you speak.”

  “Take a moment to rehearse what you wish to say.”

  “Your elocution exercises must be practiced daily.”

  “Take a draught of whiskey with honey, cream and lemon, age it a day, then drink the whole of it before breakfast with a raw egg.”

  Sometimes, those things worked. Except the whiskey. It only left him with a sour stomach. But today, Miss Banner had surprised him. She had materialized before he could practice his words, addressed him before he could think on what to say, and had stared at him as though she had seen a ghost.

  “A ghost,” he murmured, lifting his head from his hands. He thought on his dream, of the man and woman who had appeared before him, the man bearing the name Erasmus. It was hard to believe two sets of parents had cursed a boy with such a ridiculous name.

  The voices seemed to know when he was thinking of them. Because they had returned.

  “In my day, a bonnie lass dinnae make a man fall apart. The lad looks as though he’s gaunnae boke.”

  Ras squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Perhaps the modern man is more sensitive than you. It certainly would be an improvement.” The woman’s voice sounded as though she were ready to scold the manly voice. Which sounded considerably more Scottish today.

  “Oh look, m’heart. ‘Tis me grave marker.”

  At that, Ras’s eyes opened wide. This was new.

  And there, standing in the light of day, he saw two people. The same two from his dream. A man in a kilt, wearing boots and a gray coat, and a belt holding the whole of it together. Behind him a pace, peering over his shoulder down at a tombstone, was a woman in a deep blue gown with a lacy white collar at her neck.

  “I have seen it before, sir. You will recall, I am the one who commissioned it.”

  Ras stared at them, horror curling about his throat and tightening his stomach. They were there. In daylight. Just as Miss Banner had been. And discussing the fact that at least one of them was dead and buried in the ground.

  The woman raised her gaze, meeting Ras’s, and smiled. “I think he might be ready to listen to us now.”

  The man looked up, too. “Aye. He looks full awake.”

  Ras shook his head; were he ten years younger he likely would have clapped his hands over his ears. “No.” He shot to his feet. “No. No. No. No.” He couldn’t be certain if he was stuttering or being emphatic, so muddled were his thoughts. “You aren’t real.”

  “Dinnae be a tumshie, lad. We’re as real as yerself.” The Scotsman chuckled and folded his arms over his broad chest. “Though we’re not alive.”

  “That’s enough, Erasmus.” The woman swatted the man’s arm. “No
need to frighten him any further.” She turned her attention back to Ras, a gentle smile upon her fair face. “Since my husband is behaving intolerably, I had best take it upon myself to make introductions. This is Erasmus Grey, esquire. I am his wife, Lady Elizabeth, daughter of the Earl of Finleigh. We are your several-times-over great-grandparents.”

  “We built the Lodge,” the man said, jerking his head in the direction of the house. “The year after we married.”

  Ras approached them, somewhat slowly. They looked real enough. But he had never spoken to the voices. Would doing so now mark him as a lunatic? Yet he could both see and hear them. And nothing else in his life marked him as mad.

  “How c-c-can you be real?” he asked in a whisper.

  “Ye dinnae think a person disappears, just because their body gets old, do ye? Have ye not learned yer theology, lad?”

  The woman elbowed the man, her husband, in the side. “Theology aside, as we are most certainly not supposed to speak of such things, we have come to visit you for a purpose, Erasmus.”

  “Ye cannae call us both Erasmus,” the man said, rubbing the spot where she had prodded him.

  Glowering at him for the interruption, the woman continued speaking. “Very well. Ras for him, and Old Boor for you.”

  “There’s no call for that.” The man unfolded his arms and lowered his head, somewhat sheepishly.

  She ignored him, turning her full attention back to Ras. “Grandson, we have come from beyond”—she waved her hand somewhat dismissively—“because we are concerned for you and the future of our family. You see, in very rare circumstances, ancestors are permitted to offer…shall we say, guidance.”

  “More like we’re encouraged to stick our noses in where they aren’t wanted.” Grandfather Erasmus grinned outright. “And yer granny here cannae let such an opportunity pass her by.”