A Haunting at Havenwood (Seasons of Change Book 6)

by Sally Britton

  His gaze darted up the hills, where the top of the stone would be visible were it not for the trees in the way. “Alone?” She did not immediately answer. Ras lowered his gaze to hers, to see the color still in her cheeks.

  “I hoped to persuade you to walk with me, Mr. Grey.” A delicate smile turned her lips upward. “We could discuss the book on the way.”

  Ras considered the idea. Walking out of doors with her, without a chaperone, was no worse than the interactions they had already experienced. They would be out in the open for the whole of it. Where his lane diverged from the road there was only a distance of one-third of a mile from the Drake Stone.

  “Unless you object—”

  Ras hastened to answer, stumbling over the first syllable he spoke twice. “Of course I will walk with you.” Brief answers were best. Usually.

  He pointed back the way he had come. “The best path is through Havenwood, and my family land.”

  She bestowed an endearing grin upon him, and the expression lit her whole countenance most becomingly. “Lovely. I have wanted to see the stone since it was first mentioned to me. Bert—I suppose you know him, since his family owns the public house—he said that locals still take sick children up there from time to time. Like the druids used to do. And he says all the boys in Harbottle and Alwinton have climbed the rock, too. He made it sound like a rite of passage.”

  “It is. Of a sort.” Ras motioned for her to walk alongside him, returning down the road to his family’s lane. “I have climbed it. I waited until too late at night before trying. I nearly trapped myself.”

  “Oh, dear. Is it very tall?”

  “It is thirty feet high, I should think.” Ras tucked the slim book into his coat pocket. “Boys do become stuck, on occasion. If their fellows are unkind, they jeer at them until the boy has no choice but to try, or else forfeit his right to claim bravery.”

  Miss Banner’s pert nose wrinkled. “I have never understood boys of a certain age. To be certain, girls have their own difficulties and rules. But boys are never satisfied in their play unless there is a chance of bloodshed.”

  Ras laughed aloud, and her light laughter joined his, echoing through the trees. He put his hand over his heart before speaking. “Though I grew up with much younger sisters, the boys of this neighborhood made certain I went through the correct forms.”

  He could talk lightly of it now, though his growing up had not been easy. The boys of his station, and those just below it who were deemed appropriate playmates, had not dealt kindly with his stammer. The number of names he had been called through the years, the times they had treated him roughly when a word would not free itself from his tongue, were beyond his count.

  “I never had much experience with children my own age, to be truthful. I was sent away to school for a season, and that was all. My father said he could not bear for me to be gone. My mother made certain I had a governess until I was fifteen.” Her tone changed from cheery to something less warm. “When my father died, Mother dismissed Miss Baymoore.”

  “I am sorry you experienced that loss.” Ras wanted to put a hand upon her shoulder or arm to offer comfort. Or perhaps take her hand. Instead, he tucked his hands behind his back where they could do no such thing. “I miss my father, too.”

  “Life is a fragile thing.” A fleeting smile accompanied those words. “My great-aunt said only this morning that we must treasure each moment we are given.”

  She released a little gasp. “Oh, that reminds me. I saw a portrait of your relatives, at Mr. Cruse’s home. Lady Elizabeth, the duke’s daughter, and Erasmus Grey.”

  Ras glanced over his shoulder to see if the ghosts would reappear. They had vanished from sight when he charged down the road with the intention of calling at the Manse. Apparently, Miss Banner speaking their names was not enough to summon them from wherever they went when they were not bothering him.

  “How interesting. Most of the people who live in this part of the country are distantly related. That must be why it is there.” He cleared his throat. “How did they appear? I must have seen the painting in the past. But I cannot recall its details.”

  “Oh, they are the usual stiffly standing people from that time period.” Miss Banner shrugged. They were well and good in Havenwood, and nearly out of it again to start the climb up the hills. The incline was gentle, and her footwear appeared sound enough for the journey. “She appeared lovely in a deep blue gown, with golden hair. And I think they must have cared for each other, given their pose. He’s wearing a kilt. But what struck me most was an inscription upon the frame.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It was Latin. I repeated it to myself and wrote it down, so I would remember. It said ‘Numquam Seorsum. In Vita Sive Mors.’ Do you know what that means?” She turned her puzzled brown eyes to him.

  They were easy enough words, even for someone such as he. Latin had never been his favorite subject, but it had given him a deeper appreciation for language.

  “Yes. ‘Never separated. In life or death.’ A romantic sentiment.” And it had come true, apparently, given that his ancestors had come to him together, united in their purpose. He had nearly forgotten their claims that the treasure existed. Being near Miss Banner made it rather easy to forget most other things.

  “Very romantic.” She skipped over a branch fallen on their footpath. “And it almost makes me feel guilty. I had hoped it was a clue to the whereabouts of the treasure. From what we read of your ancestors, Erasmus confided the information about his search to his wife. She left the painting to a sister when she passed away.”

  “Interesting.” Ras kept to her side, though the narrowing of the path made it necessary to walk more closely. So closely, in fact, that when he dropped his hands to his side for better balance, his knuckles brushed against hers.

  She did not even bat an eyelash at the touch. Perhaps she had not felt it.

  Ras masked his disappointment with a question. “Why are you on your way to the Drake Stone if you are determined to hunt treasure, Miss Banner?”

  Her expression grew contemplative, with her forehead wrinkled and her lips pressing together a moment. “You and others have said that everyone searched for the missing treasure among the castle ruins. If everyone has done that for the last three hundred years, someone would have found the treasure if it was there. I believe the treasure must be located somewhere else, and I intend to research and study the matter rather than poke about tumbled-down stones.”

  The thoughtfulness of her answer, the seriousness of her tone, startled him enough that he missed a step upon a rock. He hastily regained his balance and joined her, walking for a few moments in silence. It was she who broke it first, her tone decidedly more cheerful.

  “We have a fine day for our walk.” She turned her face upward to the sky, which was overcast but unthreatening. “It is not too hot, nor too cold, nor windy, nor wet.”

  “Careful, Miss Banner,” Ras teased. “When you visit a druid stone, you ought not speak your luck aloud. The fairy folk might take it away from you.”

  “Oh?” She tilted her head to the side, looking around the edge of her bonnet at him. “You would know something of fairies?”

  He shrugged. “Only as much as the average English child.”

  “That reminds me. The Bandit of Bleakhollow.” She became more animated as she spoke about the book he had loaned her, gesturing with her hands. “It was such a captivating book. I felt so much for the heroine, Miss Winthrop. The hours she spent alone in those woods, certain a monster waited for her, or she would be trapped in a fairy circle.” Miss Banner shuddered. “I confess, that chapter kept me up quite late. I had to see her safely restored home.”

  “You found those scenes compelling?” Ras brightened. He had drawn from a childhood memory of becoming lost in Havenwood. The terror he had felt as a child had not been too difficult to transfer to the character in the book. Sometimes, like with that scene, the writing flowed easily.

  �
�Very much. And it made me enjoy it all the more when she had to enter the forest alone to find the bandit.” Miss Banner placed a hand over her heart and sighed. “Their reunion was quite touching. As was the reveal of his true identity. Although—” Here her nose wrinkled again, and her eyebrows drew down sharply. “I cannot say their ending entirely satisfied me.”

  Ras had never spoken to anyone other than his publisher about his work. He had read reviews, had mentioned it in passing to friends in letters to see what they thought of it, but he had never had a face-to-face conversation with a reader. The fact that she did not know he was the author made it no less anxious a conversation.

  Ras cleared his throat. “No? Even though the bandit was really Lord Kennedale? I thought it suitable, allowing Miss Winthrop to marry well.”

  She lifted her skirts to step over a large stone, and Ras put a hand to her elbow to steady her. He kept his hand there a moment longer than needful, telling himself he needed to be sure she had her footing.

  “But they never once confessed their love for one another.” Miss Banner paused, her gaze going from the top of the hills back to him. “The author used the word affection numerous times, and Lord Kennedale called her ‘my dear.’ But not once did either of them declare their love.”

  “They did not.” Ras froze on the spot, dumbfounded, searching his memory of the book frantically. How had he kept a confession from its pages? Why had his publisher not seen the error and told Ras to correct it? Surely, he had implied their love. “They married in the end.”

  Miss Banner eyed him, a sly smile upon her lips. “Even in our modern times, Mr. Grey, a marriage does not mean happiness or love.”

  She was right. Ras did think to stop his groan as he contemplated his mistake. “They do not embrace, kiss, or offer any physical signs of their feelings apart from their actions. Which I thought appropriate, given their unmarried state.”

  “I suppose the author implied their love.” Her expression changed from amused to concerned. “Why does it bother you so much? I still enjoyed the book. You did, too, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, yes.” Ras reached for the notebook he kept in his pocket, along with the pencil, and opened it to write in large script, “Make certain they confess their love.”

  Miss Banner stood on her toes to look over his shoulder at what he wrote. “What does that mean?”

  Ras stilled, and he turned his head to look down at her, her bonnet’s brim brushing his cheek. She put her hand on his arm to steady herself, raising her gaze slowly to his. Society’s boundaries had not been forgotten by the characters in his story, but apparently they were ignored by Miss Banner.

  She blushed and pulled away, taking a step back and nearly stumbling. Ras darted his hand out to halt her fall, dropping his notebook. He pulled her upright again and realized how near they were to one another. He swallowed. Hard.

  “Mr. Grey.” She breathed out his name. “I overstepped.”

  Releasing her gently, Ras shook his head. “Not at all, Miss Banner. You must remember, I admire your curiosity.” He forced a smile before he bent to retrieve his notebook.

  “But your privacy—”

  “Is intact. Mostly.” He tried to keep his tone light and teasing, though his heart raced within his breast. Not just because of how close he was to revealing his secret, either.

  She nibbled on her bottom lip, her eyes shimmering with doubt. “I would do nothing to make you regret our meeting, Mr. Grey. You came to your house in the country to find peace, and you went to impressive lengths to protect your solitude.” She looked guiltily up the hill where the Drake Stone loomed over the valley. “I should not disturb you with my company. Perhaps we ought to return to the main road. I can visit the Drake Stone another day.” She gestured back the way they had come.

  Ras caught her hand in his. “Miss Banner. Please.” He lowered his voice, repeating the word with purpose. “Please. Allow me the privilege of your company a little while longer. You will remember, I was on my way to call upon you when our paths crossed. Accompany me up to the stone, and I will tell you all about my notebook.”

  His heart thrummed with hope that she would not deny him. What might have started with a curiosity on his part had changed, first to attraction, and now to something more. He needed to spend more time in Miss Banner’s presence. Something about being near her made his mind race, his thoughts clearer. Every time he came upon her, he followed their time together with storms of writing. And the storm turned into a trickle, then a drought, while he sat at his desk wondering when he would see her again.

  Those dark eyes of hers studied him closely. Then her hand relaxed in his. “How have you managed to make something that was my idea sound as though it would be the greatest of favors to grant upon you?”

  He tried to smile but felt only halfway successful. “I suppose I must have a talent for words.”

  The skepticism returned. “I suppose you must.”

  Despite the fact they both wore gloves, Louisa could have sworn she felt tenderness in the way Mr. Grey held her hand. He spoke with such gentle determination that she felt she must give way.

  “Mr. Grey, you have convinced me.” She squeezed his hand. “But do not feel you have to indulge me by betraying any of your secrets.” How mortified would she be if he thought he had no choice but to tell her things he had rather keep to himself?

  He adjusted his stance, then tucked her hand through the crook of his arm. “The hill is steeper here.”

  Louisa accepted his help, and they started up the hill again. She directed her eyes to the stone, sensing her escort was ordering his thoughts. They were nearly to the Drake Stone’s foundation.

  “My notebook is full of my ideas, and thoughts, in regard to my writing. You see, Miss Banner, I wrote The Bandit of Bleakhollow.”

  Louisa would have stumbled had she not been on his arm. She turned to him, halting their easy climb once more. “You? But—no!” The cover had not given his name as the author.

  “It is true. I wrote with an assumed name.” He shrugged, ducking his head slightly. “My mother does not approve, and she did not want the connection made to the family that an author of Gothic adventures and romance is a gentleman.”

  “Oh my.” Louisa covered her mouth with her free hand, speaking between her fingers. “And there I was, criticizing your writing.”

  “I appreciated your insight,” he said, his smile returning somewhat tentatively. “You are exactly right. It was a mistake on my part, one which I will not make with the book I am writing at the moment.”

  His crooked smile made him appear rather handsomer than his usual calm expression. They stood so close. If anyone saw them, Louisa knew that assumptions would be made. Yet she did not step back, and she kept her hand upon his arm.

  “You are writing another book?” She heard the excitement in her voice and winced. “Dear me. That sounded eager. But you must know, I truly enjoyed The Bandit of Bleakhollow. Have you other titles already published?”

  “Two.” His demeanor brightened. “You—you wish to read them?”

  Louisa laughed, and they started walking again.

  “Yes! How could I not? Your characters are quite wonderful. They are so alive, so realistic. As I said, reading about your heroine overcoming her fears of the forest and darkness was terribly exciting. To think, she did it all in order to save the man she adored. You perfectly wrote how I imagine love would make one behave. In so many books, love makes a person better. More upright or moral. But in your book, love made her brave. That was the part I was reading for a second time when you came upon me.”

  Never had she seen a man appear so wholly shocked, yet somehow still appear cheerful. Had no one ever complimented his book to him before? How awful. He deserved admiration for his writing.

  She gave him just that, hardly noticing the landscape before and around them. Instead, she searched her memory for her favorite moments in the book, the dialogue which had intrigued her, and the momen
ts where she had shuddered in fear. The praise spilled from her lips easily and honestly. All the while, he remained quiet, smiling and keeping his gaze ahead of them.

  When Louisa paused for breath, he at last spoke.

  “Come now, Miss Banner. You cannot mean all those kind words.” Despite what he said, he sounded pleased. “Though I thank you for them.”

  “You are too severe upon yourself, sir. I meant everything I said.” Louisa at last turned her eyes forward, then gasped. “Oh. We are here.” The Drake Stone, thirty feet high, loomed over them. “I can see why druids would find the sight impressive.”

  “Behind it, there is a lake. A lake so cold, all the year round, no one dares to swim in it.” Mr. Grey stood behind her, close enough that she knew should she lean back she would rest against his chest. “Local legend says that the druids found the stone, and the lake, and declared both were left by spirits. The stone to bless the sick, and the lake to punish the wicked.”

  Louisa rocked back upon her heels. “How would water punish the wicked?”

  He leaned down, whispering in her ear. “It is a gateway to the underworld, and a mirror to the soul.”

  A shiver danced up her spine, and not from fear. “You have a gift for fiction, Mr. Grey.”

  “Perhaps.” He withdrew, then gestured to the stone. “Do you wish to kiss it for luck? I have heard young maidens do that on occasion.”

  She glared over her shoulder at him. “No, thank you.” Then she turned fully around. “Oh, look. The Manse is so small from here. And we cannot see the Lodge. The woods are too dense.”

  He turned around with her and propped his foot upon a rock. Louisa watched as his gaze swept the land, then settled upon the western horizon. “A storm is coming.”

  Louisa looked in the same direction. While the clouds above them all morning had been a light gray color, coming on the wind were darker, thicker clouds. “Oh, bother.” She covered her mouth when the exclamation slipped out.

  Mr. Grey looked at her with a curious lift to his eyebrows. “Had you more you wished to see?”