The Mystery of the Black Widow ~ A Gay Victorian Romance and Erotic Novella

by Lady T L Jennings

  That will probably leave a bruise, I noticed vaguely.

  Ever since a nearly disastrous incident during my time at university–which I luckily managed to bribe myself out of!–I had been incredibly careful in hiding both my sinful feelings and illegal preferences. I had learnt my lessons and paid for it dearly; however, the sudden appearance of a disturbingly attractive man at my doorstep while I was still only half-awake and not even properly dressed had clearly caught me entirely off guard. And I could honestly say that I had never reacted to anyone like that in my entire life. I could still even smell the vague scent of him lingering temptingly in the air, a combination of worn leather and rugged wilderness, which seemed strangely exotic and alluring to my senses.

  That way lies madness, I warned myself and shook my head. And utter ruin!

  I rapidly dressed and gathered all the relevant documents that I would need for the day. I skipped shaving, since I was already late and because I did not trust my shaking hand to do even a half-decent job with the razor knife. Before I went downstairs, I took a couple of deep breaths to steady myself.

  Just stay in perfect control all the time, I instructed myself firmly. And do not act like a fool!

  *

  The gamekeeper waited for me downstairs in the common room together with the innkeeper and an elderly brown-and-white pointer dog with a grey snout. The dog tried to lick my hands, and when I did not collaborate, it then turned to sniffing my boots vigorously for an exceedingly long time, as if they were the most interesting shoes in history.

  “I am sorry for the delay; however, I am quite ready to leave now, Mr Morgan,” I said in a deliberately light tone as I discreetly tried to get the dog to stop sniffing my shoes.

  “Would you not like to have any breakfast first before you leave, sir?” the innkeeper asked. “Martha has prepared tea, salted ham, and scrambled eggs for you.”

  “That will not be necessary, thank you.” I brushed off his question and turned to the gamekeeper. “Shall we go?”

  The young man rested his gaze on me before he answered, but I had mentally prepared myself. I shielded myself from the influence of his warm amber eyes and kept a perfect neutral expression that betrayed nothing.

  “Of course,” he said after a while and narrowed his eyes slightly and studied me for a moment as if he was trying to look straight through me. I forced myself to remain calm and pretended that I did not notice. “The carriage is outside, follow me.”

  We left the inn and stepped outside. The sky was grey and it had rained during the night; the ground was wet and muddy. Cold water immediately began to slowly seep into my London boots, which clearly were not sturdy enough for the countryside. Next to the inn stood a one-horse open carriage, which was being pulled by a large black-and-white mottled workhorse, with a thick mane and massively large feathered hooves.

  Morgan swiftly climbed up to the driver’s seat, and with a casual gesture, he offered me his hand.

  His strong-looking hand was still deeply tanned, although it was late November, and I noticed that he had several permanent calluses on his palm, close to the fingers. It should have made his hands look rough and uninviting; however, instead I realised that I found it strangely titillating.

  I wonder what they feel like? I thought distractedly before I promptly gave him my leather briefcase, and with a firm grip on the corner of the wooden seat, I heaved myself up on the seat next to him, not particularly elegant perhaps, but without any help.

  The old dog jumped up in the back of the carriage, and after completing at least four unnecessary circles on the worn wooden planks, it curled up in a ball and went straight to sleep, apparently dead to the world. Clearly the extensive sniffing of my boots had left it exhausted, or it was simply bored of dull trips in the carriage, I concluded.

  “Will it take long to reach Lydford Hall?” I asked once I was seated next to the gamekeeper.

  The wooden seat was narrow, and I suspected that it was designed for one person, so I sat prudently on the very edge of the seat in a somewhat uncomfortable position. He noticed it, and with a small grin, he moved a little to the side to give me more space. I scuffled closer, but I was careful not to sit too near him, although a small part of my less sensible side told me that it most certainly would not have anything against a little innocent body contact.

  “If the weather is clear, like today, we will get there in an hour or so,” he said and took the reins. He clicked with his tongue, and the horse began to obediently trudge forward, slow but steady.

  “An hour?” I repeated in surprise. “I thought it was nearby?”

  “It is not far, but the roads are muddy and slippery this time of year,” he explained and added, “If we get more rain–or if there is snow before the ground is frozen–it will not be possible to go anywhere.”

  “I see,” I said and pulled my coat a little bit closer and crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No, not at all,” I lied.

  “If you want to, you can borrow my coat. It is thicker than yours,” he said and nodded towards my long-tailed tweed coat, which clearly was better suited for office work than the cold weather out on a windy, lonely moor. “I am never cold.”

  “Thank you, but that will not be necessary,” I declined politely. “I am actually not that cold, as a matter of fact.”

  He gave me a sidelong glance before he shrugged.

  “Well, let me know if you change your mind…” he said, and for a moment I wondered if we were still discussing coats or something else entirely.

  *

  ~ Chapter Four ~

  The road to Lydford Hall was indeed quite bad, and I was surprised that we managed to reach it at all. The tall manor stood imposingly at the top of a hill, exposed to weather and wind, and seemed to be proudly looking down on the valleys below. The main building was significantly older than the two extended wings that flanked the building, and probably dated back to the medieval time, while the extended parts were heavily influenced by the late Tudor style. The entire building was built in dark, grey stone, which made it look like a rather grim abbey.

  “I suppose the family wanted to be able to view all of their lands from their estate,” Morgan said as if he had uncannily read my thoughts. “And there might have been a certain amount of vanity involved as well, because Lydford Hall can be seen from miles away on a clear day.”

  “It is impressive,” I agreed. Just as we were about to turn and leave the main road, I noticed a patch of newly dug earth surrounded by a circle of small stones next to the road. “What is that?”

  “That,” Morgan said and pulled the reins to the horse, who stopped with a snort, “that is the grave of poor Sarah Barnes.”

  “A grave?” I said. “Here?”

  It seemed somewhat barbaric to bury people almost in the middle of the road, and with a frown, I wondered if no one in the area knew about the new Burial Act!

  “She… committed suicide,” he said softly in a solemn tone, and added in a whisper that brought a shiver down my spine, “so she had to be buried next to the crossroads.”

  “Why?” I asked slowly.

  “Sarah Barnes worked as one of the housemaids; I knew her briefly. She hanged herself in the stable just after Lord Lydford and his brother passed away,” he replied. “No one knows why, but now we have our own little poor Kitty Jay here at Lydford.”

  “Kitty Jay?” I repeated. “Who is that?”

  He looked out over the moor when he spoke. “She was an orphan girl who worked up at Manaton farm, many years ago. They say she got herself pregnant with her employer and he refused to marry her. In despair, she killed herself and was buried down the road, because as you know, suicides cannot be buried on holy, consecrated grounds… However, it did not prevent her from coming back, and the people living around Manaton say that you can always find fresh flowers on her grave and that sometimes on moonlit nights she can be see
n lingering close to the crossroads.”

  I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He seemed perfectly honest, and it occurred to me that despite his rugged and strong-looking appearance, it was clear to me that he must be slightly superstitious, which I against my will found rather endearing, I concluded, and had to hide a little smile.

  “I see,” I said neutrally at last.

  *

  I was cold to the bone when we finally reached the front courtyard of the manor after the trustworthy workhorse had followed the winding road up the hill and we had left the small, sad grave behind.

  “Here we are,” Morgan said and pulled the reins to the horse. “I shall just bring the horse around to the stables at the back before I show you to the library, where Lord Lydford kept all his account bookings and other legal documents regarding the property.”

  “Do you have the keys to all of the rooms?” I asked with arched eyebrows, because I found it rather strange, since he was only the gamekeeper, after all.

  “Yes,” he said and climbed down the seat and began to remove the heavy harness from the horse. “Lady Lydford left me all the keys, including the housekeeper’s main key, before she left. The staff refused to stay after what happened, and even Lady Lydford said that she had seen and heard all kinds of strange things at night. People said the place was haunted. Lady Lydford took her lady maid with her and moved to Exeter to stay with some relatives during the mourning period and while the legal will is sorted out. I am the only one left here to take care of the place. I live in the gamekeeper’s cottage, down the vale.”

  He told the old dog to stay by the horse carriage and it obediently lay down, waiting for his master to return. I followed after him as he led the workhorse towards the stable.

  “A haunted mansion?” I said in disbelief and scoffed softly, although I secretly admitted to myself that it was significantly easier to dismiss ghosts and ghouls in a brightly lit office than surrounded by the quiet, bleak moor landscape. “Sounds like something written by Mary Shelley or an unbelievable penny dreadful story to me.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. He stopped suddenly, his amber eyes searching mine. “But sometimes there is more to something–or someone–than meets the eye. Would you not agree?”

  The subtle duality of his comment made me tense, and I had to stop myself from biting my lip or fiddling with the buttons on my coat.

  “But you cannot honestly believe that a house can be haunted?” I asked with a short laugh. “It is an irrational concept. Curses, witchcrafts, and ghosts are merely fantasies born from idle minds!”

  “Is that so?” he replied and took a step towards me. It suddenly occurred to me that he was standing uncomfortably close to me.

  “Well, this is the nineteenth century!” I said in a somewhat defensive tone and swiftly stepped aside him and continued walking briskly towards the stable building. “It is the age of enlightenment, science and–”

  But the rest of the words died on my lips when I noticed the tree.

  Next to the low brick stable stood an oak, old and bent, with twisted and gnarled branches. At first I thought that the black birds were dead leaves before I realised that the tree was filled with large, black crows. All the finer hair at the back of my neck rose when one of the crows–and I do not know which one–cawed suddenly, like an ill omen. The sharp sound seemed to echo in the still air over the moor, and involuntarily I took a step back.

  “You are far from London now, Mr Davidson,” the gamekeeper said softly behind me. “Out here, anything could happen…”

  His reply left me at a loss for words.

  “Well,” I said after a while and cleared my throat, “ghosts do not exist; however, each man has the right to his own opinion, of course…”

  “Naturally,” he said somewhat absentmindedly while he watched the crows. “There have been more crows lately. They seem to be gathering around the manor ever since the death of Lord Lydford.”

  “What are they doing?” I asked in a low voice, because the crows were cawing one after another in a specific manner that seemed synchronised somehow. Their odd behaviour made me feel deeply uneasy, although I could not explain why.

  “They are holding a funeral,” he whispered. “Look, there is a dead bird on the ground next to the tree, and sometimes crows will gather to mourn. Stay here and do not move or disturb them until I get back.”

  Mourning crows? I thought sceptically as I watched him walk slowly around the old tree in a wide circle towards the stable, leading the horse behind him. Could that be true? I wondered. After all, I knew nothing of birds, but the large, black crows did seem to act strangely, I concluded as I watched them nervously. And I will admit that I was more than a little relieved when Morgan returned and we left the old tree with the strange-acting black crows behind. We reached the front door to the manor, and Morgan unlocked the high double doors, and together we stepped inside.

  *

  The house was dark and lay in deep shadows, since all the wooden shutters in front of the high windows had been carefully closed and the thick curtains were drawn shut according to the tradition of the mourning period. Apparently it had been left like that when the inhabitants of the house decided to leave, I concluded. For a second I was momentarily blinded when Morgan lit a Lucifer match. The match hissed softly before the fire began to lick the thin stick of wood, and he bent down and lit a small lantern that had been left on a side table next to the front door.

  “Welcome to Lydford Hall,” he said softly.

  *

  ~ Chapter Five ~

  The hallway to Lydford Hall was rather grand, with a wide, curved staircase that led upstairs. In the dark I could just vaguely make out the floor, which was laid in a geometric pattern of tiles, and the arched walls, which were covered with landscape paintings in heavy frames and numerous stuffed heads of dead animals. The house smelled faintly of undisturbed dust and was dead quiet, as if it were holding its breath as we went through. The only sound that could be heard was our echoing footsteps as we walked up the stairs and went deeper into the house, following the labyrinth of long corridors.

  “This was the late Lord Lydford’s library and study,” Morgan said in a low voice as we finally stopped in front of one of the high doors, which all looked exactly the same to me. “I hope you find everything you need.”

  He unlocked the door and we entered the library. It had a high ceiling, like the rest of the house, and dark wooden panelling. There were several bookcases, and as in all of the other rooms, the walls were covered with stuffed animal heads, which seemed to glance down at me with their dead glass eyes.

  Clearly the Lydford family must have been avid hunters for generations, I concluded, a little bit uneasy.

  A tall wall clock in carved rosewood was placed next to the fireplace, but its pendulum was still and unmoving. I wondered briefly if the clock had been stopped on purpose during the time of Lord Lydford’s death or if it had stopped by itself since there was no one here to wind it up.

  Memento mori, I thought and shivered slightly as if someone had walked over my grave. Remember death.

  In the centre of the room stood a massive, large black desk, which rested on heavy double-twisted legs. It had an elegant desk cover in auburn leather and an imposingly large inkstand made out of polished horn and decorated with silver in the shape of a stag head, and places for an inkwell, quills, pens and a slim letter opener in silver. A high chair, a side table with two crystal decanters of different sizes together with accompanying glasses, and a wooden earth globe on the floor completed the room.

  “I have a couple of errands to take care of, so I hope you do not mind if I leave you here?” Morgan said as he quickly built a small fire in the marble fireplace and lit an oil lamp by the desk. I was cold and thankful when the light and warmth from the fire slowly began to spread in the room.

  “Oh, I do not mind at all!” I said, although the prospect of being left alone in t
he large mansion did not completely agree with me. “I will be occupied with my work, and there is no reason for you to stay if you have other things to do,” I added hastily.

  “If you want, I can come by with something to eat at noon? Or would you prefer that I came at three o’clock when it is time to go back?” he asked.

  “Three o’clock will be perfectly fine.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said and sat down at the large desk and began to sort through the papers that were spread out on the desk.

  He hesitated by the door.

  “I brought some food to eat for myself,” Morgan said after he had rummaged through his leather satchel, which he was carrying. “It is not much, but I do not mind sharing it.”

  “Oh no, I could not possibly–” I protested in embarrassment.

  “I know you did not have time to eat this morning,” he interrupted me, and without heeding my objections, he left a small package of cheese and bread half-wrapped in a piece of cloth on the desk.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled. “It is most kind of you…”

  “Do not mention it,” Morgan said with a small smile, which made my heart skip a beat, and I worried that I would begin to blush. “By the way, please do not be alarmed when I lock the door behind me. The house is large and unoccupied, and Lady Lydford told me before she left that she was afraid of thieves and wanted all doors locked at all times.”

  “Of course,” I said with a sinking feeling. “That seems wise, one can never be too careful.”

  “Indeed,” Morgan replied after a while.

  However, when I heard the key turn in its lock after he had closed the door behind him, I instantly had the feeling that the walls were slowly starting to close in on me, and I found it almost hard to breathe properly.