The Haunting at Hawke's Moor

by Camille Oster

  Chapter 26:

  For a long time, there was nothing, but then there was that indication that he was there. The scent of a man and a tinge of smoke. The wind raged outside, but it was quiet and still within the room. Anne's heart beat powerfully, anticipating the rush at her throat, but it didn't come. Not that her throat didn't feel impossibly tight all on its own. Her mouth had gone dry and she felt as if her knees would give.

  Why was she doing this? Because she had to. "I need to speak to you," she said as clearly as she could, ignoring the bone-deep shiver she felt.

  Eventually, there was a creak in one of the chairs.

  "One of the spirits in this house is hurting my maid."

  Nothing happened. Anne looked over at the chair where she thought the noise had come from. There was no form. Unlike Alfie, Richard did not show himself. She knew he was there though. She felt like in her gut. He was watching her.

  There was another creak and without meaning to, Anne took a step back. She tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. The images before her eyes changed, crept around the room and revealed a different world. She was in his realm now, and she had shifted without his hand around her throat.

  There was a fire in the grate and the furniture was different. He was there now, sitting in the chair where she had heard the noise.

  A dark countenance considered her. He looked exactly the same as the other times she'd seen him. The clothes were the same, the hair was the same. Perhaps his appearance didn't change. Who was to say how he existed here?

  Broad shoulders covered with black leather leaned against the backrest, and linen-covered arms lay along the armrests. His hands were impassive, resting at the edge of the armrests. They were large, with long, straight fingers. A scar ran across his knuckles. He appeared a bit different sitting; still just as imposing. In his thirties, he was much more an intimidating man than he'd been in his youth. War and strife had changed him. "You stay in this house, you bear the consequences," he said.

  "He is abusing her."

  "Then she should leave."

  "How many spirits do you seek to gather in this house?"

  He shifted his head back slightly and looked over at her. "Are you disturbing me over something utterly inconsequential?"

  "A life being taken is hardly inconsequential."

  "It is to me."

  "So you are unwilling to do anything?"

  "I would have thought my regard for intruders into my house was clear by now."

  Frustration clawed at her throat. He did not care. Why had she assumed he would? It was a stupid belief now that she looked back on it.

  "You are keeping them here. Release them."

  "What concern is it to you, Anne Sands of London?"

  At least, he now had realized she wasn't his wife. It did show there was more to him than just an echo of pure hatred, indicating there were thought and consideration.

  She looked around the room. It did look quite different. There were curtains on the bed as had been the fashion during the time he had lived. There were weapons on the desk, a flintlock and a sword, strewn letters and the strongbox. The broken lock lay on the floor.

  "You broke my lock," he said, obviously seeing where her attention was.

  "I didn't realize it was something you used."

  "Why did you break into my box?"

  Anne shifted on her feet. "To discover who you were."

  "And why do you wish to know who I was?"

  "You were attacking me. I needed to know who and why."

  "Pragmatic, then." Desperate might be more accurate a term. "I am your enemy. And have you discovered a way to defeat me?"

  "Being non-corporeal, you have me at a distinct disadvantage."

  "I am corporeal now, but unfortunately for you, stabbing me has no permanent effect. You cannot injure me. Besides, I have your dagger."

  Her eyes traveled to the table, where she saw it lying on top of a book.

  "You should treat your weapons better."

  "I found it in one of the outbuildings. I am not normally one to carry weapons. It was not how I was raised."

  "Yet you did."

  "While being ripped out of bed by a strange man, a lady must, out of necessity, take steps to defend herself."

  He pursed his lips and considered her in silence. His eyes traveled down her body. "You are in mourning. Who is it you mourn?"

  "My aunt." She looked away. His questions were direct, too direct for propriety, but then perhaps things were different in his time. She was not an expert at bygone etiquette, or maybe he just lacked manners. By his actions, it didn't seem something he was overly concerned about.

  A noise made her snap her eyes back, but he had not moved. "It harms me to be here, doesn't it?"

  "I couldn't say," he said uncaringly.

  "I thought only touch drew me here, and released me."

  He didn't answer. The fact that he had not touched her showed it wasn't true.

  "How do I get back?"

  "I have to release you."

  "And if you keep me here, I will die."

  "Yes."

  "If you will not help me, then release me."

  "Why should I if you have put yourself in my power? You did request to come here."

  "Because I was beseeching your help."

  He raised his eyebrow. "You are a strange woman, Anne Sands of London."

  "Well, I am Anne Sands of Hawke's Moor now."

  A smile spread across his lips. "And how long do you wish to stay so?"

  "It is not a matter of wish, more of must."

  The leather of the chair groaned as he rose and Anne had to stop herself from stepping back, from running for the door. She had no idea what he would do now. But his attention wasn't on her. Instead, he walked to the desk and picked up the rusty dagger. As he moved toward her, she had to force her knees not to buckle with fear.

  He was so much taller than her, and broad, so fit for fighting. He was Goliath to her David.

  "You cannot hurt me," he said, holding the dagger out to her. Carefully, she took it from him. It was cold to the touch.

  "I made you release me."

  "Mere surprise. I can hurt you, however. I think you've understood that."

  "Except as a gentleman, you have no cause to."

  "There is nothing gentle about me, Miss Sands." Even without murderous intent, he was intimidating. "Remove your maid from this house if you do not wish to see her harmed."

  "She will not go."

  "Then she will forfeit her life if someone in this house seeks to take it."

  "Have you no control over the spirits here?"

  "It is no concern of mine. If she refuses to go, she chooses the consequences."

  "He is seducing her."

  "And if she wants to be seduced, who are you to stand in the way?"

  "Because anyone who seeks to rob you of your life does not love you."

  "Tell that to Romeo and Juliet," he said.

  Before Anne could react, he reached his hand up to her breastbone and forcefully pushed her backward. Having not expected it, she lost her footing and fell into darkness. The chamber was back to her time, dark and quiet. There was no sight of him. She landed heavily on her backside, ungracefully sprawled on the floor. Dealing with him certainly ended up bruising her. "Romeo didn't intend to kill Juliet, or vice versa, whichever it was."

  If he heard her, he made no indication. There was no movement or sound, and no indication he was there. He was there; this was where he dwelled, but he gave her no sign of him.

  Her body ached dully as she stood up. It was strange to think he was in this very room, but the curtain of death was now so thick, she had no sign of him. It was even stranger to think she had been on the other side of that curtain. Would even Mr. Harleston believe her if she told him?

  Grabbing her candle with her free hand, she left the room and closed the door behind her, retreating to the guest room that was now hers. It was warm, the coals o
n the fire heating the room.

  She put the rusty dagger down, considering it as she slowly undressed and hung her gown up on the wardrobe, her mind turning over the things she'd just learned about her ghost. Had he been truthful when he'd said there was no way to harm him? Did she wish to if they had a truce?

  He did not care about preserving life. As he had embraced death, that was perhaps not surprising. Why would a ghost care about the lives of the living when death was so inevitable? And he had more or less accused her of trying to keep lovers apart. The notion of Alfie pursuing Lisle still sat so very badly. Life was precious. Lisle's life was precious. But was love? She refused to believe Alfie would treat Lisle's life so carelessly if he loved her.

  Chapter 27:

  The cow’s trudging steps carefully navigated the uneven landscape on the way back from the Turner's land. The frost had lifted, but the moors still held a multitude of perils. Anne sighed as she walked. It took longer walking back with the cow than it did walking there, but the cow seemed happy enough to leave its beau behind.

  It would be lovely to have a little calf running around. She wasn't entirely sure how long a calf would gestate, but she could probably find out in the library. The portrait and the man returned to her.

  They had spoken. Her expectation was that she would have no more trouble. He seemed content with their truce, but he offered no protection to Lisle. Thinking back, she wasn't entirely sure why she expected he would. They place little value on life. Death was just a transition.

  The yard was quiet when they finally arrived home. Anne spread some hay for the cow to eat and left it in its stable. It seemed happy to be inside for a while and Anne returned to the kitchen. Hunger tightened her insides and the smell of stew was heavenly.

  Lisle scooped her a portion and she sat, undoing the shawl around her shoulders as the heat of the kitchen made it too heavy. Anne broke a piece of bread and let it soak in the stew.

  "Lisle you must be careful of Alfie."

  "I don't know what you're talking about." Lisle refused to look at her.

  "I know you visit their realm. I've seen you do it. Denying it will not change that. Alfie wants to take your life so you will join him there. He told me so in no uncertain terms."

  Finally, Lisle looked up, a contemptuous look on her face.

  "It harms you each moment you spend it their realm," Anne continued. "It was what made Alfie grow weak and sickly. And I can tell by the look of you, you are weakening as well."

  Lisle looked down at her soup again.

  "This man wants to harm you. You should leave," Anne continued.

  "And where should I go?"

  "Take a position elsewhere."

  "I love him."

  "He is dead."

  "And he is still here; still with me. He is never going to leave me."

  "Lisle," Anne warned. "He is trapped in this house, likely for an eternity. Is that what you want?" Lisle rose and marched out of the kitchen, leaving Anne to stare after her. Anne didn't know what to do. Short of arresting her for trespassing, there was little she could do.

  From Richard Hawke's perspective, she was keeping two lovers apart. She was the ogre in the fairytale, locking the maiden away to a life of loneliness and solitude. The assumption she lived by, was that love does not harm—if Alfie loved Lisle, he would not want her life ended. Instead, he should want her sent away to serve people she didn't know until she aged and died of natural causes. Or she could marry and have children. Alfie wasn't the only man in the world. If released, she could have a proper life. Not that Anne's faith in men was entirely intact. She wasn't sure there were good men in the world. Maybe just good liars.

  For a moment, she considered how bitter she'd grown and she hated it, but she just didn't have that faith in people she'd used to. Perhaps she had been hurt too deeply.

  Dying for a man was such an enormous step, such a sacrifice. What if he then wasn't true? Would Alfie then turn around and decide he'd had enough, like Anne's husband had? But did she want to be the kind of person who would never put faith in another? Obviously, it wasn't Alfie she would place faith in.

  Arresting Lisle would ruin her life more assuredly than anything else. She would never achieve decent employment again and would end up destitute. Death was often kinder. But there had to be some way to entice her to leave. Anne just couldn't think of one. Lisle didn't seem to have any particular ambitions that would tempt her away.

  Finishing her stew, Anne sent to the parlor and had a small glass of sherry. The emptiness of the room seemed amplified that evening and a morose feeling overcame her. Now that her truce was established, she could see beyond her immediate survival, and she saw endless lonely evenings sitting in her parlor with a glass of sherry. It was too difficult to think about, so she turned her mind to the cow and hoped their endeavors would bear fruit by the summer.

  Warm sunshine and summer bounty seemed so far away. She tried to think of the taste of strawberries and raspberries. Come spring, she would buy some plants in the village. They certainly had room for a patch.

  The long walk during the day had tired her and she was ready to retire. Taking the candle, she moved upstairs to her new bedroom and undressed. Coals heated the room and she combed her hair. It was nice to be tired and free of immediate worry. From the moment her impending divorce had been announced, constant worry had been her companion. Now, her only worry was that her departed field hand would kill her maid during the night. It sounded preposterous.

  She slipped between the sheets, which were cool against her bare limbs and closed her eyes. Sleep claimed her immediately.

  There was someone in her room. Anne woke with her heart pounding. There was someone there. It took her mind a moment to recover from the panic that was screaming through her, blocking all rational thought. Had he broken the truce? Anne listened, the silence growing deafening. There was something off, but she couldn't put her finger on it.

  A slow step sounded on the floorboards. The mattress shifted as weight came down on it. She held her breath, unsure what to do—what he wanted. No, something was off. The smell wasn't there. There was always that smell, but it was absent. This wasn't him. This was someone else—someone she hadn't met before.

  She startled violently as a touch resonated across her knee, iciness making her skin contract. Goose bumps rose across her entire body. "What do you want?" she said, her voice shaky. "Leave me alone."

  The hand returned, running up between her thighs. Nausea and fear rolled her stomach. This thing was touching her, intimately. In wild panic, she scrambled out of bed and ran to the door. Yanking it open, she threw herself out of the room, hearing footsteps behind her—large strides.

  Without thinking, she rushed to the master's bedroom and shut herself inside. Putting her forehead to the door, she waited. Would that spirit follow in here? This was Richard Hawke's dwelling, and her panicked, thoughtless assumption had been that the spirit would not cross into here.

  The footsteps faded and Anne waited, but it seemed her assumption had been right. Whoever it was had not followed her in here. Taking a step back into the darkened room, she clasped her arms to her chest. She turned around, wondering if she had just jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

  That familiar smell was there. He was present, somewhere in the darkness. Was Richard Hawke a bigger threat? Was she breaking the truce?

  "Someone attacked me," she said into the quiet darkness. "Touched me."

  Nothing happened. The room was cold and Anne wasn't dressed for standing in a cold room, but she didn't want to go back to her room. For all she knew that man was waiting for her. "There are other spirits here. How many? Who are they?"

  Again nothing. "Speak to me," she demanded. Her fear and shock making her bold.

  A touch on her shoulders made the veil shift. He was standing behind her. Quickly, she shifted away so her back wasn't to him. He looked exactly the same. The room was now lit and relatively warm. There was a fire in t
he grate.

  "A man touched me, inappropriately," she said.

  Richard Hawke shrugged and stepped away, slowly taking a seat. "And you seek my protection?" It sounded stupid, but that was exactly what she'd done. "The constant recommendation of leaving still stands. Spirits tend to do what they want. There are no consequences here."

  "He wouldn't follow in here," she said, her gaze quickly seeking the door. Shifting his head, he considered her. "You are stronger than them."

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "I just am."

  "Who was he?"

  "There are a number of people here, I suspect."

  "You don't know?"

  "I'm not the sheriff of this burrow, Miss Sands of London."

  "More like a feudal lord."

  "I suppose."

  "I'm freezing cold right now. There is no fire; I only perceive a fire. But I am frozen until I am released from this." Anne turned to look at the bed.

  He didn't say anything, only looked at her darkly. "You wish to sleep in my bed?"

  "Technically, it is my bed. I am the legal owner of it. And your murderous intent aside, I was much safer there."

  "I think you have made a grave error with your assumptions."

  "Why, do you use the bed? Do you sleep?"

  "I do not." He paused. "Perhaps in this house, it is not the murderous intent you need to worry about."

  "You mean… " she said, feeling her stomach heave with revolt. That man had not been trying to kill her; instead he sought to touch her where he wasn't invited.

  "Centuries of longing does make some forward," he said.

  "Is that even possible?"

  He raised his eyebrow as if what she said was utterly daft. Anne's mind reeled. Even with all the evidence of Alfie and Lisle, she hadn't fully realized that intimacy was possible. Was that how Alfie had been seduced to their realm? "Again, perhaps you should leave."

  "How many people are here?"

  "Seven? More now. Eight perhaps."