The Haunting at Hawke's Moor

by Camille Oster

  "Eight?" she said, staring at him. "You know I don't have anywhere to go."

  "That makes it difficult for you. No lock keeps a spirit out."

  "You do, and you have never tried to touch me."

  "I was consumed by hatred."

  "And now?"

  "I am mostly consumed by hatred, seeking vengeance that, if what you tell me is correct, will never come."

  "Why would I lie to you?"

  "Why would I?"

  "If your quest for vengeance is not possible, why are you still here?"

  "Why not? We are safe here. My children are safe here."

  "Your children are deceased."

  "But we are together, and we might not be otherwise."

  "And all these other spirits have become trapped in the process."

  "It would appear."

  "All would disappear if you did."

  "This is my house, Miss Sands. I am not leaving."

  "Your guests are acting unconscionably, and I am currently freezing to death standing here. You do not need that bed."

  "And how do you know I will not be overcome by passion?"

  A frisson of fear ran down her spine. She swallowed with difficulty. "Because you are a born gentleman and I am holding you to that code of behavior."

  "You take a lot on faith."

  The statement couldn't be more untrue. She took a lot on sheer desperation. "Return me before I catch a fever." He raised his eyebrows to ask how that was relevant to him. "Or I might insist on you acting as my nursemaid."

  "I might smother you in your sleep."

  "That would be bad form, would it not?"

  "You are a singular creature, Miss Sands."

  Rising from the chair, he moved toward her. Anne had to fight to stand her ground. "I wonder if your faith is utterly misplaced." He ran two fingers down her breastbone, letting the touch linger. Perhaps she had been entirely mistaken, she conceded, her eyes growing wide, seeing pure mischief in his. Then he pushed her back into the darkness.

  Her body was freezing cold. Her skin ached with iciness and she shook as she slipped under the blankets of the bed. She was placing a great deal of faith in a long dead, battle hardened, gentle born man, who had dedicated his existence to the pursuit of wreaking vengeance on his wife. In theory, it sounded like an awful decision.

  She might be utterly ravished in the night, but at least she would know what he looked like. The tentative peace she had found over the last few days had fallen to pieces. Now she sought protection in a man's bed, a man who suffered no consequences for his choices and actions.

  Chapter 28:

  The door shut with a click behind her as Anne entered the master's bedroom. She felt nervous walking in there, but not as discomforted as she was knowing there were seven other spirits in the house. Four of them, she had met—four she hadn't. The forward one, who felt no qualms about the sanctity of her person, she really didn't want to meet again.

  There was no sign of Richard Hawke in the room, and that was a good indication. Perhaps he had agreed that they would co-exist—he in his realm, she in hers. The coals in the grate glowed and a lamp stood on the desk, shining light into all but the darkest corners. She was nervous more than scared, not knowing quite what to expect. In truth, she'd never shared her room with a man, living or otherwise. Her husband had never even entered her room as far as she could remember.

  Earlier in the day, while she was out retrieving the cow, she'd asked Lisle to retrieve the screen she'd seen up in the attic, and it now stood in the corner. The idea of undressing in front of a man made her insides clench with mortification, so the screen would give her privacy. The panels were made of faded yellow silk, and one had a tear down it. She had no idea how old it was—at least over a hundred years old.

  Moving silently, she sought the warmth of the fire and let it soak into her skirts, listening intently for any sign of him. There was no moon outside that night, just pure darkness out the window.

  Lisle had been in one of her moods that day, preferring her own company, so Anne hadn't really spoken to anyone, other than the cow, who seemed contented to return to the stable. Anne had spent some hours searching through the equipment in the outbuildings. The plow sat there, waiting to be used, but she needed to find the yoke and all the straps that went with it.

  Faint scratching reached her ears and she turned around to find the source. They stopped. Anne listened so intently, her ears started ringing. Then they started again, faint scratching, pause, scratching. "Are you writing?"

  They stopped again. A full minute passed and then they started again. She heard the writing, the words written by a quill or nib, the pause to dip the ink.

  "You're dead. Who can you possibly be writing to?"

  The writing stopped, then a gust of wind blew in her face. Had he just blown in her face, or thrown something at her? That was rude, although considering they'd graduated from attempted murder, perhaps perfect manners was too much to expect.

  "None of my affair," she said, more to herself and turned back to the fire. Who could he be writing to? Did ghosts communicate with one another? Was there a ghostly postal service, ready to take his letter where he needed them to? These insane questions were hurting her head.

  The writing had stopped, or she just couldn't hear it anymore. All these questions started bubbling up in her mind and she had to force herself not to voice them.

  Another small crack drew her attention back. He was there, going about his business, seemingly uninterested in her, or ignoring her. How did he see her? Could he see her standing there clear as day, or was she only hints from another realm as he was to her?

  She swallowed and cleared the tightness in her throat. "I have a few questions, if you don't mind. About the farm."

  "This is a manor, not a farm," she heard him say tersely. His voice sounded distant and thin through the veil that separated them.

  "I want to make this land productive again and I'm not sure what to plant."

  There was no answer and it was so quiet, she wasn't sure he was still there, until she felt a hand on her shoulder and the room changed before her eyes.

  "Usually, when people seek advice from beyond the grave, I'm sure it's typically more dramatic than agricultural advice," he said. He stood next to her and she'd forgotten how imposing he was—much broader than Stanford. Stanford would fear a man like Richard Hawke, having none of the fighting skills to take him on. Actually, Stanford was on the feminine side in comparison, with his polished shoes, combed hair and neatly trimmed mustache.

  "I have no one else to ask."

  "Welcome to my world, Miss Sands, as you insist on intruding."

  Looking around, she saw the parchment on the desk and the quill lying on top of it.

  "Who were you writing to?"

  "None of your affair."

  "I just don't understand. Who will receive your letters?"

  "I don't necessarily think about it that much. Unless you come along and disturb me, to remind me of my dead and useless existence, I go about my business quite normally."

  "You were writing to someone?"

  "Yes. Without your cheery reminders, my existence continues without much notice to the obvious limitations."

  "You forget you are dead?"

  "It appears so—until you insist on intruding."

  "I am sorry."

  "It is annoying when the living insist on haunting the dead."

  "Can you leave this room?"

  "Yes. In fact, the war continues not far from here."

  Now she didn't quite know what to say. A million questions rushed into her mind, but she pushed them away. "Well, I am sorry for intruding. I just thought I would ask the advice of someone more experienced with the capabilities of this land."

  He moved to the desk and crossed his arms as he leaned back, considering her with a forced tolerant expression.

  "I'm not sure what to plant."

  "These lands are fertile. You can plant what
ever you want. I grow barley."

  "You are cultivating the fields?"

  "As I said, life—such as it is—continues when not intruded upon."

  "Until I came, you didn't know you were dead?"

  "You forget such things."

  Anne bit her lips together, acknowledging how starved for conversation she was, because she didn't want to return—not just yet. "So you recommend barley?"

  "Barley, wheat. It all grows well."

  "I am trying to assemble the plow."

  His eyebrows raised in surprise. "And who will be plowing the fields?"

  "I will," she said, straightening her back. He looked at her disbelievingly. "Needs must."

  "Show me your hands," he demanded.

  "What?"

  "Show me your hands." He stepped closer and Anne felt a rush of concern as he grabbed her hand and forced the palm up. A rough, calloused thumb trailed down her fingers and across her palm. He felt real; he felt warm. "I doubt with these hands, you would last a day."

  Sharply, she drew her hand away. "Well, the spirits in this house keep killing my staff, so what am I supposed to do?"

  He moved away again and returned to his chair by the desk.

  "What are you writing?"

  "Battle strategy."

  "You lost the war."

  He looked at her sharply, pure hatred in his eyes.

  "Sorry. If it makes you feel better, parliament asked King Charles back after Cromwell died."

  A grin broke across his lips, then he laughed—a deep, hearty laugh, one she was sure he hadn't exercised in a while. "Then how is it a loss?"

  "That was the second Charles. They killed the first Charles."

  Sobered surprise registered again. "How?" These things were not history for him, they were his present, and of great consequence to everyone he knew. All long dead to everyone but in his mind.

  "They executed him."

  "A king?"

  Anne didn't quite know how to justify it and then wondered why it was her task to justify the execution of a king. Instead, she closed her mouth.

  "That girl, Elizabeth. She is your daughter."

  "She is."

  "You speak to her?"

  "I do. She saw to protect you when I saw you as… other."

  "As your wife."

  A discomfort seemed to grip him and he looked away. A hard look settled on his features. He truly hated that woman—whoever she was. Anne didn't even know her name.

  "I should return," she said.

  "You need to take care, Miss Sands," he said. "Coming here, you place yourself in my power."

  "So you've said. I am depending on your duties as a gentleman to ensure no harm will come to me."

  His gaze returned to her and he seemed a little disbelieving as well as curious. "Due to past experience, I am generally not a great lover of women."

  "Hence, I doubt you would seek to gather me to be with you all the time. I am also the custodian of what is left of your legacy, this house, so I would appreciate it if you return me to my realm, so I can go about my business of making it productive again."

  He considered her for a moment. "Why did your husband divorce you?" Now it was her turn to feel uncomfortable. "Did you make him a cuckold?"

  "I did not. It appears his mistress was unhappy with the current arrangements."

  "Then things have changed significantly. In my time, it was near impossible to rid oneself of a wife—short of killing her. Or the other way around."

  "We'd like to think of ourselves as more… " She didn't know how to finish the statement. She'd been devastated by her husband, left utterly destitute without an ounce of concern from the man who'd sworn to take care of her. Could she say that the laws around divorce were better? More civilized? In his case, a divorce would have been a preferred outcome. "Accommodating," she finished.

  Standing, he moved closer to her. "Hence, why you've had to retreat out into the wilds of Yorkshire, to share a room with a man not your husband. Accommodating is an interesting term, wouldn't you say?"

  "A ghost, not a man."

  His eyebrows raised and she swallowed the lump that tightened her throat as he stood next to her. "If you are to depend on that, perhaps you shouldn't seek to come into my realm."

  "I am depending on your firm hatred for women, that has so far lasted you through time and death itself."

  A smile spread across his lips. He stood so close now, she could smell him, the faint smoke and the man underneath. His eyes traveled lower, down along the neckline of her dress, taking in the curves below at his leisure. Anne felt her skin contract under the scrutiny. His fore and middle finger pressed to her breastbone and his dark eyes returned to hers. "Heed a warning, Miss Sands of London," he said and pushed her through the veil.

  Chapter 29:

  Sleep was uneasy that night. Things were chasing her in the dark; things she couldn't entirely put her finger on, but they were near. In a way, she wanted to be caught, was tired of running, and fighting, and being frightened.

  But the sun shone brightly as she woke. It had been a while since they'd had a bright day and Anne rose and made her way to the window. The moors stretched before her; she could see all the way to the horizon.

  It felt as if it were her room again. He felt distant, the sun chasing him away. As far as she suspected, he was still there, but inaccessible. She was glad. There had been a shift in their relationship and it made her uncomfortable—not that it ever had been comfortable. Bringing her hand up to her throat, she wrapped her arms around herself. A man had never looked at her so blatantly. She knew he'd done it to prove a point, but it was still disconcerting. Even her husband had never looked at her like that.

  He was just trying to intimidate her, she concluded. The underlying message had been to keep her away, so obviously, it had been put on for effect.

  It certainly didn't make it more comfortable for her as she washed and dressed behind the screen. If he walked around and observed her, she would have no idea, but perhaps she was as remote to him during daylight hours as he was to her.

  Her intention today was to oil some of the harnesses she needed, so when she reached the kitchen, she put on the apron she wore for dirtier work. Lisle was chopping carrots. They were small and thin, but it was their own crop. They must have grown in the small greenhouse they'd created out of a pair of spare windows found at the back of one of the buildings.

  It was exciting that they were starting to eat some of their own crop. "I milked the cow already," Lisle said. "I will be doing laundry today, so if there is anything you need washed, let me know."

  "I will bring it down." Anne wanted to say something else, but Lisle walked down into the pantry. Instead, she grabbed an oat cake and made her way outside. Lisle was right in that it was a good day to dry laundry—sunny with a fair bit of wind. It was a good day for fresh air for all. Reaching up to the top shelf, she grabbed the saddle oil and made her way to the stable, finding a little stool where she could start her work.

  The smell of the oil gave her a headache, but she persevered and in the end, all the leather straps were darkened and hanging to let the oil soak in. Much of the leather was useless, particularly any that had been exposed to the air for years on end. They would snap as soon as pressure was placed on them, but hopefully, some of the ones in better shape would serve their purpose again.

  Exiting the stable, Anne stretched her aching back and shoulders, when she noticed something in the distance. A carriage was coming.

  "Lisle," she called to the girl hanging up washed linen on a length of rope. "We are to have visitors." Lisle's eye shifted to the road.

  "I have some treacle. I can make a cake."

  Anne nodded and walked out front. The smell of saddle oil emanated from her hands and clothes, and her apron had stains all over it. With a looking back, she retreated into the house to clean up.

  It must be the vicar, she concluded, but he was yet too far away to tell.

  It
wasn't the vicar. Mr. Harleston's neat, yellow hair came out of the carriage first, along with the rest of him. He wore a light blue suit and galoshes.

  "Mr. Harleston, this is a pleasant surprise." She reached her hand to him and he kissed her knuckles. Hopefully, the smell of saddle oil was scrubbed away.

  "I have been worried for you, my dear. Your last letter was not reassuring." Shifting his gaze past her, his eyes moved up the façade of the house. His head shifted sideways, before returning to her.

  "There have been some developments," she said.

  Raising his eyebrows, he nudged her on her arm. "I can tell. It seems, Miss Sands, that you have managed to tame the beast."

  Opening her mouth to say something, she couldn't know what to say. It was an absurd statement for anyone who had met Richard Hawke. Taming wasn't a word that corresponded with him. "We have reached an accord."

  "This is a very different place from the one I visited before. I might even dare pop my head inside, if that would be amenable."

  "Of course, come in," she said, and Mr. Harleston carefully moved up the stairs to the entrance way. "This is remarkable. The air is completely different. How did you achieve it?"

  Again, Anne opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  "No matter, my dear." Tentatively, he stepped inside. "Ooh," he said, clearly excited about whatever it was he saw, or felt.

  "I cannot see them, or hear them, during the day," she said.

  "They're still here."

  Mr. Harleston's eyes traveled up to the ceiling toward where the Master's bedroom was. "So very strong," he said, "but such a shift. The darkness that hung over the entire house has retreated. Still so powerful, though."

  Wide, excited eyes shifted into the parlor, as if he watched someone walking in. Anne couldn't see anyone. "A young girl," he whispered as he continued watching empty space, his eyes shifting with this spirit's progression. "Dark hair. Elizabeth." Mr. Harleston bowed deeply. "She is the most earth-bound."

  "What do you mean?"

  "She is the one who has been watching over you, the one more cognizant of the living residents of the house. The others do not necessarily know you are here." A silent noise seemed to distract him and he looked up again. "And a boy, slightly younger. Her brother."