The Haunting at Hawke's Moor

by Camille Oster

  "Really? And what do you have planned?"

  "Exactly that," she said, rising. She walked over to the bed, feeling calm and relaxed. A plan was in place and she was going to enact it. Placing her hand in Richard's, she let him pull her into the bed, draw her beneath him.

  "And would you deny me?"

  "Would you ever give me cause to?"

  He stroked along her temple. "No. I will never give you cause to."

  Inhaling softly, she studied his face. Utterly beautiful, even the scar that marred his handsome face. "Then I will not deny you."

  Leaning down, he kissed her and Anne finally felt as if she was home. It wasn't this house she craved; it was him. He had become her home, and she was going to fight for it. The kiss deepened and Anne surrendered to it.

  Chapter 39:

  After a busy day, Anne and Lisle walked over to the Turner farm in the afternoon to witness the documents Anne had prepared. He'd promised to have one of the copies delivered to the mail coach in the morning. They'd all had tea in the Turner's well-worn kitchen, but his wife wasn't much chattier than her husband.

  Anne retired shortly after arriving home. It had been a hard day, but there were more important issues weighing on her mind. She sat in her room and waited, watched out the window as the sun set. Anticipation spilled through her. She'd waited all day to see him and the sun was frustratingly slow.

  As it grew dark, she stood and was quickly whipped around into a kiss. He was still invisible, but the kiss was more important than seeing him. She luxuriated in the touch of his lips. The room changed as the kiss broke, the change slowly incorporating around the room.

  "How was your day?" he asked.

  "Fine. We got a bit more done on the field."

  Bundling her skirts up, he carried her to the bed, where he lifted them up and teased down her bare thighs until she couldn't bear it anymore. They made love languidly, with slow kisses that drove her to utter distraction, and in heated, spent exhaustion, he lay with his head on her now bare chest. "I don't think I could tolerate you leaving," he said, tracing his fingers along her side. "The brightness you have brought into my existence; I'm not sure I could bear losing you."

  Anne stroked his dark hair, feeling the same way. The idea of having to leave, to live a dull and gray life sat like a threatening sorrow. Going back to being under someone's thumb every moment, beholden to someone for every shilling she needed made her stomach turn. That would be her life—told to be grateful for the existence she was afforded by her dismissing patrons. The sacrifice of her house would soon be forgotten and she would be a burden they would try to bear with grace. And she would lose him, the man who made her feel wanted and loved.

  "Have you not grown tired of me, then?"

  Shifting his head, he looked at her. "You do recall what I was? A spirit of sheer darkness. I fear losing you and returning to that miserable unhappiness."

  Anne's stomach clenched in nervousness. "And what would you say if I stayed?"

  "You believe you have found a way of defeating them?"

  "Yes, but I would have to stay," she said meaningfully. "As in past morning."

  He shifted off her sharply. "That is a great sacrifice for the sake of spite."

  Anne sat up so she could be level with him. "It's to ensure I don't have to make a sacrifice. I don't want to compromise anymore. I have found what I want. It is just a matter of what you want."

  His dark eyes stared at her as if he didn't know what to say.

  She continued, "I want to be with you, go where you go when the sun is up. I want more; I want it all, and I refuse to let anyone take this away from me. Ever."

  "Well, ever is what you speak of." He went to say something then he stopped, then tried again, but couldn't manage to say what was on his mind.

  "Say it. Say exactly what you mean," she urged.

  He sighed. "I am trying to find something to say that won't change your mind."

  Anne softened. "You would be stuck with me."

  "I shall endeavor to bear it," he smiled, then pulled her to him, kissing her deeply. "I guess you will have to be my bride after all."

  Anne wrapped her arms around his shoulder, drawing in the scent of him. He was hers and this was real. It felt more real than her entire marriage to Stanford. This was exactly where she wanted to be and she felt lucky she had found it. Yes, there was some sacrifice, but whenever she looked into his eyes, she felt no fear of it. No one would ever be able to hurt them again.

  Taking Richard's arm, Anne walked into the dining hall, which looked different from how she had ever seen it. Candles burned along the walls and the table, lighting the room brighter than she'd ever known. The table was older and darker, as were the chairs.

  They were all gathered, all except the grieving lady. Anne looked around the faces of the people there. Some she knew, others she'd only felt.

  A boy, perhaps thirteen, considered her—a younger version of his father. Curiosity was the only expression on his face, and he looked to Elizabeth for guidance. Elizabeth smiled, looking beautiful in her gown. There was an elegance about her that was inspiring.

  Then there was a young man with wheat-colored hair and a handsome face. Obviously William, whose attention often darted guardedly to Elizabeth more often than not. A man with dark clothes and a gray wig nodded to her, standing next to a pretty girl with a heart-shaped face and a curvy body. It had to be Beatrice, who considered her with sly curiosity.

  Alfie stood next to Lisle, looking more arrogant than curious.

  "We have an announcement to make," Richard said to the assembled party. This was their house, Anne thought, their haphazard family. "Anne has decided to join us."

  Lisle's hand shot to her mouth, but she didn't say anything.

  "Congratulations," Elizabeth said as if they'd just announced an engagement. She came forward and stroked down Anne's arms. "I am so happy. I think this is the start of a golden age for this house."

  "I hope so," Anne said.

  "I'm sure of it."

  Her brother looked too shy to speak, but Anne hoped they would get past that in time.

  Beatrice bobbed a quick curtsy. And Thompson, the manservant, wished her welcome in a formal manner. He was an older man who held himself straight as if refusing to relent the old ways.

  Smiling as she continued, Anne arrived where Lisle was standing.

  "Are you sure?" Lisle asked.

  "I'm sure," Anne said. "I have found happiness, and I'm not letting it go."

  Alfie shifted awkwardly as Lisle obviously wasn't placing the same trust in him. He just had to prove himself more, Anne thought.

  Lisle embraced her and it was the first time they had acknowledged the friends they had become.

  "I think we must hire another field hand," Anne said.

  "Best make him an ugly one so neither Beatrice nor William will bother him," Lisle whispered.

  Anne smiled. "I'm not quite sure how to prepare the advert for that."

  "And old," Lisle said. "Ideally with a lazy eye and a maybe even slow."

  Lisle took Anne's hand and turned her attention to the room. "As it is an evening of announcements, I have one to make as well." All turned to her. "I believe I am with child."

  Anne gasped. It must be from when Alfie was alive as there had been no one else. While it seemed such a long time ago, in reality, it wasn't. Alfie looked a bit flustered. "How long have you known?"

  "Not known as such, suspected, but enough now to perhaps be certain." Lisle turned and sternly pointed to the assembled party. "And if any of you lot do anything to harm me or my baby, I swear I will scour this earth to find some way of making your eternal life a hell beyond compare."

  "You will be safe here," Anne said, turning to Richard for confirmation. "And you will be able to stay as long as you wish. It's written in as part of my will."

  Richard cleared his throat. "Anne's passing will cause a rip and anyone who wishes to be released can do so at that point. Y
ou will not get a chance until the next death in this house."

  Silence reigned in the dining hall and none of the assembled party volunteered.

  "We will release the Lady Sorrow tonight, so hopefully she can find what it is she is searching for," he continued.

  Anne went to him and took his arm. They walked out the door and returned upstairs.

  "It is getting close to dawn," he said. Was it really? Time had passed so quickly. "Are you sure you wish to do this? This can still be undone. You would be ill, but you would recover."

  She turned to him. Just seeing him made her insides clench. How had she been so fortunate? All the sadness was worth it for finding what she had here. "I have never been so sure."

  "Then I will show you this world in the daytime. I think you will be proud of my fields."

  "You think so? My skills with the plow have improved greatly."

  "A skill you have all the time in the world to refine, if you wish," he said with a smile. "I can wipe the fields and you can start again, if you should so desire."

  Stepping behind her, he drew her to him as they stood watching the distance light of dawn out the window. Anne sighed into the embrace. Dawn was approaching. "I cannot be here at the moment of your passing if I am to release Lady Sorrow, but then I'll return."

  "I'll be fine. Do what you must do," she said and felt his arms slip away from her. He left the room and Anne stood, watching the encroaching light.

  She felt the moment of her passing as a release, a heaviness leaving her. She almost felt light enough to float away, but her feet held firmly to the floor. With this action, she was leaving behind the sadness and dependency and turned to a world that had everything she wanted and everything she needed. It was perhaps a smaller world, but she would be happy here.

  "It is done," he said as he came back.

  "Yes," she said and smiled. Light reached across the land, gently touching everything in its path. "It is done."

  Chapter 40:

  They stood around in a semi-circle in the hall as Lisle opened the door, letting the visitors in.

  "God, this building is grim, isn't it?" Stanford's awful voice said. Anne felt her hackles rise up her neck at the very sight of him. Following him was a short woman with yellow curls. She had a pretty face but wore a little too much rouge.

  "How can anyone live out here?" the woman said, her voice high-pitched and thin. "I don't think I can imagine anything worse." Stanford rolled his eyes as if her very voice aggrieved him.

  Anne smiled as she saw it. Perhaps his marriage hadn't been as successful as he'd hoped and he was already growing tired of his new bride.

  Harry walked in and Anne felt her heart ache slightly. Her boy was no longer a boy, and he had moved away from the little creature she'd adored. She still loved him and wished him happiness in the future, although she feared he'd surrendered the skills needed to achieve it. "It's so desolate it sends you mad. Mother was on the point of madness, so perhaps this is a blessing."

  "She probably killed herself," Stanford said. "It wouldn't surprise me. She was a miserable cow most of her life."

  Richard's grip on her arm tightened and Anne looked up at his scowling face.

  "It matters not," she assured him, the visitors not hearing her voice.

  Reverend Whitling walked into the entrance, wearing his typical black attire. "Some tea to recover from the journey," he suggested to Lisle, who went to prepare it. Mr. Whitling looked sad and Anne felt sorry for that. "She was a lovely lady," he said.

  Stanford looked unimpressed, checking his watch in his waistcoat pocket, the skin under his chin wrinkling as he looked down.

  "Mr. Charterham is not far away," the reverend continued. "Once he is here, we can commence with the burial."

  They walked into the parlor and accepted the tea Lisle served them. She had even baked a cake, which was quickly consumed.

  "It must be awful being out here on your own," Whitling said to Lisle. "It is all so unfortunate." He patted her hand as if to give her strength.

  "It is hardly unfortunate if the woman did this to herself," Stanford cut in, flaring his jacket as he sat down.

  "No, you misunderstand. It was her heart," the reverend corrected him. "An undiagnosed heart weakness."

  "The whole woman was weak."

  "Father," Harry chided.

  Anne could tell Richard wanted to get his sword and run the man through, and she gently patted him on the arm.

  Mr. Charterham arrived and they departed for the graveyard. Mr. Turner was waiting outside with his horse and cart, the casket on the back.

  "Do you wish to go to the burial?" Richard asked her gently, forgoing his hatred of Stanford to be concerned for her.

  "No, I'd rather not," she replied.

  Lisle did go with them and they all returned to the house an hour and a half later, when she had to gather the coats of the visitors.

  "Poor Mr. Turner, another grave for him to dig. We are a burden on that man," Anne said.

  "I suppose the artwork is worth a few bob," Stanford said, looking bored.

  "I think that vase in the parlor is lovely. It will look marvelous in our dining room," the new wife said, her eyes searching the house for other treasure. "But everything else is so old, so old-fashioned. There is little we can salvage. There's no accounting for taste, is there?"

  "We'll find some merchant who wants it," Stanford said and straightened his suit. "Can we get on with the business end?" he said brashly to Mr. Charterham.

  "Perhaps in the library?" the solicitor suggested.

  "Oh, there are books. Hopefully some valuable ones," the woman said, taking her husband's arm with enthusiasm.

  "She is simply awful," Elizabeth said as the unseen followed the guests into the library.

  "So Miss Sands' will has a few stipulations," Mr. Charterham said, sitting down to read the document to the eager party. "But to summarize, the land, the house, its content and all chattels are left to… Mrs. Cecilia Worthing."

  There was utter silence in the room, nothing was heard other than the ticking of the clock from the hall.

  Stanford had turned positively red. "Who is God's name is Cecilia Worthing?" he roared, standing up and demanding an answer. Harry joined him, looking confused.

  "I understand she is Miss Sands' second cousin twice removed."

  Stanford blinked as if he was about to have an attack of some sort. He continued blinking, one after another, as if doing so would force this development to go away.

  "Apparently, Miss Sands believed that this property should remain with the female line of the family, and so stipulates in her will. There are also provisions for Lisle Crowe to remain with the property as long as she wishes, and to receive a stipend from the estate's revenues."

  "What does this mean, Father?" Harry said, his eyes large and worried.

  "It means we have to challenge this woman, whoever she is," he said with violent arm movements.

  "I wouldn't recommend it. As a specifically named beneficiary, you have little claim on the estate."

  "We would have won our case. We lodged a petition."

  "But it was never heard, never ruled on, and the circumstances are now entirely different. You would have very little justification for the ruling going your way. Even your son, Harry, is only distantly related to this woman. It would be very hard to make a case for better management of the estate in his care. No doubt the lady’s husband would challenge that. And as only a female will inherit, you have little future claim." Mr. Charterham didn't look in the least sorry to deliver his verdict on their chances. "You are, of course, welcome to try."

  Stanford's face had now turned purple. "That stupid, little whore!" he roared.

  Reverend Whitling looked shocked and Harry sat slumped in the chair, as if he had lost his very future. Well, at least, a trip to Italy. Anne steeled herself to not feel sorry for him. It was better for him in the long run not to cheat his mother. Someday, she hoped he'd come to realiz
e the error in his own behavior.

  "But this is ours," the woman said, finally understanding what was happening. "She can't just give it to someone else."

  "She has," Mr. Charterham said.

  "But we need that money."

  "And I suspect Miss Sands probably understood that."

  "Spiteful, sallow cow," Stanford spat, forcing his way out of the room, but ended up tripping over Lisle's ill placed ankle.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Kinelly," Lisle said to the fallen man. "You must take care of the carpets in this house. They have a way of tripping you up."

  Anne shrugged, accepting that perhaps it had all been a little spiteful, but they deserved it.

  "Feel better?" Richard asked as he turned to her.

  "Yes," she giggled, smiling up at him.

  Supper was a solemn affair. Both Mr. Charterham and Reverend Whitling complimented Lisle on the meal, but the others sat in sulky silence.

  "What can we do, father?" Harry asked.

  "There is nothing we can do," Stanford replied, his voice still icy with rage.

  "I'm still taking the vase," the new wife said defiantly.

  "It does not belong to you," Mr. Charterham pointed out, "and the constables would have to retrieve it from your house."

  The woman paled, probably imaging the ruckus caused by constables forcing themselves into her house, the neighbors all seeing through their windows.

  "I'm retiring," Stanford said, standing. "We're leaving first thing in the morning." He strode out of the dining hall, his wife tottering after him. Harry solemnly slipped away as well.

  Richard turned to the assembled party—Elizabeth, Alfie, William and Beatrice. "Let's make our guests feel most unwelcome," he said with a smile, and Anne squeezed his arm.

  To Mr. Charterham and Reverend Whitling’s surprise, the Kinelly party had departed abruptly during the night, had run out of the house as if devils were after them, screaming frantically to wake their carriage driver and running outside in their nightclothes. Mrs. Kinelly dragging a half open canvas bag after her, her clothes falling out. One article of her undergarments still lay on the staircase.