“Why do you say that?”
“When ye see it, ye’ll know.”
“You’ve been there before?”
“I’ve seen it before, if that’s what ye mean. I told ye I knew these roads.” He paused, looking her over in a way that made her uncomfortable. “If Blackmoor isn’t to yer liking, there’s a place north of Easingwold called Fangdale Manor. I hear they’re always looking for servants, too. Ye might want to try them.”
Emma thanked him for the information and quickly moved on.
Gathering her satchel, she embarked down the road, the way they’d come, towards a road that the coachman had indicated. She hadn’t noticed the road when they’d passed it, but she was determined to find it.
It was one lonely road on the moors that seemed endlessly gloomy and wet, and as Emma headed down the rutted road, she was coming to feel more alone than she’d ever felt in her life. The mist was falling, the air was cold, and the wind was whistling over the barren land. She turned to look at the coach, far down the road, noticing that the coachman had unhitched the team and was now heading towards Easingwold. He was a spot in the distance, in the mist, and when the spot disappeared, she was, indeed, alone.
Alone in more ways than one.
Chapter Three
Blackmoor Hall
The coachman had been right.
Blackmoor Hall was something odd and imposing, out in the middle of the moors as if it simply didn’t belong.
Dark…
Emma could see it as the sky began to darken. Night was approaching and she was determined to make it to Blackmoor Hall before the darkness fell. She knew that when it did, she would be stuck in the middle of a black moor, with darkness all around, and probably unable to move until daylight. The moon, when it had come out from behind the clouds as of late, was only a sliver.
It would provide no light for travel.
The coaches had carried their own lights, lanterns that hung from the cab that provided some illumination against the darkness, but Emma hadn’t thought to take a lantern with her when she forged off on her own. It had been foolish in hindsight but, fortunately, Blackmoor Hall was within her sight.
Picking up the pace, she practically ran the rest of the way.
As she sloshed up the main drive, coming to the front of the house, she noticed that everything was terraced. There was the level that the main drive was on and then there were steps leading up to another level, some kind of patio or walkway with unkempt balustrades, and then more steps leading to the entry to the house itself. In the dying light of the day, Emma found herself looking at a door that seemed to be as run down as the house around it.
Great stone images hung from the eaves, gargoyles that had once been imposing and even beautiful, but time and weather had worn away the faces so that now they were barely recognizable as having once had features. As she gazed up at them, feeling some trepidation, the rain began to pelt her and she took the steps up to the door, lifting the heavy iron knocker and listening to the boom reverberate.
She found herself hoping she was at the right place.
A minute or two passed and there was no response, so she knocked again. Time passed again with no response. Out of curiosity, and perhaps desperation, she put her hand on the latch to see if the door was open. She was surprised when it slowly swung open.
A large reception hall greeted her, dark and smelling dank. With the weak light from the setting sun, she could see two big Doric pillars in the room and a darkened hearth. The floor beneath her feet was wooden, with a herringbone pattern, which would have been lovely under any other circumstances. But in the darkness, in the musty dankness, it was simply dull and unappealing as it blended into the rest of the neglected chamber.
Emma’s trepidation had turned into full-blown apprehension at this point, but the rain was starting to come down harder and she needed shelter for the night. No one had answered the door and, by all appearances, the place seemed to be deserted. She didn’t hear, or see, a soul.
“Hello?” she called.
Her voice echoed from the walls without a response. Securing the front door so no water would come in from the storm, she timidly peered into the chamber to her right, which was a cavernous room of tattered drapes and nondescript furniture. She couldn’t really make it out in the darkness except to know that it was, in fact, some kind of furniture. Perhaps it was a drawing room, or at least had been.
There were two other doors in the entry hall and she crossed over to the one directly across from the drawing room only to be faced with an enormous dining table and no less than twelve chairs. The table was stripped of any adornment and the chairs were in some disarray. Dusty old curtains hung in this room, too, and above the hearth, she could make out a large painting of a woman in a white dress.
But other than the woman in the painting, this chamber was devoid of life, too.
There was a third door tucked back behind the hearth and Emma went to it, opening it up to reveal a darkened and large stair hall. It smelled as if a thousand years of dust had gathered in the closed off hall, but there was a corridor leading from it and several doors.
She went on the hunt.
Each room was darker than the previous because the sun had almost completely set at that point. Soon, it would be too dark to see, so she went about searching for a taper to light her way to finding somewhere to sleep for the night, even if she ended up in that drawing room. At least there was furniture there and she was certain she could find a chair to sleep in.
Onward went the hunt.
Somehow, she ended up in the kitchen. Oddly enough, the room didn’t seem as unused as the rest of the house. There were remnants of food, bread crusts and old cheese sitting out on a plate. The cheese was shriveled and the bread was like stone, but Emma realized she was very hungry and, sniffing it, she timidly bit into the cheese. It wasn’t rotten, but it was quite stale. Still, she swallowed it for lack of anything else to eat. The dried-out bread met the same fate – into her mouth and down into her stomach. It wasn’t much, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Then, she saw it.
A small table that held a collection of candles on it, most of them just down to a nub. It was enough of a nub that she was able to use it. But that was only if she found some way to light it, and her hunt took her over to the kitchen hearth, which she thought was cold until she looked closer to see that it had been covered.
Someone had covered the embers.
That told Emma that there was, indeed, someone in the house, which was an eerie thought. She didn’t want to be thought an intruder, so she lit one of the candle nubs from the hearth’s embers, which gave her a nice bit of light.
Now, she would find out who else was in the house.
Outside, the storm was starting to rage, slamming against the old windows as the wind howled. Emma struggled with her fear as she backtracked into the house, holding her candle aloft as she searched for signs of life.
“Hello?”
Her voice echoed against the walls.
In the stair hall, she looked up the darkened steps, thinking that perhaps she might try the second floor. Taking the steps, they creaked under her insignificant weight, surely making noise for anyone who might hear. That made her call out again, for she surely didn’t wish to be run through by someone thinking she was an intruder.
“Hello?” she said yet again, loudly. “I have come in from the storm. I am not here to harm nor rob you, I promise. I was told this was Blackmoor Hall and good maids are needed. Hello?”
As she reached the top of the stairs, something thumped behind her and as she gasped in fear, a cat skittered past her, disappearing down the corridor. Now trembling with the scare she’d been given, Emma hesitantly headed down the corridor, following the cat.
Tick, tock…
An enormous and old grandfather clock stood in the hallway, ticking so slowly that it was as if every beat of its steal heart were to be its last. But it kept on, slowl
y dying in a house that was already dead.
There was something quite sad about that gasping old clock.
Doors were open in the corridor and she peered inside them as she went. There were beds inside of the two rooms she’d managed to look in, so she knew she would at least have some place to rest for the night. But given that there was most definitely someone inside the house, she didn’t want to settle in for the night without finding whoever it was. A servant, perhaps? The owner?
The mystery deepened.
The cat had disappeared through a door at the very end of the corridor, so Emma continued down to that door. It, too, was cracked open and she pushed it enough to be able to stick her head inside. It was a very big chamber with wood-paneled walls and she could see the cat as it jumped onto the bed. She almost turned away from what she thought was yet another empty chamber, but something else on the bed caught her attention.
And it was moving.
Shocked, Emma remained at the door.
“Hello?” she said. “I am very sorry to disturb you, but the entry door was open and it is raining outside. I was told this is Blackmoor Hall and… can you hear me?”
There was no response. Summoning her bravery, Emma entered the chamber and timidly made her way to the bed. There was indeed a body in it and she held the candle up to get a look. Faint, golden light fell on the figure of a man; she could tell that from the size of him. As it fell on his head, she could only see half of his face, but it was enough to tell her that the man was asleep.
He was also ill.
Emma could see beads of sweat covering him and, concerned, she rounded the bed and set the candle down on the bedside table, bending over the man to get a better look at him. He seemed completely oblivious to her, so she reached out a gentle hand to touch his forehead.
He was hot to the touch.
She forgot her fear as an innate sense of concern swamped her. Setting her satchel down, she put both hands on his face, feeling the inordinate heat and knowing she had to do something to help the poor man. Emma knew something about healing because her father had been a doctor in the military, so medicine was something she’d always been exposed to and, being a bright young woman, she learned something of it.
The man hadn’t stirred as she put her hands on him, meaning he was delirious or simply a heavy sleeper. She pushed him onto his back somewhat, lifting one of his hands and feeling his pulse. It was strong and rapid.
She swung into action.
The room was cold and dark, the storm outside beating the sides of the manse furiously. Pulling off her scarf and hat, and even the cap, she set everything aside and quickly began to look around the chamber to see what she had to work with. Was there peat for the fire? Wood? More blankets for the man, who was trembling beneath the single coverlet?
On the bedside stand was a brass candle holder but it looked as if it hadn’t held a candle in some time. Ramming her candle nub into it, it provided a tiny amount of light against the large chamber with the gorgeous wood paneling, or what had once been gorgeous wood paneling. In fact, her perusal of the room showed fine but shabby furniture and once-fine paintings on the walls, leading her to believe that at one time, it surely must have been a magnificent room. But much like the house, it was neglected and forgotten.
Except for one sick man.
Emma found a heavier coverlet shoved into the wardrobe that only had one door, and she shook it out over the man, sneezing with the dust that emitted from it. With the man appropriately covered for the moment, she scurried from the room, dodging the cat, as she headed back down to the kitchen where she knew there were embers in the kitchen hearth.
Once down in the cold, dark kitchen, she found a serving tray, a big one, and began to collect whatever she could find including a kettle and a teacup made from shockingly beautiful porcelain that had been hiding in a cupboard. In fact, there was a good deal of nice crockery in the cupboard, something that surprised Emma given the state of the house. The discovery of the teapots and cups led her to search more of the kitchen and the scullery, and she came up with quite a bit more.
One of the most valuable things she came across was a tin of tea. It was about half-full, found under the counter in the scullery, and she had no way of knowing how old it was. It smelled like tea, which was good enough for her. The poor man upstairs needed something to help his fever and tea would help.
But she needed something more.
The tea tin ended up on the tray along with the kettle and teacups, and Emma bent over the kitchen hearth and removed the cover. The embers were glowing and next to the hearth was a wood box with a few big pieces of wood in it. She put them on the embers and blew on them, coaxing forth a blaze as the very dry wood began to burn. The house didn’t seem to have a pump inside, but peering through the cracked windows, she could see a well right outside the kitchen door.
Fighting off the elements, Emma managed to draw a big bucket of water, most of which promptly went into an iron pot that was on the floor near the hearth. Hanging the pot on a hearth arm to heat, she used the rest for the kettle. That went onto the fire as well.
How she wished she had something nourishing to give the man.
If nothing else, Emma was resourceful. Her parents had taught her self-reliance, a valuable lesson for a young woman who had already seen one Season before that terrible event that had scarred her face. In an age where most young women were taught to be pleasing and mannerly to attract a husband, Emma’s parents had stressed to her the need to be more than simply pleasing and mannerly, but to be a helpmate to her husband. A resourceful wife, her father had said, is worth her weight in diamonds.
Thoughts of her father brought thoughts of melancholy and gloom, but Emma fought them. This wasn’t the time nor the place to reflect upon a life that had once been, a life of promise that had been so cruelly taken away. There was an immediate need, a man in crisis, and she needed to help him. That was all she could think of. She wanted to be useful.
She needed to be useful.
So, she began to hunt all through the kitchen for something to feed the man to help him recover. The best she could come up with was a sack of oats in that same larder. When she opened it up, a moth flew out, meaning there were more than likely bug’s leavings in the oats, but it couldn’t be helped. She needed the grain, so she skimmed the first couple of inches out of the sack and tossed them aside, revealing the hopefully cleaner grains beneath.
Those grains went into a pot with some water and began to bubble.
As the storm outside raged, Emma had managed to warm up the kitchen, prepare tea and an oatmeal gruel. She carried it all up to the lord’s chamber where he was still sleeping heavily, not having moved since she had last seen him, so she rushed back down the stairs to collect embers and wood for the lord’s fire, carrying it all upstairs in a big copper ash bin.
In little time, she had a fire going in the hearth, bringing light and warmth into the chamber that smelled of sickness and despair. The lord hadn’t come around yet, so she took to washing his face and hands with a piece of bedding she’d torn off, dipping it in cold water.
The water seemed to rouse him somewhat. Emma bathed his wrists, his neck, and his face. Now that there was some light in the chamber, she could see that he wasn’t much older than she was and, in fact, was quite handsome.
That only made her feel self-conscious.
The scarf, laying in a pile by her hat, went around her head to both keep her hair back and cover the left side of her face. At least, as much as she could.
There had been times gone by where she would have gladly shown off her beauty to a handsome young man, but those days were gone. The moment that carriage flipped over with her and her parents in it, everything ended.
Her life ended.
All she was good for any longer was common servant tasks, if employers could stand the sight of her scarred face.
Many couldn’t.
She wondered if the lord in the bed wou
ld be one of them.
Chapter Four
Asher
Someone was gently tending him.
Ash was coming in and out of consciousness. He had been ill for some time; he didn’t even know how long. It could have been hours or even days. Time had a habit of becoming blurry to him, anyway, so his dazed state was nothing new.
But he was curious.
“Who is here?” he asked, his mouth dry.
In the darkness, a woman spoke. “My name is Emma,” she said. “Do you feel strong enough to drink some tea? It might help.”
She had a soothing, almost sultry voice but he didn’t recognize it. “Emma?” he repeated, ignoring her question. “Emma who?”
“Miss Emma Fairweather, sir.”
He was becoming a little more lucid, pulling his hand away from her and rolling onto his back. It was so dark in the chamber that he couldn’t see a thing, not even a shadow. But his failing sight wasn’t anything unusual; ever since the accident those years ago, his sight had only marginally returned. If the sunlight was bright enough, he could see shapes but not much else. Everything was mostly shades of gray. Therefore, in the dim chamber, he really couldn’t see anything at all.
“Miss Emma Fairweather,” he repeated. “Where did you come from?”
He heard her sigh faintly. “I… I was told there were jobs at Blackmoor Hall,” she said. “This is Blackmoor Hall, isn’t it?”
“It is,” he said. “But we have no jobs for a woman here. No jobs at all.”
“But it is a very big house,” she said. “Is there someone to help you?”
There had been, once. There had been an entire army of servants. But they’d disbanded over the years, one by one, until the only one left was the former cook, who lived in Easingwold and made the journey out to Blackmoor Hall every week to bake bread and bring food, just enough to keep Ash alive.
The Midnight Hour: All-Hallows’ Brides Page 3
