When they reached the door without incident, Raleigh released a breath of relief, but it was short-lived, for several loud knocks with the ornate wolf‘s-head knocker received no response. Raleigh found it disconcerting, to say the least, to be staring right into the animal’s bronze eyes. “An affectation old Cornelius used to discourage visitors, no doubt,” he muttered.
“What?” Jane called amidst her struggles to retain her headgear. Let the breeze have it, Raleigh thought, but he simply shook his head, for the wind would surely steal his words. Turning, he saw that Antoine and Jane’s French maid had exited the second coach and were huddled a respectful distance away, but still there was no response from inside the hall.
“Do you suppose it is deserted?” Jane shouted.
“If it is, we shall break in, I assure you,” Raleigh answered. Signaling one of the grooms to circle the house, he was about to suggest a return to the coach when the massive portal swung inward at last, exposing a great black void. The unusual sight unnerved him until he realized that the ferocious gust must have extinguished whatever light was within. But why were there not wall sconces? Or chandeliers? If such weather were commonplace, the staff should be prepared.
Indeed, where were the servants? For a moment Raleigh had the vague, uneasy notion that no one at all had opened the door, but then a female voice, crisp and cold, rose as if disembodied from the black archway. “Who comes to Craven Hall?”
“Good God,” Raleigh muttered. Only he would inherit a ghastly house staffed by ghostly servants. Taking a deep breath, he used his best nobleman’s tone as he answered. “I am Viscount Raleigh, the new owner. Show yourself,” he demanded, half-expecting some kind of specter to glow in the gloaming.
But when a figure appeared then in the archway, it more resembled a flesh and blood woman than some preternatural being. Of average height and weight and indeterminate age, she stood in the shadows, her black gown blending into the darkness that surrounded her. “I am Mrs. Graves, the housekeeper,” she intoned. “Welcome to Craven Hall, my lord.”
There was a scraping sound as the woman lit a lantern and the wick flared to life, dispelling only a small amount of the gloom that enveloped the entrance. The pale glimmer illuminated Mrs. Graves’s bony hand and cast hollows beneath her eyes. Lud, Raleigh thought, as he suppressed a shudder, the creature was so grim and sour-faced that she made Jane seem positively giddy with cheer. She looked pale, her thick black brows startling against the pallor of her face, her mouth drawn down as if she were in pain. Indeed, the whole scene was more like something from a play than anything he had ever witnessed. “And a bloody poor one, too,” Raleigh muttered as he stepped inside, Jane not far behind.
The darkness swallowed them up immediately, and he was assailed by cool, dank air and a musty smell that made his nostrils twitch. Having a horror of dirt and grime, Raleigh wondered if his great-uncle had devised this place simply to torture him as some sort of revenge against past familial wrongs. In that case, he had no intention of going any farther. But just as he was about to turn tail and step back outside, the light bobbed and shifted, and he realized Mrs. Graves was moving.
“I have prepared an apartment for you,” she said over her shoulder. Stunned by her peremptory behavior, Raleigh stood watching as Jane hurried ahead to follow the woman. He opened his mouth in protest only to shut it again. There was little he could do except bring up the rear, but as they traveled deeper into the bowels of the house, along one passage and then another, his initial impressions only intensified. No cheery, lighted rooms greeted them; no fresh air stole through an open window. They met only the stultifying blackness that, despite the apparent size of the building, seemed to hem them in.
“Gad!” he said to Jane. “If this is the state of the entire house, then we shall not be staying.”
“The apartment I have prepared will be satisfactory,” Mrs. Graves said, her voice floating from the glowing spot ahead of them.
“Satisfactory to whom, the local rodent population?” Raleigh muttered. His arm brushed against something and he swore softly, ignoring Jane’s soft admonishment. He was fastidious, adhering to Brummell’s old code, and bathed almost daily. Antoine kept his clothes immaculate, and Raleigh made sure he was perfectly groomed down to his close-cut, clean nails. Yet here he was walking blindly into God only knew what, he thought as he swatted away what felt like a cobweb.
That did it. Raleigh halted in his tracks. “Mrs. Graves,” he said in his best imitation of his father. “Light some lamps or candles, so that we can see before we break our necks.”
At his words, the housekeeper stopped and swung around, sending the feeble glow to swim drunkenly about them. And Raleigh could only stare in horror at the sights briefly illuminated: stained walls lined with chairs and tables piled with newspapers and books and teetering objects; a carpet that was worn and missing in spots; and threadbare curtains that wafted, ghostlike, on the breeze that whistled through a loose casement.
This was his inheritance? “Then again, maybe I don’t want to see it,” Raleigh muttered.
“I fear there are few candles and little oil, for the household is in difficult straits,” Mrs. Graves said grimly.
No money, and debts, too, no doubt, Raleigh thought hopelessly. If not for Jane, he might have sunk to his knees and wept like a babe. As it was, he took a deep breath and tried to assess the situation.
“Then I fear that we cannot stay, if our rooms are not a vast improvement over what we see here,” he said, shuddering at the thought of vermin-ridden sheets and plaster dank with mold.
“I have prepared an apartment for you,” Mrs. Graves said, staring at him stonily. When she began to turn away, Raleigh wondered if the woman was deaf or dull-witted.
“And what of our servants? Have you suitable lodging for them, as well?” he asked, refusing to budge.
Mrs. Graves swung back toward him. She was older than he had realized, her gray hair pulled back tightly into a knot, and the shadows cast upon her face made her appear positively ghoulish. “No,” she said.
“Eh? What’s that?” Raleigh asked, surprised by the pronouncement.
“There is no place for them,” Mrs. Graves said.
“Besides the coachmen, we only have a valet and a maid. Surely something appropriate can be found. Have you no servants’ quarters?” Raleigh asked. “A wing? The cellar?”
Mrs. Graves did not change expression at his incredulous tone, but only eyed him coldly. “The cellar is…unusable, my lord.”
“But where do the maids and footmen quarter?” Raleigh asked, dumbfounded.
“There are none. I am the only one here. And the rest of the house is not in adequate condition. Perhaps in a few days…” Her words trailed off as she stood stock-still, as if awaiting his decision.
“But you have had ample time to prepare for our arrival!” Raleigh sputtered.
“We have been without funds for a long time, my lord, and the others left years ago.”
Lud, it was even worse than he thought! Although he was weary from traveling, Raleigh knew that they could not stay here. “A regrettable situation,” he said. “But one for which I am not responsible and do not intend to suffer. Nor will I subject my bride to this…this mausoleum!”
Raleigh could not help it. He was disgusted and disappointed and even a little ashamed that Jane must see this unsavory inheritance of his, and these uncharacteristic emotions were making him petulant and sharp. Gad, he wished he were back in London with a bottle and some agreeable companionship.
As if sensing his distress, Jane stepped close, and Raleigh was surprised to feel the touch of her hand upon his arm. He glanced down at the gloved fingers curving over his coat, and he felt strangely light-headed, for he realized that she had never before initiated contact between them. When he lifted his gaze to her face, he saw that the shadows caressed it, softening her features. Fine-boned and fragile, with clear skin, his wife suddenly seemed as ethereal as his surroundings. He h
ad the odd sensation that they were alone there in the blackness, and he wanted to brush her cheek with his fingers to test its silken texture.
“Perhaps you should send our servants back to the inn for the night,” Jane said.
“What’s that?” he said. The husky tone of her voice startled him, as if she were suggesting a midnight tryst, when he knew she was not. “Perhaps we should all return to the inn, or better yet keep on going until we have left Northumberland behind!” he replied, unaccountably irritated by her sensible speech.
“I have prepared an apartment for you,” Mrs. Graves proclaimed loudly.
“Yes! So you have said!” Raleigh snapped. He was beginning to wonder if these accommodations consisted of an open grave that the ghoulish creature had prepared for them below some rotten floorboards. Tomorrow he vowed to make arrangements to have the whole place torn down, and bother the expense. The earl, pinchpenny that he was, could bear it! Taking a deep breath, Raleigh bent his head closer to his wife’s. “Lud, Jane, this place is ghastly. The Rose and Thorn isn’t that far. We can stay there.”
“You didn’t like it, either,” she argued. “I am tired. Let us retire here and send for the servants in the morning. We can have a look around first thing, and I’m sure everything will seem much better in the light of day,” she said earnestly.
“Jane, I appreciate your optimism, but if we remain here, the wind is likely to blow the walls in on us,” he whispered.
“Nonsense!” she replied. “This stone has been standing for centuries and is most certainly stronger than that of the vicarage. It is the interior that has been neglected and allowed to grow filthy and cluttered. A little cleaning would do a world of good.”
“A cannonball would do better, I’m sure,” Raleigh muttered as he glanced over her shoulder. He had no doubt that Craven Hall would be even more wretched in the light of day, but when he sought Jane’s face again to tell her so, something stopped him. Below the surface, behind the shadowy veil of her spectacles, one of the mysteries of Jane lurked.
Raleigh was not sure how he knew it, but suddenly he knew that staying in this dreadful place was important to her. Since he had vowed to try to please her, he had no choice but to relent, though he had no idea why she was taken with the Hall. Perhaps she was simply tired, but he thought it more than that. A hidden romantic streak? The very idea was laughable, as was the notion of Craven Hall as anything remotely exotic.
Raleigh shrugged. “Very well. If the apartment we have heard so much about is habitable, I will send the servants back to the inn.” Nodding, she withdrew her hand, but he caught it quickly in his own and tucked it in his arm. “Once they are dismissed, you will be virtually alone with me. I hope you do not regret it,” he added.
“The walls will hold,” she replied primly. Sensible creature that she was, she had ignored the hidden meaning behind his words.
Raleigh grinned as her answer brought to mind other barriers, but he did not pursue those thoughts. “Dear, pragmatic Jane,” he said. “On to our much lauded apartment!”
Mrs. Graves, obviously unamused, turned and led the way.
Jane looked around at the simple room and found no fault with it. The walls appeared to have been scrubbed clean, and unlike the rest of the house, no clutter lined them, ready to topple downward at the slightest breath.
The few pieces of furniture were heavy and dark, obviously old and gothic-looking, including the enormous bed. Jane stepped forward, saw that the sheets had been turned down and felt a swift rush of heat to her face. When the housekeeper had spoken of an apartment, she had assumed there would be two rooms.
Immediately, she regretted her misguided efforts to coax Raleigh into staying here, though her intentions had been good. Unlike her husband, Jane found the moorlands invigorating. In the gloaming, she had caught a glimpse of a curlew seeking its nest and felt a rush of excitement that she had not known in staid Sussex.
The vast expanses called to her in some way Jane could not explain, least of all to her husband. Raleigh appreciated only the superficial sort of beauty that could not be ascribed to Northumberland. To her chagrin, the knowledge made Jane feel a deep kinship for these lands and even Craven Hall, which she thought rather romantic and fanciful, like something out of a fairy tale. She had the absurd notion that she was here to revive it, to accomplish the kind of restoration work she had previously applied only to gardens.
Jane suspected that she could bring about a similar change in Craven Hall, given the chance. Certainly, the house would never possess the perfectly kept aspect of Westfield Park, but that was what made it special. Jane swallowed hard at the thought, for Raleigh would never share such foolish sentiments.
She still had no notion why her husband, infamous dandy that he was, had agreed to stay here in the gloomy, dark building. When she had told him that everything would look better tomorrow, she had seen, from the turn of his lips, that he did not believe her for one moment. And yet…
Jane shivered, remembering the odd encounter in the shadows. For a moment it had seemed as if the two of them were closed off from the rest of the world, and she had suddenly become aware of his physicality, of his height, his scent and the warmth of his arm beneath her hand.
Nervously, Jane lifted a trembling finger to tuck a stray lock of hair back into place. Raleigh’s blue eyes had seemed to grow warmer as they regarded her without their usual mocking gleam. But what would he think now? Would he believe she had insisted upon staying in hopes of consummating their marriage? Had he agreed to the night’s arrangements out of pity?
Jane’s breath left her at the thought, and she whirled toward the housekeeper. Mrs. Graves had lighted a tall, old-fashioned brace of candles and was now standing silently by the door. Where was Raleigh? Turning, Jane loosed a sigh of relief when she saw him poking his head through a door that had been cleverly concealed in a mural along one wall.
“A dressing room, with a couch bed,” he said, eyeing Jane significantly. She simply stared back at him, not certain whether to be relieved or not. Apparently, he would rather sleep on a couch than with her, but that was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
Jane walked to the window, pulling aside the heavy, old hangings to cool her face in the breeze that rattled the casement. She was tired, that was all, after days of traveling and nights spent in strange—and even stranger—surroundings. She needed rest in order to think clearly. As she had told Raleigh, everything would seem better on the morrow.
“Mrs. Graves, please notify the servants that they are to return to the Rose and Thorn for the night and come back here in the morning,” Raleigh said. “And then you may direct one of my grooms to bring our trunks here. For now,” he added.
Without even a nod, the woman swept from the room, and Jane felt an awkward silence descend. She and Raleigh had often been alone, but not in a bedchamber, at least not since that fateful morning at the Great House.
“Gad, look at my coat,” Raleigh exclaimed, and Jane almost smiled. She need not have worried that Raleigh would ever feel the kind of constraints she did in his presence. Turning from the window, she saw him stretching out his arm, a horrified expression on his face that was nearly comical. Stepping closer, she saw a thick layer of powder on the sleeve of his elegant blue coat.
“It is only a little dust,” Jane said.
“A little? It’s a veritable mountain! My coat is ruined!”
“It will brush out,” Jane said with a sigh. At times like these, she felt as though she were talking to one of her brothers, not a full-grown viscount.
“I left without my valet. Whom do you suggest I have brush it out? Mrs. Gruesome? No, thank you! I don’t want her touching my things. She’s liable to douse it in brimstone!”
Jane sighed again. “I’ll take care of it.”
He cast her a disparaging glance. “You?”
Jane put her hands on her hips and gave him a quelling look. “Yes. I think I am perfectly capable of handling a gentleman’s coat,
having managed my father’s household for years.”
“Eh? Oh, of course,” he admitted grudgingly. “Very well, but it’s one of Weston’s finest. Be careful with it!” he admonished. “Here, give me a hand, will you?” He turned slightly, and Jane stood on her toes to reach toward his shoulders.
It was on the tip of her tongue to berate him for the tight fit of his coat, which made such help necessary, but she swallowed her scold the moment she touched him. Although she had assisted her father many times, this was different. Raleigh was so much taller, his shoulders so much broader, his body radiating a heat that spread to her hands and throughout the rest of her with alarming speed.
She tugged, feeling oddly unsettled inside herself as she did so, and watched the garment fall from those hard shoulders. His light brown hair, tousled from the wind, brushed over his high, stiff collar, and Jane found herself staring at it, her gaze dipping lower to where his embroidered waistcoat hugged his torso, delineating his lean form in astonishing detail.
She drew in a sharp breath and stepped back, suddenly overpowered by the sheer masculinity he exuded. Raleigh? Jane shook her head slightly as he turned to face her, but it was true. Stripped of some of his fashionable attire, he looked more human, specifically more male. His snowy-white linen shirt flowed lightly over his arms, and the waistcoat nipped his lean body, drawing her attention to his flat abdomen.
Good heavens, he was almost godlike.
“Don’t crush it!” he exhorted. Startled, Jane swallowed and looked down at where her fingers had tightened around the collar of his coat. “You’ll wrinkle it beyond repair!”
Jane released a breath of relief as the world righted itself. This was only Raleigh, after all, and the affected twit was worried over a crease in his precious finery! “I’ll see to it,” she said, turning away.
“Right. Thank you.” He sighed. “I’ve never seen such a filthy hovel in my life.”
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