The Mists of Moorhead Manor
by Blair Bancroft
Published by Kone Enterprises
at Smashwords
Copyright 2014 by Grace Ann Kone
For other books by Blair Bancroft,
please see http://www.blairbancroft.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Chapter One
September 1814, en route to Devon, England
I had no right to feel ill-used. I had been in far worse places than squeezed between a pink-cheeked farmer’s wife clutching a crated chicken and a jolly merchant with a tendency to tell tales only slightly less colorful than the bawdy jokes of my papa’s Sergeant-Major. But never before had the Great Unknown stretched so bleakly before me. I, who’d been born to the crack of rifles and the roar of cannons one sweltering summer in India, was reduced to a lone female of not-quite-twenty-one years traveling by stage coach to my very first position of employment.
I was terrified, I admit it. I had survived India, Wellington’s invasion of Portugal, the long march across Spain—Badajoz, Salamanca, Vitoria, my mother’s death of fever in San Sebastian. And finally my father’s death at Toulouse, the battle that should never have been fought, as Napoleon had already surrendered. A terrible irony that seemed so totally, exquisitely unfair.
Major Stinson and his wife brought me back to London with them, graciously keeping me housed and fed until a position was found for me. My parents, you see, were a runaway match, disowned by both families. And besides, I had been independent far too long to settle to the life of a poor relation, fetching and carrying for some relative who felt obliged to take me in. Not that I wouldn’t be fetching and carrying at Moorhead Manor, but at least I would be paid for it!
“Ah, look, miss,” said the woman with the chicken. “D’ye see the moor ponies?”
I peered over the chicken crate, which was squashed against her ample bosom, and—oh my!—it was true. We were rolling past a herd of four or five small shaggy creatures peacefully cropping grass on a plain more green, but just as deserted, as the plains of Spain.
“Great nuisances,” the merchant grumbled. “Last time I passed this way, they blocked the road. The coachman had to get down and crack his whip to get them to move.”
“This is their home, not ours,” the woman retorted. “Them and the sheep. What else can live on Exmoor, I ask you?”
Exmoor. A moor was a wasteland, I’d been told, where only rough grass, heather, gorse, and an occasional stubborn tree would grow on inhospitable rocky ground interspersed with peat bogs and soggy marshland, some of it pitted by green pools of fathomless depths that could swallow an unwary walker whole. A chill settled over me, as the name Moorhead Manor suddenly took on new significance. Did it perhaps indicate my new home was situated near this blighted plain known as Exmoor? My curiosity got the better of the manners my mother had attempted to teach me. “Do you know Moorhead Manor?” I asked.
“Oh, aye,” the chicken woman said. “A fine house, I’m told, though I’ve never seen it. Home to the Earl of Hycliffe.”
“Is it far?”
“Past where I’m going, miss. On the coast, now isn’t it? I only saw the ocean once in me life and a sight it was—with all them waves crashing against cliffs taller than anything I’d ever seen. Scared me, it did. Give me a nice bit of plowable land and tight hedgerows any day.”
“You are traveling to the Manor, miss?” the merchant asked.
“Yes, sir. I’m to be companion to the earl’s daughter.” There, I’d said it out loud. Until this moment I had floated through this journey, none of it quite real. But now . . . Now I, Penelope Ruth Ballantyne, whose only home had been my father’s regiment, was embarking on—
“Invalid, ain’t she?”
I clasped my hands more tightly together in my lap and summoned the cool composure that had allowed me to survive all my life in a predominantly male world. “I am told Lady Vanessa does not enjoy the best of health, and naturally I hope I may be of assistance to her.” The truth was, Lady Vanessa Wetherington was confined to a wheeled chair and never left the house, but naturally I would never mention such details to a stranger. The merchant, realizing I was not about to gossip about my employer or his family, settled back against the squabs and directed his gaze out the window.
The farmer’s wife let go of the chicken crate long enough to pat my hand. “I’m sure you’ll do well, dearie. You have the look of a young woman who knows how to manage.”
A flush of pleasure shot through me. In that moment she reminded me of Wellington’s “other army,” the stalwart wives and “companions” who marched in the dusty tail of the British troops, while officers’ wives rode in carriages or mounted on horses in relative comfort. Memories flooded my mind. I could feel the rhythm of my horse’s hooves, the sun on my face, the wind in my hair, the dust tickling my nose . . .
“Is this your first time away from home, dearie?”
I almost laughed at this absurdity and then I realized the truth of it. My only home had been the regiment. Where it went, I went. So, yes, this truly was my first time away from home. And it hurt as much as if I’d just left a house and extended family, a single village where I had lived all my life.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “And I admit it’s a bit daunting.”
“The name Moorhead Manor is a trifle deceptive,” declared the young man sitting across from me, whose assessing glances I had been carefully avoiding since he joined us in Taunton.
“And why’s that?” the chicken woman asked.
“A great pile, isn’t it? Sprawled along the top of the cliffs, when you’d expect a “Manor” to be a modest country house tucked up in a sheltered valley.”
“Then the “head” of Moorhead implies a cliff?” I asked.
“Reckon you’re right, miss. Whoever named it must have figured it’s on the headland where the moor falls into the sea.”
Disappointment struck hard. I’m afraid I had been picturing that modest country house tucked up in a sheltered valley. I had spent quite enough time on ships at sea, including the long voyage back from India, and the dire circumstances of the evacuation from Corunna, to last me a lifetime. I was not enamored of oceans.
I fell silent, brooding.
After yet another uncomfortable night on the road—and thanking the good Lord I had enough money that I wasn’t forced to share a bed with three or four other women—our road reached the sea and turned south, paralleling the towering cliffs, which we caught glimpses of as the road twisted and turned to accommodate the shoreline.
It was, I suppose, breathtakingly beautiful, but today’s passengers were as indifferent to the sight as I, possibly so accustomed to the ocean view that it meant nothing. During a brief stop to pick up a new passenger, I could hear the boom of the surf against the rocks far below, though slightly muffled by the wisps of fog that were beginning to spiral up from the sea. A foreboding swept over me, and I shivered, even as I wondered why the courage that had kept me going for
so long had suddenly failed.
I wanted a home, shelter, a settled life. A place to call my own. Surely I could find it here, even if the surf thundered, the wind howled, and trees were sparse.
The coach stopped. I heard the steps thump down. The door swung open. “Moorhead Manor, miss.”
Heart hammering, I crawled over what seemed like a mountain of legs and stepped down. Behind me, the door slammed shut, the steps clicked into place, and the coachman gave the horses the office to start. A cloud of dust swirled around me as the horses’ hooves drummed over the dirt, seemingly anxious to get away from this desolate place as fast as possible.
I stood there, my portmanteau and trunk at my feet, and saw absolutely nothing but intermittent glimpses of sea and rocks, short-cropped grass, and a few stunted, windswept trees, all partially obscured by a swirling mist. Oh dear God, what do I do now?
The dead silence of a heavy fog pressed in around me; and another wave of shivers shot through me, promptly followed by a stab of mortification. Surely I, who had spent my life in harm’s way, was not daunted by something as easily explained as being abandoned on a misty cliff in the middle of nowhere. Clearly, the stagecoach was early or the coach from Moorhead Manor late. The earl had misread the date on my letter—my scrawl was not the result of a governess’s strict tutelage. My letter had gone astray. All perfectly reasonable explanations though scarcely a solution to my problem.
I closed my eyes and concentrated on listening more carefully. Was that a faint rumble, the clank of harness? My transportation to Moorhead Manor? Or was I about to be run down? Hastily, I stepped off the road into ankle-high damp grass. My breath caught as a horse and wagon emerged from the fog and pulled to a stop next to my luggage. “Miss Ballantyne?” the driver called, squinting into the mist.
On a rush of relief, I clambered over the rough grass and accepted the driver’s hand for a boost up to the high bench seat. A kindly looking gentleman of middle years, he tossed my portmanteau and trunk into the bed of the wagon with ease before joining me on the box. After turning both horse and wagon with practiced ease—while I prayed the cliff face was not yawning but a few feet from our wheels—he plunged into the thick wall of white which almost completely obscured a narrow lane. I fastened my fingers around the edge of the seat on either side of me and reminded myself I was the daughter of Colonel Lucius Ballantyne. I had followed the drum all my life, and I was not, absolutely not, going to cry craven over a bit of fog in Devon!
But doubts continued to ripple through me until a great stone monstrosity suddenly loomed up out of the mist, startling the inexplicable apprehension right out of me. How could anyone give this great gloomy pile an innocuous, even vacuous, name like Moorhead Manor? I had imagined Manor implied something cozy and welcoming. This sprawling edifice was anything but. Moorhead Castle or Moorhead Abbey would have been more apt.
We clattered onto cobbles, drove under an archway, and pulled up in a central courtyard. A stab of memory shot through me as the architecture reminded me of houses in Portugal and Spain, where walls with few windows faced the outside world, and life was centered around the gardens and fountains of an interior courtyard. Except . . . here there was nothing but cobblestones, a covered walkway on three sides, and a lone marble statue in the middle of the courtyard . . . I blinked, looked again. The mists parted, giving me a clear view. A rather fine copy of Michelangelo’s David in all his naked glory. No fig leaf.
I had worked in field hospitals from the time I was twelve and had seen the male form at its worst on many occasions. But there was something about being greeted by David in all the natural beauty of the young man who had posed for it long ago in sunny Italy that struck to my heart. A beam of enlightenment in a world of shadows. I would let neither mists nor gloom overwhelm me. Moorhead Manor was my new home.
Mrs. Linnell, the housekeeper, promptly enhanced my determined optimism. Her austere appearance—erect carriage, thin face, dark hair streaked with gray, a black bombazine skirt that rustled as she walked—was quickly belied by a warm smile of welcome. And kind words. “Poor lamb,” she exclaimed as she led me into the house. “A sight for sore eyes, you are. Come all the way from London only to be swallowed by the mists.”
“London is notorious for its fog, ma’am, so I feel right at home.” Untrue of course. London was not my home, and I was not accustomed to fog, but sometimes a slight twisting of the truth was the most gracious response. I needed a home. I wanted to fit in, wanted to be liked.
Mama, Papa . . . you’re so far away.
In both head and heart I knew that wasn’t true—their souls had left their bodies long since and were possibly keeping watch over me this very moment, urging me to leave tragedy and violence behind. To get on with my new life.
But it was hard, very hard.
“A young face is just what we need here, miss,” Mrs. Linnell confided as we walked down a long corridor on an upper floor. “My lady will be right pleased to have your company.” She paused, threw open a door, and ushered me into a room that even in the dim light filtering through the mist outside simply took my breath away. Never in my whole life had I seen such a room.
I’m not certain what I expected—perhaps something little better than a maid’s room in the attic, a luxury after some of the places I had laid my head over the years—rough inns, commandeered farmhouses, more often Papa’s tent. But this . . . This was the room of an honored guest. The bed boasted a cheerful flowered coverlet, peach and sunny primrose the predominant colors. The canopy and hangings were amber velvet, and the embroidered draperies on the two windows matched the coverlet. The fireplace was golden marble, with two upholstered chairs set facing the hearth. The room’s furnishings also included a chest of drawers, a towering wardrobe, a tallboy with basin and pitcher, and—oh heavens!—a dressing table with looking glass.
“I hope you will find this satisfactory, miss. Lady Vanessa has a suite of rooms directly across the hall, so we thought this bedchamber would be the most convenient.”
“It’s . . .” I attempted to find words to express my gratitude, but my mind had shut down. I gulped, swallowed hard. And disgraced myself. I, who had learned never to cry over anything stood there and felt the tears run down my cheeks.
“Ah, poor child.” Mrs. Linnell clicked her tongue. “I’ll leave you to refresh yourself, shall I? When you’re ready, come downstairs. His lordship is waiting to speak with you. Just ask any footman to show you the way.” She cast one last sympathetic look in my direction, bobbed a curtsy, and left, closing the door softly behind her.
According to the lovely old clock on the mantel, it was a full fifteen minutes before I managed to control the waterfall, wash my hands and face, and brush dust from my traveling gown. Another five while I sat quietly in one of the chairs by the fireplace and wrestled my emotions back where they belonged, under lock and key. I was no longer a daughter of the regiment. I was an employee. Companion to Lady Vanessa Wetherington, invalid. And no matter how luxurious my accommodations, I must never forget that. I had been given a room in the family wing because it was thought I should be within easy call of Lady Vanessa. She, not I, was the daughter of the house. My life, in fact, was no longer mine, but dedicated to making life easier, more pleasant, for my charge.
I could do that. Of course I could do that. Had my mother and I not spent our lives making life easier for my father? This was simply another time, another place . . . with no fear on the morrow of a call to march on—or a call to arms.
I dragged myself up from the chair, took a deep breath, and headed toward the stairs. I had kept the Earl of Hycliffe waiting long enough.
Chapter Two
I had met few titled gentlemen. During my lifetime abroad nearly all were in England tending their acres—or wasting the profits of those acres on gambling, drinking, and wenching—while the untitled masses fought to protect their right to do so. It’s not that my father was an anarchist, I hasten to say. The king and all his minions co
uld not find a more loyal officer, but there were times when my mother and I had wavered, horrified by the carnage and resentful of a government which did not always seem to appreciate the sacrifices made in its name.
And now I stood facing a peer of the realm, only to discover he reminded me of generals I had known, Wellington in particular, though the earl’s nose was not so prominent. I am considered tall for a woman, but as he rose from behind his desk, he towered over me, exuding the authority of a man accustomed to directing the world around him. His once-handsome features might be marred by lines that hinted at more than normal aging—like Wellington after Badajoz and Toulouse—but there was no doubt who was in charge. I curtsied low then slipped into the chair he indicated with an imperious wave of his hand. Though the room was warm and well-lit, I felt as if the mists were once again closing around me.
We sat in silence for a long moment while he looked me over, his aristocratic forehead wrinkled in a frown. Chin high, I looked straight back at him, even as my innards quivered. His hair had once been brown but was now streaked with gray. His eyes, however, were the blue-green of a summer sea, sharp, and perhaps not as kind as I would have liked. But when had I ever expected a senior officer to be kind?
“Penelope Ruth,” he said at last. “Your parents must have valued faithfulness and loyalty above all else to name you so.”
I blinked, swiftly rearranging my thoughts to accommodate this unexpected gambit. “They did, my lord. I was brought up on tales of Penelope and Ruth, though I must tell you it is my mother who should have had those names. No one could have been more faithful or followed more closely where her husband led than Rosemary Ballantyne.”
“That is why I chose you,” he said. “At least in part. I felt the daughter of parents who named their child Penelope Ruth would have been raised with the virtues I desire in a companion for my daughter. And,” he added, raising one finger to keep me from responding, “I also felt that a young woman who had followed the drum all her life would have the necessary resiliency to cope with any problems she might find at Moorhead Manor.”
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