The House at the End of the Moor

by Michelle Griep

  Something is wrong.

  I shoot to my feet, setting the book aside. “Is it the man? The stranger?”

  She shakes her head and beckons me to follow. And so begins another round of the guessing game as I trail her downstairs, through the passageway, towards the kitchen.

  “Is something wrong with you?”

  Again she shakes her head.

  I sigh. “Don’t tell me Black Jack has escaped again.”

  Another shake. By now Malcolm trails my heels. It can’t be him, then.

  “Has Dobbs returned? Is something wrong with him?”

  Her head wags from side to side as we cross the kitchen floor. She leads me to the window. I am no closer to distinguishing what has her so vexed—until I peer through the glass.

  Across the yard, Black Jack runs nervous circles in his pen. The stable door is cracked open, and near the rear corner of the barn, the tail of a dark blue coat flutters wild in the wind where a man dashes behind it. A big man. A hairy one.

  Constable Barrow.

  Anger flares hot in my chest. Has he been skulking about here all this time? I frown at Nora. “Did he speak to you? Was he rude?”

  Once more she shakes her head and withdraws a carrot from her pocket.

  Sudden understanding dawns. “You were going to give Black Jack a treat, and on your way out, you noticed the constable?”

  This time she nods—victory!

  “And you came and got me, yes?”

  Her head bobs frantically.

  I smile. “Good work, Nora. I’m glad you didn’t face the man alone. Did he see you?”

  She shrugs.

  I purse my lips. Of course he did, if he’s any sort of worthwhile officer, which likely accounts for his hasty disappearing act to the other side of the stable. Well, we’ll just see who’s faster. I reach for the doorknob and glance at Malcolm. “Ready, boy?”

  Two grey-scruffed ears perk, and he cocks his head at me.

  I yank open the door. “Go!”

  He bolts. So do I. Nora’s feet pound the ground behind me.

  The dog tears around the back of the stable. By the time Nora and I reach it and gain a wide view of the horizon, the last of day’s light paints the world with a bluish brush. The constable straddles a grey gelding that gallops down the road, a trail of dust rising behind him. Malcolm gives chase, barking, but as fast as he is, he is no match for a horse. Why would Constable Barrow run off like a marauding ruffian caught in the act of pillaging?

  Gathering up my skirt hem, I dash to the open stable door, which is now banging against the jamb from the wind. I stop just inside—and scowl.

  Two barrels are overturned, lids off and oats spilling onto the ground. A few stacks of hay and straw are forked through and strewn about. Lord knows what’s been done to the supply in the loft. Both pen doors gape open, more straw falling out of them. The saddle rack is tipped over and has knocked into the bench, toppling the tools to the dirt. Clearly he was searching for his convict, but his careless investigating has left me with quite a mess. No wonder the constable ran off before I discovered what he was about. I’d serve him more than a piece of my mind, and if we ever cross paths again, I still will. Must it always be a man who upends my world?

  Disgusted, I huff and turn to Nora. “I suppose we’d better roll up our sleeves.”

  She nods and reaches for a hay rake. I pivot and head towards the house for an apron. Clearly the constable believes I am concealing his convict.

  Am I?

  Chapter Eight

  A haunting sound beckoned Oliver from the depths of darkness. Soft. Rich. What? Where were the curses? The howls? The guttural cries of his fellow inmates?

  His eyes popped open and he shifted his head, freeing up both ears to listen. Quiet humming floated on the air, making him feel almost human again.

  Across the room, the dark-haired woman stood with her back to him, her hands busy with something on the table, her black skirts swaying with her movements. Was she in mourning? Maybe. So much emotion vibrated in her voice. Rossini, if he were correct. Or maybe Wagner. He frowned. What the deuce did a Dartmoor widow know of opera?

  He pushed up for a better look at her, gritting his teeth lest the movement steal his breath. Surprisingly, though, the pounding in his head had mellowed to a simple dull ache. How long had he been out? Quite a while, if the fuzzy coating on his tongue was any indicator.

  The woman paid him no heed, so lost was she in her music, which suited him. This time, without the fog of fever or acute pain, he studied his redeemer—for his redeemer she was, in more ways than she could possibly know.

  Though curved in all the right places, she was a slender woman. Not sickly. Not delicate. Judging by the steel in her spine and what he’d experienced thus far of her spirit, she could hold up the sky had she a need to do so. Deep brown curls tinted with copper piled atop her head. A few tendrils dared to spiral down her long neck in a graceful afterthought. Still, for all her elegance, there was a certain wildness about her. An undefined wariness. Hidden beneath that black gown was a woman as changeable and unpredictable as the moor. He’d bet on it.

  Her aria swelled. He could take it no more. Curiosity would ever be his downfall—a curse laid on him by his father. “Rossini,” he croaked, then swallowed and tried again. “Is that Rossini?”

  The humming stopped. Her shoulders stiffened. The woman turned and crossed to his side, neither confirming nor negating his query. “You’re awake.” She bent over him, concern folding her brow.

  Her gaze roamed over his face, her brown eyes familiar. Was it the cut of her jaw that kindled reminiscence? Or the line of her fine, proud nose that birthed a vague recollection? He’d swear in front of God and country he’d seen her before. Somewhere. In his life before blood and torture.

  She pulled back before he could think further on it. “How do you feel?”

  “Better.” Indeed. The word rang true. No more sweat dotted his skin. No violent chills shook his bones. Perhaps after a crust of bread and chunk of cheese, he could be on his way again.

  “Good.” The woman retreated and reached for a bellpull.

  He pushed to sit up—attracting the attention of the scruff-haired beast near the hearth. The dog lifted its great muzzle and eyed him intently. Oliver tensed. But the animal merely plopped its maw back down on its paws. Apparently he was no longer a threat.

  The woman gathered a teacup and once again swept over to him. He scowled at the offering, the bandage on his forehead pulling the skin. He could still feel the swampy grit of the nasty concoction she’d last served.

  “Don’t worry.” She smiled. “It’s only Bohea this time, and a weak brew at that.”

  A pang stabbed his arm as he reached for the cup. Would the blasted wound never heal? Still, had that bullet lodged, he’d not have made it this far. He tossed back a mouthful of tea, summoning up a measure of gratitude for small blessings, such as infection instead of amputation.

  A somber-faced maid entered on silent feet. She stood just inside the door, a spectre in a crisp white apron.

  “Some broth, please,” the woman instructed. “More hot water as well, I think.”

  The maid nodded and disappeared as quietly as she’d come. Not a word passed her lips, not even a “Yes, mistress” or an “As you wish.”

  Either it didn’t bother the woman or she didn’t require her servants to acknowledge her, for she returned to the table and picked up a pair of shears. As she set about clipping the last of a few sprigs of dog violets and arranging them in a vase with some pennywort, another queer riffle of familiarity niggled in a corner of his mind. Her lithe actions flowed like a dance. A performance.

  He slugged down the last dregs of his tea and set the cup on the floor. “Who are you?”

  The woman spoke over her shoulder, hands never once stilling from arranging the greenery. “I am your hostess, for now. My name is Margaret Dosett.”

  Dosett. Dosett? He turned the name over, f
eeling the weight of it, measuring the value—and came up short. He’d not known a Dosett in all his thirty years. He must’ve cracked his head harder than he credited… unless Dosett was her married name and he’d known her before she wed?

  He glanced about the sitting room, well lit with lamps, drapes drawn. As well apportioned as the house appeared to be, homey in a spartan sort of way, what kind of man had dragged such a fine woman out to the wilds of the moor?

  His gaze drifted back to her. “This house belongs to you, then?”

  “No.” She angled her head one way then the other, studying her floral creation. A poor bouquet, but the best available from this land—and well did he know it after days of cold and rain.

  Apparently satisfied with her handiwork, she turned to him. “I am only a tenant here at Morden Hall.”

  Only a tenant? She made it sound as if that were a bad thing. Did the woman not realize how fortunate she was? “At least your husband left you with funding for such a fine shelter. Many other widows in your situation want not only for a roof but scraps to eat.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I owe my means to no man.”

  Though her tone remained pleasant, fire sparked in her gaze. He’d hit a nerve.

  He lifted his hand towards her gown. “I assumed by your mourning garb your husband had passed. But perhaps it is your father you grieve?”

  “Assumptions are the devil’s handiwork, are they not?”

  A smirk twitched his lips. A question for a question, a tactic he oft employed.

  Once again the grey-skirted maid flitted in, this time carrying a tray. She set it on the table nearest the sofa, just within his reach. Mrs. Dosett offered her a small smile. “Thank you, Nora. That will be all for now.”

  The maid left, and Mrs. Dosett turned back to her clippings, gathering them into a pile.

  A rich, meaty scent drifted off the bowl, and his stomach clenched. How long had it been since he’d eaten real food? He grabbed for the spoon, but after shoveling in a few mouthfuls, he tossed it down and reached for the entire bowl, not caring if he looked like an animal. The liquid burned his lips, his throat, but ahh… The pain was worth it. Of all the fine meals he’d eaten in his day, none matched this glorious broth. Then again, even grubs and grasshoppers would suffice after days of starvation. He drained the dish and set it down, sinking back with a new warmth in his belly.

  Mrs. Dosett—finished now with collecting her clippings—pushed the vase to the center of the table and wiped her hands on a nearby cloth.

  He puzzled over the sight. She worked as if he were naught but a shadow relegated to a corner of the room, one to be ignored, careful to watch her step around, but not feared. What manner of woman did that?

  He leaned forward, cocking his head. “I am surprised you stay on here alone. The moor is a wild place.”

  “You ought to know, I suppose.”

  Taking care not to smack into the cut on his brow, he smoothed back his hair. He must look like a grizzled wild man himself. Lord only knew what this woman thought of such a rough-edged nomad like him.

  She snatched up the shears and the cloth, then turned and crossed to him. “Suffice it to say I have my reasons to be here as much as you do.”

  Aha! Was that her roundabout way of inquiring about him? He snorted. Women. Even the best of them were too timid to strike a matter head-on. “And you are curious about my reasons, are you not?”

  She stared down at him. “You may keep your secrets, sir.”

  He couldn’t help but chuckle. In all the universe he’d never thought to meet a woman who would stay her hand from turning over every rock to peek beneath. “You are a rare one, Mrs. Dosett. Why did you not tell the constable about me last night? Are you not the least bit curious if I am the man he is looking for?”

  She shifted the shears to her other hand then tucked up a stray piece of hair, matter of fact, as if they discussed nothing more than a new scone recipe. “That was two nights ago.”

  Two? He blinked. He’d been out for that long?

  “And no,” she continued. “I prefer not to know anything about you. It serves no purpose, as you’ll be gone in a few days.”

  He smirked. He’d be gone by tomorrow. Even so, she was a brave woman for putting him up. “Are you not afraid I might attempt to murder you in your bed?”

  Her own lips mimicked his wry twist. “I have bigger fears than an incapacitated vagabond.”

  The lift of the stranger’s brows satisfies in a peculiar way. Even so, a shiver runs across my shoulders. Not from his manly quirk of curiosity, but from the dimple carved deep near his mouth when he’d smirked. It’s impossible, but I know that dimple, and somehow I know this broken and disheveled man. But from where? And when?

  Questions fly to my tongue, but his head sinks back against the cushion and his eyes slowly shut, saving me from a potentially fatal blunder. I blow out a long breath. It is better not to ask. If he is someone from my past, it is far more prudent to leave him buried in the graveyard of my previous life. Thank God his fever is broken. The sooner he is out of here, the easier I will breathe.

  I turn on my heel and collect the tea chest, balancing the shears and cloth atop the small wooden box. It isn’t likely the man will jump up and stuff his pockets with my precious supply, but all the same, I stride out of the sitting room and wend my way down the corridor with my cargo.

  I stop in front of a cupboard tucked beneath the stairway. After a covert glance over my shoulder to make sure Nora isn’t creeping about, I shove my fingers into the space between collar and neck and fish for a chain. On it, a silver key is tethered. I unlock the door in one swift movement and dart inside, leaving the door cracked open for light.

  On one side of the tiny space is a line of shelving, where I deposit the tea chest next to an unsent letter to my father. Was it only two weeks ago I considered sending it, thinking it might finally be safe to do so? Thank God I had not. If those seeking me were willing to place a fifty-pound bounty on my head, who knows what they would do to Papa should they find out he had such a letter in his possession?

  I turn away from it, and the ruby-red gown on the opposite wall grabs my attention. How could it not? The accompanying necklace sparkles in the triangle of light seeping in. This costume is the last link to Daisy Lee.

  I should’ve burned it the night I arrived at Morden Hall.

  Clutching the shears in one hand, I lift the other and stroke my index finger along the cold fabric, disturbing a faint scent of violet still clinging there. Strains of Rossini and the aching vibrato of a violin crescendos across time, and though I fight the siren call, suddenly I am back in Ambrose Corbin’s ballroom. Women laughing. Men teasing. And towards the rear of the crowd is a dark-haired man, passionate in conversation, cutting one hand through the air, brandishing a book in the other. I strain my mind’s eye. Does he have a dimple?

  The swish of Nora’s skirts ends the moment. Heart pounding, I jerk away my hand and immediately retreat, slamming the door and locking it.

  Would that I could so easily shut out the ugly memories that will not go away.

  Chapter Nine

  Fruitless. Pointless. Done.

  Sebastian dug his heels into his horse’s belly, upping the animal’s pace. Over the past three days he’d turned Lydford and the surrounding area upside down on Ward’s account, but the man just wasn’t here. Not now, at any rate. Likely the rogue had already moved on—and so would he. Tomorrow. Before dawn. Leave behind this nowhere village and head north, towards Bristol. If Ward had any sense, that’s where he’d run.

  Sebastian tugged on the reins, veering off at the Castle Inn’s stable. A muscle knotted in his shoulder, and after he dismounted and handed over the horse to the ostler, he rubbed the offending area. He was getting too old for this. Chasing criminals cross-country. Wrangling them back to prison. How many more souls must he bring to justice before his own was set free?

  Just outside the door, he pulled out a cigarillo, lit
the thing, then glanced at the heavens, where twilight’s deep blue-black spread like a bruise. “What’s it to be, God?” he whispered between puffs. “Is Ward enough? Is he the last?”

  He waited, but no answer came. As usual. Apparently God was not yet satisfied with his penance. But he’d not quit. He’d never quit, not until the Almighty once again smiled upon him.

  Sebastian dropped his smoke and ground out the burning end with his heel, then strode towards the inn. The sole of his foot was still tender. Next payday, he’d buy some boots.

  As he neared the door, a boy carrying a tray approached him, blocking his path. “Partridge pie, sir?”

  Stupid boy. Couldn’t he see he wasn’t to be bothered? He sidestepped the urchin with a growl. “No.”

  He’d not taken two strides before the boy caught up to his side. “Better ‘n what ye’ll find inside.”

  Sebastian ignored him.

  The boy sped up and once again darted in front of him, a chip-toothed grin slagging lopsided on his face. “Get yerself a tasty morsel here and now, and avoid the crowd o’ the taproom. I’ll give ye a cut price too, bein’ yer a man o’ the law and all.”

  A frown weighed heavy on his brow, the hairs of his eyebrows hanging like a black cloud over his vision. Clearly this boy wasn’t raised properly. A child ought to be trained in the way he should go, which was clearly not to get in his way. The lad needed discipline. Now. Where was the urchin’s father?

  He glanced about, and seeing no one, his irritation flared. Must it always be up to him to right the wrongs on this godforsaken planet?

  “I said no.” He swung back his arm then struck hard and fast, smacking the tray from the boy’s grip.

  The lad stumbled. The pies flew. The tray cracked on the ground. Sebastian stomped off and yanked open the inn’s front door. By God’s grace and his hand, hopefully the lad had learned something.

  Men’s laughter and women’s chatter wafted out of the taproom along with the scent of turnip soup. Bah, but he hated turnip soup! He scrubbed a hand over his face. Apparently, the evening was to be no better than his long day of scouring the countryside for Ward.