A Haunting at Havenwood (Seasons of Change Book 6) Read online

  He contemplated what to do too long, and the decision was made for him when the coach pulled away.

  Taking a bite of the pastry, Ras shrugged to himself. He wasn’t in any hurry, after all.

  “The boy has no gumption,” a voice growled in a burly Scottish brogue, seemingly in Ras’s ear.

  He stiffened, but he did not bother to look over his shoulder for the speaker. He had done that too many times in London, earning his mother’s glares for being inattentive.

  “You are too hard on him.” That was the other voice. The proper and ladylike voice that reminded him of harps and violins. “He will get to Havenwood when he gets there.”

  Ras said nothing. He had never verbally responded to the voices. To do so would be worse than telling someone about them. If he was not careful, he’d be labeled a Bedlamite and sent away. As the head of his family, Ras had a responsibility to maintain the family’s good name, right along with his sanity.

  He took another bite of his breakfast and then turned back to the inn. The proprietor would know when to expect the next coach and surrounding himself with the voices of people who were actually present was—for once—appealing.

  Chapter 3

  There was no inn at Harbottle. The coachman stopped after driving down the narrow lane between two rows of buildings—houses and businesses both constructed of dark gray stone.

  When the door opened, no one but Louisa moved to step out. She climbed down from the coach and found her maid, a petite girl not much younger than Louisa hired especially for the journey, accepting one of Louisa’s boxes from the other coachman atop the vehicle.

  The maid stacked a small trunk, hatbox, and another rectangular box upon the road. The empty road. No other carriages, horses, or people were in sight.

  The coachman tipped his hat to her, climbed atop his conveyance again, and a moment later the wagon wheels creaked away from her.

  Louisa wrapped her shawl tighter about her person and looked back at the village they had driven through. The only sign of life there was a cat, sitting upon a stone windowsill.

  The little maid, Sarah, buttoned her coat. “Shall I go ask for directions, miss?”

  Louisa looked down the quiet street, then up at the darkening sky. The clouds pressed upon the land with a sense of urgency. “I think you had better.”

  Sarah bobbed a curtsy before turning on her heel and hurrying to the nearest stone house. She went to the door and knocked, then waited. Louisa watched, uncertain if anyone lived in the village at all. Ivy crawled up the buildings, and when she let her eyes wander a bit further down, across the street from her maid, she saw only a short row of doors.

  The door in front of Sarah banged open, startling Louisa, but the maid must have had some warning. She smiled sweetly up at the person who answered. When she spoke, her voice was too soft for Louisa to hear.

  Sarah stepped back from the door, pointing in Louisa’s direction, when a young man not much older than the maid stepped out. He looked directly at Louisa and grinned, showing a gap between his teeth. He slapped a cap upon his head and came out, his walk casual and rolling.

  “Good evening, miss. I’m Bert. Your maid says you need to get up to the Manse.”

  The Manse. Yes, that was the name of the house her Great-Aunt Penrith had mentioned in the letter sent to Louisa’s mother. Louisa only managed to nod, her neck stiff from travel and cold.

  “I’ll get ye on up, then.” The man, who wasn’t very far past boyhood, handed the round hatbox to Sarah before taking up the trunk and rectangle box for himself. “It ain’t far. Quick stretch of the legs will have us there.” And he took off, walking at a steady pace along the road in the direction the coach had vanished.

  Sarah followed him, and Louisa brought up the rear of their odd parade.

  “You can see the house from here. It’s just past the old ruins.” He tipped his head to the right.

  “Ruins?” Louisa looked to where he had gestured. A lone tower of stone poked up from behind the hill, like a crumbling stone wall but much, much taller. It was covered in green moss and appeared quite lonely upon the landscape.

  “Old Harbottle Castle.” Bert kept walking as he spoke, his easy long-legged stride requiring Sarah and Louisa to run in order to keep up. “Not much to look at now, o’course. But used to be the pride of Northumberland, if you believe the old stories. It’s been useless nigh on two hundred years, so the village started liberating the stone. The Unicorn, that’s our public house, it’s all made of castle rock.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, rolling across the hills. “Fascinating.” Louisa put a hand atop her bonnet to keep it from flying off.

  “Aye. But even though we’ve pulled the old castle down, stone by stone, we’ve never found the hidden treasure.”

  Though exhausted, Louisa’s ears perked up at that. “Hidden treasure?”

  Bert nodded and cast her a sly sort of smile, though she sensed no malice or trickery in his friendly tone. “Aye, miss. Treasure as old as the feud with the Scottish. It’s said that castle soldiers hid it on the grounds.”

  Sarah snorted. “Nursery stories and nothing more, miss.”

  Of course, the maid was right. Louisa looked down the road again. Treasure was something out of storybooks, like brave knights and princesses in peril. As she was neither of those things, she had best keep her thoughts grounded in the real world and her predicament.

  The wind attempted to take her bonnet again. Louisa clamped it firmly to her head. “How far did you say the Manse is?”

  “Just there. See, the roof above the tree line on the left.” Bert gestured with a quick jerk of his chin.

  Louisa found the dark-slated roof easily, above the already-naked branches of several trees. Autumn had come to this part of the country, with leaves both red and brown, and some trees barren already, surrounding the road.

  At least the house wasn’t tucked back in the forest, with trees so crowded together they resembled a many-branched wall. Louisa had not seen many houses or villages during the last part of the drive. Harbottle, small as it was, existed in isolation from the rest of the world. Building things out of castle ruins—it was like something out of a gothic novel.

  Louisa wasn’t the sort to read gothic novels. Rather, she enjoyed poking fun at the superstitious nonsense of ghosts, brooding heroes, and buried treasures. Her father told her that such romantic nonsense was for medieval minds. As a proud modern woman, Louisa lived firmly in the nineteenth century.

  Her mother scoffed at young ladies who wasted time with any pursuit that would not grant them a husband. As her daughter, Louisa had acquiesced to her mother’s ideals.

  They came to the Manse’s gate. It was painted green rather than white-washed, but that only made it blend in with the mossy rock wall. Sarah put the hatbox on her hip and hurried to open the latch.

  The house was two full stories, with enough space for a small attic above. Louisa peered up at the rather ordinary set of three windows on the top floor, trying to ignore the disappointment settling in her chest. The house did not look particularly dank or drafty, nor was it large enough to boast any sort of wealth. While not superstitious, she had hoped for at least a touch of mystery in the building. Only to provide a distraction from boredom, of course.

  The door flew open before Louisa continued up the walk, and a woman in a lace-edged white cap and spectacles came out. “Oh, dear girl, you must be Louisa. Lands, you look like your grandmother—my sister, you know, your father’s mother. Roberta was such a beauty with roses in her cheeks. You poor dear, turned out of your house, and that mother of yours—well, never mind.” She had reached Louisa and engulfed her in a tight embrace and the scent of fresh bread.

  No one had ever hugged Louisa in such a way before. Not even her father, though she would have called him demonstrative in affection. Hesitantly, Louisa put her arms around the woman’s shoulders.

  “Sweet child. Come inside. We’ll have tea at once and dinner very
soon.” She ended the embrace only to take Louisa by the arm. “Bert, will you take that into the house? There’s a good lad. Cook has biscuits if you want a few.” She pulled Louisa along inside, giving direction to Bert and Sarah both.

  Before Louisa could even form an articulate sentence, she was standing next to a hearth in a small parlor.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Penrith. You are very kind.” She had expected a woman at least as stiff as her mother, given her age and status as a childless widow, but her great-aunt moved and spoke with energy and warmth.

  “You must call me Aunt Penrith. I will answer to nothing else.” She sat in a chair near the fire and gestured for Louisa to take the matching seat opposite. “Your father was my favorite nephew. I can say that with a clear conscience, child. It pleases me greatly to have you here.”

  Louisa forced herself to smile. “You are very kind, Aunt.” She turned her eyes around the room, hoping to find something to spark a conversation. The parlor appeared as normal as any Louisa had ever seen. Pink floral paper adorned the walls, an oil painting of a castle hung over the fireplace mantel, and lavender curtains were pulled closed over the windows.

  The whole room felt soft, rather like a dream with rosy edges.

  “I am most relieved I have a home to offer you. I will say, though it is not as fine as what you are likely used to, it is of new construction and most comfortable.”

  “New construction?” Louisa immediately thought of the rough gray stone walls and the green moss growing along the roadway.

  “Yes. Old materials, but new buildings. Why, Harbottle Castle is only two hundred years old. The little houses for servants and the pub were built first, of course, so the builders would have a place to stay while they worked. Our house was built only twenty years ago, so it is the most modern of all the houses.”

  “The castle?” Louisa untied her bonnet and lifted it away. “I only saw the ruins?” And the man, Bert, had said the villagers used the castle ruins to build their homes.

  Aunt Penrith waved a hand before her spectacles. “Dear me, I am confusing things for you. There are two Harbottle castles. The first is in ruins. You likely saw that stick of old stone—there is not much left of it. That castle was built by Henry II, to keep out the Scottish. I have heard it supposed the castle is of late twelfth century construction. Now there is a new castle, built in the seventeenth century. It is only on the other side of the village. We call that one Harbottle Castle now. It belongs to Baron Erran, the Cunningham family. My husband was their steward.”

  Louisa nodded, though still addled. Having the history of the village thrown upon her before she had even removed her coat made it unlikely she would remember all of it.

  Sarah came in with another woman, a woman appearing closer to her aunt’s age. The older servant put down a tray holding both a coffee kettle and a teapot, while Sarah had a plate of sandwiches and biscuits.

  “You have come at a rather dreadful time of year, what with the weather turning so cold. Did you know we are only ten miles from Scotland? It means we get the very worst of weather, and storms at times, but I suppose it is not all bad. Are you one for taking walks? There are beautiful paths everywhere.” Her great aunt rattled on without allowing Louisa to respond, but she did hand Louisa a cup of tea while she spoke.

  “Tomorrow is Sunday. We will walk together to church, through Havenwood. Saint Michael’s is a mile and a half down the road. Why the people who built Harbottle Castle did not think to build us our own church, I do not know. I keep asking if the baron will not sponsor such a project, but he says there is not enough of us to warrant our own meetinghouse.”

  When Aunt Penrith paused to take a bite of a biscuit, Louisa made the most of the momentary pause in conversation. “I do so look forward to attending services with you, Aunt, but it has been a very long day in the coach. Would it be terribly rude of me to go up to bed? These sandwiches will tide me over until morning, and you have no need to worry over my dinner.”

  “Bless me. I did not think—of course you are tired. Finish your sandwich, then I will show you to your room. We have a very small house here, and a small staff, but your room is quite comfortable. It is directly next to mine, and your window looks out over the kitchen garden and the sheep fields. Do you like sheep?”

  It took another quarter of an hour of chatter, and nibbling at sandwiches, before Aunt Penrith took Louisa up to her room. It was much smaller than the one she had enjoyed in her father’s house, which she now supposed belonged to someone else entirely. There was a soft rug upon the floor, a small hearth to keep her room warm, a comfortable bed, and a writing desk.

  Sarah helped Louisa undress in silence. The two of them were stuck, as far from home as either had ever been. Sarah had agreed to wait upon Louisa for a year, and Louisa had the coins meant to pay the maid’s salary.

  After the year was up, Sarah might go free with praising references, but Louisa had no thought of what would become of her.

  The rain fell softly, the occasional drops blown into the window by the wind. Louisa tucked herself into bed, pulling the blankets tight around her. The room’s gray walls closed in upon her and thunder grumbled far enough away to make her think the storm intended to quiet for the night.

  There was no Papa to save her, no Mama to tell her what to do next, and no large house full of servants ready to see to her every need. Louisa was quite alone, in a strange and empty place, with little hope for better in the future.

  The old hunting lodge, built in the seventeenth century and maintained by a skeleton staff, sat back in the forest as though it had sprouted up from the mossy ground. The black poplar trees and sessile oaks embraced the edges of the lodge, reclaiming the timber beams for the woodlands.

  Havenwood Lodge. That’s what his ancestors had called it due to the fact the timber came from the forest’s black poplar trees when it had been built.

  Perhaps, Ras thought as he stood gazing up at the structure, he could write a story set at the lodge. A tale about an old recluse who lived away from the world in a dark forest. With the rain spattering the top of his hat, it was no wonder he imagined a rather morbid story most unlikely to attract a large crowd of readers.

  Ras went for the front door, though he knew no one expected him. He hadn’t sent word of his coming. There were four servants who lived at the lodge year-round, even though his family rarely visited. The housekeeper and groundsman were a married couple, their daughter a maid, and their son a man of all work for Ras’s family.

  He swung the large iron knocker, beating it loudly against the oak door.

  He waited, turning to look down the overgrown drive that came up from the road. The coach had let him off in Alwinton, though Ras could have climbed out at Harbottle just as easily. The two little villages were only a mile apart, and his home was in the west wood directly between them. The coachman hadn’t wanted to stop directly beside the path to Ras’s ancestral house. He insisted it was a prime place for bandits.

  Not in Ras’s entire lifetime, all twenty-eight years of it, had he even heard of thieves or robbers in that part of the world.

  The door to the lodge opened, pulling him back to the present. He turned, a broad smile on his face. “Hello, Mrs. Douglas.”

  The housekeeper raised her lantern higher in the air. “Is that you, Master Erasmus?” Shorter than him by a foot, she hadn’t changed at all since he’d last seen her. The woman still had a riot of red hair, with curls peeping out of her white cap, and a wrinkled face that promised cheerful smiles rather than stern warnings. “Oh, my dear boy, it is you. Come in from the cold.” She swung the door open wide.

  Ras picked up the trunk he had brought with him. He had only brought essential items, including a stack of paper, bottles of ink, and pens. He didn’t bother with more than a few sets of clothing, as he had no intention of being sociable enough to be seen.

  Mr. Douglas appeared in the dark hall leading back to the kitchens. “Everythin’ all right, darlin’?” />
  “It’s Master Erasmus.” Mrs. Douglas hastened around him, waving her hands in the air. “Send Billy for the trunk.”

  “It is no trouble, Mrs. Douglas.” Ras spoke slowly and firmly, as he went to the foot of the staircase and put the trunk there. “I’ll see to it myself when I go up. I imagine Billy has gone home for the evening.”

  Billy was their son, married and living in Alwinton when not at work on the lodge. They had written to Ras’s father when each of their children married, and the elder Mr. Grey had sent them gifts to congratulate them. Ras had seen the entries for the marriages and gifts in his father’s ledger kept in London.

  “Oh, where’s my mind gone? Of course Billy isn’t here.” Mrs. Douglas’s shoulders fell. “Here I was, thinking back ten years ago to when you were both boys. I suppose I oughtn’t to call you Master Erasmus anymore, either. It’s a hard thing to think that your father is no longer with us.”

  Mr. Douglas had come up the corridor and put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “There, there, m’love. It’s no wonder your mind went to the past, what with Mr. Grey before you, looking fine as ever. Welcome home, sir.” Mr. Douglas inclined his head. “I’m sorry the house isn’t ready for you. Jill might’ve set your room to rights had she known you were coming. The missus and me were jus’ finishing up our dinner. Have you et?”

  “No, I haven’t. A mouthful of bread or cheese, or anything you have at all, would be most welcome.” Ras took off his hat and put it on the column at the end of the stair rail. He followed the servants down the corridor. “Perhaps I should have sent word of my arrival. I do not mean to put you out. But I had good reason for coming as I did.”

  “It’s your house, Mr. Grey. You might come and go as you please.” Mrs. Douglas went to the stove in the kitchen, moving with haste and purpose.

  Mr. Douglas gestured to the table in the corner where servants usually took their repast. Ras remembered well enough sitting there in his boyhood, usually between maids who fussed over whether he had enough jam on his toast. He sat across from the groundskeeper.