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Her thoughts in tumult, Elizabeth decided to take her half-day after the church service. Diderot offered cold ham and a roll and a stoppered carafe of mulled wine. She donned her cloak and headed for the moor.
She kept the Grange’s chimneys in sight as she climbed. The wind swept down from the moor, tearing at her cloak and her ginger hair. The day had turned to a fine sunshine with only a few clouds on the western horizon. Out of breath when she reached the heights, she paused and surveyed the barren expanse. In the far distance sheep grazed a fertile pocket. There stood a cluster of trees, their branches twisted by the undying wind. The trees seemed to be the only landmark.
She turned about. Still in view was the Grange, no longer so massive when viewed from the moor’s height. Beyond it was another manor, but no smoke came from the chimneys. The windows looked dark. Farm buildings stood. The manor was the ruin that had once housed the Harcourt family. Fire had driven them from that house. She would investigate on her next half-day, whenever that occurred. Wednesday? She must consult with Mr. Hicks.
Beyond the manor was the village of Widderby, clustered like grey rubble around the church bell tower. While the road to the village followed a straight path on the Grange lands, after that it twisted and meandered along the foot of the moor.
Elizabeth headed for the distant trees and the sheep just beyond. She hoped to encounter the shepherd. Mindful that she ventured far, she looked back often to find the Grange’s chimneys growing distant.
Her path rose higher, giving her a better view of the sheep and the Grange and the village. The road beyond, to Thirsk, looked like a fading ribbon that ventured into nothingness. Only the Grange and the village and the moor looked real. Up here, on the dominating heights, the moor’s remoteness increased.
She turned into the wind and spread her arms wide. Her cloak flew behind her. After weeks and months, of a hemmed-about life in constricted London, the moor offered freedom.
The rising moor gave a peek into its depths. A path ran across the height. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she traced the path, undulating with the land, all the way to a tall cairn. From there the path divided, one way venturing deeper into the moor, the trail itself vanishing; the other angling north, dipping into hollows, rising past the sheep, much farther along the moor than she had anticipated.
Her path veered from the distant trees and began a steep decline through outcroppings. The descent became tricky to negotiate, scrambling over loose boulders that rocked to her touch. Below, her path dropped into a dark hollow with shimmering puddles, patched with sedgy grass. Sense told her to turn back.
When she once more climbed through the outcroppings, a dark figure stood astride her path. Wind billowed his knee-length cloak. The sun behind him obscured his features.
Elizabeth hesitated, not wanting to encounter a stranger.
The man watched her climb. He never changed position. Only his cloak had life, flapping in the wind.
Closer, the sun glare left, and she saw dark hair streaming and guessed Lord Harcourt watched. He came down a few steps as she negotiated the rocks and offered his hand. He brought her up quickly, and she stopped on the path to catch her breath. The wind had wreaked havoc with her hair, and she tried to drag it into a semblance of order. Her appearance no longer presented the primly efficient housekeeper.
“You should not venture onto the moor, Miss Fortescue. It’s too easy to become lost. The weather can change rapidly, and it’s too easy to shelter near dangers, like the bog below.”
“I am aware of the dangers, my lord.”
He gave her a look, and she tilted up her chin to meet it. “Yet I find you blithely tripping toward a bog.”
“That bog is the reason I turned back. And I kept the Grange’s chimneys in view. That is, until the path headed downward. Is there a path around the bog? This way is obviously well-trodden, or I would not have chosen it.”
“Where were you bound?”
“The trees yonder.” The sheep had vanished, called away by the shepherd. She stared in amazement and looked for their white fleecy clumps, but they were gone. She must have spent longer in her climb down and up. Then she realized that the sky had gained leaden clouds. The sun remained unobscured, but the wind had sharpened. “What hour is it?”
“Gone three.” He began striding back to the Grange, and since he still retained her hand, she had to hurry. Our heights match, she thought foolishly. She’d had the same thought when he spun her in the branle dance, and she cast it aside before she dwelled on it.
“The afternoon has gone! I did not think so much time had passed.”
“Do not venture the bog alone, Miss Fortescue.”
“I shall not, my lord. The path to those trees distant, does it contain hidden pitfalls like bogs?”
He paused. His gaze swept the moors then studied her. She determinedly kept her gaze on the trees. “No bogs, but a pretty woman venturing alone across the moors—that is an expedition I do not advise. The pathways are used by smugglers.”
“Smugglers? Are we so close to the sea?” She stood on tiptoe and tried to see across to the east.
“A day’s trek. They land the cargo then bring it across the moor with pony chains, dispersing goods as they come. Widderby has a stop before they venture onto the Thirsk.”
“So close? They come so close to the Grange?”
“Inquiring too closely into smugglers’ way is not wise.” He resumed walking.
“My father never held with smuggling. French goods may come in, but English information goes straight to Napoleon’s eager ears.”
“I agree, but should you argue that point, you will only paint a mark on your own back. The ruffians who run the chains don’t like interferences. They leave us in the Grange and the village alone. Better to stay off the moor until they no longer use this route. I have hopes their operations in this direction will become too costly.”
“Too costly?”
“We’ve intercepted three chains in the last month. The men scattered, but we confiscated the goods and sold them at auction. We hired more men with the proceeds. We won’t stop the smuggling, but using these byways can become too costly for the chains.”
“I see. I am to keep to the road to the village. That’s rather—.”
“What?”
“Boring,” she said boldly and resumed walking.
He huffed. “Boredom is better than a victim of a crime. More trouble than smugglers inhabit our moors.”
“Do criminals rove around?”
“The moor is a place for lost ones, for those who need to escape the law.”
“I would think, as lord of this district, that you would root out those who prey upon the weak. As you do with the smugglers.”
“A few elude any net. They do not invade our safe places; we do not offer innocents for their feeding.”
His choice of words gave her chills. Then she had a horrid thought. Lost ones. Did one of those haunt the halls of the Grange?
He had admitted to the Silent Lady but not to the moaning trickster ghost. Icy fear had accompanied the Lady. While the trickster ghost gave chills, Elizabeth hadn’t experienced that frigid fear. Last night, she had convinced herself that a servant had decided to play tricks. What if the trickster ghost was a lost one or a smuggler? They could be attempting to counter Lord Harcourt’s successful attempts against them. But why would they pretend to haunt the Grange? And why would they care about her hiring?
It continued to make no sense.
“Do not go deep onto the moor,” he advised. “Did Hicks, did no one warn you?”
“I did not think to tell anyone of my plans.”
“You are fortunate that I saw you ascending to the moor.”
She murmured her gratitude, “but I wish the exercise, my lord. The walk to the village is rather sedate.”
“Boring, I think you said.”
She doubted he would offer a solution suitable to her needs. She didn’t want to hear his repeated stay off the moor. “Where did those clouds come from? They were far on the horizon earlier.”
“These came from the North Sea. The weather is quick to change.”
They walked in silence, buffeted by the wind. The air had dampened to a chilling mist when they reached the long descent to the Grange. He came to a rapid halt, and she bumped him. He released her hand. “Miss Fortescue, do you ride?”
She didn’t comment on that unexpected question. “I do although I’ve not ridden since I left Portugal.”
“On your mother’s death?” She didn’t respond. He set a hand to her hood, pushing it back. “Miss Fortescue?”
“Yes, my lord, I do ride.”
“My stable will have a mount suitable for you. I would be obliged if you would consent to ride rather than wander the moor. A groom will accompany you.”
His offer of a horse delighted her—until she remembered the servants and their gossip and the upcoming trip to Thirsk. “My lord, this is not necessary.”
“I find it very necessary. You are in my employ, Miss Fortescue, and as such under my shield. Twice a week, or would three times a week suit you?”
Three times sounded like heaven, but “Servants only receive two half-days, my lord.”
His hand chopped the air. “You are not a servant.”
“I am in your employ. I am your housekeeper. You give orders, and I follow them.”
He muttered then said, “It is decided. You are not a servant. My employee, yes, but not a servant. These rides are not to be considered as your half-days. Use those for trips to the village or walks over the grounds. Not the moor, Miss Fortescue. Stay off the moor.” Then he flung away from her and strode down, long ground-eating strides that she couldn’t hope to match in her skirts.
While his rule about the moor made her want to break it, just to see what he would do, she was excited about his offer of the horse. Worry about gossip tempered that excitement. She felt like a billowing sheet, flapping one way then the next, with only pegs to hold her in place—and the threat of rain on the horizon.
Elizabeth descended slowly though at a good pace.
She caught him lingering at an outcropping until she appeared, then he continued on his way, not looking back.
She hurried as well, for across the fields she saw rain pouring out of the sky. She was glad to reach her office and stir up a greater fire until Jessa brought her a little teapot to warm her.
Lord Harcourt had confused her, delighted her, awoken her rebellious streak. He’d given her more questions about the trickster ghost
And all the while she wondered the reason he was so adamant that she not consider herself a servant.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
No ghost moaned in the halls that night—or the next or the next.
Elizabeth tried to have an uneventful week. Unfortunately, even as she scolded herself not to misconstrue a benevolent employer’s actions, teatime became much anticipated. Lord Harcourt continued to insist she have tea with him.
Monday he sent a footman to request her presence. On her protest, he merely said, “I must insist, Miss Fortescue, please.” He’d come in from the fields without bothering to change, and through that awkward half-hour her senses filled with clean sweat and leather and sweet hay.
She recounted the minutiae of her day. He told a story that made her want to giggle. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, but he caught the twitch of her mouth before she sipped tea. His hearty laugh broke her determined restraint.
His charm made her want to disbelieve the story Jessa told as they sorted through the china cabinet, matching old creamware with blue-and-white to achieve a workable set for the servants’ hall. Early in her marriage, the dowager Lady Harcourt had ordered new china. Together, Elizabeth and Jessa stacked out the service for the dining room. The maid shared that more new plate had been expected on the occasion of Lord Harcourt’s engagement—“only that came to naught.” Teacups rattled as she carried two stacks over to a side table. “She wouldn’t marry him when he returned all scarred up.”
“He’s not scarred,” Elizabeth defended.
“Oh, Miss Fortescue, you should’ve seen his face in early days. All red and swollen.”
“It’s not like that now.” She climbed to her feet and handed Jessa two serving bowls. Too late she realized how her defense could be misconstrued.
“Of course it ain’t. It’s had time to heal. But his betrothed didn’t want to hear any of that. She broke it off and married his cousin.”
“Did his lordship say anything, when he came from London—?”
“Not to us. To Hicks, I think. He don’t like it when the cousin comes to the Grange.”
“Lord Harcourt doesn’t like it?”
“No, Mr. Hicks. I’m talking too much. If Mr. Hicks hears me—.”
“I’ll say nothing to him,” she reassured Jessa.
Lord Harcourt’s former engagement couldn’t matter to Elizabeth. The only thing of importance was the trickster ghost. That investigation must be subtle. She’d already asked too much of the other servants. Lord Harcourt had spoken only of the Silent Lady. Perhaps a few probing questions of him ....
Yet she found no opportunity to ask any probing questions.
On Tuesday she did try to complain of the shared teatime interfering with her work. She handed over his steaming cup as she made her complaint.
He countered with “You do stop daily for tea, do you not?” Then he pointed to the delicate pastries M’sieur Diderot had placed on the tea tray, “for those are never for me.” He waved away her attempt to share them. Then he proceeded to elicit shared experiences in Portugal. They discovered that, from July to October in ’08, they’d both been in Portugal, and he began saying “when we were in Portugal together” in front of Hicks and Jessa.
That night she thumped her pillow and flounced over, near to a childish tantrum. This cannot continue. He is Lord Harcourt. High above my status. He will not marry a housekeeper. No praying for that, Little Bit.
On Wednesday Jackman tracked her to the kitchen garden where she struggled with the head gardener’s determination to avoid greens. “The baron enjoys his sallet at every dinner” was her parting shot. The old Scots’ eyes opened wide when Jackman announced “His lordship’s waiting tea on you, Miss Fortescue.”
Then Harcourt flummoxed her entirely when she’d barely taken her first sip.
“May we dispense with this whole ‘Miss Fortescue’, Miss Fortescue?”
“What?” She dabbed the tea she’d spilled. “I beg pardon, my lord. I think I misheard you.”
“You did not mishear me. For this half-hour of our tea, will you grant me the favor of no longer referring to you as ‘Miss Fortescue’?”
She remembered to close her mouth. She scrambled for a reasonable answer.
“Pastry?” He lifted the plate.
“My lord, I—.” She dared not lecture him on their disparate ranks. He was a well-to-do aristocrat, with no vulgar habits. She was the housekeeper, born into a military family, only daughter of a major, sister to a lieutenant of a line regiment. Her father was a third son of a second son, and her only expectations were what he would make himself. She tried humor. “My lord, what do you intend to call me? Some diminutive appropriate for a housekeeper, like ‘Forty’?”
“No.” Raillery had left his voice. His eyes looked dark, hypnotic. “Elizabeth.”
Her color rushed up.
“Unless a more familiar name—.”
She clattered her cup onto the tray. The grey cat purred in her lamp, pinning her in place. She wished for the days when women carried fans, for her cheeks were hot. “I think not, my lord. I am your housekeeper, for heaven’s sake.”
“Chatelaine of my castle.”
“Your employee!”
“You are not likely to let me forget that.”
“No. A thousand times, no.”
“ ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’”
“My lord—.”
“And you will call me Erik.”
She stood, displacing Scritcher. The cat protested and gave an offended hiss.
“Don’t upset the cat.”
“No. If these teas have led to this—.”
“Apparently, these teas are not leading to anything.”
“My lord,” she cast about, “I must consult with M’sieur Diderot about meals for this weekend.” She fled, forgetting to curtsey.
Elizabeth escaped to her office. She pressed hands to her pounding heart. No. No, no, no. What can I do? This cannot be.
Yet happiness blossomed in her heart, and nothing stopped the fragile petals from unfurling.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Desperate to avoid another tea with Lord Harcourt, she informed Hicks that she would go with him to Market. He groused and grizzled, but she sat beside him when the wagon left for the village.
The bench was more uncomfortable than last Sunday. Hicks’ silence was intolerable. Her own thoughts were insupportable.
“Lord Harcourt warned me against exploring on the moors,” she announced, desperate to say anything. “He says smugglers come across from the sea.”
The horses broke into a canter then slowed. Elizabeth stopped clutching the bench seat and adjusted her bonnet.
“Why would he say that? We’ve not seen smugglers in—in—in years. No fear of that. Why would they come this far inland?”
That contradicted what Lord Harcourt had said about the chains running smuggled goods. Hicks does protest too much. Was he involved with smugglers? Feldstone Grange had many outbuildings. Although Harcourt worked his land daily, could the smugglers be using an emptied building to hide their goods during the day?
Were the smugglers related to the whispers that Jessa had heard?
Did Lord Harcourt know?
She’d stumbled into trouble. She’d better escape it—or at least waylay it. “He told me also that criminals are loose on the moor. Lost men live in lost places, I believe he said,” she ruthlessly misquoted. “Do you think there are evil men on the moor?”
He had a tight control on himself this time. “Who knows what is out there? Mysterious place, the moor. Wide and empty. Not a place for good folk, that’s certain.”
“Indeed. You are wondering the reason I broach this topic with you, I know. But his lordship’s warnings about smugglers and criminals quite worried me. Mr. Hicks, I have not slept easy since Sunday afternoon, when he warned me away. I know it is your duty, Mr. Hicks, but I cannot help but wonder how well you lock up each night? The Grange has so many doors and windows that entry can be gained with only a little effort.”
His suspicion had morphed into a protective uncle. “Now, Miss, no need to worry. Nobody’s going to come to the Grange without somebody knowing about it.”
“I wish I could believe that. I would sleep better, I assure you. Do you personally lock every door?”
“The doors are all locked.”
“And the windows? All of the ground-floor windows that can be opened, do you check their locks? Every night?”
“Every night. Doors and windows. Jackman does it most nights. You know him, Miss Fortescue, he don’t forget any task. Don’t you worry that ginger head about it any.”
“Oh, Mr. Hicks, I wish I would cast off all worry.” Don’t overdo the acting, Little Bit. “I am gratified that you take precautions, truly I am.” She didn’t think it wise to keep harping on the issue.
Lapsing into silence, she watched the road between the horses’ ears, the village creeping closer, the clouds far in the distance.
Then Hicks said, “That all his lordship said about the smugglers? And the criminals?”
“He spoke also of bogs. Warning me against dangers. He quite warned me away from any exploration of the moor, I assure you.”
Hicks gave that curious grunt that covered all available responses, and she decided time had come for the distracting mundane. “Did M’sieur Diderot give you his list? He said last evening that he’d give it to me, but he did not. I remember most of his items. I certainly have his list for next Tuesday.”
“You’re still going with his lordship then? Off alone to Thirsk?”
“Hardly alone. I believe Jackman’s to come, too, and I hope to have a maid or two on the return trip. Do you have M’sieur Diderot’s list?”
“In my pocket.” He snapped the reins. The horses picked up their walking pace. Elizabeth thought she’d pestered him enough.
Yet he had protested too much.
Whispers, Jessa had said. In the servants’ quarters. A moaning ghost who walked the halls of the ground flood and the first floor.
Not near the Shield Room, where Lord Harcourt would hear and investigate.
Hicks. Who else? A smuggler? Why haunt me? Unless they wanted her eyes down and scared, not looking wide-eyed with interest.