The train stopped at the station they sought and Anne rose, excusing herself and Lisle as she navigated her skirt around the knees of the man sitting opposite them. Taking the handle, she opened the carriage door and pushed out her umbrella. It had started raining and the scenery had been lost to them the last hour or so, but finally, there was fresh air.
A porter came and unloaded their trunks, rushing in the rain while they retreated toward the small, slate station building. Passengers embarked and rail engineers ran around filling the locomotive with water. The steam plumed white over them and then started the deep, heavy chugs at the train inched forward again, the steam plume carried by the wind. The rattle of the carriages built as the train gained speed, then receded, leaving a ringing in Anne's ear with the absence of noise.
"Welcome to Goathland Station," the old porter said, water dripping off his cap. "I am David Canning," the older man said, water dripping off his cap.
"Miss Sands," Anne said with a nod. "Would you be able to tell us how to organize some transport for ourselves and our trunks?"
"I certainly can, Miss," the man said. "Where'd you be going onto?"
"Hawke's Manor," she said, having to speak loudly over the increasing rain.
The man blinked and didn't say anything for a moment, just looked at her.
"Do you know where it is?"
"I do," he finally said. "That's some way out, close to the Turner farm."
"Oh," Anne said, pleased to hear that there were some people close by. For a moment, she feared it would be totally desolate, judging from the blank look on Mr. Canning's face.
"We need to cross the bridge there," he said, pointing at an arched structure reaching over the tracks to the other side. "Jonah," he called back toward the station building and a boy came out, hurriedly putting his cap on. They grabbed the trunks and walked ahead. "Watch you step. It can be slippery in the wet."
Anne grabbed the railing and started walking across the bridge, catching sight of a river running along not far away. Beyond that, it was difficult to see anything through the rain. The warmth inside the carriage was dissipating and she started to feel the moist cold creeping up her skirt hem.
Other than the station, there wasn't much to Goathland—a store, a tea room and a pub, and a few houses for the people living in this village.
"I'll see if Tom can drive you," Mr. Canning said. "The parson has a carriage he might be willing to lend you seeing as the weather is blowing. There is a tea room here if you wish for refreshment."
"We might buy some provisions," Anne said, pointing at the general merchant store.
Mr. Canning tapped his cap and strode off, throwing a last look back. Lisle was miserable in the rain, holding her coat over her head, hurrying as they walked toward the store. A bell rang as the door opened and she saw a man standing behind the counter in a white apron, with a neatly manicured mustache. He watched impassively as they walked closer. Anne smiled, but the man didn't smile back; instead, his eyes traveled down her navy blue satin cloak. So far, the people she'd seen around here all wore gray wool, so her clothes might identify her as foreign to these parts. Her London accent would, as well.
"Some flour perhaps. Five pounds?" She looked around and saw some ham under a cloth. "And a pound of ham. Do you have any seeds?"
"What kind of seeds?" His voice was gruff with a heavy Yorkshire accent.
"Peas?" Anne said brightly. "Onions. Kitchen garden seeds."
"Over in the back there," he said without moving to assist and Anne walked over, her skirt dripping over the dusty floorboards. Paper packets held seeds and she picked a few different varieties. Vegetables were not something she'd grown before. Flowers had been her interest, but her needs were different now, particularly if she was to live so very far away from people. Except these Turners, for which she could only have high hopes for.
The man's disposition didn't improve and Anne felt unwelcome in his store. She paid and carried the packets outside again, waiting under a covered entranceway for whoever was to assist them in reaching their destination. If Mr. Canning decided they were too much trouble, she didn't know what to do, but before long, a man came, wearing an oiled coat and hat, driving a modest carriage that really only suited one person. They had to squeeze in, the oval glass in the rear steaming up with their wetness.
Lisle fell asleep, but Anne watched and the countryside changed, becoming more and more starkly desolate. Everything felt wet, including her clothes, and it chilled her, even as the inside of the carriage developed a sticky warmth.
They passed a few farm houses, but they were few and far between. Checking the watch in her reticule, which had belonged to her husband before he'd bought a finer one, they had now driven two hours. It would not be an easy task getting back to the railway, or perhaps even to provisions. They would have to learn to be self-sufficient, for now at least.
The driver didn't say a word the entire time, the horse going at a steady pace down the narrow gravel road. Rain stopped and started again, but it was uniformly gray.
Despite the dismal weather, Anne held hope in her heart. All things considered, she was fortunate to have this. There may not be much company on the moors, but her status as a divorcee would carry all the way out here, from now until the day she passed. She would just have to get used to a more solitary life. No doubt full of work from dawn to dusk, in the immediate involving getting the kitchen garden sorted. If no one had lived in this house for quite a while, it would likely be overgrown, maybe even unrecognizable.
In truth, she had no idea what to expect. It was a manor so it was larger than a cottage. Probably built in the same gray stone as every other building in this area. Hopefully, it had a roof. If it was a ruin, things would be infinitely tougher. But if she had to learn the skill of roofing, she would. She had absolutely no choice.
Eventually, the carriage turned off into a smaller road—a track was perhaps a better description, that led, meandering and overgrown up a hill. Two thin stone tracks led the way. There were no signs that any types of vehicles had been on the track, and other than the lain stone, there was nothing to indicate this was a road.
The carriage was unstable and pitched awkwardly in places. Even Lisle couldn't sleep through this and they held on tightly to the handles. The horse strained to pull them up over the uneven surface.
Cresting the hill, they saw the house in the distance. Three stories, with a roof. Anne breathed a sigh of relief. The roof was, at least, there, and looked to be intact. Windows interspersed the gray stone, a few missing panes. A couple of outbuildings stood on one side, but nature had claimed back the yard. A birch tree grew next to the stairs leading up to the main entrance.
The carriage pulled across the deeper gravel around the front, crushing a few bushes that had grown through. The rain had lessened to a drizzle.
Anne and Lisle got out. "Don't think anyone's been here in fifty years," the man said. "Some say better that way." He looked up at the house and Anne could have sworn he shivered.
Gazing up, Anne looked at the man who eyed the structure with suspicion. "The Turner family is nearby, Mr. Canning said," she stated.
"Thata way," the man said, pointing over to the right. "Quite some way, though." He looked uncomfortable. "You sure you want to stay here? I can take you back to the village."
"This is our new home," she said, handing him some coins.
He shook his head like she was insane and jumped down, grabbing their trunks off the back and put them down on the gravel. "Nasty history this place. Part of it burned a few centuries back, they say. Mam says it should have burned completely and never been rebuilt."
Anne didn't know what to say. She knew nothing of the history of the place, but it did look old. Obviously there was something the locals took offense to. She saw no evidence of burning, though.
Without saying anything more, the man stepped up on the driver’s seat and slapped the reins on the horse rump, taking off the way he'd come.
Taking her key out, she walked up the stone steps to the heavy oak doors. The lock siezed when she stuck the key in, getting no leverage to turn it. She had to resort to using some of the butter she'd bought at the general merchant's and smearing it on the key. It took half an hour to unlock it, but eventually it gave, rather suddenly. Anne's finger and hand were sore from effort, and she rubbed the ache away. An exhale of stale air greeted them. Dust covered every surface in the unnaturally still air.
"So this is home," she said as she stepped in. The window glass were covered in dust, leaving the hall and the rooms to the sides with a murky atmosphere. Lisle seemed to prefer the drizzle outside.
Anne's footsteps echoed as she walked in across a disintegrating carpet. It smelled like decay, but there was evidence of a life once lived. She walked into the parlor, where everything was a uniform dust color, including the sheets that covered the furniture. Grabbing one, she lifted it off, releasing a plume of dust into the room, making her cough. Underneath was a sofa covered in moth-eaten green velvet.
It would take countless hours of work just to get rid of the dust. The soft furnishings had to go, showing a century of decay. Once they'd cleaned everything, she would have to see what could be salvaged, knowing anything that went would probably not be replaced.