The house was large. It seemed larger on the inside than when they'd driven up. The rain continued outside and Anne hadn't left the house since they'd arrived, but then there was so much to do inside. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust that turned into a stubborn paste when they attempted to clean it. Anne's hands were red and raw from the unaccustomed work.
Sitting on her haunches, she looked around. This seemed like an impossible task, cleaning a century of muck. Even the framed paintings had a layer of dust on them, but she could tell they were all old, displaying dress from centuries past.
Nothing could be heard other than the rap of brush bristles on the floor. She’d gone through and removed all the dusty sheets, leaving them down in the laundry to deal with at some other time. Most of them were unsalvageable, but she would think on that later. They really weren't in the position to discard anything that could be of use.
Lisle was unhappy and grumbled whenever Anne was near enough to hear. They'd found some old lye soap, which was dry as bone, but did reconstitute with a bit of water. If she'd thought of it, she would have bought some proper detergents from the merchants, but it hadn't crossed her mind. It probably should have. Thinking back now, she had no idea how she could have overlooked it.
Squeezing her fingers in her palm, she tried to soothe away the ache and irritation. It wouldn't be a lie to say her hands were accustomed to more delicate treatment and she wondered how long it would take them to recover. Getting up for a moment, she walked out of her bedroom and into the hall. Hunger bit into her stomach. They hadn't eaten since morning. It was probably time for some of the bread Lisle had baked. She'd added too much salt, but it was still edible, provided one was hungry.
Anne walked downstairs and kept going into the kitchen which Lisle had done her best to clean. There were still shelves covered in dust, but the floor, the fireplace and the preparation tables had been scrubbed. The fireplace smoked quite a bit, but there was nothing they could do about that for now.
Grabbing some bread, she returned to the main parlor. Faded silk hang on the walls, the lightest pink, but she guessed they had once been red. A tapestry hung on one wall, depicting a medieval battle scene. She didn't know the history of it, or even if it had belonged to her family. It could have come with the house, but she'd never heard of this house mentioned, or knew of the people who'd built it or lived here. Her great aunt, as far as she knew, hadn't lived here, but someone had. Someone with their family's portraits on the walls.
Her steps echoed across the room, particularly as they had removed the carpets with great effort, leaving large geometric shapes in the dust on the floor. The staircase was made of very dark wood and ornately carved. Again, it looked medieval, perhaps even older than the house, which appeared to be late Tudor in origin, with sectioned windows and gabled roofs. Lead plate windows distorted the view outside of the dark and gray, unending moors. The sun was a fuzzy orb on the horizon, barely seen through the clouds.
Feeling a moment of despondency, she sat down on the musty sofa, acknowledging that she might be cleaning for the rest of her life. The kitchen garden would also have to be started soon. They wouldn't stay healthy for long if all they ate was bread.
On the fourth day, the weather cleared and Anne decided it was time to seek out the farm she had been told about, the one belong to the Turners. Donning her cloak, she set out, the blustery wind forcing her to wrap it tightly around her, the wind making wearing a hat impossible. The umbrella would be useless as well, so if it started raining, she would have to get soaked.
The ground was uneven and there was no path to follow, which made traversing the moors difficult. She felt tiny, like an ant, in the middle of this vast expanse of land and sky. The wind howled across the land and after a while, she could see more cultivated land on the horizon, and white dots that must be sheep. That had to be the Turners, she decided and kept going. A moment of fear assaulted her, wondering if she would make it back before dark. The sun set so early in these parts. Getting lost on these moors would be horrible, but then hopefully any light in the windows of Hawke's Manor would guide her home. She hoped so.
As she walked, she wondered if someone by the name of Hawke had built the house. At some point a Hawke—and she could safely assume it was a man—had lived there, and the house had been named after him.
The walk became easier as she reached the Turner's pasture land. At least they had sheep, which meant there was perhaps lamb she could purchase.
In the distance, she could see the Turner's farm was modest, a cluster of squat stone buildings, grass growing on the roofs and the yard surrounded by gates. Stone fences ran from the farm across the land, sectioning pastures. A cow grazed nearby, but she didn't see anyone around.
As she got closer, a man appeared inside the fenced section, wearing the same gray wool as everyone else she’d met, a white linen shirt and a piece of cloth tied around his thick neck. He had short, brown hair and a flat face. It took him a moment to realize someone was approaching, when he turned and leaned on the fence, waiting patiently as she made her way nearer.
"Hello," she said, pausing. There was no smile; he just stared at her. "I'm Anne Sands. I've taken up residence in Hawke's Manor."
He looked past her as if he was expected to see someone coming behind her. There were miles of pasture behind her—who was he expecting to see? He stared at her for a moment—a hard, unfriendly stare. "Aye, I heard someone was milling around there."
Anne smiled, feeling uncomfortable. "I just thought I would introduce myself."
Again, he didn't say anything. She didn't know if he was generally unfriendly, or just unkind to persons who were obviously not from these parts.
"Must be a right mess up there. No one goes near that place."
"It does need some tidying."
"Best not to bother. I doubt you'll be staying."
"I'm residing here now," Anne said, confounded by the man's rudeness.
"All the same. It's a nasty place and you'd be best going back where you've come from."
"Well, I won't be," she said sharply. "What I wanted to inquire was if we could purchase some meat from you? Perhaps even a milking cow? I can pay." She cringed at the statement because she couldn't say that too liberally. But for right now, until she had the garden growing, they had to survive.
"A cow, you want? Aye, I can sell you a cow. Meat too, if you wish." He walked over and slapped a cow on the rump. "This lass is decent enough. You have a hand to tend to it?"
Anne didn't know if she should be honest about her situation. But she did believe that honesty was the best policy. "It is just I and my maid."
"In that bloody house all alone?" He shook his head. "Too daft to know better. They told you the house is haunted?"
Anne dismissed the statement. No doubt superstition was strong out in these parts. "The more the merrier," she said with a tight smile, wishing this transaction was over.
"You even know how to care for a cow?"
"We will have to learn. I make no claims that my situation is ideal, Mr. Turner, but we have to make do."
His harshness seemed to soften in the slightest, but she might be imagining it. "The main thing is to keep her away from clover. Does them a nasty turn."
Anne blinked, registering the comment. She had no idea why clover was bad for cows, but she was prepared to take his word for it. "Is there a road between here and there?"
"Not for miles. Fastest way is to go back the way you came."
Anne looked lost for a moment. The cow had no harness and she didn't know what to do. Her utter confusion was embarrassing, but she'd never had to so much as touch a cow before. "Does it have a harness?"
"I can fashion one if need be."
"Yes, I think it will be necessary." He disappeared into one of the squat buildings and returned with a rope, which he knotted very fast until it fashioned a harness. Putting it on the beast's head, he urged her to a gate not far away. She handed him a sum of coins and he counted them diligently.
This could be the worst cow in all of England, she conceded, being unable to tell. "I will have to bring her back if she has no milk," she said.
"She'll milk alright. The question is if you can get it out."
Anne muttered as she took the rope. The animal followed, not perhaps gladly. Turning her attention back, she watched the horizon, again wondering if she would get back before dark.
A short while away, the unfriendly Mr. Turner yelled. "Don't be daft and go running around the moors at night. It's a bad place to be in the dark. Wouldn't be the first to break your neck out there."
"Yes, thank you for your concern, Mr. Turner. I'm sure we'll make it back alright."
"Wasn't speaking of now, lass," he said with a chuckle.
That was the second time someone had said the manor was haunted, but maybe people said that about places that were abandoned, for whatever reason. Abandoned for probably good reasons as well. This place was so very remote, it was no wonder no one chose to live out here, provided they had a choice. She would never choose to live here if she could manage an alternative.
The walk back would take a long time if she kept this pace. She tried to urge the cow to move faster. There was a stable in one of the outbuildings. Perhaps she should have prepared before she came charging over here and buying a cow. But it was done now, and this cow would have to learn to make the best of it, too.