Anne stood in the quiet library considering the portrait of Richard Hawke. Her throat still hurt from the night before. How could a man who seemed so… normal, turn into such a beast? The painter had done a good job. He'd even caught the glint of mischief in the young man's eye. This was a young man who had everything and he knew it. So this was her nemesis, her enemy, the being that tried to kill her. On some level, she felt so betrayed—then again, why should she? Men were horrid. Her husband had discarded her without a care what happened to her. Now this one was trying to do the same, push her out of her house—steal from her and leave her utterly destitute.
He'd felt alive, but his body was dead and buried. That was not in doubt, but in this other world, he'd felt real, even warm. His fingers had been around her neck; she'd felt the pressure of them as they'd tried to choke her. Was it an illusion? She wished Mr. Harleston was there so she could ask. Most importantly, if he could bleed, could he die?
Blinking, she couldn't believe she was even considering murdering a person. But he wasn't a person; he was a ghost, who chose to stay here rather than face whatever judgment he had coming. As she'd accused him, he truly was a coward, she determined. He hadn't liked that, being called a coward.
Perhaps declaring war on a battle-hardened soldier was not the best course of action, but her options were few. There had been nothing soft about him. The youth in the portrait was nothing like the man she'd met. It was night and day. On some level, it was sad to see a man hardened so. She would hate that to happen to Harry. But they were different times back then, brutal, and the men reflected it. Things were softer now, better. Well, perhaps not more caring, but at least men didn't show their lack of care with swords anymore. There was progress if she ever knew it.
The cow roamed past the window outside. It seemed it had returned. Yesterday she'd been of a mind to flee this place, but things had changed now. There was a face to the enemy, and that took away some of the irrational fear. Now she only had to contend with the more tempered fear of an awful man trying to strangle the life out of her.
Sighing deeply, Anne considered the chores she had for the day. Now that the cow had returned, she'd better go and milk it. Maybe some hard work would take her mind off the problems facing her, particularly her vengeful ghost.
The cow was in the stable waiting when she got outside and she grabbed the little pail and patted the beast along its flank. "When I can, I will get a companion for you," she said and sat down to milk. "Would that make you happier? Everyone deserves a companion." Maybe she should sell something else in the house and get another cow.
After taking the daily milk to the kitchen, Anne decided to go for a walk. It was perhaps not the best day for it, but it wasn't nearly the worst weather the moors could generate. There was no wind and the mist sat like cloying wetness. It obscured vision and left the world feeling small and cramped. Before she knew it, she was following the old and overgrown path to the small cemetery. The low, curved iron fence around it only came up to her knees and she stepped over into the overgrown plot. The grass was halfway up the stones, although Alfie's grave was still a fresh mound of earth.
Anne chuckled at the thought that if she died, she would be buried here, right next to her murderer. Walking over, she looked down on his grave stone. His name was written in bold letters. She wondered who had commissioned the grave stone. He'd been thirty-six when he'd died. So young and had died in a brutal war. She tried to recall the things she knew about him. He'd burned in his house along with his children. It was the most awful death she could think of. The letters in the strongbox had warned of betrayal in his house. Was that what had killed him, betrayal? Actually, she could sympathize. She'd been undone by betrayal in her house as well. It was a harsh reality to know that you weren't safe even in your own home.
Moving over, she saw the gravestone of Elizabeth Hawke, who'd been fifteen when she'd died. Anne had seen her spirit, had seen her trying to stop her father from attacking. Mr. Harleston had said there was someone protecting her and it had to be this girl.
Suddenly, Anne felt immense sadness. Sad for the loss of life and that this girl's spirit was stuck protecting strange women from her hateful father. That was not right and it left Anne feeling drained. If Mr. Harleston could do anything to release her, that would almost be worth all the trouble of this.
Shaking the chill off her, Anne returned home. The house loomed in the distance and she could see a man in the yard. The mist made it difficult to see him, but it was a man. Stopping short, she tried to calm her beating heart. For a moment, she feared the ghosts, but after checking herself, she knew the ghosts couldn't be seen during the day.
As she forced herself to move close, she saw it was Mr. Turner and breathed a sigh of relief. He stood watching her approach. "Hello, Mr. Turner," she said. "I had not expected you."
"I brought you a cut of beef," he said gruffly. "Thought I'd see how you were."
"That is most kind of you."
He looked annoyed, as if he didn't like being referred to as kind, but it really was. They hadn't had meat for a little while now. She accepted the bundle wrapped in muslin. "I have been wondering if my cow would benefit from a companion."
"They like company."
"I might have to consider purchasing another. Perhaps a bit old and not much use other than companionship."
"Or you could consider a bull."
"I don't think I can afford a bull."
"I did not mean buying one."
Anne looked confused for a moment, until she realized what he meant. She flared red. "No, of course. That seems logical." She felt mortified having this discussion with him, but he was a farmer, and these things were part and parcel of what he did.
"Normally have to pay for such service, but I'm sure the old lad won't mind. Just bring her to the far dale and you'll find him."
"Thank you," she said and there was an awkward moment when Anne didn't know what to say.
"Best be going, then," he said and made to turn.
"Mr. Turner," she said and he paused, looking annoyed, which he usually did. "This house is haunted."
"Aye. So they say."
"Do you know any of the history of what happened here? There was a fire."
"Aye. The tale says he was betrayed by his wife to his enemies."
Anne blinked. "His wife?"
"She betrayed him to parliament's men and they came and burned him."
"And her children."
"'Spect that weren't her intention, but betrayal is rough business. Don't think she were thinking the house would be half destroyed either." With a nod, he kept walking. Anne just stared after him. That couldn't be true, could it? It seemed too outlandish.
If it were true, it would explain his pathological hatred of women. It was kind of ironic that a woman who had been betrayed by a man was now haunted by a man who'd been betrayed by a woman. Anne closed her eyes and stroked the palm of her hand across her forehead. What an utter mess she found herself in.
Obviously two hundred years hadn't done much to temper his anger. He was still furious and she bore the brunt of his fury. He doesn't seem to attack Lisle, but then perhaps that was because she didn't set herself up in the master's bedroom. Would he leave her alone if she slept elsewhere? It was worth a try.