The door shut with a click behind her as Anne entered the master's bedroom. She felt nervous walking in there, but not as discomforted as she was knowing there were seven other spirits in the house. Four of them, she had met—four she hadn't. The forward one, who felt no qualms about the sanctity of her person, she really didn't want to meet again.
There was no sign of Richard Hawke in the room, and that was a good indication. Perhaps he had agreed that they would co-exist—he in his realm, she in hers. The coals in the grate glowed and a lamp stood on the desk, shining light into all but the darkest corners. She was nervous more than scared, not knowing quite what to expect. In truth, she'd never shared her room with a man, living or otherwise. Her husband had never even entered her room as far as she could remember.
Earlier in the day, while she was out retrieving the cow, she'd asked Lisle to retrieve the screen she'd seen up in the attic, and it now stood in the corner. The idea of undressing in front of a man made her insides clench with mortification, so the screen would give her privacy. The panels were made of faded yellow silk, and one had a tear down it. She had no idea how old it was—at least over a hundred years old.
Moving silently, she sought the warmth of the fire and let it soak into her skirts, listening intently for any sign of him. There was no moon outside that night, just pure darkness out the window.
Lisle had been in one of her moods that day, preferring her own company, so Anne hadn't really spoken to anyone, other than the cow, who seemed contented to return to the stable. Anne had spent some hours searching through the equipment in the outbuildings. The plow sat there, waiting to be used, but she needed to find the yoke and all the straps that went with it.
Faint scratching reached her ears and she turned around to find the source. They stopped. Anne listened so intently, her ears started ringing. Then they started again, faint scratching, pause, scratching. "Are you writing?"
They stopped again. A full minute passed and then they started again. She heard the writing, the words written by a quill or nib, the pause to dip the ink.
"You're dead. Who can you possibly be writing to?"
The writing stopped, then a gust of wind blew in her face. Had he just blown in her face, or thrown something at her? That was rude, although considering they'd graduated from attempted murder, perhaps perfect manners was too much to expect.
"None of my affair," she said, more to herself and turned back to the fire. Who could he be writing to? Did ghosts communicate with one another? Was there a ghostly postal service, ready to take his letter where he needed them to? These insane questions were hurting her head.
The writing had stopped, or she just couldn't hear it anymore. All these questions started bubbling up in her mind and she had to force herself not to voice them.
Another small crack drew her attention back. He was there, going about his business, seemingly uninterested in her, or ignoring her. How did he see her? Could he see her standing there clear as day, or was she only hints from another realm as he was to her?
She swallowed and cleared the tightness in her throat. "I have a few questions, if you don't mind. About the farm."
"This is a manor, not a farm," she heard him say tersely. His voice sounded distant and thin through the veil that separated them.
"I want to make this land productive again and I'm not sure what to plant."
There was no answer and it was so quiet, she wasn't sure he was still there, until she felt a hand on her shoulder and the room changed before her eyes.
"Usually, when people seek advice from beyond the grave, I'm sure it's typically more dramatic than agricultural advice," he said. He stood next to her and she'd forgotten how imposing he was—much broader than Stanford. Stanford would fear a man like Richard Hawke, having none of the fighting skills to take him on. Actually, Stanford was on the feminine side in comparison, with his polished shoes, combed hair and neatly trimmed mustache.
"I have no one else to ask."
"Welcome to my world, Miss Sands, as you insist on intruding."
Looking around, she saw the parchment on the desk and the quill lying on top of it.
"Who were you writing to?"
"None of your affair."
"I just don't understand. Who will receive your letters?"
"I don't necessarily think about it that much. Unless you come along and disturb me, to remind me of my dead and useless existence, I go about my business quite normally."
"You were writing to someone?"
"Yes. Without your cheery reminders, my existence continues without much notice to the obvious limitations."
"You forget you are dead?"
"It appears so—until you insist on intruding."
"I am sorry."
"It is annoying when the living insist on haunting the dead."
"Can you leave this room?"
"Yes. In fact, the war continues not far from here."
Now she didn't quite know what to say. A million questions rushed into her mind, but she pushed them away. "Well, I am sorry for intruding. I just thought I would ask the advice of someone more experienced with the capabilities of this land."
He moved to the desk and crossed his arms as he leaned back, considering her with a forced tolerant expression.
"I'm not sure what to plant."
"These lands are fertile. You can plant whatever you want. I grow barley."
"You are cultivating the fields?"
"As I said, life—such as it is—continues when not intruded upon."
"Until I came, you didn't know you were dead?"
"You forget such things."
Anne bit her lips together, acknowledging how starved for conversation she was, because she didn't want to return—not just yet. "So you recommend barley?"
"Barley, wheat. It all grows well."
"I am trying to assemble the plow."
His eyebrows raised in surprise. "And who will be plowing the fields?"
"I will," she said, straightening her back. He looked at her disbelievingly. "Needs must."
"Show me your hands," he demanded.
"What?"
"Show me your hands." He stepped closer and Anne felt a rush of concern as he grabbed her hand and forced the palm up. A rough, calloused thumb trailed down her fingers and across her palm. He felt real; he felt warm. "I doubt with these hands, you would last a day."
Sharply, she drew her hand away. "Well, the spirits in this house keep killing my staff, so what am I supposed to do?"
He moved away again and returned to his chair by the desk.
"What are you writing?"
"Battle strategy."
"You lost the war."
He looked at her sharply, pure hatred in his eyes.
"Sorry. If it makes you feel better, parliament asked King Charles back after Cromwell died."
A grin broke across his lips, then he laughed—a deep, hearty laugh, one she was sure he hadn't exercised in a while. "Then how is it a loss?"
"That was the second Charles. They killed the first Charles."
Sobered surprise registered again. "How?" These things were not history for him, they were his present, and of great consequence to everyone he knew. All long dead to everyone but in his mind.
"They executed him."
"A king?"
Anne didn't quite know how to justify it and then wondered why it was her task to justify the execution of a king. Instead, she closed her mouth.
"That girl, Elizabeth. She is your daughter."
"She is."
"You speak to her?"
"I do. She saw to protect you when I saw you as… other."
"As your wife."
A discomfort seemed to grip him and he looked away. A hard look settled on his features. He truly hated that woman—whoever she was. Anne didn't even know her name.
"I should return," she said.
"You need to take care, Miss Sands," he said. "Coming here, you place yourself in my power."
"So you've said. I am depending on your duties as a gentleman to ensure no harm will come to me."
His gaze returned to her and he seemed a little disbelieving as well as curious. "Due to past experience, I am generally not a great lover of women."
"Hence, I doubt you would seek to gather me to be with you all the time. I am also the custodian of what is left of your legacy, this house, so I would appreciate it if you return me to my realm, so I can go about my business of making it productive again."
He considered her for a moment. "Why did your husband divorce you?" Now it was her turn to feel uncomfortable. "Did you make him a cuckold?"
"I did not. It appears his mistress was unhappy with the current arrangements."
"Then things have changed significantly. In my time, it was near impossible to rid oneself of a wife—short of killing her. Or the other way around."
"We'd like to think of ourselves as more… " She didn't know how to finish the statement. She'd been devastated by her husband, left utterly destitute without an ounce of concern from the man who'd sworn to take care of her. Could she say that the laws around divorce were better? More civilized? In his case, a divorce would have been a preferred outcome. "Accommodating," she finished.
Standing, he moved closer to her. "Hence, why you've had to retreat out into the wilds of Yorkshire, to share a room with a man not your husband. Accommodating is an interesting term, wouldn't you say?"
"A ghost, not a man."
His eyebrows raised and she swallowed the lump that tightened her throat as he stood next to her. "If you are to depend on that, perhaps you shouldn't seek to come into my realm."
"I am depending on your firm hatred for women, that has so far lasted you through time and death itself."
A smile spread across his lips. He stood so close now, she could smell him, the faint smoke and the man underneath. His eyes traveled lower, down along the neckline of her dress, taking in the curves below at his leisure. Anne felt her skin contract under the scrutiny. His fore and middle finger pressed to her breastbone and his dark eyes returned to hers. "Heed a warning, Miss Sands of London," he said and pushed her through the veil.