They stood around in a semi-circle in the hall as Lisle opened the door, letting the visitors in.
"God, this building is grim, isn't it?" Stanford's awful voice said. Anne felt her hackles rise up her neck at the very sight of him. Following him was a short woman with yellow curls. She had a pretty face but wore a little too much rouge.
"How can anyone live out here?" the woman said, her voice high-pitched and thin. "I don't think I can imagine anything worse." Stanford rolled his eyes as if her very voice aggrieved him.
Anne smiled as she saw it. Perhaps his marriage hadn't been as successful as he'd hoped and he was already growing tired of his new bride.
Harry walked in and Anne felt her heart ache slightly. Her boy was no longer a boy, and he had moved away from the little creature she'd adored. She still loved him and wished him happiness in the future, although she feared he'd surrendered the skills needed to achieve it. "It's so desolate it sends you mad. Mother was on the point of madness, so perhaps this is a blessing."
"She probably killed herself," Stanford said. "It wouldn't surprise me. She was a miserable cow most of her life."
Richard's grip on her arm tightened and Anne looked up at his scowling face.
"It matters not," she assured him, the visitors not hearing her voice.
Reverend Whitling walked into the entrance, wearing his typical black attire. "Some tea to recover from the journey," he suggested to Lisle, who went to prepare it. Mr. Whitling looked sad and Anne felt sorry for that. "She was a lovely lady," he said.
Stanford looked unimpressed, checking his watch in his waistcoat pocket, the skin under his chin wrinkling as he looked down.
"Mr. Charterham is not far away," the reverend continued. "Once he is here, we can commence with the burial."
They walked into the parlor and accepted the tea Lisle served them. She had even baked a cake, which was quickly consumed.
"It must be awful being out here on your own," Whitling said to Lisle. "It is all so unfortunate." He patted her hand as if to give her strength.
"It is hardly unfortunate if the woman did this to herself," Stanford cut in, flaring his jacket as he sat down.
"No, you misunderstand. It was her heart," the reverend corrected him. "An undiagnosed heart weakness."
"The whole woman was weak."
"Father," Harry chided.
Anne could tell Richard wanted to get his sword and run the man through, and she gently patted him on the arm.
Mr. Charterham arrived and they departed for the graveyard. Mr. Turner was waiting outside with his horse and cart, the casket on the back.
"Do you wish to go to the burial?" Richard asked her gently, forgoing his hatred of Stanford to be concerned for her.
"No, I'd rather not," she replied.
Lisle did go with them and they all returned to the house an hour and a half later, when she had to gather the coats of the visitors.
"Poor Mr. Turner, another grave for him to dig. We are a burden on that man," Anne said.
"I suppose the artwork is worth a few bob," Stanford said, looking bored.
"I think that vase in the parlor is lovely. It will look marvelous in our dining room," the new wife said, her eyes searching the house for other treasure. "But everything else is so old, so old-fashioned. There is little we can salvage. There's no accounting for taste, is there?"
"We'll find some merchant who wants it," Stanford said and straightened his suit. "Can we get on with the business end?" he said brashly to Mr. Charterham.
"Perhaps in the library?" the solicitor suggested.
"Oh, there are books. Hopefully some valuable ones," the woman said, taking her husband's arm with enthusiasm.
"She is simply awful," Elizabeth said as the unseen followed the guests into the library.
"So Miss Sands' will has a few stipulations," Mr. Charterham said, sitting down to read the document to the eager party. "But to summarize, the land, the house, its content and all chattels are left to… Mrs. Cecilia Worthing."
There was utter silence in the room, nothing was heard other than the ticking of the clock from the hall.
Stanford had turned positively red. "Who is God's name is Cecilia Worthing?" he roared, standing up and demanding an answer. Harry joined him, looking confused.
"I understand she is Miss Sands' second cousin twice removed."
Stanford blinked as if he was about to have an attack of some sort. He continued blinking, one after another, as if doing so would force this development to go away.
"Apparently, Miss Sands believed that this property should remain with the female line of the family, and so stipulates in her will. There are also provisions for Lisle Crowe to remain with the property as long as she wishes, and to receive a stipend from the estate's revenues."
"What does this mean, Father?" Harry said, his eyes large and worried.
"It means we have to challenge this woman, whoever she is," he said with violent arm movements.
"I wouldn't recommend it. As a specifically named beneficiary, you have little claim on the estate."
"We would have won our case. We lodged a petition."
"But it was never heard, never ruled on, and the circumstances are now entirely different. You would have very little justification for the ruling going your way. Even your son, Harry, is only distantly related to this woman. It would be very hard to make a case for better management of the estate in his care. No doubt the lady’s husband would challenge that. And as only a female will inherit, you have little future claim." Mr. Charterham didn't look in the least sorry to deliver his verdict on their chances. "You are, of course, welcome to try."
Stanford's face had now turned purple. "That stupid, little whore!" he roared.
Reverend Whitling looked shocked and Harry sat slumped in the chair, as if he had lost his very future. Well, at least, a trip to Italy. Anne steeled herself to not feel sorry for him. It was better for him in the long run not to cheat his mother. Someday, she hoped he'd come to realize the error in his own behavior.
"But this is ours," the woman said, finally understanding what was happening. "She can't just give it to someone else."
"She has," Mr. Charterham said.
"But we need that money."
"And I suspect Miss Sands probably understood that."
"Spiteful, sallow cow," Stanford spat, forcing his way out of the room, but ended up tripping over Lisle's ill placed ankle.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Kinelly," Lisle said to the fallen man. "You must take care of the carpets in this house. They have a way of tripping you up."
Anne shrugged, accepting that perhaps it had all been a little spiteful, but they deserved it.
"Feel better?" Richard asked as he turned to her.
"Yes," she giggled, smiling up at him.
Supper was a solemn affair. Both Mr. Charterham and Reverend Whitling complimented Lisle on the meal, but the others sat in sulky silence.
"What can we do, father?" Harry asked.
"There is nothing we can do," Stanford replied, his voice still icy with rage.
"I'm still taking the vase," the new wife said defiantly.
"It does not belong to you," Mr. Charterham pointed out, "and the constables would have to retrieve it from your house."
The woman paled, probably imaging the ruckus caused by constables forcing themselves into her house, the neighbors all seeing through their windows.
"I'm retiring," Stanford said, standing. "We're leaving first thing in the morning." He strode out of the dining hall, his wife tottering after him. Harry solemnly slipped away as well.
Richard turned to the assembled party—Elizabeth, Alfie, William and Beatrice. "Let's make our guests feel most unwelcome," he said with a smile, and Anne squeezed his arm.
To Mr. Charterham and Reverend Whitling’s surprise, the Kinelly party had departed abruptly during the night, had run out of the house as if devils were after them, screaming frantically to wake their carriage driver and running outside in their nightclothes. Mrs. Kinelly dragging a half open canvas bag after her, her clothes falling out. One article of her undergarments still lay on the staircase.
"An unusual family," Reverend Whitling said to Mr. Charterham as he sat down to the breakfast Lisle served, "but then they say this house is haunted."
"Can't say I experienced anything."
"Me, neither. Do you think this Mrs. Cecilia Worthing will take residence here?" the reverend asked.
"She is married and settled in Dover, so I shouldn't think so. No doubt they will come visit once in a while. But I suspect this house will be mostly left to whatever ghosts roam here."
Whitling seemed to shudder at the statement and Lisle smiled as she bore the teapot away.
Anne ran her fingers over the wisps of the barley as she walked through the lush crop. The sun shone brightly and the warm breeze sang over the barley heads. There was a lovely, clean and fresh smell coming off the stalks.
“It is beautiful,” she said. The moors stretched as far as she could see, but she didn’t feel the desolation. This felt like hers now, and his. This was their world and they were completely safe and free.
Walking through the stalks to him, she wrapped her arms around his waist and breathed in the scent of him. This was home; he was home. “You like it?” he said, looking down at her.
“I love it.”
Behind them, back at the house, Elizabeth and her brother were coming out the door, running down one side and away. Elizabeth had her skirts bundled in front of her as she ran. Just then, Elizabeth didn’t seem that old, more like the girl she looked like.
“Where are they going?”
“There is a stream over there,” he said, pointing in the distance. “On hot days, they like to swim in it.”
“Is there really?” Anne said brightly.
“Perhaps I will show you later.”
The idea of spending time with him in the bright, warm sun was infinitely appealing.
“But tonight,” he continued. “I think we should have a banquet in your honor, to truly welcome you to the house.”
“Will there be dancing?” she said, stepping away from him, lightly gripping the barley around her.
“Of course. And music. Thompson is rather gifted, if you would believe it. William can belt out a tune, too, if pressed.”
His face grew serious as he walked toward her again. “I don’t want you to regret this.”
“I don’t think I will.” She couldn’t stop touching him when he was near and ached to when he wasn’t. He occupied every single thought in her head with a headiness that made her woozy. A smile refused to budge from her lips, except now, when he was leaning down to kiss her. A slow, lingering kiss made her forget where she was.
“Well, I have done some questionable things in my life, and in my death, but I am not a scoundrel. I might not always have succeeded, but I have always tried to do right.” He turned to her, his hands gently stroking along her shoulders and down her arms. “That includes the woman I intend to share my world with. So, Anne Sands of London, as we have discussed on a few occasions, will you consent to being my bride?”
“As I recall, that was more of a threat,” she teased.
“I suppose that depends entirely on how you look at it.”
“And if I say no?”
Wrapping his fingers around hers, he drew her close, her chest pressed against his. “Then I think I must convince you. Although I would have to work quickly as there is a vicar in the house who will shortly be departing. It may not be impossible to get him to delay a night. I am sure Lisle could convince him to stay another night to console a distraught girl such as herself. He appears a tender-hearted man. The banquet tonight might as well be a wedding banquet.”
Anne twisted her head as if considering the proposal. “The poor man would be terrified.”
“He’ll assume it’s a dream.”
The idea of taking vows with this man was deeply exciting. She wanted them to belong together in every way. Surely vows were as beholding for spirits as they were for the living. It was perhaps the intent that mattered. It was for her anyway. She wanted to state her intentions for everyone to hear. This man belonged to her and she belonged to him.
“Then, Miss Anne Sands of London. Will you tonight be Mrs. Anne Hawke?”
“I’ll think about it,” she said with a laugh and slipped out of his grip. She didn’t get far before he caught her, lifting her up in his arms. The kiss showed he wasn’t taking no for an answer.
The End