Chapter Four

Over the next two weeks the weather turned even more towards winter, with gales, storms and an increasingly bitter cold slowly overthrowing the brisk but enjoyable autumn days. It somehow made the house feel warmer. More inviting than Liam had ever felt it to be. Or perhaps, it was the indomitable Mrs Hardwicke, and her seemingly mystical ability to bring warmth and light wherever she went.

He hadn’t seen much of her since she had come to his study and presented him with the reconciled accounts for the past ten years. The smile of proud satisfaction on her face as she piled them high on his desk for review had nearly made him laugh. Not quite the reaction she’d expected, he sensed.

He hadn’t been able to help it. Her serious, determined manner had been oddly charming, warming his heart in a strange sort of way.

However, since he had thanked her for her efforts, and commended her diligence, he had barely seen her. Which was for the best. The last thing he needed was any more stirrings where his employees were concerned. Luckily, he was busy enough reacquainting himself with everything, as best he could while he waited for the majority of the papers concerning the Earldom and this estate to be sent from London.

So far he had made no progress on his ‘mad scheme’, as Leonards called his quest for freedom from his birthright. Which frustrated him, but he countered his sense of uselessness by taking long rides through the park and surrounding wilderness, and discreetly going on little tours of the house, following Mrs Hardwicke’s progress.

Slowly he was making his way towards...

Somewhere he was still not ready to venture.

As the weather changed, and seemed intent on remaining more foul than fair, Liam knew it was time to meet with Bradley, his estate manager. Surveying the estate once more unfavourable days set in would be an added trial neither needed. Besides, he was not getting very far in assessing anything by himself, and Bradley, he was sure, could illuminate him on most matters.

It was time to face someone other than his house staff. Time to face the world again, if only partially. Time to make his plans and wishes known.

So he’d set a meeting with Bradley, knowing full well that a day away from Thornhallow was needed lest he go mad. Spending so much time indoors weighed on him. He was not accustomed to it, and quite detested it. No matter how warm and welcoming Mrs Hardwicke made the house.

‘Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, my lord,’ Bradley said jovially, riding up to meet Liam where he waited at the edge of the west woods. ‘Welcome home.’

‘Thank you. It’s good to see you.’ Liam smiled, leaning over Orpheus to offer his hand.

The man had aged, grey peppering the thick dark locks, and deep laughter lines marking the strong face of a man who lived his life outdoors. When Bradley had first come to Thornhallow, Liam was but a boy, and Bradley had been in his early thirties, eager, hardworking and seemingly a giant. Now it seemed they were equals, though there was a quiet wisdom about the man Liam had not recalled.

‘And thank you for looking after it all these years.’

‘Only doing my duty, my lord, as you well know,’ Bradley said with a nod. ‘Now, shall we take these fellows on a walk and discuss business?’

‘Excellent.’

They rode in silence for a short while, quietly ambling through the park, heading for the tenant farms which lay beyond the ancient woodland to the north.

‘He’s written to you, hasn’t he? Leonards? Of my “mad scheme”.’

‘Indeed he has,’ Bradley said, with a wry smile but a hint of worry in his eyes. ‘And you are quite set upon this path? Trying to relinquish the Earldom? There are other ways, you know.’

‘Easier ways,’ Liam corrected. ‘Ways which would allow me a sense of freedom until I change my mind. Regret my choice.’

Bradley simply shrugged, and Liam sighed. He appreciated everyone’s concern and well-meaning reticence, but he also wished he could make them understand.

‘I am certain of my decision, and will never regret true and everlasting freedom. If indeed I can realise my dreams.’

‘As long as you are certain, my lord, I will serve you in whatever course you choose. If it can be done...it will take a lot. Money, time, commitment... And your absence, I’m afraid, has been felt.’

‘I know. And I know that you and Leonards, and everyone here, have done the best you could. I am grateful for it, no matter my own thoughts on the place. That is why I came back. Everything else can be sorted easily enough, but Thornhallow...’

‘Quite.’

Bradley took a moment before continuing, giving Liam a moment to compose himself under the guise of leading his mount carefully onto the muddy woodland path.

‘Leonards has begun making arrangements in London?’

‘Yes, attempting to, at least. Much to his own dismay. He is sending on the papers regarding the estate, and once I have properly looked over everything, and we have discussed how best to proceed, I shall advise him of our plans. As for the house, he wishes for a proper surveyor to come, but I would rather my intentions remain known only to us. For now, at least.’

Liam sighed, ducking under a large overhanging branch.

‘I thought, if you’re up to the task, perhaps you could write up a report about the edifice? I’ve asked Thomas to discreetly take stock of the furnishings, the art and all the rest. With the twenty odd housekeepers he’s suffered, I dare say he wasn’t too confounded by the request.’

‘I can manage well enough,’ Bradley said thoughtfully. ‘There’ll be some repairs and the like, surely, but the latest of your housekeepers has already tackled some of the more pressing issues. At least, she advised she would when we met.’

‘Ah, yes, the incomparable Mrs Hardwicke.’

Cannot seem to escape the wretched female, no matter how hard I try.

‘So she has.’

‘Haven’t been up to the house but once since she arrived—’bout a week or so after she had. Everyone was in a right state, particularly Mr Brown—not that he said a word against her. Quite an enterprising sort, she seemed. Ambitious and determined. A rather pleasant, strange sort. But, well...’

Bradley let the words hang, along with their unspoken meaning. But, well, just what Thornhallow needs.

Et tu, Bradley?

‘How are things going up there?’

‘Well enough. She’s won them all over with her brazen treachery,’ Liam said begrudgingly, but with a hint of amusement and admiration. ‘From what I can tell she’s moving through the house like a whirlwind, intent on polishing every last door handle before the spring. Then, I suppose the gardens will be next.’

Liam wondered briefly if she would be able to revive his mother’s work as she was reviving the house. The others had done well enough with the bones of the rose and wildflower gardens his mother had created, but for a brief moment he smiled at the thought that Mrs Hardwicke’s witchcraft might restore them to the Eden he remembered.

Not that I will be here to see it if she does...

‘I have to admit,’ he sighed, the bitterness of that thought surprising him. ‘I had no idea... I didn’t mean for things to become so... Well, in any case, she’s saved me a lot of trouble. So I must be thankful, I suppose.’

‘Aye, I’m glad she’s working out, then. Can’t believe she’s won over Mr Brown,’ Bradley laughed. ‘He’s a tough one, but match enough for him, she is. Good for her.’

‘Aye, match enough indeed.’

For any man or monster.

‘Mrs Ffoulkes as well—mad old bat. Apparently your Mrs Hardwicke has been up to see her once a week, checking on her, bringing her treats...’

‘I have not been to visit her yet, I have been remiss,’ Liam said, wondering if the widow of his father’s gatekeeper had changed at all.

Mrs Ffoulkes had been given a small allowance and a cottage on the estate when her husband had passed away—one of the few selfless and generous acts his father had ever done.

But from the first time Liam had set eyes on her, and thought her a witch dwelling in the woods, to the last, a year or so before he’d left Thornhallow, Mrs Ffoulkes had not gained a single new wrinkle.

He wondered if that would still be true.

‘I should do so before long, though I doubt I could live up to whatever lofty sainthood she has seen fit to bestow upon Mrs Hardwicke.’

With complicit smiles, they continued on, discussing Liam’s plans and the best ways to enact them.

Soon enough I will be free. Everything will be as it should, you will see, Hal.

As Liam parted with Bradley later that afternoon, and made his way back to the stables, he wondered if she would have understood his decision. Or if she, too, would have chastised him, as she had often been wont to do, no matter that he had been her elder, her keeper, her adviser. She had always been the wisest, the kindest—the heart of Thornhallow.

And now that you are gone, sister mine, it beats no longer. I doubt it ever will again.

Rebecca awoke with a start, dread and panic churning in the pit of her stomach. She stared into the darkness, her mind attempting to make sense of her sudden awakening through the foggy mess of the remnants of her dream. Breathing deeply, she tried to think back on it. It had been pleasant enough, nothing extraordinary, at least not that she could recall.

Whereas the nightmares...

The nightmares, when her prince finally caught her after all these years, when she could not run fast enough... Those were impossible to forget.

She ran her hand over her forehead and cheeks. No sweat. No temperature. Nothing abnormal.

Definitely not a nightmare, then.

And yet her heart pounded, and the awful feeling in her stomach hadn’t lessened.

Then she heard it.

A roar.

Terrible and chilling.

She sat up, and strained to listen. It seemed to echo in her mind, but only there. There were no rushing footsteps, no bumps or creaks, nor voices in the night. It seemed she alone had heard it. But heard what? Echoes of a dream? A ghost? Her imagination? Was her mind finally surrendering its reason to all the tales and gossip?

Entirely likely, Rebecca. Losing your wits at last...

Another roar.

That was it. In one fell swoop she was out of bed, had donned her dressing robe and slippers, and had begun to make her way through the servants’ quarters as quietly as possible, candle in hand. There would be no going back to bed—not until she was either firmly convinced of her impending madness, or had found whoever it was who was screaming bloody murder.

Such a vivid image you paint yourself...

Rebecca stopped at the bottom of the main servants’ staircase and listened intently. She heard only the flicker of the candle and her own shallow, rapid breathing. That, and her heartbeat. The dull thud of blood in her ears.

But she also heard more dull thuds—not a product of her own fear. Those were coming from upstairs.

And then yet another scream.

Rebecca jumped, then took a deep breath and calmed herself. Whatever—whoever—it was making them, the sounds were definitely coming from upstairs. Steeling herself, she resolved to investigate before rousing any of the others, who remained, it seemed, wholly unaware of any of this. She had yet to convince herself it wasn’t all a figment of her overexhausted mind, and so on she went, slowly and carefully, dreading the sudden appearance of a spectre or masked figure with every step.

You know full well there are no ghosts here. You don’t even believe in the things.

At the top of the stairs Rebecca paused, listening for any sign of life. There seemed to reign the usual silence, punctured only by the ticking of the grandfather clock. Perhaps she had been dreaming after all.

Or perhaps there are ghosts after all.

Is this how it happened? Is this what drove the others away? Screams of terror piercing through the stone walls and the heavy night? Strange towers—

Not ghosts, Rebecca realised as she moved to return to bed and another scream pierced the air, making her shudder. Not in fear, but in pain, for the sound was one of anguish, of pure suffering. It twisted her heart, and made her blood run cold.

A howl... A wolf. Or a man.

Holding out the candle, clutching her robe tightly around herself, Rebecca stepped into the corridor.

Voices, murmurs, moans...

Pricking up her ears, she tried to discern where they were coming from.

The library.

The glow of the fire was visible through the open door.

The master...

He was the only one who would be there at this time of night. Was he being attacked? Should she arm herself? Call the men? And yet, as she cautiously approached the doorway, she knew instinctively that she alone should deal with this. In her heart, she knew there were no attackers. No rogues, and no bandits.

No ghosts.

‘My lord,’ she said, as calmly as she could muster, pushing the door open to peer inside. ‘My lord, are you well?’

Rebecca gasped when she caught sight of the room.

It had been utterly upended. Furniture, books, even the wall hangings had been tossed and torn. And there, amidst it all, beside the fireplace, stood the master, in only his breeches and shirtsleeves. His back was to her, but she could see his laboured breathing and knew instantly that he’d done this.

‘My lord,’ she repeated soothingly, daring a few more steps towards him, but leaving the candle on the small table by the door. ‘It’s Mrs Hardwicke, my lord, I heard—’

Liam whirled around and Rebecca stopped, her breath catching. He looked like a fallen angel in the firelight. A barbaric, dangerous creature. Strands of golden hair, matted with sweat, hung limply around his tempestuous, unfocused eyes, which were full of anguish, heat and ice. His mouth was set in a tight, thin line, and his fists clenched. Every muscle in his body was tense. It wasn’t difficult to see; his clothes were drenched in sweat themselves and clung tightly to him.

Every inch of him was tense, and it seemed, now focused on her. Although Rebecca knew, in that instant, that he did not see her.

She’d heard of sleepwalkers before, but never had she witnessed the phenomenon. She had heard one should not try to wake them, but neither could she leave him like this. The man was in heart-wrenching pain—not to mention he might injure himself if he continued to make his way through the house, destroying it.

‘My lord, it’s Mrs Hardwicke,’ she repeated, as softly and reassuringly as she could manage. ‘My lord, you are dreaming I think...’

Blast, Rebecca thought bleakly as he half jumped, half strode to her, throwing her to the ground before she could move an inch.

Stars shone before her eyes as her head hit the wood, her breath rushing out of her. And then he was there, his body pinning her down, and her heart was beating so fast she could almost hear it hitting her ribs like a bird flying against a cage, as blood rushed, pounding, in her ears.

Still he did not see her, she knew. Rage, anger and something far more terrifying lay there in the hazel eyes that now seemed like fire themselves as they bore down on her. She could smell the whisky on his breath, and the sweat; could feel the sticky heat clouding her. He was murmuring now, incoherent jumbled words and languages, but Rebecca understood the tone.

Accusatory. Pleading. Murderous.

‘My lord,’ Rebecca whispered, trying to push away the uneasiness growing in her belly. This man is not a murderer. ‘Please—’

His right hand flew to her throat, immobilising, but not suffocating.

‘My lord, William,’ she croaked, raising her own hand, and gently sweeping her fingers across his brow before laying her palm on his cheek. ‘William, please...’

And then, in an instant, she saw him return to himself.

His grip slackened, but he did not move. He gaped down in horror, the realisation of what had happened, of what he’d nearly done, dawning as he searched her face.

She saw more pain in his eyes than before. And confusion, regret, shame, disgust.

‘Oh, God,’ he breathed. ‘What have I done?’

‘Nothing, my lord,’ Rebecca reassured him, stroking his cheek softly with her thumb, her hand still cradling his face. ‘You have done me no harm.’

Whatever words he wished to say were drowned in the cry which escaped instead.

Crumbling into himself, he slumped back, his head coming to rest on her belly as his hands fell on her waist. And then he began to sob, his body jerking against hers, his tears soaking her nightshirt.

Rebecca felt her heart reach out to him, this tortured creature, and so what could she do but lie there and wait and hold him?

‘Shh, now...’ she whispered, letting her hands stroke his head comfortingly, running her fingers through his hair, cradling him as best she could. ‘Everything is as it should be.’

As they lay there, for however long it may have been, Rebecca could not help but wonder what horrors, what terrors, this man had seen to bring him to such a state. His screams, the anguish she’d heard and seen in him, were beyond imagination. What terrible events could bring someone to this? Someone as strong and seemingly as impervious as this man before her? Could the stories be true after all?

No... I cannot believe that.

Finally, after what seemed hours, his crying ceased, giving way to ragged breathing.

‘We should get you to bed, my lord,’ Rebecca whispered.

A nod. Liam peeled away from her, bringing himself to his knees.

Rebecca lay there for a moment, a rush of cold and loss sweeping over her. Taking a deep breath, she brought herself up and slowly, carefully, so as not to frighten him, rose to her feet.

The master did not move, still curled over himself, head and shoulders hanging limply, hands resting on the floor, and Rebecca realised she would have to help him to his chambers. Unseemly, unconscionable, and yet she could not bring herself to fetch Gregory or Thomas.

No one else needed to witness the state he was in.

‘My lord,’ she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘I will help you, but I cannot carry you. Give me your hand.’

Liam did as instructed, his hand rising to meet her own, though he still refused to meet her eyes. Rebecca slid the hand that had been on his shoulder beneath his arm, and took some of his weight as he dragged himself unsteadily to his feet.

‘Excellent. Now, lean on me, my lord, and we shall have you in your bed in no time.’

Sliding her hand further along his back to move it around his waist, Rebecca felt him cede, resting his arm around her shoulders. The man was all heavy muscle, but she did not demur, nor falter, simply gritted her teeth and bore it. She let his other hand drop and urged him towards the door, grabbing the candle as they left, before slowly beginning their ascent.

When they reached his chambers Rebecca led him over to the bed, then slid out from under him. He did not move, only stood limply where she had left him. Quickly, she pulled back the covers, then guided him over. Liam let himself be tucked in, his eyes fixed on a point just beyond her head. After she’d settled him she went over to the fire, stoked it and added some logs. She poured him a glass of water, then gazed down at him for a moment.

He looked so...hollow, tortured—the shadows on his face emphasised by the growing flames. He had not moved from where she’d left him, lying there pitifully, staring into a void of his own design. Rebecca felt a pang again, and wished there was more she could do to soothe him.

‘Rest, my lord,’ she whispered, turning to leave. ‘All will be well in the morning.’

‘Stay,’ he pleaded, his voice barely audible.

Not in a thousand years was that a sensible, proper, acceptable idea. And yet Rebecca’s feet would carry her no further.

‘Please.’

She sighed, her heart twisting in her chest, and her mind reeling. Then, quieting them both, she took a chair, and carried it to his bedside. She set the candle down beside her, blew it out, and placed her hand on his. He gripped it tightly—so tightly it felt as though his life depended on it.

Perhaps it does.

‘I shall stay, my lord. Now rest.’

Finally, his eyes fluttered shut. Rebecca sighed again, her heart heavy as she felt his grip slacken. She knew the moment he fell asleep, his breathing slowing and peace finally unknitting his brows.

How on earth had she managed to get herself into such a dreadful mess? She should have gone to fetch the men the moment she’d known the screams were not born of her imagination. Or walked away. Left the master to his nightmares. Not rushed in there—and all for what? What shame had she brought on herself—on him—with her reckless actions?

And yet all that notwithstanding, she couldn’t convince herself that she’d done wrong. Yes, it had been reckless, and she had nearly lost her life attempting to wrench him back from his demons. But even when he had lain upon her, his hand around her neck, she had not been afraid. Not truly.

Why?

He could have broken her neck with a twist of his wrist. Why had she not been afraid? Why had she not kicked and screamed and clawed?

Because... Because what?

She thought she could bring him back? She, his housekeeper, who barely knew him? What kind of foolish nincompoop lay there whilst being throttled and somehow still trusted the man whose hands were wrapped around her throat?

The besotted kind.

The stupid, fairy-tale-believing, googly-eyed, foolish girls who thought love could conquer all and that honourable, dashing creatures such as His Lordship could never hurt them, even when they were not themselves. Girls among whom Rebecca could never count herself again. It had once cost her everything.

What was wrong with her?

Well, so what if she liked the master. It meant nothing. Only that she admired him. There was...

Something. Beneath the gruffness, and temper, and darkness...

That she was instinctively drawn to. That made her trust him. There was no harm in that. It was good to like and admire and trust the masters. And that was why she’d felt the need to comfort, to soothe, to ease his pain.

She wasn’t...besotted. Only someone who had never been able to endure others’ suffering without taking it upon herself. Empathy. She could no sooner have left a bird with a broken wing to die alone in the wilderness than she could have left him to writhe in agony.

Drat, Rebecca thought, exhaustion finally creeping up on her. Trying to sort out the Gordian knots in her mind would not fix anything. Laying her head down on the bed, she resolved to stay a little longer by his side, just in case.

Oh, what trouble you’ve made for yourself indeed Rebecca Merrickson.

Liam awoke as Rebecca let herself out of his room. He lay still, eyes firmly closed, until he heard the sound of her footsteps fade down the corridor, and was certain she would not return. Then, and only then, did he let them flutter open, and for a long while he simply lay there, staring blankly at the door, as though willing her to pass back through it.

Sighing, he finally pulled himself up, and sat against the headboard. Everything hurt. His body, his mind, his heart. He glanced down at his hands. Visions of what he’d done the night before were conjured in his mind at the sight of his bloodied knuckles and cut fingers. He had destroyed the library. And, God help him, he had attacked Mrs Hardwicke.

It had been a long while since the nightmares had so fully taken possession, since such an episode had occurred. But even then, no one had got hurt. Not that he could ever remember much. Only flashes, snippets of memory. Snippets of dreams. But last night... Last night had been the very worst he could recall. Even in the first days after...

God help me...

Liam raked his fingers through his hair and blinked away the tears that threatened to overcome him again. Tears of guilt and of shame. Of anger and of fear.

But not of pain, nor sorrow.

Frowning, he glanced around the room as though it, or some spectre within it, had spoken that revelation. Or as if, perhaps, it might hold the answer.

He rubbed his breast—there, over his heart—and found the tight, harrowing pain which normally lingered had gone. The weight he carried as if Atlas had lessened. In all these years not once had he felt so...

Refreshed?

Despicable, terrified, angry, yes, but somehow...

Lighter?

If he’d known it was as simple as taking his fists to the library, he might have done it years ago.

No. It was... It was the tears.

Those he’d spilled last night, those which had racked his body, and which he had shed unwillingly like pieces of his own flesh and soul. Tears he had spilled in her arms.

God save me.

Was there anything more shameful than attacking her and sobbing in her arms?

Pleading for her to stay, perhaps.

Yes, I did that, too.

Then why did he feel so much lighter? Was it having finally given in to his grief and sorrow as he lay with her in the midst of his destruction? Why could he not fully regret, even now, giving in to those tears he had kept firmly clutched within his breast for years? Tears for Hal and tears for...

How could he not regret having felt her beneath him, taking it all from him? He had hurt her—terrified her, most likely—and yet, it didn’t hurt him so much anymore. And she had stayed.

Why had she stayed?

Liam threw back the covers, slipped on his dressing gown and opened the curtains before setting about pacing the room.

Not only stayed with him here, in his chamber—which, even though he, her lord and master, had asked it, was entirely improper and inconceivable—but before that. In the library.

When she had seen his state, why had she not run? Fetched the others? Or simply left him?

Foolish, reckless, careless woman.

What might have happened if she had not brought him back?

I might’ve killed you, so why in the name of all the saints did you not run?

And why did he feel...

Grateful. For you staying. For you bringing me back from the edge of the never-ending darkness I strayed so closely to.

He could still hear her voice calling his name.

William...

No one called him that; only his mother ever had.

He could still feel the brush of her fingers against his cheek, see the look in her eyes when he had returned to himself...

Entreaty and pleading, but no fear. Foolish, careless woman.

Why had she not feared him even as his fingers encircled her throat? As she lay there at his mercy? He hadn’t even been able to look at her once he’d realised. Once he had given in to everything which had swept over him and turned him into a simpering boy.

And even then, Mrs Hardwicke, you did not recoil...

Liam strode over to the window and leaned his forehead against the cool glass. Outside, the world still lay in slumber, with the sun’s first rays creeping over the horizon and casting a purplish hue over the landscape. So peaceful, so beautiful, this land of his. This place he had tried to escape, but which continued to refuse him release.

It was as if every frosted blade of grass and leaf, every shimmer of glorious autumn delight, had been created solely to taunt him. He had seen a thousand sunrises, a hundred landscapes more breathtaking than this, and yet this—this was what he could not forget, no matter how hard he tried. How far he ran. This land was in his bones, in his blood, like ichor.

He should never have returned. That much was clear.

Last night had almost cost him so much more than he’d already given. If he allowed it—if he did not find a way to exorcise this place from himself soon—he might not be so fortunate. The last shred of his sanity, and any hope of redemption would be lost forever.

On that grim, unwelcome thought, Liam strode back over to his bed and rang the bell. He would dress, clean up, have breakfast and get to work within the hour. There was no more time to waste.

Thornhallow would not claim him as it had Hal, his mother and even his father.

Of that, he would make certain.