Chapter One
Northern England, 1828
The rumbling and creaking of the cart, and the bitter grumblings of the old man Rebecca had hired in the village to help her complete the journey, had long since faded. How long she stood there—feet firmly rooted in the frozen tracks of mud, the ice-cold northern wind whistling and cutting through her many layers of wool, eyes affixed on the sight beyond the daunting wrought-iron gates—was anyone’s guess.
It was only a house. A house like any other.
‘Unholy house,’the old man had spat as he left, but to Rebecca it remained nothing more than another house she was to work in.
So why was passing the gates, walking up the barren drive and entering proving to be such a challenge? This was not the first house she had served, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Why was this paragon of Jacobean English grandeur, sitting upon its isolated hill in the middle of the borderlands—imposing and dreary in the light of this cold grey September morning though it may be—suddenly filling Rebecca’s heart with dread and foreboding?
Stop behaving such a complete ninny, she thought as a shiver passed through her.You are cold, and tired. It’s only a house. A house with stories.
Yes, there were many stories about this house. Tales she knew well, having heard them whispered in many a drawing room or parlour in the late hours. Tales which were the only reason she’d been offered the position—of that she was almost entirely certain. Tales of vengeance and ghosts and disappearing earls—and, naturally, murder. Gothic tales worthy of a penny blood, by which she set no store. Though there wassomethingabout this place. Rebecca could feel it in her bones. Something otherworldly.
No. It’s only a house.
The only thing truly threatening her composure was her return to this land. Coming back, so close to home... It was bound to be upsetting. Or rather,unsettling. It wasn’t so much the house that troubled her, but all it represented.
A return home. Well, somewhat.
No matter. This position was perfect.Tooperfect to resist. It was worth the risk of returning to the fells and dales so near those she had explored as a child. Worth returning to this unforgiving landscape she had always felt in the marrow of her soul, and which now gave her courage as she inhaled deep breaths of the fresh, biting autumn wind.
Independence. Autonomy. Isolation. And a rather impressive salary.
All for what—at least to Rebecca, or to any other housekeeper worth her salt—amounted to child’s play. Thornhallow Hall was, to all intents and purposes, abandoned. Its master, William Reid, the Right Honourable the Earl of Thornhallow, having disappeared from society, and many believed from England, some ten years prior. Since then the house had remained occupied by a diminished army of servants. Why the master had refused to close the house entirely was anyone’s guess. To be certain, it added to the tantalising mystery of it all.
Regardless, it was up to this minuscule army, and now herself, to maintain the efficient and seamless running of the house—most of which, she had been informed, was closed off on the master’s orders.
Only four rooms in the main wing would require her attention.The study, the library, the drawing room and the master’s bedroom. Maintain order and cleanliness as though the Earl might return within the hour—those were her marching orders. Orders she could certainly follow, and with alacrity.
This position offered her independence, and isolation beyond her wildest dreams. Yes, it would be hard work. But never in her life had she shied away from hard labour.
Besides, I doubt I could do any worse than the others before me...
And, after all, it wasn’t as if she had many other options. It was Thornhallow or a house in London. The latter being absolutely, undisputedly, out of the question. She could not return to the city. That was looking for trouble. The last time... The last time it had all nearly ended. She had skirted too close to disaster. And here...
He would never think of looking for her here.
At least that episode in London had served some good. Served as a welcome reminder of her circumstances. Of her life and limitations. Of the need to always keep moving.
So keep moving.
‘Can’t turn back now,’ she muttered, rubbing her wool-covered frozen hands together before grabbing hold of her portmanteau and travelling bag. ‘And besides, you’re well nithered now, you fool.’
With that, Rebecca slid through the creaky, rusted pedestrian gate, as instructed, and began the long walk up the gravelled drive.
Having rung the bell spiritedly, Rebecca turned from the commanding arched oak doors, set into the facade beneath a delicate portico, to admire the landscape from this vantage point. It was...stunning, and invigorating. From here she could see forever. The village, there in the dell to the west, fields, pastures and more villages punctuating the folds and curves of the wild and untamed land, all greens and greys and purples. On a clearer day perhaps she might even see her home from here. So close...
The thought sent another shiver down her spine.
‘Mrs Hardwicke, I presume,’ grumbled a proud-sounding voice.
Rebecca whirled around and found herself staring into a pair of bright grey eyes. Their owner was a tall, lean and elegantly liveried fellow, somewhere in his mid-sixties, though his smooth face belied his age. His greying hair was neatly swept back into a smallqueue, reminiscent of a bygone age, and his bushy eyebrows joined in a curt frown. Thin lips were tightly pressed together in disapproval, but Rebecca smiled at this man who was most certainly Thornhallow’s butler.
The man who she would need make her ally if she was to succeed here.
‘Mr Brown,’ Rebecca said brightly, stripping off a glove and extending her hand.
