Ferndale Grange
Derbyshire
Anoise unlikeany she had ever heard roused Annie from sleep. She opened her eyes, blinking as they adjusted to the room’s dusky light. A brief frisson of panic followed, for nothing about the room was familiar. The panic subsided a moment later, when her foggy brain made sense of it all. Well, all except for the strange noise she’dthoughtshe’d heard. It had sounded like a nasty coughing attack, or someone choking. Maybe she’d imagined it. Or maybe it had been part of a dream, the other details forgotten the moment she’d opened her eyes. Stifling a yawn, Annie rolled onto her back, wondering at the hour. Early morning, judging by the low light seeping through the faded yellow curtains and the muffled sound of birdsong beyond her window. The feathered chorus was richer than the dawn clatter of London’s streets, and heralded her first full day in her new home.
Annie closed her eyes briefly and pinched the bridge of her nose. No,thiswasn’t her home. She’d left that behind two days before, her burden of contrasting emotions weighing more than her travelling-trunk. There had been no further contact with Leo, no sign of him at all, in fact, but Hattie refused to believe he was no longer a threat. Annie’s renewed resistance to leaving London quickly faltered. She simply did not have the energy to argue any further. Still grieving, and uncertain of what the future held, she dared to hope this change, thisescape, might lead to something worthy. Much of her train ride northhad been spent with her nose pressed to the window, watching as the world beyond the city slid by, a world of which she knew so little. The journey, by train and horse-drawn carriage, had been uneventful, and they’d arrived at Ferndale the previous night.
Janet Caldridge had given them a warm welcome, with declarations of delight at their arrival and gentle hugs all round. An equally warm welcome had come from Janet’s little terrier, who, given his wiry coat, was appropriately named Ruffy.
A petite, handsome woman, Janet matched Annie’s height, and appeared older than her purported thirty-seven years. Faint frown lines were already etched permanently onto her brow, while others fanned out at the corners of her eyes. Her dark hair already played host to a few silver threads, which glinted at her temples. Annie had the impression the woman’s life had not been without challenges. And perhaps she’d just been presented with two more, since her guests would be staying for an indefinite amount of time.
As for Ferndale Grange, it was, in a word, charming and a fine stone house of considerable age, judging by the low, beamed ceilings, mullioned windows, and lead-paned glass. Annie had yet to explore it fully, since their late arrival the previous night had not leant itself to such an endeavor. Weary from the journey, she’d picked at a light supper and then retired to bed. Despite her fatigue, however, or perhaps because of it, sleep had been elusive.
Lost in her reflections, Annie jumped as the same strange noise sounded again. Not part of a dream, then, but definitely someone—or something—outside. Intent on solving the mystery, she threw the bedcovers aside and went to the window, bare boards creaking beneath her feet. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she pulled back one of the faded yellow curtains and squinted through the thick, leaded panes of glass. The world beyond appeared blurred and disjointed, the details indistinct, yet enticing. Eager to see the view clearly, Annie lifted the latch, pushed the window open, and gasped.
Softened by the pale light of dawn, the patchwork of meadows and hills stretched off into the distance, all stitched together by rugged stone walls and checkered with dark swathes of woodland. Annie breathed in a lungful of fresh morning air, an invigorating blend of damp earth and floral sweetness. To add to her delight, opening the window had given her a front-row seat to the full glory of the dawn chorus. But then the strange choking sound came again. Frowning, Annie peered down into a small, walled courtyard. Surrounded by a variety of outbuildings, the area appeared to be empty, providing no clue as to the source of the noise. “Whatisthat?” she muttered, and then turned as a soft tap came to her door. Grabbing her shawl from the bedroom chair, she went to the door and opened it. “Good morning, Hattie, I think someone might be—oh, Janet, forgive me!” Annie wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and gave the woman a sheepish smile. “I expected to see Hattie.”
Janet, clad in a loose cotton dressing gown, with a lace nightcap atop her head, returned the smile. “Good morning, Annie. Hattie’s downstairs nursing her second cup of tea. We heard the floorboards creak, so knew you were awake. Did you sleep well, dear?”
“Yes, I did, thank you.” The lie came easily enough. Annie regarded the woman for a moment, noting the dark shadows beneath her eyes. “Did you? I mean, I hope our being here isn’t too much of an inconvenience.”
“Not an inconvenience at all,” Janet replied, with a shake of her head. “I hope I made that clear last night. To the contrary. It’s truly a pleasure having you here, and you’re both welcome to stay as long as you need to, or even as long as you wish.”
“You’re very kind. Thank you. Oh, and…” Annie threw a quick glance over her shoulder, “I keep hearing the strangest noise from outside. It sounds like someone coughing or choking.”
Janet frowned and peered past her. “That’s odd. None of the staff are here yet, and the door to the courtyard is always locked at ni—”
“There it is again!” Eyes widening, Annie looked toward the window. “Can you hear it?”
Janet laughed. “Oh, gracious, yes. I probably should have warned you about that. It’s only Lancelot. Nothing to worry about.”
Annie raised her brows. “Lancelot?”
“The cockerel.” Janet looked decidedly amused. “I agree, he sounds as though he’s being strangled, but he’s old, so I make allowances. I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with his morning serenade. Now, seeing you’re up and about, put your slippers on and come downstairs.”
Annie looked down at herself. “But I am not yet dressed.”
Janet shrugged. “Neither am I and neither is Hattie. It’ll only be the three of us for breakfast. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to dress now?”
Annie shook her head. “No, not especially. I usually… um, well, I suppose things are a little less regimented in the country.”
“Generally, yes,” Janet replied, with a smile. “We do have our ways, though, but you’ll get used to them soon enough. Come on then, get your slippers on, and we’ll start your first day here with a good Derbyshire breakfast.”
*
A week later,Annie had learned much about the way of things at Ferndale Grange. It was, in fact, a working farm, though most of the land was rented out to other local farmers. The house had retained most of its original features, including outer walls two feet thick, a wooden staircase whose treads were blackened by countless footfalls, and the ancient oak beams in the ceilings. It also had a well-stocked vegetable patch, as well as an exquisite, walled flower garden. The latter occasionally provided flowers for the village church, and as Hattie had said Janet would do the arrangements as required.
The stable was home to Albert the carthorse, Tulip, the pony responsible for pulling the trap, and Melody, the Guernsey cow, who provided the creamiest milk Annie had ever tasted. Lancelot, meanwhile, continued with his questionable morning rhapsody and lorded over his hens and the grounds in general. Even the barn cats avoided the cantankerous cockerel. Ruffy tended to disappear most days, but always returned before dark. “Hunting rabbits, most likely,” Janet said, when Annie asked about it. “It’s in his nature. Though I believe he might also have a lady friend in the village.”
Janet had two people in her immediate employ. Gwen, a shy, mousy-haired woman from the nearby village, worked as a domestic, helping out around the house three days a week. Like Hattie, she was an older woman, but unlike Hattie, Gwen spoke only when spoken to, answering quietly, and lowering her gaze each time. Amos, meanwhile, was a true jack-of-all-trades, handling everything from repairs to taking care of the gardens and livestock. Ever cheerful and good-natured, he was a man on the younger side of middle-age, never without a twill flat-cap on his head or a clay pipe in his mouth, the latter sometimes lit, sometimes not. He addressed her as “Miss Annie” and always greeted her with a touch to his cap and a friendly wink.
Hattie appeared to be quite at home. More than once, she’d announced her relief to be away from the city, or more specifically, the danger she applied to it. Though grateful for Janet’s hospitality, Annie could not, as yet, bring herself to echo Hattie’s sentiments.
Janet and Hattie were obviously close. Indeed, there was something of a conspiratorial air about them. Thick as thieves, as the saying went, or so it seemed to Annie. Earlier in the week, in the middle of the night, she’d been awakened by their voices coming from, she surmised, the kitchen. She couldn’t make out what was being said, but the resonance had a solemnity about it, implying a serious discussion rather than a friendly chit-chat. There was no sharing of laughter either, only occasional moments of silence, as if discourse had givenway to thought. Driven by curiosity, Annie had left her bed and tiptoed to her door to see if she might be able to make sense of what was being discussed. But the instant she’d stepped on a creaky floorboard, the conversation had ceased. They’d been talking about her, of that Annie felt certain. Not that it worried her too much. Hattie had likely been sharing details of the past few horrible weeks.
So far, the nights at Ferndale were no more restful for Annie than her nights in London had been. The unaccustomed silence only served to accentuate her anguish. Alone in the darkness, she found it impossible to manage her thoughts, which invariably dragged her down roads paved with sadness and edged with fear. Even the wind, whenever it brushed past her window at night, had a mournful sound. Grief and guilt unfailingly cast shadows over the joys of her day. As to her future, it remained uncertain. How long might they be there? Weeks? Months? Was Leo truly a threat? Was he even still looking for her? Annie doubted it, but knew better than to try and convince Hattie. At least for now.
Sleep, when it did come, was restless and plagued with strange dreams. Oddly, Lancelot’s questionable dawn greeting had become something Annie welcomed, for it signaled the end of another night. Or, rather, the start of another day.
