Giving a resigned sigh, Eliza settled next to Lydia on the worn leather seat, brittle tufts of horsehair poking through the upholstery. The driver loaded their trunks, climbed up to his bench, and cracked his whip. With a lurch, they trotted away from the pier and the bellowing steamship that had carried them far from New Orleans and everything familiar.
Once on their way, Lydia dropped into a deep, snoring sleep beside Eliza. As they reached the outskirts of a forest thick with birches, Eliza reopened the letter that had set her on her journey. It was dated March 6, 1899, the spidery writing barely legible on the ink-spotted page.
Dearest Elizabeth,
If you have received this letter, it will mean I have departed this life for the next.
You may not remember who I am, as you were very young when we met. Your maman was quite dear to me, having watched her grow up on St.Martin. As I am a widow without issue, it is my wish that my estate fall to you upon my death. You will have the full terms of the bequest from my solicitor, who will meet with you upon your arrival to Hampshire.
Sherbourne House was once grand, and I have hopes you’ll care for it well. After your troubles, you may find a new beginning will be just the thing to restore your spirit. It is my dearest hope that you find happiness here with a family of your own. It warms my heart to think of the laughter of children in these halls.
With fondness,
Tante Theo
Baroness Sherbourne
“We’re nearly there, ladies.”
The driver’s brusque voice startled Eliza from her reading, quiet as he’d been for most of their journey. She folded the letter and tucked it away. “How much further?” she asked.
“Only a few more miles. We’ll turn onto the lane after the village.”
The afternoon swiftly fell to evening as they rolled through Cheltenbridge, passing a collection of whitewashed shops nestled around a square. Vendors offered their wares on tables along the curb, boasting silk cravats in bright colors and trilbies stacked in neat rows. The village women milled about on their errands, wearing simple calicos and wide-brimmed hats. It was altogether languorous and quaint compared with the bustle of Canal Street. The air was fresher here, cleaner—unspoiled by the fetid miasma of disease and mold.
After they crossed over the arched bridge the town had been named for, the road became an earthen lane rutted by wagon wheels. They went through the turning, the cab creaking and groaning with the effort. There was a sudden break in the trees, revealing the eaves and mansard roof of a large mansion.
“Now there’s a blasted wreck of a place,” the driver snarled. He spat out the side of his mouth. Eliza’s stomach rolled. “Me mum worked there as a girl. Said it was haunted and the walls crawled around the edges of your eyes. Still ... shame to let a fine house like that go.”
Eliza leaned forward, perking up. “Did you say it was haunted?”
“That’s right. Me mum weren’t prone to no fancy.”
Whether there were spirits about the place or not, he was right concerning the letting go; the gardens around the house were a rampant tangle of rosebushes and Italian cypress swaying behind a gate adorned with twining ebony serpents. The unkempt gardens obscured most of the mansion’s façade, but the roofline was lovely, punctuated by a row of arched transom windows. It was the sort of house meant to sit in one’s imagination and take up residence. Eliza looked up at its high oriel window and wondered who lived inside.
They bounced on for a bit, until a squat gatehouse with a copper roof appeared to their left. The wordsSherbourne Housewere pressed into its cornerstone, along with the address and its date of construction: 1759. The gates were padlocked, their spiked ironwork forbidding and cold.
Eliza nudged Lydia. She jerked awake with a snort. “We’re here. The solicitor said a groundskeeper would be about to open the gates, but I don’t see anyone.”
“Is there a bell?” Lydia craned her neck. “It certainly seems desolate, doesn’t it?”
“You should see the neighboring estate—according to our driver, we’ll be living next to a haunted house. It looks like something from a penny dreadful.”
The driver cleared his throat and spat again. “I needs to be getting back to my wife and a warm dinner, good ladies. But for another dollar, I can stay put with ye ’til someone shows up. There’s been reports of a highwayman around these parts.”
“That’s quite all right, sir,” Eliza said. “You’ve already been more than accommodating.” She dug through her chatelaine bag, pawing past peanut hulls and meal cards until she produced two silver dollars and a few bits of change for good measure. She pushed them through the hinged opening at the top of the hansom, and the driver released the door to the cab. He unloaded their luggage with an abundance of sighing before turning his rig to trot away with nary a glance behind him.
Eliza peered over the ivy-tangled gate. “Hello?” she called, cupping her hands around her mouth. They waited for an answering call and were met with silence. No light shone through the purple dusk, and no sound stirred beyond the chirruping of toads. The air had grown dank and sodden, threatening rain. Eliza rubbed her arms to fight the chill. For a moment, a wave of helplessness washed over her, but there was no time for that now. Not after months of planning. Not when everything she’d hoped for was within reach.
“What should we do?” Lydia banged the lock against the gate in frustration.
“I’m not sure,” Eliza said, “but I’ve a fierce need to relieve myself. That carriage ride was a bit long for my bladder.”
“Can’t you wait until we’re inside?”
“Why? There’s no one here.” Eliza pushed behind the thick branches of a yew bordering the gates and gathered her skirts to squat. Suddenly, there was a scurrying, and a sharp face with beetle-dark eyes emerged from the shadows. Eliza leapt to her feet. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.
“You Miss Elizabeth Sullivan?” the man asked, squinting at her through the gate’s fretwork.
