Eliza ran a hand over her rumpled skirts and came out. “I am. And this is my sister, Lydia.”
“I be Giles Mason. Groundskeeper.”
Lydia shifted from side to side, wearing her impatience like most women wore perfume. “Can we please come in, sir? It’s so cold.”
“Right, then.” Mason fiddled with the padlock, then cranked a pulley wheel. The gate swung free with a metallic groan. “House idn’t rightly comfortable—housekeeper quit after Lady Sherbourne died. You’d probably rather a hot toddy and a room at the pub.”
“We’ll endure the discomfort, Mr.Mason,” Eliza said. “It’s been a tiring day.”
He gave a terse nod and disappeared into the gatehouse. A moment later, he produced a hand-drawn wagon and loaded their trunks with surprising vigor, then motioned for them to follow along the gravel drive.
At first glance, Sherbourne House was statelier than Eliza had imagined. Made of yellow limestone, it sat upon a small plateau in the Georgian style, flanked by a formal garden. An oak tree stood in front of the terrace, as ancient and gnarled as the trees in Louisiana, lacking only a raiment of Spanish moss. Mason left their trunks on the terraceand led them beneath the portico. He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and worked the lock. The door swung open, scraping an arc on the dusty marble floor.
Eliza blinked as they crossed the threshold, her vision adjusting to the liminal light. She pulled off her gloves and spun in a circle, taking in the high coffered ceiling and paneled walls. Woven tapestries hung along the foyer, depicting naval battles and pastoral scenes.
“I’ll fetch some candles,” Mason said. “There’s gas, but I’d not chance it until you have an inspector come out. House been boarded up like this one the next town over blew to high heaven when the new tenants moved in. Rats chewed through the lines.”
“Comforting thought,” Lydia murmured after he’d gone. “Can you imagine?”
Eliza’s shoulders sagged. “I’m fairly certain that won’t happen to us.”
A few moments later, a flickering came from the rear of the house, and Mason reemerged with a multitiered candelabra. The flames cast ghoulish shadows beneath his eyes. “I gathered as many candles as I could find and left them in the kitchen. I’ll fetch a boilermaker tomorrow, first thing. Bedchambers are upstairs. Chamber pots under the beds.” He raised an eyebrow at Eliza and smiled, showing a row of crooked, gray teeth. “No need to do your business on the verge again, miss.”
Eliza returned his smile and took the candelabra, the tallow rancid in her nostrils. “Thank you, Mr.Mason.”
“Right. I’ll be in the carriage house should you need anything.”
The old man trudged off, leaving Lydia and Eliza at the foot of an L-shaped staircase. They went up, finding a narrow hallway at the top lined with closed doors, a tattered runner snaking over the wooden floor. Eliza opened the first door they came to. The scent of stale ashes wafted out as they entered. A small four-poster bed stood in the corner of the room, its velvet canopy shrouded in a fine layer of dust. The carpet was worn through in places, the mirror above the dressing tablefoxed with black spots. Eliza’s white face floated like a specter within. The entire room held a sad, gothic fustiness.
“Shall we sleep in the same room tonight?” Eliza set the candelabra on the bedside table. Light jumped across the ceiling, throwing their shadows large upon the wall.
“Yes. I’m not wandering through the rest of this house alone.” Lydia turned down the bed. Dust bounced from the quilted counterpane, drawing a ragged cough from Eliza. “This place could do with a good airing out.”
They freshened up as best they could, then helped each other undress down to their chemises. Eliza nestled beside Lydia under the musty sheets. “I do hope Tante Theo didn’t die in this bed.”
“Wouldn’t that be a thing, to find her ghost staring at us in the middle of the night?” Lydia tied a silk scarf over her loosened curls, blew out the candles, and flopped back onto the mattress. “Tomorrow, we’ll burn a little sage to freshen things.”
“Tomorrow, cher.” Eliza wadded the lumpy pillows beneath her head and closed her eyes. Sleep crawled up and found her quickly, sitting heavily on her chest.
Eliza flew awake, paralyzed, her heart racing like a wild thing.Not again.A scream threatened at the back of her throat. Black, watery shadows loomed in the corners. Eliza closed her eyes and opened them again, grounding her senses in the here and now. She traced the pleats on the canopy with her eyes and counted:One, two, three.Slowly, her pulse steadied.Four, five, six.The feeling returned to her fingers. She gripped the edge of the mattress until they ached.Seven, eight, nine, ten. Her head ceased its crazed spinning. She could breathe.
The dream had been too real this time. Too much like a memory. She could still feel the sharp, choking sting of water and the weight ofher dress dragging her to the bottom of the pond, no matter how hard she fought for the surface. But she wasn’t drowning. She was safe in England.Home.
Moonlight streamed through the drapes and limned the room with silver, creating a chiaroscuro painting out of otherwise normal objects. In the distance, thunder crackled a warning. The wind picked up, tearing through the eaves with a wicked howl. A shutter came loose and began thumping against the house, steady as a carpenter’s hammer. Eliza pushed the covers aside, careful not to wake Lydia, and crossed to the casement.
The moon cut a clean, gray path on the ground, broken only by the shadows of scudding clouds. She swung open the sash. Frigid air slammed her full in the face. As she leaned out to pull the wayward shutter to the sill, a familiar sound met her ears. She strained to listen. Hoofbeats.
Suddenly, a horse and rider burst through the trees bordering the ruined mansion she’d seen from the road. They tore across the heath at a full gallop, the horseman’s caped coat flaring out behind him. He sat well in his saddle—riding high in his stirrups as he made a clean jump over a low stone wall and returned to a run. The horse was big and rawboned, perhaps a warmblood or a Friesian. Impressive animal. Bred for kings and war.
A fierce gust of wind hissed through the trees. The shutter tore free from Eliza’s hand and slammed into the side of the house with a crack as loud as a pistol shot. The rider slowed, pivoting in his saddle. From this distance, she could only make out the moonlit oval of his face, but his eyes seemed to meet hers for a long moment. She gasped and took a step backward, the hem of her gown luffing over the sill.
Clouds raced to cover the moon. Sharp droplets spat at the windowpanes as the earthy scent of rain dampened the air. The rider turned and urged his horse back to speed. They were soon gone, disappearing into the birchwood forest. Eliza pulled the drapes closed against the storm, her imagination uncoiling.
CHAPTER 2
The next morning bloomed bright and sunny—a marked departure from the day before. Something smelled wonderful. Was it bacon? Eliza wiped the sleep from her eyes and sat up. Her long curls fell around her shoulders, tangled from her fitful night. Lydia was gone, her chemise lying across the foot of the bed.
Eliza went to the window and parted the curtains. The scene out-of-doors held far less mystique than it had by moonlight—daytime revealing the true state of the distant manor. From her vantage point, she saw the house was shaped vaguely like the letter H, with a glass-topped conservatory nestled like a jewel box in the hollow between wings. While the north-facing wing seemed to be in livable condition, the roof was collapsed at the rear elevation, its scorched attic rafters bared to the sky. So, there had been a fire. A recent one, by the look of it.
