writing

All houses in which men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors, 
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
with feet that make no sounds upon the floors.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Chapter One

A grey dawn was just beginning to break when Miss Sylvia Enright left home by the servants’ quarters. The great house was still quiet, and so far neither kitchen maids nor footmen had roused themselves. She had planned it well; only her personal maid Bertha knew she was about to escape.

When she reached the fork in the road Sylvia ignored the sign to Nettleford and congratulated herself on laying a false trail. If Bertha was forced into giving away as much as she knew, she would set them all searching in the wrong direction. The sky was lighter now, but surely it should have been brighter. Those ominous clouds were gathering fast, and the tree cover was sparse. And apart from that, her bandbox, which had seemed easily manageable when she packed it, now felt as if it contained nothing but rocks. Sylvia was beginning to consider what she might discard when she heard horse hooves and wheels coming quite fast along the road behind. She turned and looked into the distance, hoping to see the coal cart, but this was not the heavy sound of a plodding cart horse.

She soon recognised the smart gig. As it approached it began to slow its hurtling pace and finally drew up beside her. Johnathon Byers. Had he been sent to fetch her back? Unlikely. He could not have been to Sommerton this early in the day.

‘Where are you going Sissy?’

‘To York, if you really must know, Johnathon.’

‘York? That’s a curst long way. How do you propose to get there? Walk?’

‘No of course not, silly. I was hoping for a lift on the coal cart to Harrogate and then I will catch the mail coach to York.’ She was not planning to go to York, but neither was she going to tell Johnathon where she was actually headed.

‘Old Jeb Olson’s coal cart? Dashed uncomfortable. And very dirty. That fine cloak would be ruined.’

Sylvia had not seriously considered this. If the seat on Jeb’s cart was thick with coal dust, by the time she arrived at Harrogate she might well look like a coal heaver herself. ‘Are you going to Harrogate by any chance?’ A few spots of hail had begun to spatter the dry earth like bird-shot.

‘Lord no. I’m going to Aunt Henrietta’s. But she’s on the Harrogate road. Do you want to come up and ride with me?’

Could she trust him? It would be just like Johnathon to turn the gig around and take her straight back home. Well if that happened she would have to run away again. For the moment he was her only hope of outrunning the weather.

Sylvia climbed up beside him, glad to be able to lay her heavy bandbox at her feet. He set off at a fast pace, obviously trying to beat the rain clouds, but the faster they travelled the worse the weather became. Before long Sylvia’s cloak was soaked, and despite her hood, icy hail hit her face and trickled down her neck. Johnathon fancied himself as a champion dragster, but Sylvia knew recklessness did not equal skilfulness; it was only a matter of time before the gig lurched and twisted violently to one side.

Johnathon quickly grabbed her to stop her being thrown from her seat. ‘Whoa, Admiral!’ With his free arm he fought to slow the frightened horse as a  hideous scraping noise came from underneath the gig. They eventually stopped and for a moment there was only the sound of the hail hitting the gig’s thin bonnet.

‘Don’t say anything. Yes, I was going too fast.’

Sylvia took a deep breath, biting back the words of abuse that readily came to mind. ‘Whatever can we do? We will freeze in this storm.’ Despite her thick cloak she had started to shiver.

‘It will be alright, Sissy,’ Johnathon said. ‘I’ll unhitch Admiral and we can both ride him to The George. It can’t be far from here.’

Fortunately the horse had suffered nothing more than fright, and they were soon headed towards The George, this time at a reasonable pace. It had been some years since Sylvia had shared a horse with Johnathon, and then it was only a pony, but she felt safe and warm with his arms around her, for the moment, anyway.

It was not far to the inn, as Johnathon had said, and they were soon shaking the rain from their cloaks inside the entrance. The innkeeper pursed his lips and regarded them both with a look of deep suspicion.

‘Miss Sylvia, and Squire Byers’ son. What a surprise. Where are you off to?’ William Hawkins had known them since they were children. Grandpapa often stopped by The George to break a tiresome journey, or so he said. More likely it was to sample Hawkins’ latest wine stocks. Everyone knew the landlord had a secret cellar where he kept his precious barrels of ‘special’ wines. Everyone, that was, apart from the meddlesome excisemen.

Johnathon quickly answered Hawkins before Sylvia had a chance to speak. ‘Not far. To my Aunt Henrietta’s in fact. But we would like some refreshment until the rain stops.’

‘Into the parlour with you both then. I’ll get Nell to light the fire and bring coffee.’

‘How about some eggs, and that fine ham you are famous for.’ Johnathon was always hungry.

Hawkins scowled at him. It was perhaps too early for a full cooked breakfast, but he nodded and herded them both forward, as if they were a pair of straggling sheep. The George was a simple inn with few home comforts, but the little parlour was clean and welcoming. A long wooden settle sat next to the fireplace, while two sets of tables and chairs cluttered the small space. Weak morning light entered through three small windows set deeply into the stone wall. The hail had now become heavy rain, and it drummed steadily against the mullioned panes.

Sylvia and Johnathon sat together on the bench and said little to each other while the maid, Nell, curtsied briefly, then busied herself lighting the fire. Johnathon stretched his long legs out and Sylvia noticed his fine leather top-boots and smart riding breeches. Some years ago they had been very nearly the same height, and his sister Angelica had predicted that he would be a short man, but that was wrong. Now he was a bean pole – probably 6 feet tall.

Since he had been at Oxford her childhood playmate had matured – physically anyway, she thought. His face had lost its boyish fullness, and there was now a slight shadow of whiskers across his jaw. She was fairly sure, though, that he still had a way to go before he lost his immature outlook on life. Girls became level-headed long before their older male cousins, she had noticed.

It was some time before the eggs and ham and hot coffee were set down before them. ‘The cooking fire was not lit, sir,’ Nell explained. She too appeared to be reluctant to accept them as mere travellers inconvenienced by the weather, and cast suspicious glances at them before leaving them to their breakfast.

‘So Sissy,’ Johnathon began between mouthfuls of ham, ‘why on earth are you running away? And in this appalling weather.’

Sylvia sighed. There was no point in lying. Johnathon knew her too well. ‘They have decided I should marry the vicar, Mr Aitken.’

‘Mr Aitken? Good Lord. He’s too old for you. He must be thirty. And he’s dashed prosy. He will drive you mad with his sermonising.’

‘Well he won’t, because I’m not going to marry him. That’s why I’m going to York. To find my uncle from Mama’s side of the family.’ Uncle William actually lived in London, but she was not going to tell Johnathon that. Even he would oppose any plan to go that far from home, and on the decidedly unwholesome mail coach.

Johnathon put down his fork and was suddenly quite serious. A strange, dewy light came into his eyes. ‘You don’t have to run away. You could marry me, Sissy.’

‘Marry you? What a lame-brained idea.’

‘Well thank you very much.’ He shrugged the comment off. ‘But we’re friends are we not? Always have been.’ Johnathon’s father’s estate marched alongside grandpapa’s lands, and they had known each other since they were both just out of their cribs.

‘I’m not so sure. What about that time you pushed me into the pond and ruined my best dress. My only best dress.’

‘You can have only one best dress.’

‘No, Angelica has three. The blue, the yellow and white for balls.’

‘Anyway, that was just funning, Sissy. Besides, I was 13.’

‘And I was 11. And that pond was crusted with ice.’

‘That’s the thing about women,’ he grumbled. ‘They never forget.’

‘When did you become so knowledgeable about women, Johnathon? You must have been having a fine time at Oxford.’

Johnathon turned his head away to hide the sudden flush that threatened to spread up past his neat cravat to his ears. ‘Let’s not discuss me. Do you know where to find your uncle? He might be dead.’

‘I have an address. He wrote to me. And if he had since died someone would have let me know.’

Johnathon looked quickly towards the door. Nell had left it slightly ajar. Were they listening? He lowered his voice. ‘I could come with you to York’.

‘But you are going to your Aunt Henrietta. She will worry about you.’

‘I have a confession to make, Sissy. I am not going to Aunt Henrietta’s. I was planning to go to London.’

Sylvia blinked. ‘So you are running away too, Johnathon. Why?’

‘They want to buy me a commission for the military. I have no intention of setting myself up as target practice for the Frenchies. Rather go to London and join my Oxford pals.’

‘What will you do in London?’

‘Try my hand at drag racing. Might win a pile of blunt.’

Sylvia held her tongue. If Johnathon’s driving on the way here was any indication of his abilities as a dragster he would be far more likely to lose a pile of blunt.

For a few minutes a contemplative silence reigned. What could be said? They were both setting off for the unknown, with no idea of how to get there. But this reflective mood was interrupted by the sound of coach wheels and sharp shouts from the stable boys. The clamour was soon halted by Hawkins calling a greeting, and then followed by loud voices in the hall.

Sylvia looked to Johnathon in alarm. ‘I recognise that voice. It’s Lord Blake. Has he come for us?’

‘Lord Blake? What the devil would he want with us?’

‘Perhaps he has been sent to find me. He was at Sommerton last night. For a dinner party. I did not like the way he looked at me.’ She remembered his undisguised admiration when she walked into the drawing room, and the cheeky wink as he raised her hand to his lips. For a moment she had regretted the low neckline of her dress, but soon forgot about it. The lord had shown no further interest in her as the evening progressed.

Johnathon smiled as a thought struck him. ‘Well, he would definitely make a more interesting husband than Mr Aitken.’

Sylvia was quick to correct him. ‘That is a horrible idea, Johnathon. the vicar is so droll and boring, but Lord Blake is the opposite. He’s a Corinthian so they say – and has a terrible reputation for – other things.’

‘Other things you should not know about, Sissy.’

‘Girls do know about these things. Of course we have discussed what men get up to. Your sister Annabelle hears it all from her maid. Servants are a great source of information on all that. Oh no. He is coming in here.’

She clutched Johnathon’s arm, but quickly let go and moved slightly away when she saw Lord Blake regarding them both with a dark expression. In the confines of the tiny parlour there was no way to avoid his hard stare.

‘Why are you two travelling alone together? You are not children now. Have you no care for your reputation, Sylvia?’

She tossed her head. ‘Oh fiddlesticks, my lord. Johnathon and I have always been friends. We are not going to act differently just because we are older.’

‘Hawkins thinks you are eloping.’

Sylvia felt her face colour. ‘Then Hawkins should mind his own business. We are not planning to elope, as it turns out. We are going to visit Lady Henrietta.’

‘Really. I happen to know Lady Henrietta Byers is in London, and her manor is shut up for the season.’

Sylvia turned on Johnathon, thinking of all the nasty names she might call him, but he was innocently pouring more coffee into his cup. ’Gone to London. Has she indeed? Well that’s news to me, my lord. Then I will just have to escort you to your cousin in Harrogate, Sylvia.’

Sylvia had no cousins in Harrogate, and she had to admire Johnathon’s nerve in the face of Lord Blake’s obvious suspicion. He must have learned something at Oxford, even if it was only the art of dissembling.

Nell appeared with a fresh pot of coffee for Lord Blake, and nothing was said until she again left the room. He sat at the other table and sipped his coffee. ‘How do you propose to get to Harrogate?’ he said a last.

‘In my gig,’ Johnathon replied. ‘We had a slight problem on the road. I’m sure it can soon be mended.’

‘I doubt that. Hawkins says you will need a blacksmith, but there’s none here.’

‘Ah.’ Johnathon looked a trifle perplexed at this.

Lord Blake appeared to be turning things over in his mind. He drummed his fingers on the table, then looked pointedly at Sylvia. ‘You had better come with me, Sylvia. I’m going to Kinborough Castle.’

‘Kinborough? Why go there? It’s a ruin.’

‘Ruin it might be, but I happen to own it.’

Johnathon stared hard at Lord Blake. ‘I won’t let her go without me. If she goes to Kinborough, I come too.’

‘So you are not eloping, but you won’t allow her to leave without you.’

Sylvia was outraged at the suggestion she would elope with Johnathon. ‘Why does everyone assume we are eloping? We met on the road.’ She would have said more, but then realised she had quite given the game away.

Lord Blake answered with a wry smile. ‘You met on the road, and then decided to go to Lady Henrietta’s. I see. You had better both come with me.’

Lord Blake’s breakfast arrived, and little else was said until he was ready to leave. Sylvia gathered her cloak and her bandbox while Johnathon argued with Lord Blake over who was to ride in the coach. Lord Blake had already decided this, however.

‘Is that your bay horse in the stable? I will ride while you go in the carriage with Sylvia. My groom will drive.’

‘Ride my horse? Why should you not ride in the carriage while I ride Admiral?’

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will ride with sweet Sylvia in a closed carriage, if that is what you want.’

But Sylvia was not prepared to be at the lord’s mercy all the way to Kinborough Castle. She had read many popular novels and knew something of male behaviour in closed carriages. ’No,’ she objected. ‘It is not proper. You will ride with me Johnathon, or I will stay here.’

The lord favoured her with that teasing smile again. ‘I bow to your sense of propriety, Miss Sylvia. Now let us get on. The weather has improved. We must hope it will continue to do so.’

Sylvia was handed into the smart coach by Johnathon. She could only but admire the way Lord Blake had settled the argument. She watched him mount the horse in one quick, lithe movement. There was something to be said for this lord. He was a man who knew how to get his own way, and he was definitely not prosy.

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