asked. He
looked at her as though he thought she was a half wit. ‘I’m afraid I know very
little about horses. I have never learnt to ride, and I have ridden in a
carriage only once or twice. But don’t horses sleep, as we do? Did you have to
wake them? Or had they not yet gone to bed?’
‘Horses work
here, same as everyone else,’ he said.
‘Even late at
night?’
‘Whenever his
lordship commands.’
‘It must be
difficult driving across the moor in the dark,’ she said. ‘I am surprised Mrs
Carlisle wanted to venture out in the middle of the night. Did she not think it
would be better to wait until morning?’
‘No.’
A horse
snorted.
‘Was there a
stage coach to take her on when you left her? I hope she did not have to wait
in an isolated spot, all on her own.’
‘I left her at
the inn,’ he said.
‘What a
distressing thing for her, to have to make such a long journey.’
She paused,
hoping he would reply, but he was a taciturn individual, more used to dealing
with horses than with people, and he said nothing, just continued with his
work.
‘Where do the
stage coaches go from here?’ she asked.
‘North.
South,’ he said.
‘And west and
east, I suppose,’ she said in disappointment.
‘Most ways,’
he agreed
‘That is very
convenient.’
He did not
reply. It was clear she would learn nothing more from him, and reluctantly she
left the stable yard. She bent her footsteps towards the castle, but she was
disinclined to go back inside. She feared she would be overcome by the
oppressive atmosphere, and her lack of progress in discovering her aunt’s
whereabouts. Instead, she decided to take a walk. It was a bright morning. The
air was fresh and the sun was shining. There was even a little warmth in its
rays.
She began to
walk across the lawns that led to the outer wall. To her right the drive led
through the arch and out on to the moor. Directly in front of her was a set of
stone steps leading up to the top of the wall.
As she took
the steps, she wondered if the coachman had really taken her aunt to Draycot,
or if he had simply said so on Lord Torkrow’s orders.
In the fresh
air, with the solid feel of the stone steps beneath her, it was easy to dismiss
such suspicions. Why would his lordship make his staff lie? There could be no
reason for it.
She reached
the top of the wall. It was windy, and she pulled her cloak tightly round her.
She looked out across the moors. The landscape looked gentler than it had done
the previous day. The colours were brighter, and the air softer. Far off, she
saw a gleam of yellow. The cheerful colour stood out against the muted greens
of the moor, and she saw that a few early daffodils were in flower, nestling in
a sheltered hollow.
She descended
the steps and went out of the gate, making her way towards the bright flowers,
which were nodding their heads in the breeze. She picked a bunch and then
carried them back to the castle. Taking them into the flower room, she arranged
them in a vase, and then carried them back to the housekeeper’s room.
On the way she
passed the library, and thinking that the fire might need mending, she went in.
She put the vase on the mantelpiece whilst she poured more coal on the dying
flames, then allowed herself a few minutes to look at the books that lined the
walls. She had read a great deal as a child, but after her father’s death there
had been little money for books and she had purchased only two the previous
year. But here was a feast of literature. There were works by Shakespeare,
Marlowe, Chaucer and many more, some in fine covers, and some in books that
were falling apart with age. She took down a copy of Le Morte d’Arthur and lost track of time as she became absorbed. She was lost to the world, but
the sound of the door opening shocked her back to reality. She turned round to
see Lord Torkrow standing in the doorway.
‘I have just
been repairing the fire,’ she said, hastily putting the book back on the
looked at her as though he thought she was a half wit. ‘I’m afraid I know very
little about horses. I have never learnt to ride, and I have ridden in a
carriage only once or twice. But don’t horses sleep, as we do? Did you have to
wake them? Or had they not yet gone to bed?’
‘Horses work
here, same as everyone else,’ he said.
‘Even late at
night?’
‘Whenever his
lordship commands.’
‘It must be
difficult driving across the moor in the dark,’ she said. ‘I am surprised Mrs
Carlisle wanted to venture out in the middle of the night. Did she not think it
would be better to wait until morning?’
‘No.’
A horse
snorted.
‘Was there a
stage coach to take her on when you left her? I hope she did not have to wait
in an isolated spot, all on her own.’
‘I left her at
the inn,’ he said.
‘What a
distressing thing for her, to have to make such a long journey.’
She paused,
hoping he would reply, but he was a taciturn individual, more used to dealing
with horses than with people, and he said nothing, just continued with his
work.
‘Where do the
stage coaches go from here?’ she asked.
‘North.
South,’ he said.
‘And west and
east, I suppose,’ she said in disappointment.
‘Most ways,’
he agreed
‘That is very
convenient.’
He did not
reply. It was clear she would learn nothing more from him, and reluctantly she
left the stable yard. She bent her footsteps towards the castle, but she was
disinclined to go back inside. She feared she would be overcome by the
oppressive atmosphere, and her lack of progress in discovering her aunt’s
whereabouts. Instead, she decided to take a walk. It was a bright morning. The
air was fresh and the sun was shining. There was even a little warmth in its
rays.
She began to
walk across the lawns that led to the outer wall. To her right the drive led
through the arch and out on to the moor. Directly in front of her was a set of
stone steps leading up to the top of the wall.
As she took
the steps, she wondered if the coachman had really taken her aunt to Draycot,
or if he had simply said so on Lord Torkrow’s orders.
In the fresh
air, with the solid feel of the stone steps beneath her, it was easy to dismiss
such suspicions. Why would his lordship make his staff lie? There could be no
reason for it.
She reached
the top of the wall. It was windy, and she pulled her cloak tightly round her.
She looked out across the moors. The landscape looked gentler than it had done
the previous day. The colours were brighter, and the air softer. Far off, she
saw a gleam of yellow. The cheerful colour stood out against the muted greens
of the moor, and she saw that a few early daffodils were in flower, nestling in
a sheltered hollow.
She descended
the steps and went out of the gate, making her way towards the bright flowers,
which were nodding their heads in the breeze. She picked a bunch and then
carried them back to the castle. Taking them into the flower room, she arranged
them in a vase, and then carried them back to the housekeeper’s room.
On the way she
passed the library, and thinking that the fire might need mending, she went in.
She put the vase on the mantelpiece whilst she poured more coal on the dying
flames, then allowed herself a few minutes to look at the books that lined the
walls. She had read a great deal as a child, but after her father’s death there
had been little money for books and she had purchased only two the previous
year. But here was a feast of literature. There were works by Shakespeare,
Marlowe, Chaucer and many more, some in fine covers, and some in books that
were falling apart with age. She took down a copy of Le Morte d’Arthur and lost track of time as she became absorbed. She was lost to the world, but
the sound of the door opening shocked her back to reality. She turned round to
see Lord Torkrow standing in the doorway.
‘I have just
been repairing the fire,’ she said, hastily putting the book back on the
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