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Authors: Sandra Heath
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followed.
Sarah leaned her head against his shoulder, her thoughts in disorder and her sense of guilt overwhelming. She tried to look back along the stream but Paul’s arm restrained her. “Don’t look. It will do you no good,” he said. She obeyed him, hiding her face against the soaking wet wool of his coat.
They rode in silence. Vaguely she heard the change in sound as they left the moor and came back onto the track which led to Mannerby.
“We’re almost there now.” Paul’s voice seemed to come from far away.
She opened her eyes to look as they rode up the long single street of Mannerby. The village sprawled up the hillside, culminating in the only two buildings of note: the church and the manor house. On the left was the dull gray stonework of the church with its squat tower and tiny churchyard filled with dark green yews which overshadowed the tombs nestling in the grass below.
Mannerby House stood opposite. It was some five hundred years old, a beautiful, half-timbered building with rambling roofs and redbrick chimneys which had been added in a later century. Behind she could see the large stable block which housed the famous Mannerby stud. A walled courtyard hid the front of the house, and the double ironwork gates were closed.
Beyond the village were the vast heights of Dartmoor. The land rose dramatically toward those distant tors and craggy peaks which were half hidden in a swirl of mist and cloud as the rain continued to fall. One rock-crowned tor stood out; it was taller and more regular in shape than its fellows, and Sarah found herself looking not at the village and manor house, but at this single melancholy hill.
The Turk moved up the village street, passing the little cottages which huddled together. Paul stopped by the gates of the house and Sarah looked through them, seeing the great age of the walls and the ivy which crept stealthily up them, forcing its roots into cracks. The cobbles of the courtyard glistened with rain, and there was no sign of life anywhere. The only sound was the rhythmic tamping of the rain, and the occasional sound of horses from the stables.
“Martin! The gates!” Paul shouted impatiently as he waited by the obstinately closed framework of wrought iron.
From a tiny gatehouse, which merged so well with the walls that she had not noticed it, came a man so large he was built like an ox. He had a mane of carrot-colored hair, and freckles peppered his good-natured face. His leather jerkin strained across his broad shoulders, and he held a sack over his head to fend off the rain. He pressed close to the gates and peered out.
“Who’s there?”
“Martin, it’s me, Paul Ransome, and I demand entry to my own house!” Paul’s voice was decidedly tetchy. He was wet, tired, cold, and more than a little shaken by Betty’s death. He was now drawing on the last vestiges of his patience.
“Master Paul!” Martin was rattling the large bunch of keys at his waist and the old gates groaned as they swung open.
They closed again behind the Turk and Sarah felt almost trapped as she looked around the courtyard. There was rainwater everywhere, dripping from gutters into butts, pattering into large puddles, and most of all falling wetly from the glossy leaves of the ivy. Two bare trees stood next to the house: one was a lilac, and the other a tall ash tree which stood higher than the rooftops.
So this was Mannerby.
Chapter Nine
The doors of the house were flung open and a girl ran out into the rain. She was incredibly lovely, with almost white hair and vivid green eyes. Her face was perfect, faultless, and the pale pink woolen gown she wore suited her fresh, dainty looks. Hardly giving Sarah a glance, she flung herself joyfully on her brother as he dismounted.
“At last! You’re back! I’ve missed you dreadfully.”
He laughed, hugging her. “Keep your distance, ‘Lissa, for I’m both wet and muddy.”
Melissa looked at Sarah and then quickly away.
Sarah leaned her head against his shoulder, her thoughts in disorder and her sense of guilt overwhelming. She tried to look back along the stream but Paul’s arm restrained her. “Don’t look. It will do you no good,” he said. She obeyed him, hiding her face against the soaking wet wool of his coat.
They rode in silence. Vaguely she heard the change in sound as they left the moor and came back onto the track which led to Mannerby.
“We’re almost there now.” Paul’s voice seemed to come from far away.
She opened her eyes to look as they rode up the long single street of Mannerby. The village sprawled up the hillside, culminating in the only two buildings of note: the church and the manor house. On the left was the dull gray stonework of the church with its squat tower and tiny churchyard filled with dark green yews which overshadowed the tombs nestling in the grass below.
Mannerby House stood opposite. It was some five hundred years old, a beautiful, half-timbered building with rambling roofs and redbrick chimneys which had been added in a later century. Behind she could see the large stable block which housed the famous Mannerby stud. A walled courtyard hid the front of the house, and the double ironwork gates were closed.
Beyond the village were the vast heights of Dartmoor. The land rose dramatically toward those distant tors and craggy peaks which were half hidden in a swirl of mist and cloud as the rain continued to fall. One rock-crowned tor stood out; it was taller and more regular in shape than its fellows, and Sarah found herself looking not at the village and manor house, but at this single melancholy hill.
The Turk moved up the village street, passing the little cottages which huddled together. Paul stopped by the gates of the house and Sarah looked through them, seeing the great age of the walls and the ivy which crept stealthily up them, forcing its roots into cracks. The cobbles of the courtyard glistened with rain, and there was no sign of life anywhere. The only sound was the rhythmic tamping of the rain, and the occasional sound of horses from the stables.
“Martin! The gates!” Paul shouted impatiently as he waited by the obstinately closed framework of wrought iron.
From a tiny gatehouse, which merged so well with the walls that she had not noticed it, came a man so large he was built like an ox. He had a mane of carrot-colored hair, and freckles peppered his good-natured face. His leather jerkin strained across his broad shoulders, and he held a sack over his head to fend off the rain. He pressed close to the gates and peered out.
“Who’s there?”
“Martin, it’s me, Paul Ransome, and I demand entry to my own house!” Paul’s voice was decidedly tetchy. He was wet, tired, cold, and more than a little shaken by Betty’s death. He was now drawing on the last vestiges of his patience.
“Master Paul!” Martin was rattling the large bunch of keys at his waist and the old gates groaned as they swung open.
They closed again behind the Turk and Sarah felt almost trapped as she looked around the courtyard. There was rainwater everywhere, dripping from gutters into butts, pattering into large puddles, and most of all falling wetly from the glossy leaves of the ivy. Two bare trees stood next to the house: one was a lilac, and the other a tall ash tree which stood higher than the rooftops.
So this was Mannerby.
Chapter Nine
The doors of the house were flung open and a girl ran out into the rain. She was incredibly lovely, with almost white hair and vivid green eyes. Her face was perfect, faultless, and the pale pink woolen gown she wore suited her fresh, dainty looks. Hardly giving Sarah a glance, she flung herself joyfully on her brother as he dismounted.
“At last! You’re back! I’ve missed you dreadfully.”
He laughed, hugging her. “Keep your distance, ‘Lissa, for I’m both wet and muddy.”
Melissa looked at Sarah and then quickly away.
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