In the Aerie of the Wolf

A novel by

Leonora Pruner

Published by Noble Novels a division of

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 by Leonora Pruner

Discover other titles by Nordskog Publishing at

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2011904734

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except brief quotations used in a review.

In the Aerie of the Wolf is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to real persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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What Readers Are Saying

Contents

What a triumph! In the Aerie of the Wolf is Leonora Pruner’s best book ever. A gripping love story with the page-turning pacing of a Gothic romance and fairy-tale evocations of Beauty and the Beast. A heart-stopping tale set in the wilds of 18th-century Yorkshire with Pruner’s superb period detail and spot-on theology.

Donna Fletcher Crow, Author

The Cambridge Chronicles including A Gentle Calling,

Treasures of the Heart, and To Be Worthy

The Monastery Murders Series: A Very Private Grave

Forced by her parents to give up the man she loves, sold into marriage to a man she’s never met, Anne Crofton is certain God has forsaken her. Why else would He allow her to spend her life in a dreadful place like the Aerie? Thrust into the middle of a dangerous battle, she attempts to forget the man she loved and embrace her role as Andrew’s wife. Traitors lurk around the corners. Her very life is in the hands of her new husband and the servants of the Aerie. As tensions rise, Anne soon discovers she will need all of God’s strength to help her. A moving story of intrigue, love, and faith awaits the reader in Leonora’s latest novel. I highly recommend In the Aerie of the Wolf.

Cheryl C. Malandrinos

The Book Connection

thebookconnectionccm.blogspot.com

Leonora has created a wonderful, unexpected story that captures the reader’s imagination from the beginning and holds it until the final page, creating characters for whom you care deeply. Forced into a marriage to swell her family’s coffers and in the midst of mortal danger, Anne struggles to come to terms with her longing for an old love and the draw of her new husband. Turning to the Scriptures for guidance, her heart is torn and she looks to God for support. I would not hesitate to recommend this book to all who enjoy a dramatic and unique love story. Hazel Statham, Author

The Portrait, Lizzie’s Rake, His Shadowed Heart,

My Dearest Friend, Dominic, and Consequence

Also by Leonora Pruner

Love’s Secret Storm

Love’s Silent Gift

Close to His Heart

Contents

Dedicated to

Pauline High,

a Yorkshire native and

my dear friend.

Contents

Contents

Copyright Page

What Readers Are Saying

Also by Leonora Pruner

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

About the Author

Publisher’s Word

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Free Stuff From Nordskog Publishing

Chapter 1

Contents

That’s t’ Aerie o’ t’ Wolf, Old Samson announced, pointing below, pride softening his high, raspy voice. The small group of weary riders gazed down on a large, crenellated structure.

As Anne Crofton urged her mount beside Samson’s, standing where the path widened slightly, a stinging gust of cold air tore at her warm, fur-lined cloak, pulling off her hood and whipping her hair across her face. In brushing the pale strands from her eyes, she noticed the wind lift Old Samson’s shaggy gray hair exposing part of a hideous, silvered scar on his left cheek. So, it was not only due to carelessness that the grotesque hunchback always wore his hair dangling about his face, but to hide yet another disfigurement.

Mists swirled above them obscuring much of the steep trail their party had just descended. Directing her attention below, Anne stared with a shudder at the ominous scene. A gray fortress, enclosed by a wall and moat, lay hidden among the gigantic folds of Yorkshire. It looked like some ogre-dominated, enchanted castle from childhood stories, a fitting destination after her depressing journey. The melancholia, barely held at bay these last few days, tightened its grip on her spirits.

A fishpond lay like a discarded, silver plate near a dovecote. Beyond it, a line of small buildings leaned against the outer wall for security. Within the wall, tiny beings moved across a broad green space resembling a park with few trees. Rectangular plots fanning out from the main structure surrounded a knot garden of twisting, colorful paths. A flock of sheep or goats dotting the narrow pasture along the near side of the moat resembled a scattering of bits of cotton fluff.

The stone building dwarfed all else. Stolid and aged, its two rambling wings reached toward the ancient tower rising out of the park. On this gray day, not even a faint beam of sunshine warmed its harsh aspect. Anne barely suppressed voicing a protest. How unlike the sun-drenched painting depicting the Aerie presented to her parents! Only the general shape of the building was the same.

Oh, dear God, help me! Must she live out her life in this dreadful, remote place? Her despair intensified as a flash of memory recalled home, the Haven, a Georgian manor surrounded with sunny gardens on the beautiful North Downs of Surrey.

She shivered with a chilling thought. Young George III ruled London, but on these fringes of civilization his influence might be tenuous at best. Snatched from her reasonable, orderly life, she was now buried in this distant, primitive waste.

As if to confirm her rising apprehension, Old Samson pointed to the wild waterfall plunging to the valley floor from the opposite cliff. Its waters divided into the rushing streams circling the base of the Aerie’s walls, then rejoined directly below them, and cascaded from sight. That’s t’ Devil’s Drop, he said.

She nodded, and bit her quivering lower lip. In her last, tearful interview with the Reverend Michael Pennywaithe, he assured her God was everywhere. But did God know of this obscure place? Would He really hear any prayer from an unholy place known as the Aerie of the Wolf below the Devil’s Drop? Unsuccessfully, she tried swallowing the mass of fear lodged in her throat while she tugged her hood back over her head. No, He would not hear because He was not.

Martin Smithson and Richard Heath nudged their horses close to her and gazed downward silently. Her father assigned these young men as guardians until her marriage. Once that was accomplished, they would leave her with her maid Polly among strangers.

Blow away! commanded Old Samson.

Behind Anne, three loud notes blasted forth, initiating an echoing chain of trumpets. At the eerie noise, she felt the hair on the back of her head rise and her horse started restlessly. Instantly, Old Samson grasped her bridle with a soft, calming command.

The little figures below stopped and then scurried about as a disturbed anthill. A three-toned answer trumpeted back from the Aerie. The travelers on the mountain trail responded with two additional notes. Before the echoes ceased bouncing off the peaks, Old Samson resumed leading their downward progress at a brisk pace.

Excitement overcame Anne’s fears. Her heartbeat increased, matching the rhythm of her horse’s hooves.

Once the party reached the level floor, Samson set a relentless gallop toward the tower. The drawbridge dropped slowly as they approached, spanning the torrential stream just before Old Samson reached its bank. Maintaining their speed, he led the dozen riders across the bridge, shaking its timbers and producing a thunderous rumble.

As they passed under the Norman archway into the castle precincts, Anne felt propelled backward in time, into one of the medieval tales she enjoyed reading. But here, romantic splendor was replaced with an ill-defined menace. This was real, part of her life, not something on the page of a novel she could put

down. And, from her recent experiences, she was not confident of a happy ending.

Again the trumpet sounded behind Anne. Immediately, she heard the frightening rattles of the drawbridge rising, sealing her in from the outside world.

The riders halted near the center of the green area as a joyful fanfare was trumpeted from the tower. Melodic responses answered from various sections of the castle’s walls surrounding them with triumphant music. All the horns joined in a final, exuberant flourish.

With a proud lift of his chin, at variance with his humble station and normal demeanor, Old Samson sprang from his stallion with surprising agility. Promptly, he bent and held his interlocked hands ready for Anne to step into them in dismounting.

I bid thee welcome, Miss Crofton, he said, his courtly bow out of keeping with his plain, travel-stained livery. Extending his left arm, he turned about slowly, including all the circling walls in his gesture. This ‘ere’s yer kingdom.

People seemed to crowd every window in the gray building and tower. Others stood along the wall and low buildings, all staring. Somewhere among them, she thought, the Master of the Aerie must be surveying the bride he purchased—or was he on his way to greet them?

What should I do? she asked in a low voice, trying not to limp as she forced her stiffened legs to move on level ground.

Wave an’ gi’ ‘em yer purty smile, he answered.

Forcing her lips into a curve, Anne raised her right hand, waving and turning around slowly. Her hood fell back and she heard the usual ripple of astonishment her silver hair caused. Would they consider her a very old woman or a witch? A noisy cheer and waving of cloths exceeded her most optimistic hopes and lifted her spirits. They approved of her!

A boy in brown and cream Wolverton livery ran up, knelt on one knee offering two pewter mugs on an engraved plate.

Tha mun tak’ one an’ drink from it wi’out wipin’ thy mouth, Old Samson explained.

I will taste it first, ma’am, interrupted Heath, stepping forward and reaching for the mug.

Nay! Old Samson barred his path. She mun show she trusts us an’ our ways.

Trust must be earned, Heath objected stubbornly.

Be at peace, Anne said, picking up the near mug. I am confident no one would harm me while I am under milord’s protection in his very own Aerie. Gulping down the shockingly bitter ale, she barely refrained from making a grimace and wiping her lips.

Old Samson took the other mug and drank. T’ ale bites for t’ taste o’ life afor tha come, he said as she placed her empty cup on the tray.

Another boy dropped on one knee before her, presenting a small loaf of bread on a pewter charger.

This too? she asked Old Samson.

Aye.

All of it?

A bite’ll do. ‘Tis only a ceremony o’ welcome.

Only a bite of bread, but a whole cup of ale?

Tha didn’t ‘ave ta drink all on it, he said. But now they know tha’s got a good ‘eart.

Laughing softly at his wry humor, she broke off a piece. Still warm from the oven, it was unusually sweet to her taste.

An’ t’ bread’s sweet now tha’s wi’ us, he stated, breaking off a piece for himself. Was he proving to Richard that the bread was safe? Now that they were at the Aerie, she hoped their constant bickering would cease.

Impulsively, she took a second piece, helping remove the ale’s bitter taste. Again a cheer resounded from around her and she

waved in acknowledgment. The icy clutch of fear eased somewhat.

Tha’ mun be sure they’re luvin’ an’ honorin’ thee wi’ all their soul. He gestured to a path through the gardens. I’ll tak’ thee t’ thy room. Tha woman can follow tha if tha wants t’ be made comfortable. It were a tedious long trip.

What of Heath and Smithson? she asked, falling in with him along the path.

They’ll be took t’ their rooms. Don’t be frettin’, they’ll be wi’ thee in t’ dining ‘all t’night.

He took her down a wide walk flanked by lovely flowerbeds planted in fanciful designs. The massive, carved door swung open on their approach. Inside, they proceeded between two astonishing lines of bowing footmen and curtsying maids. Anne smiled and nodded trying to put on a brave face before their intimidating numbers.

As they entered a cavernous hall, she looked apprehensively upward into the dim recesses of the ceilings spanned by huge, darkened timbers, sensing watchers above. Narrow windows set high above admitted moderate light. Giants could live here comfortably, she thought—but could she, an ordinary person?

Pausing, her thoughts turned to the Aerie’s Master, Lord Wolverton. What was he like? He had not even deigned to visit her, let alone woo her. Old Samson had executed the substantial marriage settlement in a cold, businesslike manner with her parents. The one hopeful sign was the consideration shown by his gift of a luxurious, brown woolen cloak with fur trim to protect her from the cold as they journeyed northward.

When will I meet Lord Wolverton? she asked anxiously.

Old Samson shrugged. After tha’s ‘ad a rest surely.

They climbed two flights of worn stone steps to a passageway lit with blazing torches secured in iron brackets. She heard Polly, her plump maid, toiling up the stairs behind her, muttering under her breath. Just as she reached the top of the stairs, a white cat startled her, dashing across her path and down the hall. At least it wasn’t a black one, she thought. Perhaps it kept the mice in check.

Old Samson flung open an iron-bound oaken door and stood aside for Anne to enter.

Oh! she exclaimed stepping onto the thick blue and ivory carpet covering the floor of the spacious room. How charming!

Ivory walls of plaster and paneled wainscoting trimmed in gold formed a suitable background for the lovely marble-topped side table and console, both styled in the elegant manner of Kent. Above the console hung a large mirror. The lightness of its beautifully carved gilt frame, fashioned in the golden curves and scrolls of the modern French style, captivated her fancy. On her few London visits, she had wistfully admired such fashionable pieces. What a delightful surprise to find them in her own sitting room!

Against the far wall, a mahogany cabinet with a classic broken-arch pediment stood on top of a six-drawer chest. Startled, she recognized her own precious books and porcelain treasures left behind at the Haven neatly arranged behind its rectangular glass panes. How came they here?

Delicately tinted garlands of vines and roses in molded plasterwork draped across the overmantel of a flawless white-marble fireplace. Before it, two wing chairs, upholstered with pale-blue tapestry, faced each other. A new, double-tiered dumbwaiter stood conveniently beside one chair. A settee and several graceful pierced-back chairs with blue, white, and gold-striped seats were arranged in a cozy grouping on one side.

She paused by the fold-over-top card table in the center of the room to sniff the fragrant bouquet of fresh roses in a cobalt vase, and then went to the Italian desk near a window. Appreciatively, she ran her hands over its floral design of inlaid woods and mother-of-pearl, and fingered the gold-scrolled drawer pulls.

Close by, in a windowed alcove, a cushioned seat provided her with a suitable place for reading or needlework.

Old Samson opened the inside door and waited. She entered her bedroom and gaped wordlessly at its furnishings.

Polly followed, looked around, and marveled, Ma’am, this is as like your room as ever I seed!

An oversized fireplace dominated the far side of the room. Anne’s own china clock ticked on the unusual pink-marble mantel, and her favorite vase of blue Italian glass held a single pink rose on a dainty mahogany urn stand with a polished-brass base. The pink silk canopy and bedcover were very similar to those in her room at home. Thickly fringed curtains of a darker shade of pink framed the tall windows near a matching pair of covered chairs. In a corner, a modern wig stand supported her rose sprigged basin, with its ewer in the base beneath a pair of drawers and a covered cup for her wash ball. To one side, a copper hip tub, full of water, invited refreshment.

Amazed, she ran her hands over the beautiful inlaid dressing table, surely the very one she admired in a London shop on that last hurried trip to town. And the desk in the sitting room is of the same design! she murmured.

Opening the large carved-oak wardrobe, Polly gave a gasp. Anne’s dresses hung in neat array, dresses they did not expect for several days.

How came all this? Anne asked him in wonderment.

Pack ‘orses were goin’ when we were sleepin’.

But the table and desk?

That were nowt. I asked where tha were shoppin’ an’ folk told me what tha liked.

You arranged all this for me?

He shrugged in his customary depreciating manner. T’ Master wants thee to feel at ‘ome. Pull on t’ bell if tha wants owt. Old Samson bowed and left, closing the door firmly. Anne stared after him. His authority contrasted radically with her first impression months past when she thought him an itinerant beggar resting in a sunny corner of the churchyard. Noting his bloody hand and touched by his drooping posture, she had asked to see his wound, only a slight cut. Still, she took him to the vicarage where she bathed the injury and bound it with her handkerchief. Reverend Pennywaithe gave him bread and ale, and, leaving the men talking, she had walked back to the Haven.

If she knew her impulsive act of kindness for a humble beggar would bring her here, would she do it again? It was a pointless speculation. It had nothing to do with Lord Wolverton’s offer, since Samson had come to Upper Combe for that precise purpose. Perhaps because of her action, she might depend on Old Samson as her ally should his Lordship prove unpleasant. Certainly, along the difficult journey, time and time again Old Samson went beyond her expectations to assure her comfort. He alone kept her from tumbling into even deeper melancholy.

Did you ever, Miss Anne? Polly asked, her voice full of awe, while turning down the bedcover.

No. It is unbelievable.

His Lordship’s gone far and away to make you feel to home. I think we’ve nothing to fear from one like that. And I tell you, I’ve been that worried since I first heard we was coming here, to the back of beyond.

As was I. I’m so confused, Polly. From the trail above, the Aerie looked hideous and frightening.

Didn’t it though? I felt right shivery! It looked like an old pile of stones. An inconvenient heap near as I could judge! Like as not, my room will be up under the roof, far from you ma’am.

True, Anne agreed as Polly unbuttoned her dress.

I never thought being a lady’s maid would bring me to such an out-of-the-way place as this! She pulled Anne’s dark-green riding habit down so she could step out of it. I don’t mind saying I’m right glad not to be thinking of moving on again in the morning.

Anne had not considered her servants’ reactions to being at the Aerie. I suppose Smithson and Heath are also glad to be at journey’s end?

Oh, yes, ma’am. Polly shook out the velvet habit. Martin’s right eager to get home again so’s he can be with his Effie.

Effie?

Effie Cox from Upper Combe.

Oh, yes. She’s very pretty.

That she be. Did you know that Reverend Pennywaithe had called the banns once, before your father told Martin he must bring you here? They’ll marry soon as he’s home again.

Anne glanced over her shoulder as Polly laid her habit to one side. Yes, Smithson will be eager to go to his bride. And Heath will be thinking of his wife and little son. And then it would be just her and Polly.

She’s breeding again, you know, Polly said, unlacing Anne’s petticoat and letting it fall around her ankles.

Breeding? Oh, yes. When is that baby due?

Six months or so. Richard is quite the family man these days.

Anne took a deep breath, feeling relief as Polly unfastened her corset. As she rubbed her fingers over the indentations in her flesh left by the boning, Anne remarked, The people actually cheered us warmly on our arrival.

Like we was royalty! Weren’t it exciting, Miss Anne? All those trumpets and everything! Polly lifted the day shift over Anne’s head.

But his Lordship did not greet us. Anne sighed as discouragement threatened to choke her tender shoot of optimism. And when we entered the Hall, so dark and dreary . . . I’ve never been so overwhelmed in my life! I felt as if the past generations were staring at me from the crossbeams. Only, instead of cheering, they were appraising me, to see if I measured up to their greatness. Yet, these rooms are lovely, like dreams made real. I, I can hardly take in all these contrasts.

Stepping into the tub, Anne gratefully lowered herself into the warm water. For a few minutes she relaxed, letting her body respond to the luxurious heat of the bathwater. She had left her beloved home for such a place as this to rescue her family’s fortune. But then, what more could a younger daughter of a younger son of a younger son of a noble family hope for? The drains of her sister Claudia’s presentation and generous dowry and her brother Edmund’s gambling adventures must be repaired. Since her earliest memory, it had been born in upon her that a second daughter’s prime value in a less-than-wealthy family was to bring in a good marriage settlement.

She hoped her parents were pleased with her achievement. It cost her much to leave Michael. Dear Michael! She must not think of him or grief would destroy her. Repeatedly, she had implored God to bring her and Michael together. He did not reply with even a tiny acknowledgment.

When she had realized that nothing would prevent her removal from the Haven, she knew deep in her heart that there was no God. No matter what Michael said or what he believed, there was no respite from despair. He was deluded, both he and her good friends in the Methodist Society of nearby Upper Combe. God was deaf, calloused, or non-existent. A deaf or calloused God was not one she cared to know.

Having the tub filled right when you came shows this is a well-run household, Polly commented, scrubbing off her mistress’s travel dirt.

Anne looked up at Polly and asked anxiously, Do you think he will like me? We’ve never met. Suppose he takes a dislike to me?

Polly reached out to help her out of the cooling water saying,

He cannot help but like you, Miss Anne, what with your looks and sweet disposition. Briskly, she rubbed her mistress dry. I think his Lordship must be a kind gentleman, more thoughtful than most. She took a nightdress from the bandbox and dropped it over Anne’s head, adding, And, I think he more than half loves you already, or expects to, which is nearly the same thing. Deftly she removed the copper warming pan from the bed.

Anne climbed onto the high bed and slipped between the warmed sheets with a contented sigh. I hope so, Polly. Oh, I hope so! But why was he not there to meet us?

Do you think he powders his hair? Anne asked, staring at Polly’s reflection in the gold-framed mirror while she expertly arranged Anne’s hair. Both women knew Polly’s experience was limited to life at the Haven and one brief trip to London.

It’s hard to say, ma’am, she answered, securing a ringlet with a diamond-crusted clip. Them in the kitchen don’t have airs like in the big London houses. Carefully, Polly brushed a silver curl around her plump forefinger and pulled it down on Anne’s left shoulder. I’ve heard it said that sometimes in an out-of-the-way place like this they’re more formal than in the city. And sometimes not. Skillfully, she arranged a second and third curl beside the first. You’ll not look amiss however they do here.

Yes, that’s just right, Polly. Simple, but in good style. I’ll not powder. It only dulls my hair, Anne decided. "Time enough tomorrow, if powder is de rigueur."

Oh, ma’am, while you were resting, I saw Lord Wolverton’s rooms.

You what? Anne said with surprise.

I was passing an open door, just two down this hall. I paused to look in and saw a man laying out gentleman’s clothes on the bed in the room beyond. I asked him when supper would be served and whether I should dress you in a fancy or ordinary style. I took a step or two inside so I could cast my eyes about, sly like. He said the serving would be simple.

And?

He is an ugly man. His nose is out of shape, his mouth sags to one side, like this, she pulled down on the right side of her face. His name is Severs, and he has a knowing way with gentlemen’s clothes, if you take my meaning. Like I have with ladies’. And, ma’am, the rooms are right beautiful!

They are?

Oh, yes. Like yours, his sitting room is full of beautiful things, only its walls are light blue. It is a restful place. There’s a huge Chinese vase in the corner, must be nigh onto three feet tall, she outlined its shape with her hands, all dragons and such like. He has a beautiful china clock with gold and flowers on the mantle. It rang a pretty tune on the hour while I was there—sounded like fairy bells. It sits between gold-branched candlesticks. I’m sure they are gold, not brass. He has a great ball, like the world in a stand, and cases of leather-bound books, like in your father’s library. His furniture is almost black and very heavy. The posts of his bed are twisted spirals, and thick, like Smithson’s arms.

Smithson’s arms? Anne tried to visualize his arms without a coat sleeve, and failed. Abruptly, she realized that only once, many summers past on a hot day at the sheep’s pool, had she caught a glimpse of a man’s bare arm. Surprisingly muscular it was.

Smithson’s very strong, he is. His arm’s like this, Polly made a circle with both hands touching her fingertips, and giggled.

Oh, I know what you mean, Anne said, feigning a knowledge both knew she lacked.

His Lordship may have ugly people around him, but he likes beautiful things. Polly stared at her mistress. And if he likes ugly people, why did he bring you here, being so pretty as you are?

I don’t know. Perhaps I am to add to his collection of things.

Oh, no, ma’am! Polly protested, shocked.

What is there for me to wear to this informal meal? Anne asked to distract Polly.

Would you like this blue gown? Polly asked, holding a dark-blue dress for Anne’s consideration. A thick fall of ivory French lace trimmed the scooped neck and wide flounces hanging from the elbow-length sleeves. ’Tis a new one I found in your wardrobe, ma’am. I believe it will become you. Anne agreed with Polly’s selection. Both were pleased with the dignified effect of its simple lines.

It fits so well, I do believe it were made special for you, Miss Anne, Polly said, adjusting the skirt over Anne’s hoops.

Anne turned up the front facing on the bodice and laughed. I believe you’re right! she exclaimed showing Polly the mark made by Mrs. Baker, her seamstress. The familiar rituals of dressing, the many indications of detailed consideration, and adequate rest all combined to push back her oppressive dejection. She felt easier than at any time since her father announced she must wed the unknown Lord Wolverton.

Although her mother had complained bitterly over the barbarism of accepting what amounted to a bride-price in enlightened England, Mrs. Crofton had done nothing to rescue her daughter, or even to prepare her. All their lives, she had admonished her two daughters, It is essential that you protect your virtue. Men of refinement do not marry women of easy virtue. As to what easy virtue was, she never enlightened them. Guarding one’s virtue was simple—never be alone more than a minute or two with an eligible man. But beyond the guarding, Mrs. Crofton had not given any instruction. Not being close to her older sister, Anne did not know how Claudia filled the gap before her marriage—and they certainly did not discuss what came after.

When Anne asked her mother how ladies of refinement behave once married, when the guarding was no longer necessary, Mrs. Crofton had laughed in a high, affected manner and replied, My dear child, at that time you will know what to do. Behave in a proper manner, run the household efficiently, and the other things will take care of themselves. Anne had been forced to seek out Kate Hoskins, a maid of easy virtue, to learn something of the private behavior of a wife.

Surveying her beautiful room, Anne concluded her mysterious betrothed appeared to be a generous man. Perhaps, if she could please him, as Kate suggested, her life might be pleasant after all. Pretty Kate may be a scullery maid of doubtful reputation at the Haven, but she understood the art of pleasing men. Gladly, she had shared her amazing and scandalous knowledge with Anne, making up for Mrs. Crofton’s omissions. Kate confidently assured Anne that this way she could bring her husband about her thumb and depend on him to arrange her life comfortably. But Anne had misgivings over the propriety of Kate’s advice and the outrageous, forward behavior she recommended.

Once again she took out the dark-wine velvet pouch containing his Lordship’s miniature. It was an unusual profile of his right side. His nose was straight, his forehead, chin, eye, mouth, all appeared to be pleasant, perhaps even handsome. His wig and neckwear showed him to be a man of fashion. She hoped to recognize him when they met.

Polly draped a Spanish shawl about Anne’s shoulders and glanced at the miniature. He’ll not mislike what he sees, ma’am, she said reassuringly.

Anne put the picture away and turned to study her final appearance in the long mirror. Nervously, she opened and closed her favorite white fan, noting its effect in various positions.

If he does, I...

A sharp rap interrupted them. Polly opened the door to young Martin Smithson, standing rigidly straight in his best black livery and white bag wig.

I am to escort Miss Anne to the Hall, he announced. Heath’ll stand by your door to begin the night watch.

A comfort to us all, I’m sure, Polly answered pertly. Miss Anne’s ready to go. But don’t be so stiff, you silly boy, she chided, tucking a stray brown curl under her mobcap.

This is an important evening, woman, he retorted sternly. Miss Anne will meet Lord Wolverton. Nothing must give him an inferior impression.

Well, Miss Anne will doubtless please him, but he may think you’re made of wood.

Enough, both of you, Anne interposed, accepting Smithson’s escort into the long corridor. The white cat darted ahead of them, then began a stately walk, leading the way, its tail raised straight as a pole. Anne hoped the white cat’s presence was a good sign.

I’ve been walking these halls since we arrived so as not to get lost, Smithson confided as they descended the slippery stone stairs. It’s a drafty old place, a regular Hampton maze. One with secret passages, I’ve no doubt.

Anne shivered. I suppose you’re right. All these old places have them. And, like as not, a priest hole, and a hidden treasury with ghosts to protect it.

Ghosts? Do you really think so? he asked in alarm.

Assuming a matter-of-fact air, she said, Any place so old must have witnessed several unhappy deaths within its halls. And that’s what causes ghosts isn’t it?

Ghosts might walk these halls? I never met a ghost.

"Neither have I. He—or she—will probably be shocked to meet us. Do you think they will rattle chains or carry about their