“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Barrett,” Viola said with a gracious dip of her head. “Do remember that our door is always open.”
Pansy reached out and caught Isabella’s hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “Keep your wits about you,” she said. “Harrowgate has a way of…taking things.”
Viola made a soft sound in her throat, one that might have indicated agreement or disbelief or anything in between.
“Be careful,” Pansy whispered and released Isabella’s hand.
With that, they turned and walked away. Isabella watched until they disappeared down a dark lane, their footsteps fading into the hush. Pansy’s warning hovered around her like mist, clinging to her skin.
The square was deserted, the last whispers of market day long faded. In the distance, a few windows flickered with hearthlight, but the shops around the square stood dark and silent.
A stray gust snatched at the hem of Isabella’s cloak. Flexing her fingers inside her gloves, she stamped her feet, feeling the chill seeping through her clothing and boots. The lamps sputtered and smoked.
There was no sign of a cart or carriage, no lantern bobbing in the distance, no sound of approaching wheels, only the faint clatter of hooves far away and the restless sigh of the wind through the empty streets.
She looked again at the lanes that led from the square. If no one came for her, she would need to find lodging for the night. She glanced back at the inn and wondered how long she should wait. A fat fly battered weakly against the wavy glass, its droning thin in the cold.
Standing here alone in the unfamiliar darkness sent an odd sensation digging between her shoulder blades, sharp and intrusive, like a splinter of ice digging beneath her skin.
Pansy’s voice seemed to whisper from the shadows. Keep your wits about you… Harrowgate has a way of taking things.
Cold scraped the back of her neck. She spun, her skirts twisting around her ankles, her pulse jumping.
No one was there.
She steadied herself, taking in a breath that did not settle easily in her lungs. She was tired, that was all. Tired and uncertain, the disquiet of too much change too quickly. Or perhaps it was the seed of Pansy’s warnings taking root, growing sharp-edged in the darkness.
From behind her came the creak of wooden wheels and the soft clop of hooves. She turned to find a small donkey cart rattling into the square. The driver, a stooped man in a patched coat, set her trunks down. Then the cart rattled away, leaving her alone once more, the glow of the oil lamps a paltry sentry against the night. Around her were dim lanes, darkened windows, and silent buildings. With a sigh, Isabella eyed the door of the inn.
Almost did she go inside when hoofbeats carried through the night, slow, deliberate, followed by the metallic jingle of a bridle. A carriage emerged from the dark, its lanterns spilling wavering circles of light, the horses’ breath steaming in the cold air as the driver brought them to a halt.
A wiry man with a weathered face climbed down from the driver’s seat. His sharp eyes glinted in the lamplight.
His gaze landed on Isabella. “Miss Barrett?”
“Yes,” Isabella replied.
“Tom Grange,” he said, then he jutted his chin toward her trunks. “Yours?”
“Yes,” she said again, watching as he turned to assess her trunks.
Tom’s expression remained impassive as he hefted the smaller trunk and strapped it to the back of the carriage. Then he eyed the larger as if it had once wronged him before dragging it toward the carriage with a determination that suggested he had handled worse. With a combination of brute strength and calculated efficiency, he lashed it in place.
Tom handed her into the carriage and closed the door, leaving her alone as he clambered up top. A horse whinnied. The wheels creaked and they set out.
Chapter Seven
Isabella leaned close to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the world beyond, but the night was dark and there was little to see save the black silhouettes of trees and bushes. Every so often, branches arched close enough to scrape against the sides of the carriage, the sound dry and skeletal. The occasional lantern mounted to a post flickered past, fleeting and insubstantial.
In the end, she wedged herself into the corner and endured the jolts and bumps.
The road grew narrower, the surrounding trees pressing closer. After a time, the coach made a sharp turn. Its lamps threw shallow bowls of light to either side, revealing brick columns, their surfaces veined with ivy and moss. The road curved and dipped as they drove along. Isabella thought they had been travelling for about half an hour, which made Harrowgate Manor farther from the village than she had imagined.
Isolated. Solitary. Forgotten.
The trees thinned at last to reveal a clearing, and an enormous house.
Anxiety twisting through her, Isabella leaned forward, her breath fogging the window’s glass.
