ONE
To the Firm of Denby and Clarkson, Solicitors
As my solicitors, I find myself in need of your services involving a dispute of inherited property. My cousin, Captain Claymore Winters of the East India Company, has gone down with his ship, The Demeter, off the coast of the Isle of Wight. Only a small number of the crew were rescued and all others are presumed dead. By rights, Mansford Hall and its surrounding property will pass to me as the male heir. However, the aged, spinster sister of Captain Winters refuses to vacate the premises. You will send a representative to Mansford Hall near Newcastle on Tyne and have this woman forcibly removed by bailiffs, if need be. I should like to take up residence at Mansford Hall by the new year.
Urgently,
The Honorable Mr. Cecil Winters-Beaton
Newcastle on Tyne, December 15th, 1844
The Right Honorable Mr. Oliver William Hawthorne, Esquire, disembarked from the stage—an inconvenience, really, that he’d only been able to travel as far as Newcastle by rail and was required to make the rest of the journey by such slow methods.
With his case in one hand and a leather portfolio in the other, he had traveled light. Within that portfolio was all the information he possessed about his current task. To say that the factual information was scant was more than an understatement. Inside that file were several sheets of paper—one elegantly embossed with his employer’s seal and the others all hastily scrawled documents that consisted only of the ranting of a very angry man.
The first letter to his firm, to engage their services in the matter, had been quite lucid and rather benign. Since that time, it appeared there had been an altercation of some sort between the client and the squatter, as he referred to Captain Winters’ sister. Each subsequent letter had been angrier and more vociferous in terms of what the client thought of this woman who refused to vacate his property.
The inn yard was crowded with people, many of whom were there for the market or simply as a waypoint on their way to other locations. Newcastle was a port town, after all, and this small village on the outskirts was bustling with travelers heading to the larger city. The air had grown quite chilled and the sky above was leaden with the threat of either rain or snow.
Seeing a fellow leading a pair of horses to the stables, Oliver called out, “Sir, might I trouble you for a direction?”
The man paused, patting one of the horses absently. “Aye, sir. How might I be of assistance?”
“I need to reach Mansford Hall. If possible, I’d like to reach it before dark. Is there a livery about where I might hire a mount?”
The man’s face paled and his friendly demeanor vanished. “I’d sooner give you directions straight to hell, sir. Amounts to the same thing it does! That place be evil and all who inhabit it do the devil’s work. I’ll not be party to it.”
Oliver was so taken aback by the man’s odd behavior that by the time he thought to protest the man had already walked away. He simply stood there, mouth agape, as the ostler disappeared into the crowd, only the horses’ rumps visible in the melange of people. “I’ve come to a madhouse,” he muttered to himself.
Irritated, he opened the portfolio and began scanning the letter from his employer, hoping for some direction beyond simply the name of the farm. No sooner had he done so than the carriage behind him began rumbling forward, thus allowing the fierce wind that it had blocked so effectively to send the documents flying.
Cursing under his breath, muttering about the wretched place he’d found himself in, he dove after the swirling pages and was able to catch the errant missives. But before he could rise once more to his full height, a long shadow fell over him.
Almost against his will, his eyes began to lift, scanning over the dirty boots, and up long legs clothed in rough trousers. In fact, everything about the man seemed inordinately rough. Oliver was not a small man himself, standing at just over six feet with a broad frame and more brawn than his respectable suit of clothing would indicate, he rarely found himself intimidated by the mass of another man. Even if he was, he’d learned over the years to hide such a response. After all, he might be a solicitor, but that wasn’t all he was. No one knew about his secret life and his storied pugilistic pursuits.
The man before him remained silent. But he moved with surprising grace given his hulking figure as he extended one arm toward him. He had hands which were roughly the size of hams. They appeared worn and work-roughened. But in that extended hand was a neatly folded note, smudged now from the man’s dirty fingers.
When the man pushed the note forward, Oliver had no choice but to take it. Accepting it, he rose fully and scanned it. The note, strangely enough, was addressed to him by name. Curious and more than a little unnerved, he broke the wax seal and digested the very neat lines of curving, feminine script.
Mr. Hawthorne,
Allow me to please extend my welcome to you. I hope you have had a safe and comfortable journey, though, given the difficulty inherent to travel, I cannot imagine that to be the case. Given how exhausted you must be from your journey, I will be brief.
I am aware that my cousin has obtained your services to manage my eviction from Mansford Hall. While I understand you are in an unpleasant position, please, rest assured of your most civil welcome. I am pleased to offer you hospitality at Mansford Hall until matters can be resolved. No doubt, we may reach some proper arrangement to settle this matter swiftly and without rancor. My servant, Hampton, will see you to the Hall. Do not mind his appearance or his quietness. He is mute from birth and does not speak, but hears very well and understands all.
Cordially,
Miss Polly Winters
“You will takeme to Mansford Hall,” Oliver said to the servant. It was not a question so much as a clarification.
The man nodded, inclining his head only slightly. Then he simply turned to walk away, leaving Oliver to follow or be left behind.
Hurrying forward with his case in one hand and the leather-bound portfolio in the other, they left the crowded inn yard and strode toward a waiting cart. It was a simple vehicle. There weren’t even seats beyond the bench upon which the driver would sit, and where he, so long as he didn’t mind crowding, might join him. It was designed for a farm, for the country. It was not a conveyance that was intended for comfort or to preserve the cleanliness of his well-tailored clothing. There was absolutely no hope that he would arrive at Mansford Hall in any condition to be received by a woman of delicate sensibilities. He could not fathom that Miss Polly Winters, the spinster cousin of his client, could be anything less. Ultimately, he had no choice in the matter.
Placing his bags in the back, Oliver climbed up onto the cart. The seat was very crowded, and the scent of hay surrounded him, prompting a sneeze.
As the servant, Hampton, snapped the reins and the aging horse trudged forward, a question entered Oliver’s mind. How had Miss Hawthorne known his name? There had been no communication between his firm and the woman. Only the client had spoken to her in regards to his intent to take possession of the property and that had occurred before he had engaged their services. It was a puzzle to be certain.
