Love in the Moonlight: A Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Collection: 7 Delightful Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Stories (Regency Collections Book 6) Page 5

  They reached the bottom of the stairs. It was a crypt. Complete with tombs and effigies, some of which seemed very old. The vicar led Bart through the tombs to the largest one, located far back in the space. He said nothing – he simply held the lantern above the carved head of the knight who lay upon the tomb.

  It was Bart’s turn to gasp. It was like looking in a mirror. The carved face before him might almost have been his own.

  There were small differences, but still, the resemblance was uncanny. A chill passed through him, and he felt unaccountably disturbed. That a man, dead five centuries, should look so like him was eerie. No wonder the vicar had paled.

  “I… see…”

  “Let us go back up into the light of day, and I will tell you about him – what I know, anyway.”

  Bart nodded his agreement, and gladly followed the vicar up out of the crypt.

  The crypt door locked again, the vicar led him to a bench which stood against the wall of the church, looking out across the cemetery, perfectly placed to catch the warmth from the sun. Settled there, his back against the sun warmed stone, Bart felt the cold of the tomb below begin to leave him.

  “You said that he – the knight below – was related to the history of Dartworth Abbey?”

  “Yes, yes indeed. His name was Edward Cetan de Hirst. When it was first built, Dartworth Abbey was a house of the Templar order. In the 1320’s, when the order was banned, Edward led those who arrested the Templars, and claimed the Abbey for the crown. He lived there, holding it in trust until his death, when the King at the time granted the properties to Sir Ralph Kentworthy. Edward was not very popular with the people hereabouts, for many had sons, brothers or ancestors who had joined the Templars at the Abbey. Sir Ralph was better liked as he was a man from not far from here, and well known to them.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it? As you have been told, I am rather obsessed with the history of all of the estates in the area. I have often wondered what may be tucked away at Dartworth Abbey, unseen by anyone for centuries. Because it was a Templar house, there have always been rumours – that Templar treasure must be concealed there, or that the violence that occurred when the Templars were ousted must have left the place haunted. I doubt both of those ideas, but the concept that there are things we have not found – that I can believe.”

  “You were right to wonder. For that is what has brought me to you today. The restoration work has reached the stage where the men are working on the oldest parts of the building. The roofs had leaked so badly that we have had to remove almost all of the wall panelling in some areas. And behind it, we have found, not plain stone, but plastered walls, painted with murals. As well, there have been bricked up niches and pieces of carved decoration.” The vicar’s eyes had lit with fanatical interest as Bart spoke, “I do not know enough of the history to know what to make of it. I had hoped that you might come to see it, and tell us more of the history of the place.”

  “I… I am overwhelmed at the very idea. Thank you. I most certainly will come to see these wonders. Might I be so bold as to ask – may I also have access to Dartworth Abbey’s library? I have been certain, for many years, that there are books and documents there which will fill gaps in my knowledge.”

  “Of course, and you will find a kindred soul there. Lady Sybilla Barrington, who is staying at Greyscar Keep at present, has a companion who is also passionate about books, and history. She has taken it upon herself to begin putting the library in order.”

  “But that is wonderful!”

  “If it is not too much of an imposition – can you come tomorrow? I do not wish to delay the restoration, yet I also do not wish to damage what we have found.”

  “I most certainly can. Perhaps around the hour of noon?”

  “That would suit well.”

  “Thank you, again. I can hardly wait to see these wonders that you have uncovered.”

  ~~~~~

  “Mrs Westby, might I ask you some questions? About Greyscar Keep.”

  “Lady Sybilla – I am not sure that there’s very much to tell, but please ask, and I will try to answer.”

  Mrs Westby did not look pleased, thought Sybilla. Whilst her words had been everything that was polite, she had stiffened when Sybilla asked, and looked unhappy about it. Still Sybilla persisted.

  “Greyscar Keep seems so very old – do you know when it was built? Is it of a similar age to Dartworth Abbey?”

  “Truthfully, I don’t know. I could be – but I’ve never seen a date anywhere to prove it.”

  “I have been looking in the library – often, when I sit there to write, at the escritoire beneath the window, I end up thinking about the history of this place. I have looked through the library, but found little about it.”

  “Most of what’s in the library was collected at least two generations ago. I’ve been working here since I was a girl, and the Barringtons have never spent more than a few days at a time here, in all those years. Until you. So, little has been added, and nothing has been organised, for a very long time.”

  “I only remember a little about the few times we came her, when I was a child. My mother found it all too stark and gloomy. But I was intrigued. I have always thought that this was the sort of house where there would be hidden passages, and ghosts and the like. I suppose that’s all childish fancy. But… are there hidden passages, or anything like that? Do you know?”

  Mrs Westby looked at her, a hard expression on her face, as if she disapproved of the question entirely.

  “Really, Lady Sybilla! What a thing for a grown woman to ask. If there are hidden passages, they can stay hidden! I’ve no desire to be finding things like that.”

  Sybilla was disappointed – in her novel, there would definitely be hidden passages! Still… Mrs Westby had not answered all of her question.

  “And other things? Are there secret drawers in the furniture? Or stories of ghosts haunting the house, or other houses nearby? My novel will be ever so much better if I can draw on real ghost stories to create dramatic scenes to trap my heroine in.”

  Mrs Westby was silent, as if considering what to tell her. Then her face cleared, and she smiled, warmly.

  “Well, if you really want to hear that sort of faradiddle…”

  “I do, it would really help.”

  “All right then. Yes, there are plenty of stories about places being haunted – not just this house, but the Abbey, and many others. Some of them are rather gruesome. I’ve wondered myself if any are true, or based on true things that happened. Living here, so close to Combe Gibbet and Gallows Down, perhaps people are inspired by the reminders of death, and create tales.”

  “Hmmm – let’s start with stories about ghosts that are supposed to haunt this house, and the Abbey.”

  “Let me just get some tea, and we can sit here at the kitchen table, if you don’t mind, and I’ll tell you as much as I can remember.”

  Four hours later, Sybilla’s head was spinning, full of ghastly ghost stories, all interwoven with random pieces of information about the history of Greyscar Keep. Some of the tales were, indeed gruesome, and had made her shiver as she heard them. With all of those in her mind, she would startle at the old house creaking at night – she just knew it. They were wonderful fodder for her writing, but, Mrs Westby had, in the end, told them with such relish, that Sybilla felt afraid at times.

  She wondered if they were all really stories that had been told in the district for years, or if Mrs Westby was making things up to try to scare her. But why on Earth might she do such a thing? That did not make sense, so the stories must truly be local legend. Intentional or not, she had succeeded in scaring Sybilla, at least a little.

  Eventually, leaving Mrs Westby to get on with preparations for dinner, Sybilla took herself to the library to write. With all of the ghost stories in her head, she should be able to write well.

  The last of the afternoon light fell at an angle across the escritoire, and she fo
und that the words did flow well, although what she wrote was perhaps more darkly gothic than her work to date. The conversation had left her disturbed, and still with that sense that Mrs Westby had, once convinced to talk, rather relished making her uncomfortable. Again, she pushed that thought aside – the woman had no conceivable reason to do such a thing.

  Perhaps it was just that it would be All Hallows’ Eve in a day or two, and she was letting that influence her thoughts.

  Chapter Six

  All Hallows’ Eve dawned clear, with the wind still for once, and a crisp frost painting the land in shades of silver and grey, sparkling where the sun hit it, as it began to melt. With the air so clear, the view from the ridge was breath-taking.

  They rode slowly, hardly talking, content to simply be with each other in the cool morning air. The horses’ hooves crunched on the frost stiffened grasses, and a thin mist hovered at ground level, like a translucent sea of milk, as the frost evaporated.

  At moments like these the temptation was always there. The welcoming silence asked to be filled, should she wish it. She knew that he would listen, no matter what she said. But still, she was not brave enough. More than once, that morning, on the day when the doors between the worlds were supposed to be thinnest, and the dead closest to the living, she had opened her mouth, fully intending to speak, to tell him her dark secret. Yet each time, she had closed it again, the words unsaid.

  She did not want to lose him. So she did not speak.

  But she wondered. Here, in this place where everything seemed haunted, in one way or another, would her father’s and brother’s ghosts come to her, on this day? Would she dream, again, or would she see them, whilst she was still awake?

  It seemed all too possible. She shivered, and Ghost faltered slightly, her stride uneven as she adjusted to Sybilla’s movement. She reached down and stroked the mare’s neck, an apology.

  She watched as the morning sun sculpted Lord Barton’s face in sharp relief, enhancing features that had become familiar, and dear to her. He was relaxed, as he always was on a horse, up here, where the world was quiet. She wished that he could be so relaxed, down there, amongst other people, in daily life. He did not deserve to spend his life reliving the horrors of war.

  They neared the path down through the trees, and she knew that, now, the chance was past. This was not the day when she would tell him of her guilt, and her shame. So, that was another day that she could continue to have his company. But she was certain that, soon, there would be a day when she would speak, and would watch, in the light of the morning sun on the ridge, his face express his horror, and his rejection. But not today.

  ~~~~~

  Once the horses had been settled with the groom, they went to the library in search of Miss Millpost. She was perched on the rolling ladder, right in the back corner of the room, attempting to reach things on the very highest shelf.

  “Miss Millpost.”

  The ladder rocked as she turned towards them with a start.

  “Oh! Really! Must you surprise me so?”

  “I’m sorry Miss Millpost, I did not realise how deeply absorbed you were in your task.”

  Miss Millpost fixed Sybilla with a stern glare.

  “You know that I am always absorbed in my task. That this library was left in such a disgraceful state! It’s a crime. One that I fully intend to remedy. Hopefully you won’t finish that novel too soon, so that I will have time to complete this.”

  Sybilla laughed.

  “I am quite certain that I can simply make my story longer….”

  “Good. Now let me climb down. That corner will have to wait until the vicar’s next visit. He is taller than I, and can help me work out exactly what books have been crammed into that shelf.”

  As Miss Millpost reached the floor, there was a token tap on the door, and the overseer of the workmen rushed in, shedding a small cloud of dust after him. Graves followed, eyeing the dust disapprovingly.

  “My Lord!”

  “Yes, Mr Hackett – what is it?”

  “My Lord, we’ve just taken the panels off the wall in that closed in hallway like area – the one we think might have been a cloister in the original Abbey building. And under that panelling, we’ve found what seems to be a bricked-up door.”

  “A door?”

  “Yes, my Lady, there is an arched lintel shape of stones, just like around the other old doors, but it’s all bricked up, and had been panelled over, as if it was just a wall. The panels had a thick layer of plain old plaster behind them – it was so crumbly that it just fell off when we moved the panels. And there was the door.”

  Bart was not at all sure that he liked this idea – what might be behind a door that had been bricked up for centuries? He shivered at the thought. Miss Millpost came forward to stand beside Sybilla.

  “Then perhaps we should go and see what this looks like.”

  Sybilla could almost feel Miss Millpost vibrating with curiosity.

  “Yes, let us go and look, I want to see this.”

  Bart looked at her, and accepted the inevitable.

  “Mr Hackett, please show us this remarkable find.”

  They followed Mr Hackett out through the halls to the oldest section of the building, and into the narrow hall section, which had, indeed, been a cloister in its earliest days. The outer wall of the hallway featured windows, but the inner wall was solid, running along the outside of the small family chapel attached to the house, and some rooms used for storage. At least they had thought it solid. Perhaps it was not.

  “There!”

  Mr Hackett pointed at a section of wall, along the hallway, at the furthest point where the panels had been removed so far. The floor around it was covered in a pile crumbled lumps of plaster layered with dust.

  But revealed on the supposedly solid wall was what was definitely the outline of a door, filled with ancient bricks, which looked almost as crumbly as the plaster that had covered them.

  “My Lord, can we ask Mr Hackett to have the bricks removed? I am most interested in discovering what might be behind there.”

  Before Bart could answer, Miss Millpost spoke.

  “Lady Sybilla, are you sure that is wise? Who knows what it might contain – there could be spiders and centuries of dust at best, and skeletons at worst.”

  “I know! Perfect for helping me write a convincing scene in my book. I just have to know what’s behind there.”

  Miss Millpost snorted, shaking her head at the folly of the young, and backed away a little. Bart smiled at Sybilla’s enthusiasm.

  “Well, Mr Hackett, can we fulfil the Lady’s request? Let us see about the careful removal of those bricks.”

  “Yes, my Lord, at once.”

  They stepped back to give the workmen room, and watched as the bricks were chipped away. It did not take long before some bricks in the central section began to give up large chunks of themselves, and shortly thereafter, two whole bricks collapsed. There was a distinct ‘whuff’ sound as the seal of many centuries was broken, and a puff of air rushed out, lifting the dust in swirls. Miss Millpost shuddered, wrinkling her nose.

  “That smells like the grave.” she intoned, in an almost accusatory voice.

  “Perhaps it is.”

  Sybilla glanced sidelong at Miss Millpost, and watched her shudder. It really was rather naughty of her to provoke poor Miss Millpost but…

  Sybilla pressed forward, trying to see into the gap. Bart pulled her back gently. She froze as his hand touched her arm, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of her sleeve, then allowed him to move her, all the while conscious of that warmth spreading throughout her body.

  “Lady Sybilla, wait until they have cleared all of the bricks away. I most certainly wouldn’t want a brick to fall on your head!”

  “Yes, you are right. But this is just so exciting. I really want to know what is in there.”

  He moved his hand from her arm, and she felt its lack, acutely.

  They waited, as th
e workmen chipped out the bricks, and carted them away. Initially, all that was revealed was darkness. It seemed almost ominous, like a doorway into nothing. Lady Sybilla might find it exciting, but Bart was not at all sure that he wanted to know what was there.

  Finally, it was done, and they edged forward cautiously, to peer into the darkness.

  “Hackett, bring a lantern.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  The air that drifted from the darkness smelt musty, like things long stored in an attic, and earthy, like the scent of garden tools long stored in a shed. Or perhaps graves did smell like that?

  Hackett came bustling back with a lantern, and handed it to Bart. He extended it into the darkness, and they gasped. For revealed was a narrow set of stairs, set at right angles to the doorway, and going down into the earth, inside the cavity of the thick stone wall.

  “Oh my! This is amazing. A secret passage. Can we go down there?”

  “You may do as you wish, Lady Sybilla, but I, for one, am not going in there. I am quite certain that there will be spiders, and dust, and for all we know there are graves or bones – it might well be haunted – if there are ghosts anywhere, this is the sort of place I could well imagine them!”

  Miss Millpost actually looked pale, and her voice had shaken on the word ‘haunted’. Sybilla was surprised – she had never seen Miss Millpost hesitate at anything before. The workmen seemed to agree with her, for they had backed away, shaking their heads at the very idea of going into that dark hole.

  “Pish tosh Miss Millpost. We all know that there are no ghosts. But I admit that there may be spiders, and that there will definitely be dust.”

  As Sybilla decried the existence of ghosts, her father’s image rose in her mind, and she pushed it aside, suddenly feeling chilled, herself.

  “Are you sure…?”

  “Yes, Lord Barton, I am quite sure that I want to go down there.”