Witchfog Read online

  The pounding on my door woke me abruptly, clearing away the last vestiges of dreaming.

  “Lady Lily? Ma’am? It’s time for us to leave.”

  It was my guide, he of the unusual name and mysterious disappearance. I hadn’t realised how easily I would recognise his voice.

  “I’m coming,” I called back, swinging my legs out of bed and rubbing the sleep from my eyes. It would have been polite of him to give me a little notice of such an early start. My room still lay in darkness, even with the shutters open; I guessed that the sun barely grazed the horizon.

  When I learnt that we were too early to receive a cooked breakfast, my grumpiness increased. I always hate to miss my morning meal. We set off in sullen silence, and I kept the hood of my mantle up so I wouldn’t have to make eye contact.

  I soon realised, though, that my irritation was pure silliness. It was a bright, clear morning, so of course Mr Amberson wished to get going before there was any risk of the weather turning. We would arrive at rather an ungracious hour, true, but that seemed preferable to never arriving at all.

  Gingerly, I eased down my hood, and turned to my companion.

  “I apologise for not being prepared and ready to leave this morning, Mr Amberson. I wasn’t aware that we would leave so early.”

  “The day dawned clearer than I expected,” he said, and I suspected I would get no closer to an apology.

  We retraced our earlier route, but this time the air was free of fog. Feeling far more cheerful, I kept a keen eye out for my bag, hopeful it had remained untouched overnight. We rumbled along peacefully, the silence becoming companionable rather than awkward. Rough stone-walled sheep fields surrounded the road here, very different from the soft green of the lower valleys. It might have looked harsh and colourless but for the bright blue of the sky above, and the rich purples of the heather in the distance.

  “To think we could almost be looking back in time,” I mused. How different from ever-changing London.

  “The hills didn’t always look like this,” my guide said, surprising me. “Once, they were forested. Thick, dark forests that grew untouched for hundreds of years. But the first people in Yorkshire feared the forests and what lived in them. So they burned them. And now we have the heather.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. What an odd comment to make. But I endeavoured to engage with him as if he had spoken rather more conventionally.

  “Are you much interested in local history then?”

  Years of training in the art of polite conversation came to my rescue yet again.

  “You could say that, yes. It’s something of a family interest. I learnt a lot from my father and grandfather.”

  “How absolutely fascinating. You must tell me a few tales as we travel along.”

  He turned out to be full of stories about the landscape we travelled through. This was a Roman road- not one of their famous military routes, but a merchant construction. There, on the distant hillside, lay the faint remains of an Anglo-Saxon lord’s palace. In the next valley was a splendid stone circle. I became so engrossed in his tales that I almost didn’t notice when we swung off the main road and on to the narrower track we had taken yesterday. But my body remembered the fear better than my mind. I felt my heartbeat speed up, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Mr Amberson fell silent. I reminded myself to look for my bag and focused hard on that practical task. I blocked out the thought of that terrible red smile.

  “Over there,” Mr Amberson said, bringing me back to awareness. How had I lost track of my thoughts so easily? I followed the line of his pointing finger and there, in the middle of a field, lay my bag.

  “I’ll fetch it for you,” he said, and was off the cart and over the hedge before I could protest. Uneasy questions drifted into my mind; could it have fallen so far from the cart? But I quickly quashed such thoughts. Probably a fox, or some farmer’s dog, out early this morning, had carried it off.

  Mr Amberson returned in moments, hoisting my bag up into his cart, then coming to join me on the seat. It occurred to me that we were sitting as we had in our panic of the evening before- rather inappropriately close together on the cramped driver’s seat. Still, it was too late to move now without causing unnecessary awkwardness. I stayed silent and tried not to notice the warmth of his leg radiating through my skirts.

  The rest of the drive passed with little incident. The Hall was further than I had thought the previous day, and a good stretch of road still lay ahead. I understood better why Mr Amberson had wanted to turn back; this rough, winding lane would not have been an easy drive in such thick fog.

  At last, as we rounded the curve of the hill, Killston Hall appeared in front of us. A squat, dark building, it spread out along the shore of a small lake. Not quite the elegant country home I had envisaged, but at least it seemed large and well sited.

  “I hope our arrival isn’t too much of a discomfort to the staff,” I said, a little nervously. Mr Amberson turned to look at me, evidently surprised.

  “Apologies, ma’am, but I was under the impression that your visit was expected.”

  “Oh, well, yes, I did write to my uncle, but I was so vague about a date, and I never actually received a reply. Maybe he never got it. But he seemed so keen for me to visit that I thought I better leave straight away.”

  Mr Amberson raised a single eyebrow. My story was obviously not quite of the standard I had hoped.

  “You’re traipsing all over the countryside to visit an elderly uncle?”

  “Well, not exactly,” I said defensively. “I’m not traipsing. And he’s not really very elderly. Or my uncle, actually.”

  He was outright gaping at me now.

  “Do your parents know you’re here, ma’am?”

  “My parents passed on when I was a child,” I said snappishly. “And I’m nineteen. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Apologies, ma’am,” he said stiffly. “Condolences on your loss.”

  And, of course, my wealth allowed me to do anything I liked. A vast inheritance had its uses. But it seemed somewhat immodest to mention that in front of Mr Amberson.

  We passed the rest of our journey in silence, rolling into the driveway of Killston Hall a few minutes later. No one came out to greet us, although that was hardly surprising, given our unannounced arrival. Still, I had never arrived at a house to find no one expecting me. I found myself unsure what to do.

  “Why don’t you wait here for a moment? I'll find out who’s awake.” Mr Amberson offered. I gratefully accepted and then realised that sitting on a cart was probably not a gracious way to make my appearance. I had hoped to convince my so-called uncle, really a distant cousin, of my wealth and sophistication. Arriving on, essentially, a farm cart hadn’t been a well-thought-out plan. I slipped down from the cart to wander across the drive as if my more elegant conveyance had just disappeared back down the road.

  Mr Amberson tried knocking on the door. No response.

  “It seems unlikely that everyone’s still asleep,” he said, frowning up at the imposing dark wood. “The drive took us at least an hour. Maybe two.”

  “Perhaps there is no one positioned at the door,” I suggested. “Seeing as they’re so unlikely to get any passing visitors.”

  “I’ll try round the back. You wait here, ma’am.”

  I nodded and continued my promenade along the driveway, squinting up at the house. The morning light glinted off its mullioned windows. I realised that we must have turned around entirely during our journey, for we had started off east and I now faced due west. What a confusing landscape. I would have to enquire whether the Hall possessed a map of the local area.

  It was a handsome enough house at least, although decidedly strange. It bore no resemblance to the elegant stone houses I frequented further south, nor to the charming timber and plaster manor houses that some of the gentry still occupied. The stone was a warm gold, welcoming enough, but the
house itself still seemed dark. It followed an odd design, with no attempt at symmetry or any aesthetic balance. An elegant rose window was awkwardly crammed into a wing a little too small for it; a chimney cut across the wall and blocked half of a window. Still, I wasn’t here for a pretty house. I had business to attend to.

  Mr Amberson’s attempts at the back of the house must have met with success, as I heard noises coming from behind the door. I headed back towards it, trying to maintain my facade of leisurely calm, only to jolt back in surprise when it burst open and a flurry of people spilled out. A rather haggard looking footman pulled my trunk off the cart in seconds, and then a pair of raggedy boys led the horse and cart off across the drive to what was presumably the stables. I found myself cornered by a plump, smiling lady who seized both my hands in hers, declared herself delighted to see me, and swept me away inside, a pair of housemaids trailing behind us. This noise and bustle was not at all what I had expected, leaving me rather overwhelmed. There was no sign of Mr Amberson.

  The door lead into a small stone enclosed porch, rather recalling the entrance to an old rural church. I was swept straight on through into a long corridor which seemed oddly sized, as if the porch wasn’t quite centred. The plump lady pulled me along, still gripping my hands, into a small sitting room, where she finally let go of me.

  “Welcome to Killston Hall, Lady Lily! His lordship will delighted to hear of your arrival. I’m Mrs Pender, the housekeeper. We weren’t expecting you this early, so I’m afraid there isn’t a room made up yet, but we should have one prepared shortly. If you would be so kind as to wait here for a few minutes, I’ll be back to fetch you as soon as it’s ready.”

  She bustled off again without even giving me a chance to reply, the two housemaids still tagging along silently behind her. I sank down onto one of the faded blue sofas that sat huddled at the edge of the room and placed my bag on a conveniently placed table.

  The room was pleasing enough, albeit in a dated way. Heavy and clumsy plasterwork covered the ceiling, the details blurred by many coats of paint. No doubt it had endured for generations. A dark wood panelling covered the walls; it seemed oddly suited to the mood of the house. It was fine work - someone in the past had put good money into this house. A fire burned in the grate, casting warm, flickering shadows over slightly battered furniture and an old-fashioned wall hanging. It was not the pastel elegance I was used to, but the strange, ugly house had a certain charm.

  The hanging caught my attention, and I walked over to inspect it. I couldn’t work out the scene. It didn’t look like anything biblical or classical. Unless it was Icarus and Daedalus, perhaps? The man in the centre appeared to have wings, but he wore strange clothes. And was that a pile of bodies around him?

  “It’s Wayland the Smith,” a croaky voice said behind me, and I knew even before I looked that this would be Sir Philip.

  “Uncle,” I said with a smile, turning to him and holding out my hands. He took them gallantly, smiling down at me.

  “Lady Lily, it is a pleasure to have you here, and wonderful to meet you at last.”

  “After all the stories my mother told me, I feel as if I know you already,” I said, laughing a little.

  I was actually rather surprised to see him still so straight and tall. During my childhood, my mother had already spoken of her distant cousin Philip as an old man. I had expected someone shrunken and wizened with age, especially given the weary desperation present in his letters. The man in front of me did not seem broken down by harsh misfortune.

  “I see you are admiring my tapestry,” Sir Philip said, gesturing towards it expansively. “It’s an antique. Been passed down the family for generations. Might be fourteenth century. Wayland Smith is a popular story here. Do you know it?”

  “I must admit I’m not familiar with it,” I said politely. “Was he a Yorkshireman?”

  “No, immigrants brought his story here. Vikings. Or perhaps Saxons, before them. It’s rather a long story though, I’m afraid. Perhaps I’ll tell it to you over lunch.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Mrs Pender chose that moment to reappear. Had she been hovering behind the door?

  “Good morning, your lordship,” she said briskly, brushing him out of the way to seize my hands herself. “Lady Lily, your room is ready. Let me show you up.”

  She seized my bag and towed me off, not saying another word to Sir Philip. I barely had the chance to flash him an apologetic smile before I was dragged back out into the corridor, through into an oddly squat great hall, and up an old timber staircase. Upstairs, there were more misshapen, awkward hallways, and then Mrs Pender ushered me into my room. Markedly different from the rest of the house, this was clearly a lady’s room, and a fairly modern one at that. The walls were panelled in a soft sage green, and the large bed upholstered in a lovely floral muslin. The layout of the room was unusual, with a blocked-in window and walls that did not quite make a straight line, but I found the overall effect quite acceptable.

  “It’s charming,” I told Mrs Pender, and she beamed, seemingly delighted at the scrap of praise.

  “It’s been years since we had someone to stay in this room and it’s a terrible shame to leave it neglected. I hope you will find it comfortable.”

  “I’m sure it will be perfect.”

  It would not have passed muster in one of my own homes, but there was no need to tell her that.

  “I’ll leave you to settle yourself in for a while,” she told me. “I’m afraid we don’t have a lady’s maid, but I can send a housemaid up, if you wish.”

  I politely declined; I’d managed this far without a maid. It was, in truth, rather scandalous for me to travel without a maid. But scandal had never much bothered me, and my lady’s maid would have detested the journey.

  “Well, I’ll send a maid up later to tidy then. I expect Sir Philip will meet you for lunch if you’ll be in the hall at noon.”

  How unfashionably early, I thought, but I was in no position to argue, so I agreed, and Mrs Pender swept off again. I wondered where her trailing housemaids had gone. Then I wondered where Mr Amberson had gone. He must still be on the estate; I hadn’t paid him the final instalment of his fee yet. No doubt he would reappear soon enough.

  Explorations

  I briefly considered a nap in the hour or so I had before lunch but, despite my early start, I wasn't yet tired enough. Instead, I decided to explore. I changed into my house slippers, leaving the rest of my trunk’s contents piled up on an armchair for a maid to tidy. Draping my travelling cloak over the back of the same chair, I shrugged on a cosy little woollen jacket and set off to investigate this unusual house.

  My room opened onto a hallway whose construction suggested accident rather than design. It seemed cobbled together from the space left between unrelated rooms. It curved and twisted its way along the length of the house, sometimes bending at a complete right angle. I followed it, trailing my fingers along the smooth wooden panelling and gazing up at the portraits. How strange, seeing so many faces that looked like my mother. She had not grown up here, but her mother had, youngest in a large brood of rowdy cousins. As a young child, I had loved my grandmother’s stories of adventures in this house, but it didn’t look at all as I imagined. I suppose I had always rather been picturing my own country home.

  I dared not wander into any of the rooms, in case they turned out to be private. Instead, I walked back down the stairs the same way I had come, re-entering the room with the tapestry. This must be the hall that Mrs Pender had meant when she mentioned lunch. I had not realised before what a strange, stubby little room it was, not quite as long or tall as the huge fireplace would suggest. I wondered if it was unfinished. A large door stood at either end, and I struggled to remember which one I had previously used. In the end, I picked one at random, and found myself in an unfamiliar corridor.

  At once, I knew this part of the house was not much used. It held the smell of emptiness and disuse. It reminded me of my London t
ownhouse when I returned after an entire winter in the countryside, but the feeling of abandonment here was far more intense. How strange to leave such a large area of the house untended. It looked as if no one had swept the floor in years.

  I still wasn’t brave enough to test any doors; it would have been horribly rude to blunder into a private room when I was a guest. I carried on down the corridor, wondering where it went. It ended abruptly at a small, elegantly carved door, which, to my surprise, stood ajar enough for me to see through to the garden. I pushed it open and stepped out, cursing myself the moment that cold dampness soaked through my house slippers.

  “Ma’am? Are you all right?”

  It was Mr Amberson, striding around the corner of a hedge to stand in front of me, a concerned expression on his face.

  “I’m fine,” I said, feeling rather ridiculous. “I just have wet feet. I’d better go back inside.”

  “You’d be best off walking around, ma’am,” he said quickly. “That part of the house isn’t safe. By rights, it should be closed off.”

  “I’m sure it’s absolutely harmless. My shoes will be ruined if I don’t go back inside immediately.”

  I reached to open the door again, but he grabbed my hand, pinning it hard against the wood before I could reach the handle.

  “Please trust me, ma’am,” he said, his voice low and serious. “This part of the house is unsafe. You should not enter it again.”

  What I should have done was shout in outrage at his insubordination, and demand he take his hands off me. But I trusted him. I saw the image of that terrible white face, and heard the whispers, and I knew he had already rescued me from more than my imagination.

  I gently drew my hand out from under his.

  “Very well. I’ll go around.”

  I picked my way across the damp grass, following the line of the Hall back around to the main building. I would have to change my slippers before lunch. Luckily, a door stood unlocked at the corner of the house where another closed porch protruded from the stone wall. I slipped inside, relishing the dry floor under my slippers. I held the door open for Mr Amberson behind me - and then realised he wasn’t behind me at all. I peered out into the garden but he had vanished. I shrugged it off and closed the door firmly, then set off back to my room in search of new slippers.