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I tried to banish the apprehension. There was no reason to feel this way, no reason at all, yet the nervous uneasiness remained as the ancient coach rattled over the rough terrain, bringing me nearer and nearer to Danmoor. I was the only passenger. A lumpy burlap bag filled with mail occupied the seat across from me. Danmoor was remote, isolated on the edge of the moors, and the mail coach made but one trip a week. I had been fortunate to make the connection. Clutching the edge of the seat to lessen the joggling, I stared out the windows at the desolate countryside, bleak gray and brown with patches of tarry black bog and a few gnarled green trees. It was like the rim of the world, barren, disturbing, filled with menace.

I couldn’t believe this was really happening. A month ago I had graduated at the head of my class. The boarding school was austere and strict, but it had been home to me for eleven long years. My uncle had provided the money, true, but I had had no communication with him during all that time. He was a complete stranger. I had assumed I would find some sort of employment after graduation, and the summons had come as a complete surprise: “Expecting you at Danver Hall September 12. Fare enclosed. Charles Danver.” That was all, and now I was on my way to a house I could not remember.

Even though I had spent the first seven years of my life there, Danver Hall remained shrouded in mist in my memory. I could not recall it, no matter how hard I concentrated. Whenever I tried to remember those early years, the headaches came, the throbbing, the quivering nerves and the fear. Why should I be afraid? Why should I be gripped with apprehension even now? It did not make sense, and I considered myself a very sensible young woman.

I was eighteen years old. I had no illusions about myself. I realized that I would never be pretty with my pale face, blue-gray eyes and drab brown hair worn in tight braids on top of my head. I was plain, a dull, unremarkable girl with prim mannerisms, but I was intelligent, and I was sensible. Why, then, did my wrists feel weak, and why did I have this hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach? Why did Danver Hall represent a threat when it should represent a refuge? I could not understand it.

Danver Hall had been built over two hundred years ago by one of my ancestors. It had eventually passed into the hands of my father, as had the textile mill that provided the main means of livelihood for the citizens of Danmoor. I had been born in the house. Seven years later both my parents had been killed in a freak accident when part of the decayed west wing collapsed on them, and my uncle had inherited the house and the mill. He sent me away to school. The summons was the first direct communication I had had from him in eleven years.

The coach clattered over a particularly nasty rut, tossing me against the dusty cushions. The bag of mail tumbled to the floor with a dull thud, the contents rustling crisply. I smoothed the skirt of my dark blue dress and wiped a smudge of dust from my cheek, hoping my trunk fastened on top of the coach hadn’t been knocked down. Sighing deeply, I made an effort to compose myself. It wouldn’t do to arrive in Danmoor ruffled and disturbed. I must remain cool, in complete possession of myself.

My schooldays were over. I was entering upon a new phase of life, and I must adjust myself to whatever might come. I was penniless, an orphan. I had received my schooling only through the charity of my uncle. I had no recourse but to obey his will. The past eleven years were gone. I did not regret leaving the school with its dark brown walls and icy corridors, the lumpy dormitory beds and hard wooden chairs. I would not miss the tasteless food or the odors of dust and chalk and flushed bodies, nor would I miss the stern mistresses or the giggling girls who took such delight in teasing me. They never let me forget that I was an orphan, never let me forget my pale, plain face and the coronet of tight, ugly brown braids. I was dull Jane Danver, the bookworm, the prude, reading Virgil in the original while they chattered about ribbons and the delivery boys. I had been miserable, yes, but I had adjusted to the misery and there had been a certain security in it. Now that security was gone … I was cast adrift, heading for the unknown.

She was my only friend. Opposites attract, they say, and Jamintha and I were as different as it would be possible for two young women to be, yet we had been close for eleven years. Whenever I was glum, whenever I was tired and depressed and suffering from one of the incessant headaches, Jamintha was there, a capricious sprite, her silvery laughter tinkling merrily, her irrepressible spirits putting me to shame and helping me forget my worries. I could depend on her. I could never have survived those long years without her. Would I ever see her again?

I had been in my narrow room, staring at the shabby, brass bound trunk that took up most of the floor space. It was already packed, and I would be leaving first thing in the morning. The candle spluttered, casting wavering gold shadows on the damp brown wall. The other girls were asleep in their own rooms, but I was too upset, too excited to sleep. My head was throbbing, and I was dry-eyed, unable to shed the tears that would have provided some release. Shivering in my thin chemise, I watched the shadows dancing on the walls and listened to the silence that filled the dormitory. The candle flickered. There was a rustle of silken skirts. Jamintha crept into my room, a finger over her lips, her blue eyes filled with mischief. She stood by the trunk, listening, and then she laughed her merry, irreverent laugh.

“I had to come,” she said. “I had to tell you goodbye. Oh Jane, are you really leaving this place?”

“You’re lucky,” she replied. “I think it’s ever so exciting. It’ll be an adventure. Who knows what interesting things might happen? You may even meet a dashing young man and fall in love.”

“Oh, Jane, you infuriate me, always belittling yourself. You’ve got ever so many nice features—you’re pretty in fact. All you need is a little sparkle, a little vitality. If only you weren’t so proper, so humorless—”

I shook my head, staring at her in the dim, flickering candlelight. Jamintha was everything I wasn’t. She was everything I wanted to be. With her long, lustrous hair and sparkling blue eyes, she was undeniably beautiful. We were the same age, and both of us were orphans. We were the same size, too, and could wear the same dresses, but whereas Jamintha looked like a princess in her flowered silks, I looked like someone in drab masquerade. She radiated vitality and health, a bright, merry creature who found life a joyous adventure even in the dreary confines of the school. I had poor health, and I rarely smiled.

She whirled around, her silk skirt billowing over rustling petticoats. The dress was light blue, patterned with pink and lilac flowers. The bodice fit snugly over her full breasts and narrow waist. Rich chestnut curls fell to her shoulders, and her cheeks were flushed a delicate pink. I could see that she had some mischief in mind as she peered into the small, murky blue mirror that hung beside the door.

“It’s terribly late,” I said. “Why are you dressed? You should be in bed—”

“Pox on their silly rules and regulations,” she retorted. “I’m going to see Billy. He’s meeting me on the other side of the wall.”

“To hell with them,” Jamintha said sweetly. “They haven’t caught me yet, have they? I’m very careful. Besides, Billy and I don’t do anything wicked. He takes me to the music halls, and occasionally I let him steal a kiss. I’m quite as virginal as you are, Jane, although I’m not so smug about it.”

Jamintha smiled her pixie smile, delighted to have shocked me. I felt gauche and naive in her presence. Although she was only eighteen, although her life here at school had been as strict and closely supervised as my own had, Jamintha was surprisingly sophisticated. It was as though she had been born with a worldly knowledge I could never hope to possess. She was dazzling. I would pass unnoticed, but men would be unable to resist Jamintha. I felt no envy, just great admiration.

“I’ll miss you,” I said. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you, Jamintha.”

“Just be glad you’re leaving this dreadful school. If Charles Dickens were still alive he’d write an exposé of the place! Imagine living in such bleak, airless rooms and eating such incredible food—it’s deplorable!”

“I’ll have no one to confide in. You’re the only friend I’ve ever had, the only one who—”

“I know,” she interrupted, her lovely eyes serious. “We’ve been closer than sisters, Jane. It’s meant as much to me as it has to you.”

“What will become of you now?” I inquired. “You’ve graduated, too. Will you become a governess? Will you—”

“I haven’t the slightest notion,” she retorted. “I’ll get by. I may even come to Danmoor.”

Jamintha perched on the edge of the bed, lifting her skirts up to examine her pretty blue slippers. She avoided my eyes, but I could tell from her voice that she was as touched as I, as sad and disheartened.

“We’re both alone,” she said softly. “We’ve been through so much together. Dear Jane. You’ve made this place endurable these past years. I’ll be lost without you.”

“I must go,” she said, springing to her feet. “Billy will be waiting. He grows terribly impatient if I’m late. Goodbye, Jane. If you ever need me—when you need me—I’ll be there. Somehow. I promise.”

A gust of wind blew in through the corridor. The candle spluttered and almost went out, the tiny golden flame dancing wildly. There was a rustle of silk and the patter of light footsteps. Jamintha had vanished, and I was alone again, my headache worse than ever. The throbbing subsided after a while, and I slept, my bones heavy with weariness. I grew so tired, so easily. If only I had Jamintha’s blooming health. If only I weren’t plagued with these headaches … I slept, dreading the morning and my departure.

The joggling coach brought me out of my reverie. I could hear the horse hooves pounding and the wheels rumbling. The springs creaked as though in agony, and it seemed the coach would surely fall apart as we hit another bump. The sky was a harsh steel color, the land beneath an expanse of sun-parched grass, boulders and bogs. How could people live in such a place? How could life exist in such depressing surroundings? The stunted trees lifted their gnarled limbs like arms raised in entreaty, a brisk wind already stripping them of their dark green leaves. It was a tormented landscape, a nightmare place fit only for the wind and the lashing rains.

Gradually, it changed. The rocky slopes became rolling hills, the sun-parched grass grew green, and I caught a glimpse of bright silver ribbon, a distant stream winding through the hills. The trees grew taller, powerful oaks spreading their heavy boughs and making cool purple shadows. Wildflowers grew, gold and yellow and brown, and I could see sheep grazing on a hillside. Danver County, I knew, was an oasis, a great patch of rich farmland completely surrounded by the moors. The village of Danmoor perched on the northeast edge, and the gardens of Danver Hall led directly into the moor where wild streams cascaded over mossy rocks and waterfalls poured into churning pools … How did I know that? Was I beginning to remember? I could see the rippling water, the boulders festooned with dark green moss, a bank of delicate purple wildflowers. Had I played there as a child? Would it all come back to me when I saw the house?

It grew late. The sun was beginning to make dark orange banners on the horizon. I began to see dwellings, scattered at first, then closer together. A farmer was plowing a loamy red-brown field, his forearms bronze in the dying sunlight. A group of children were romping around a barnyard and a dog joined in the play, barking loudly. The farms gave way to cottages, hovels, really, deplorable shacks with sagging roofs and narrow porches. These were where the millhands lived, trying to survive on miserable salaries. There was a clearing, and then I saw the mill itself sprawling over the land, long flat buildings without proper ventilation, smokestacks billowing gusts of ugly black smoke. Dark red flames glowed. I could see men pushing wheelbarrows through opened sheds, men sweating, men with embittered faces and stooped shoulders still at work even though the sun was almost gone.

The coach slowed as we came into the village. People sauntered aimlessly along the pavement. A group of old men perched on the benches around the square, staring at the tarnished bronze statue of Robert Danver, founder of Danmoor. There were shops and pubs, a hotel, a bank, brick walls stained with soot. The driver stopped in front of the tiny post office and got down to help me out. I stood on the pavement as he unstrapped my trunk and heaved it down, placing it beside me. He took the bag of mail out and disappeared into the post office, leaving me alone. There was no one to meet me.

Ten minutes passed, fifteen. The sun was gone now, and the sky above sooty rooftops was deep blue streaked with purple. It was chilly, and I had no cloak. Where was my uncle? Today was September 12. Surely he remembered I was coming. I folded my arms about my waist, trying not to panic. Gusts of wind lifted my dark blue skirt, causing it to billow over the thin cotton petticoats. I was weary, so weary, and my head was aching again. Another migraine. Would I never be rid of them?

I stared around at the village of Danmoor: It was neat, even pretty with the arched rock bridges and the towering trees, but mill smoke had stained everything, and even though I stood in the middle of town I could sense the moors crouching just beyond, their desolation strongly felt. Through shadowy tree limbs at the end of town I could see a spire, a final ray of sunlight burnishing the copper. At least there was a church, I thought, though the village itself had a raw, rough-hewn character. Life would be stern here, the men rugged, the women hard. There was none of the genteel charm usually associated with a small English village. I felt vulnerable and exposed, totally unprepared for this kind of atmosphere.

Across the street were three pubs in a row, noisy places with swinging wooden doors, bright yellow lights pouring through the windows making pools on the sidewalk. I could see dark figures moving around, and I heard loud, husky voices and raucous laughter. Someone was pounding on a piano, the music barely audible over the din. The coach driver stepped out of the post office with an empty bag. He climbed up on the seat and drove away to the livery stable. Still no one had come for me. I tried to still the trembling inside. The sky was dark now, and doorways and walls thronged with shadows as night approached.

The doors of the first pub across the street swung open and a tall man stepped out. He glanced at me without interest as the wind caused locks of unruly dark hair to tumble over his forehead. He was incredibly handsome with strong features and the build of an athlete. He wore highly polished black boots, tight gray breeches, a gray jacket that hung open to reveal an embroidered black satin waistcoat over his frilled white shirt. He had the arrogant demeanor of a cruel London rake and was as out of place here in Danmoor as I myself must be. He scowled, dark brows lowered, his wide mouth twisting with disgust. He was none too steady on his feet, weaving a little as he stood there, and I realized that he was drunk. He took a deep breath, chest swelling, and lifted a hand to brush his hair back from his forehead. I stared at him, fascinated and repelled at the same time.

A woman came out of the pub behind him. She had dark blonde hair, and there was a worried look in her eyes. The bodice of her vivid green dress was cut indecently low, a frilly white apron tied around her slender waist. Pretty in a coarse sort of way, she seemed on the verge of tears. She put her hand on the man’s arm and looked up at him beseechingly.

“Come on back in, duckie,” she pleaded. “You’ve ’ad a mite too much to drink. I’ll fetch you some coffee and later—maybe later—”

“Don’t be that way, luv. I—I’m sorry I pulled away from you. You were drunk, an’ you lunged at me so suddenly—I didn’t mean no harm. I’ll let-ya come up to my room, duckie, sure I will, soon as you sober up. Let me give-ya some coffee—”

The man glared at her with dark eyes. The woman smiled nervously, obviously afraid of him. She was struggling to hold back the tears, and the man seemed to enjoy her plight. He smiled a cruel smile. Unworldly as I was I knew that such men considered women like the barmaid their personal chattels to be taken or discarded at will. His brooding good looks only made it worse. Women must spoil him deplorably, I thought, and he was well aware of the power he had over them.

“Please—” the barmaid said. “I’ll lose my job, you see. If you walk out like this they’ll sack me. You’re our best customer an’—come on, luv. Be a sport—”

The man grinned a devilish grin. He raised his hand and examined it, turning it over to study the palm with great interest. Then he slammed it across her mouth with such force that she stumbled back against the wall. I could hear the impact of flesh on flesh from where I stood. The girl sank to her knees, sobbing. The man strolled on down the pavement and stepped into the next pub, leaving the wooden doors swinging behind him.

I was alarmed by what I had just seen and not a little frightened. I had listened to the girls chatter about sex. I had done extensive reading. I knew all the facts of life, but for eleven years I had been carefully sheltered against them. This incident which might have passed unnoticed by many seemed a raw, shocking display to me. Did men really treat women that way? The barmaid got to her feet and wiped away the tears and went back into the pub with a dejected air. I wondered who the man was. I wondered how anyone could be so thoroughly hateful. Not all men were like that, surely, but then not all men were so wickedly handsome.

An empty farm wagon came rolling down the street, the driver a husky lad who held the reins loosely in his lap. The dappled gray horse plodded at a lazy pace, the wagon creaking. Seeing me standing alone beside the shabby trunk, the driver pulled up on the reins and the wagon stopped a few yards away. The lad stared at me in surprise, and I took a step backward, my heart pounding. I was alone on a dark street. The boy was large, powerfully built. His mouth spread in a wide grin. He wore muddy brown boots, clinging tan trousers and a leather jerkin over a coarse white linen shirt. Thick, shaggy blond hair spilled over his forehead. His blue eyes stared at me openly.

“It’s gettin’ late,” he remarked. “Looks like you need to hitch a ride with someone.”

He grinned again. It was a surprisingly amiable grin. The lad couldn’t have been much older than I, and he had a rough, affable manner that was almost pleasant, despite the circumstances. Undeniably raw-boned and crude, he was nevertheless attractive. His grin was appealing, and those vivid blue eyes were full of mischief.

“You’re Miss Jane Danver, aren’t-ja? Susie told me they were expectin’ you. Looks like someone forgot to come fetch you.”

“She works there at Danver ’all, the maid. We’re courtin’. Soon as I get enough ready cash in my pockets I’m aimin’ to marry ’er, though the wench ’asn’t said yes yet. You want I should drive you to the ’all? I ’aven’t got anything better to do.”

“I’m Johnny Stone, Ma’am. I’m hell with the lasses, all right, as Susie’ll tell-ya. Nothin’ I like so much as a good tumble, but I ain’t never taken it by force, an’ I got respect for my betters. I’m just tryin’ to be ’elpful, ma’am. I ain’t plannin’ rape. You’d best let me drive you to Danver ’all.”

“It’s a long walk, an’ it isn’t safe for you to be alone like this. A lotta fellows, now, they ’aven’t got my scruples.”

He swung down from the seat and picked up the heavy trunk as though it were a feather, swinging it into the back of the wagon. He was tall, six foot four at least, with enormous shoulders and lean waist. I was still a bit frightened, but he smiled reassuringly, exuding a friendly warmth that caused my fears to vanish.

“I—I don’t know why there was no one to meet me,” I said. “My uncle knew I was supposed to arrive on the mail coach.”

“There ain’t no tellin’,” Johnny replied. “The folks who live up there in the big ’ouse—they’re a peculiar lot, an’ that’s for sure.”

Without warning, he wrapped his large hands around my waist and swung me up onto the seat in one swift motion. I gave a little cry of alarm as my skirts billowed, revealing stockinged calves. Johnny chuckled, amused, then climbed heavily onto the seat beside me, gathering up the reins. He smelled of sweat and the barnyard, a pungent aroma that was not at all unpleasant. It seemed to suit him. He clicked the reins and the wagon began to rattle down the street, the dappled-gray as slow and lazy as before.

“From before, when you was a little girl. You were a pretty thing, I don’t mind sayin’, always laughing and carryin’ on like a regular princess. You wore frilly dresses, an’ you were always gettin’ into scrapes, runnin’ wild so to speak.”

“Sure, you were a regular menace, but everyone adored-ja. Things were different then. The village was a ’appy place. Your father—’e ’ad respect for the men workin’ at the mill, treated ’em squarely. I was nine years old when the accident ’appened at the big ’ouse. The whole village grieved for your folks.”

“Aye, an’ that’s the truth. Your uncle—well, it ain’t my place to be speakin’ against your kin. I’ll just say that I’m glad I’m not under ’is thumb. I got my own farm—my folks left it to me when they died. It ain’t much, granted, but at least I don’t hafta sweat blood at the mill like most men in this town.”

“I’m sayin’ ’e’s a bloody tyrant. ’E owns the mill, an’ most of the town, too. ’E ’as a stranglehold on the men, an’ ’e squeezes without mercy, chokin’ the breath out of ’em. The mill produces some of the finest fabrics in all England, aye, but at what a cost.” His voice was quiet and lazy, giving his words an even greater impact.

“I won’t lie to you, Ma’am. I don’t, an’ that’s for sure. I ain’t afraid of ’im, though, like most folks around these parts.”

“An’ for good reason. Someone displeases ’im an’ they lose their job. That leaves ’em two alternatives: look for work outside-a Danver County or starve to death. No one ’ud ’ire a man your uncle dismissed. No one ’ud dare.”

Johnny shook his head, frowning. The wagon passed down a quiet street with small, neat houses set back behind carefully clipped lawns, oak trees making a rustling leafy canopy above. Lights burned in windows, warm yellow squares against the darkness, and there were pleasant sounds and an atmosphere of comfort. The merchants and shopkeepers lived here, I assumed. It was quite different from the shacks of the millhands and their families. I wondered if what Johnny had said about my uncle was really true. Was he a tyrant? Did he rule his domain with an iron will, punishing any who dared to defy him? This was Victorian England, not the Middle Ages, yet there were still grave abuses of power. Perhaps the boy exaggerates, I told myself, disconcerted by his words.

The wagon rumbled over a rustic stone bridge that arched across the river. There was a rushing sound and the scent of moss and mud, and the water gleamed silver blue under the first rays of moonlight. We were soon on the outskirts of Danmoor. The sky was the color of ashes, and the moon was thin and pale. I could smell the strong, peaty smell of the moors.

I shook my head. “I don’t remember anything about the house. I don’t remember anything about my uncle. It’s as though—as though my life began on my first day at school.”

“’Course not,” he said. “You was just a tot when they sent you away. You were at the ’ouse the night the accident ’appened. It must-a been awful for you. I reckon you just closed it all out. Things like that ’appen, I ’ear.”

“Reckon it ain’t meant for you to remember,” he said philosophically. “I wouldn’t worry none about it, Ma’am. Yesterday is gone, and we ’ave-ta think about today and make plans for tomorrow.”

Johnny clicked the reins and fell silent. He was a very sympathetic young man, amiable, relaxed, easy to talk to. I sensed compassion and understanding, or else I would not have told him so much. With his large, ponderous body and casual, confident manner, he emanated masculinity and strength, a highly physical man who could nevertheless be gentle. The maid Susie could consider herself fortunate to have such a man to take care of her. Young Johnny was a prize. I hoped she appreciated him.

“Hunh? Seems so strange your not knowing. No, there’s the son. He’d be your cousin. Master Brence Danver, a ’ellion if there ever was one.”

“Ask anyone around these parts. A demon, ’e is, ’andsome as Satan before the Fall an’ twice as mean. Drinkin’ and wenchin’—them’s ’is occupations. An brawlin’, too. Always gettin’ into fights an’ usually winnin’. ’E’s a bad ’un. I ain’t talkin’ outta turn, Ma’am, ain’t tellin’ you nothin’ you won’t find out for yourself soon’s you meet ’im.”

“I hear tell she died from some kind-a influenza when Brence was just a toddler. Charles Danver was a widower when ’e came to take over Danver ’all. Brence was fifteen at the time. I reckon ’e’s twenty-six now, seein’ as ’ow eleven years ’as passed. Danver never re-married, though there’s that French woman—” He cut himself short, obviously afraid he had gone too far.

“Madame DuBois,” Johnny replied, pronouncing it “Dew-Boy.” “She’s the ’ousekeeper, ’as been for all these years. There’s some as say she’s somethin’ more, Susie included. Skinny woman, looks like a painted maypole with her make-up and ribbons. She doesn’t like me, I can tell you for sure, but then I don’t reckon she likes anyone who ain’t gentry.”

So my uncle has a housekeeper, I thought. I knew exactly what Johnny was implying. I should have been shocked, but I wasn’t. The rigid proprieties taught in a girls’ school did not extend to society at large. I was rapidly finding that out.

“It isn’t a ’appy place, Danver ’all. Some say it’s cursed. Some say it’s ’aunted. That’s nonsense, a-course, but I can see as ’ow some folks’d believe it. Susie’s always talkin’ about strange noises, and I’ve seen the lights myself.”

“In the west wing. It’s all in ruins, the walls collapsed, the ceilin’ fallen through in places. Mysterious lights flicker there, always late at night. Gives folks the shivers, though I reckon there’s an explanation for ’em.”

I made no reply, but thought about all I had learned these past few minutes. We were passing through a wooded area now, dark tree limbs reaching out on either side, fireflies creating luminous golden lights that floated among the dense shrubs. The horse’s hooves clattered on the hard dirt road. The wagon made squeaky, groaning noises. Johnny sensed my apprehension. He turned to me, and when he spoke his husky voice was gentle.

“I didn’t mean to alarm you, Miss Jane. I shouldn’t-a told you them things, but seein’ as ’ow you didn’t know what to expect—”

We left the woods behind. The pungent odor of peat was stronger than ever, and I could hear the wind sweeping over the moors, an anguished sound full of desolation. Moonlight streamed down, creating a world of black and gray and tarnished silver, shadows moving as wispy clouds floated over the surface of the moon. I leaned forward, peering at the horizon. Danver Hall loomed like some monstrous folly created by a madman.

At one time it must have been majestic, but the years had taken their toll. The west wing was a shambles, a labyrinth of partially standing walls and heaps of huge gray stones, all bathed in moonlight and silhouetted against the night sky. The central portion was intact, a small tower at either end of the portico, and the east wing was solid. Built of stone, the multi-level roofs a soot-stained green, Danver Hall had no beauty, nothing to alleviate the gloom. It must look even worse in sunlight, I thought, as the wagon drew nearer. Beyond the west wing, across a stretch of shabby gardens and some distance from the house itself, stood the Dower House, a small, compact house made of the same materials, sheltered by the enormous oak trees that grew all over the property.

“Not much to look at, is it?” Johnny said, clicking the reins and urging the horse to a faster pace.

“They don’t build ’ouses like that anymore, and thank the Lord. Impossible to ’eat, impossible to keep clean. It’s too bulky, too ’eavy. The west wing ’as already crumbled, an’ one of these days the rest of it’s goin’ to topple over and sink into the bog.”

“Ah, there’s a sore spot. The ’ouse and the acres around it were sold over a ’undred years ago, passed out of the family ’ands. Dower ’ouse belongs to some gentleman in London. ’E rents it out ever now ’n then. The Danvers don’t take to the idea, an’ that’s a fact, but there isn’t anything they can do about it.”

“Not many, I can assure-ya. No one’s lived there for ten years, but it’s been kept up. Well, Miss Jane, ’ere we are—”

The wagon passed through two tall stone portals, a heavy wrought-iron gate standing open, and proceeded along the crushed shell drive that circled in front of the portico. Johnny stopped the wagon, leaped down and reached for my hand. He held it in a firm grip as I stepped down. We stood on the steps that led up to the portico spanning the length of the central portion of the house. No lamps burned, and the moonlight only emphasized the darkness. Crickets rasped between cracks in the stone, and there was the constant, mournful sound of the wind.

I trembled inside, the panic starting to rise, and Johnny held on to my hand, squeezing it tightly.

“There now,” he said huskily, “it’ll be all right. Susie’ll look after you. She’s eager to ’ave someone ’er own age about. Don’t worry, Miss Jane.”

“’Ell, you’re just a lass, an’ anyone’d be upset seein’ this place for the first time. You buck up, ’ear? People in the village remember you, an’ they’re ’appy to ’ave you back.”

His words made me feel better. I managed to compose myself as he took the trunk out of the wagon and carried it under the portico, setting it beside the immense black oak door. Reaching for the heavy brass knocker, he pounded it against the solid wood. I could hear the noise echoing within, and in a moment there was the sound of footsteps ringing on a marble floor. Through the panes of the side windows I could see a light flickering wildly as someone approached.

The door swung open. A girl with long tarnished gold curls and saucy brown eyes peered up at Johnny, the lamp held aloft in her hand. She took a step backward, her small pink lips parting in surprise.

“What are you doing here?” she exclaimed. “If Madame DuBois sees you about the place—of all the cheek! Knocking on the front door to boot! I think you’ve taken leave of your senses, Johnny Stone! That’s the only explanation!”

“I’ve brung Miss Jane,” he retorted. “There weren’t no one to meet ’er an’ she was standin’ all by ’erself right across the street from the pubs. I reckoned I’d best pick ’er up before somethin’ unpleasant ’appened.”

“Miss Jane?” the girl said, standing on tiptoe to peer over his broad shoulder. “Master Brence was supposed to fetch her. He hasn’t returned, and we assumed—”

Johnny stepped aside, and the girl saw me for the first time. About my height, she had a slender waist, and the bodice of her snug pink dress emphasized a well-developed figure. Tarnished gold curls tumbled to her shoulders in rich profusion. Pert, full of vitality, Susie had a hoydenish charm I found immediately winning. Setting the lamp down on a table, she gave Johnny a push and stepped outside to greet me, her lively brown eyes full of genuine warmth.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” she said. “We all have. I can’t imagine why Master Brence wasn’t there—I can, too, but never mind. Come on inside—” She led me into an enormous hall with black and white marble floor. The lower half of the walls were paneled in dark mahogany, with purple and blue wallpaper above. Doors led off in different directions, and at one side a spiral staircase with mahogany banisters curled up to the second floor. The lamp provided little light, casting long shadows around the room.

Johnny stood lingering in the doorway. Susie shot him an exasperated look. “Don’t just stand there, you clumsy lout! Pick up her trunk and bring it in.”

Johnny lowered his brows menacingly, but he did as she said. Heaving the trunk up and stepping inside, he kicked the door shut with his foot. It slammed with a loud bang.

There was a sound of someone approaching through the shadows, and then the gaslights in sconces about the room flickered, blossoming into dim yellow radiance. The woman who had turned them on came toward us. Susie had a worried expression. Johnny stood with the trunk balanced on one shoulder, a sheepish grin on his lips, looking for all the world like an overgrown boy caught with his hand in a cookie jar. Still uneasy, my nerves on edge, I stared at the bizarre figure of Helene DuBois.

She was almost six foot tall and extremely thin. Her black hair was streaked with silver and worn in an elaborate coiffure. With her incredible make-up she did indeed resemble a painted maypole, her face long, the dark eyes haughty, the thin lips a bright red. She wore a dress of deep purple taffeta, a ring of heavy bronze keys dangling from the belt. There was a sour, pinched look about her, and when she spoke her voice was like chipped ice.

“Miss Jane has arrived. Master Brence wasn’t there to fetch her. Johnny happened by in his wagon. He brought her to the house.”

She turned to Johnny, her eyes full of loathing. He might have been some bloodthirsty criminal come to steal the silver. “Since you are here, you may as well take the trunk up to her room,” she said crisply.

She walked toward the staircase, and Johnny sauntered after her, the trunk on his shoulder. Helene DuBois looked at me for the first time. Her thin lips moved in an unconvincing smile, but her eyes remained flat. She examined me for a moment without saying anything, openly disdainful of what she saw. This woman did not like me. She did not want me here. I had no idea why, but there could be no mistake about the barely concealed animosity.

“I’m sorry if you’ve been inconvenienced,” she remarked. “Brence must have missed the mail coach.”

Her thin nostrils flared. “A most undesirable specimen. I endeavored to employ him to keep the stables clean, and he had the audacity to refuse. It’s just as well, I suppose, with Susie around. She’s no better than she should be, either, but then it’s impossible to find decent servants nowadays.”

“We have only three. Susie, of course, and Cook, and the gardener, but he just comes twice a week.”

Her expression did not alter, but I could see that I had struck home. Her heavy eyelids narrowed ever so slightly. She was trying to decide if my comment had been a deliberate insult.

“He has retired for the night. He will see you in the morning. Susie will be down in a few moments and will show you to your room. Is there anything you require in the meantime?”

“No, thank you. The driver stopped at an inn along the way, and I had a quite sufficient meal.”

She had not mentioned feeding me. My words were a veiled reprimand of her thoughtlessness. She sensed it.

She stared at me for a few seconds more, the dark eyes flat, and then she left, her stiff taffeta skirt rustling. I had made an enemy of the woman, but I really didn’t care. For all my timidity, I had a dreadful temper and could be as sharp-tongued and acid as the best of them. Her comments about Johnny and the maid had infuriated me, and I couldn’t help resist putting Madame DuBois in her place. I might be sorry for it later on, but at the moment I was pleased to have scored a point.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Susie came down, rubbing her backside and looking peeved. Johnny was right behind her, his grin wider than ever. Susie dismissed him in imperious tones and informed him that he needn’t expect to see her on her next afternoon off as she wanted nothing more to do with such an uncivilized and grabby individual.

“I reckon you’ll be comin’ ’round, all right,” he said lazily. “I’ll be waitin’, luv.”

Johnny shambled outside, chuckling to himself. Susie closed the door firmly and tossed her head, dark golden curls bouncing.

“I guess I showed him,” she said. “Just because he has the most maddening blue eyes, he thinks he can take any liberty he’s a-mind to. I told him off proper, I did. Isn’t he glorious, Miss Jane? Have you ever seen such shoulders?”