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knew each other, but then they barely knew
Alfie. In reality, they had no claim to the house, even if it had
been forgotten for a hundred years. Someone would eventually
notice. Harry would notice. He would inherit the house.
    Perhaps Anne had developed a distrust for
Alfie. There was nothing in his behavior to suggest he was
untrustworthy, and the reverend had recommended him. That stood for
his good characters, at least.
    The candle burned. The longer it
burned, the sooner she would be without one. She had to blow it out
to conserve it, plunging the room back into near darkness. Her
heart was still beating. Was her life to be endless worry from now
on? When would she find her balance again? Could she even remember
a time when she had felt balanced?



Chapter 7:

     
    The moors were actually a good place
to think if you had a moment to spare. There was still so much work
to do, but it felt to Anne like the manic phase was lessening. Yes,
there was work, there would always be work, but the used parts of
the house were clean and habitable. The soft furnishings still
needed to be re-stuffed, which would remove the last of the ill
smells, but that had to wait until she had some straw.
    Dirt caked around the hem of her skirt
as she walked the overgrown path to the main road. Her hands were
freezing, even encased in their gloves, and she had to fist them to
get the blood going. Egton was apparently where the mail for the
manor was sent. And she could send letters herself, and she had one
for Harry and one for her aunt, sitting in the beaded reticule
hanging off her wrist.
    She had a list of provisions and not enough
money to buy them, certainly not for the sherry she wished she had.
Such simple things were luxuries now. She also didn't know if a
cart would come along, or if one would later head back this way. If
not, she might just have to spend the night in Egton.
    With aching feet, she finally reached
the road, and she was in luck—a cart came along within two hours,
and she could sit in the back amongst the baskets of what looked
like potatoes and other root crops. The cart trundled along at a
steady pace, although the farmer showed little interest in
speaking.
    Egton was a small village sitting in a
gentle valley, surrounded by greenery. A village with a scattering
of thatched roof cottages and a church. The general store and
postal office was in the center, and Anne went straight there. A
bell pinged as she walked in, goods stored in piles around the
store and along the wooden counter.
    She smiled at the proprietor, who
seemed a little friendlier than the last she'd met in Goathland. In
fact, he was Scottish and older, with a fine, white beard. She
bought candles, paraffin, flour, tea, saddle oil, lye, polish,
sugar and salt. And matches; she couldn't forget the matches.
Lighting fires would be much easier if they had matches.
    Paying the man, she inquired if he
knew of anyone heading along the western road. The man stroked his
beard with his palm while he considered. "Anders might be heading
out that way later this afternoon. I can send the boy to
enquire."
    "That would be much appreciated," she
said, relieved that there was, at least, a potential to head home.
"Also, is there any mail addressed to Hawke's Manor?"
    The man chuckled. "Funny you should
mention. There is, and the first one in the time I've been
here."
    Gladly, Anne took the letter and saw
her aunt’s handwriting. The realization that there was no letter
from Harry hit home and Anne felt an ache in her chest. Harry had
still not forgiven her for the scandal this divorce had
caused.
    "Did you say Hawke's Manor?" a woman
said, stepping closer. Anne hadn't seen her. She was elderly and
wore ruffled lace over her white hair. "What business have you with
Hawke's Manor?" She didn't say it brusquely, and lay one of her
lace-gloved hands on Anne's arm.
    "I reside there. I've inherited it."
    "You don't say," the woman said. "I am
Miss Thornby. You must come have tea