took your chances when you went walking on the Yorkshire moors, she knew that. But she didn’t care. Ever since she had been a small child, these moors had been irresistible to her; she had loved to come here with her mother when she was little, to wander amongst the heather and the bracken, content to play alone with her stuffed animals in the vast emptiness surrounding her. It was her world; she had even believed it belonged to her when she was growing up, and, in a way, she still did.
It was quiet on the moors this morning.
In the spring and summer, even in the autumn, there was always the splash and tinkle of water as it tumbled down over rock formations into pebble-strewn becks, and the whistling of little birds, the rapid whirring of their wings, was ever present.
All were absent on this cold January Saturday.
The birds had long ago flown off to warmer places, the becks had a layer of ice, and it was curiously silent as she climbed higher and higher, the land rising steeply.
Linnet missed the sounds of nature so prevalent in the summer months. To her there was nothing sweeter than the twittering and trilling of the larks and linnets as they wheeled and turned in the lucent air.
On those lovely, balmy days it was a treat to come up here just to hear the musical choruses of the linnets, often delivered with gusto from an exposed branch of a bramble bush. They loved those bushes, these little birds, as well as the gorse that grew on the moors where they often made their nests or searched for seeds.
And on those days, in the sunlight and under cerulean skies, there was the scurry of rabbits, the calls of larger birds, the scent of warm grass, wildflowers, bracken and bilberry mingling, all so sweet and redolent on the air. Then the moors were at their most beautiful, except for late August and September, when the heather bloomed and transformed the dun-coloured hills into a rolling sea of royal purple and soft muted greens.
Suddenly the wind became fiercer, buffeted her forward and, taken by surprise, she almost stumbled on the path but quickly regained her balance. No wonder the wildlife has gone to ground, or gone away, she thought, and she couldn’t help asking herself if she had been foolish to come out in this bitter cold weather.
But whenever she returned to Pennistone Royal, even after only a short absence, she usually headed for the moors at the first opportunity. When she was walking across them she felt at peace, tranquil in her mind, and at ease with herself. Up here she could think clearly, collect her thoughts and sort things out. And most especially if she was troubled. These days her troubles centred on her sister Tessa who had become her rival in various ways. And especially at the store where they both worked.
It pleased her to know that she was home again, in the place where she truly belonged.
Her mother also loved the moors, but only in the spring and summer months; Paula did not entirely share her feelings about this wild and desolate landscape in the winter, considered by some to be the bleakest county in England at this particular time of year.
It was her father, Shane O’Neill, who had a deep affinity for the high country all year round, and a rare, almost tender love of nature. She always thought of her father as a true Celt, a throwback to a much earlier century, and it was he who had nurtured her own love of the outdoors, of wild things, and the flora and fauna which abounded in Yorkshire.
She knew from her mother that her great-grandmother had been just as passionate about the moors as she was, and had spent a considerable amount of time on them throughout her life. ‘Whenever she was troubled, Grandy headed for her beloved moors,’ her mother had once told her, years ago. Linnet fully understood why they had given Grandy such solace; after all, she had been born in one of the moor villages, had grown up in the Pennine hills.
Her great-grandmother was the renowned Emma Harte, a legend in her own time; people who had known Emma said she was like her, and made comparisons between the two of them. Linnet simply laughed somewhat dismissively, but secretly she was thrilled. Who wouldn’t want to be favourably compared to that most extraordinary woman, who single-handedly had created a great family dynasty and an enormous business empire circling the globe?
Her mother said she was a chip off the old block and equated her with Emma, because she had considerable business acumen and a talent for merchandising and retailing. ‘Just like Grandy,’ Paula would point out constantly, with a proud smile.
Linnet felt warm inside when she thought about her mother, Paula O’Neill. She was a very special person, fair and just in her dealings with everyone, whatever others might believe. As for her father, he was awesome.
Linnet had always enjoyed a perfect and most harmonious relationship with Shane, and they had drawn even closer after Patrick’s death ten years ago. Her elder brother had died of a rare blood disease when he was seventeen, and they had all mourned the sweet-natured Patrick, retarded from birth but so loving and caring. He had been everybody’s favourite; each of them had protected and nurtured him in their own way, especially Linnet. She still missed him, missed mothering him.
As she tramped on, moving ever upward, Linnet noticed tiny icicles dripping from the bramble bushes. The ground was hard as iron. It was becoming colder now that she was almost at the summit, and the wind was raw and biting. She was glad she was wearing warm clothes and boots, and a woollen scarf around her head.
Just as she knew it would, the path suddenly rose sharply, and she felt her calves tightening as she climbed higher. Within minutes she was puffing hard, and she paused to rest. Peering ahead, she realized she was only a few feet away from the crest; there, a formation of huge, jagged black rocks jutted up into the sky like some giant monolith erected as a monument to an ancient Celtic God.
Once she had suggested to Gideon Harte, her cousin and best friend, that the monolith was possibly man-made, perhaps even by the Celts themselves. Or the Druids. But Gideon, who was well-informed about a lot of things, had immediately dismissed that idea.
He had explained that the black boulders piled so precariously on their limestone pedestal had been carried there by a vast glacier during the Ice Age, long before man had existed in Britain. Then he had pointed out that the rocks had been sitting there for aeons and aeons, and therefore were not actually precariously balanced at all. They merely looked as if they were.
Anxious to reach the top, Linnet now set off again, and suddenly, there she was, stepping onto the plateau to stand in the shadow of the immense monolith floating immediately above her. Its pedestal of limestone, formed by nature millenniums ago, was an odd shape, with two pieces protruding out on either side of a tall, flat slab which was set back. Thus a narrow niche was created, a niche protected from the strong winds that blew at gale force up here on the high fells.
Years ago Emma had placed a boulder in the niche, and this served as a makeshift bench. Linnet sat down on it, as she always did, and gazed out at the vista in front of her. And her breath caught in her throat; whenever she was seated here she never ceased to be awed by this panoramic spread of the land. It was magnificent.
Her eyes roamed across bare, untenanted fells, windswept under the lowering sky, stark, implacable and lonely, and yet she never felt lonely or afraid up here. The wild beauty of the moors captivated her, filled her with such wonder, and she relished the solitude.
Far below her, Linnet could see the fields and pastures of the pastoral Dales, their verdant summer lushness temporarily obliterated in this harsh weather.
The fields and meadows were gleaming whitely, covered as they were with winter frost, and the river flowing through this bucolic valley was a winding, silver rope that glittered in the cold northern light.
