was now the fourth week of October, in the year of Our Lord 1811, and the nights had begun to pull in more quickly than she had imagined possible. She ought in all conscience to have set out on her journey home to the small village of Abbot Giles at least half an hour sooner.
Most sensible females who lived in one of the four villages that lay to the north, south, east and west of the Abbey would not have considered crossing the Abbey’s land after dusk, or—since the Marquis of Sywell had taken up residence some eighteen years earlier—during the day for that matter!
Beatrice Roade, however, was made of sterner stuff. At the age of twenty-three she was of course a confirmed spinster, the first flush of her youth behind her (though not forgotten!), all hope of ever marrying denied her. She was tall, well-formed, with an easy way of walking that proclaimed her the healthy, no-nonsense woman she was. Attractive, her features strong, classical, with rather haunting green eyes and hair the colour of burnished chestnuts, she was thought slightly daunting by the local squires, who did not care for her cleverness—or her humour, which was oft-times baffling.
“Miss Roade,” they were wont to say of her as she was seen walking between the four villages, “bookish, you know. And as for looks—not the patch of her sister Miss Olivia. Now she is a beauty!”
And this from men who could hardly have caught more than a fleeting glimpse of Miss Olivia for the past fifteen years! But Miss Olivia took after her mother, and she had been beautiful. Miss Roade was like her father’s family no doubt, and known to be sensible.
So what was the very sensible Beatrice doing poised at the gate to Steepwood’s boundary walls, a gate which lay drunkenly open and rusting, useless these many years? Could she really be contemplating taking a short cut?
If they entered the grounds at all, most local folk stayed well away from the Abbey itself, taking either the path which led past the Little Steep river and the lake, or skirting Giles Wood—though only the braver amongst the villagers went near the woods.
There were odd goings on in the woods! Nan had told her that people were talking about it. Lights had been seen there at night again recently, and the gossips were saying that the Marquis was up to his old tricks—for it was firmly believed that when he had first come to the Abbey, Sywell and his friends had cavorted naked with their whores amongst the trees—and they had worn animal masks on their heads!
“Scandalous! That a nobleman of England should behave in such a manner,” Nan had said only that morning as she polished the sofa table in the parlour until the beautiful wood gleamed so that she could see her reflection. “I dread to think what may be going on there.”
“Nan, you intrigue me,” Beatrice had teased. “Just what dire things do you imagine are happening up there?”
“Nothing that you or I should want to know about,” her aunt had told her with a look of mock severity.
Really, the Marquis’s behaviour was too disgusting to mention—except that life was sometimes a little slow in the villages, and it did make such a delightful tale to whisper of to one’s friends.
Ghislaine and Beatrice had laughed together that very afternoon, though Ghislaine had been inclined to dismiss the rumours.
“The Marquis of Sywell is too old for such games,” she said, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Surely it cannot be true, Beatrice?”
“I would not have thought so—though there must be something going on. The lights have been seen by several villagers.”
“Well, I imagine there will be some simple explanation,” Ghislaine had said, and Beatrice nodded. “I dare say the lights are but lanthorns carried by some person with business on the estate.”
“Yes, I am sure you must be right—but the gossips invent so many stories. It is amusing, is it not?”
Amusing then, but not quite so funny when Beatrice was faced with a walk through the wasteland that was now the Abbey grounds.
Some might whisper of devil-worship and the black arts, but others spoke of pagan rites that were firmly rooted in the history of ancient Britons. It was said that in the old days virgins had been sacrificed on a stone by the lake, and their blood used to bring fertility to the land. Naturally Beatrice was too intelligent to let such tales weigh with her. Really, what did go on in the minds of some people!
Besides, the Abbey had long been the home of an old and respected family—it was only since it had fallen into the hands of the Marquis of Sywell that it had become a place of abomination to the people of the four villages.
Beatrice took heart from the sensible view of her friend. Strange goings on there might be, but they were unlikely to be anything that could bring harm to her.
“It is foolish to be frightened just because it is becoming dark,” Beatrice murmured to herself. “If I but walk quickly I shall be home in less than half an hour.”
Beatrice glanced up at the sky. Storm clouds were gathering. If she took the longer route, she might be caught and drenched by the rain that was certainly coming. She was not to be frightened by rumour and superstition. She would take the shorter route that crossed the Marquis’s grounds close to the Abbey itself. It was a risk, of course, because she would have to pass close to that part of the building which was now used as a private home.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” Beatrice murmured one of her beloved father’s maxims, conveniently forgetting that he had so often been proved wrong in the past. For it was Mr Bertram Roade’s tendency to plunge into the unknown that had led to his losing the small but adequate competence which had been settled on him by his maternal grandfather—Lord Borrowdale. “What can he do to me after all?”
The he she was thinking of was, of course, the wicked Marquis himself, of whom the tales were so many and so lurid that Beatrice found them amusing rather than frightening—at least at home and in daylight.
“Be sensible,” Beatrice told herself fiercely as she began to cross the gravel drive which would take her past the Abbey—and the dark, haunting ruins of the Chapter House, which had been destroyed at the time of the dissolution of the monasteries and never restored. “He couldn’t possibly have done everything they say, otherwise he would have died of the pox or some similar foul disease long ago.” She smiled at the inelegance of her own words. “Oh, Beatrice! What would dear Mrs Guarding say if she knew what you were thinking now?”
It was because she had spent the afternoon at Mrs Guarding’s excellent school for young ladies that she was having to risk venturing right to the heart of the Abbey grounds now.
It had been so pleasant for the time of year earlier that afternoon. Beatrice had visited her friend Mademoiselle Ghislaine de Champlain, who was the French mistress at Mrs Guarding’s school, and had stopped to drink tea with her.
Beatrice had been fortunate enough to spend one precious year as a teacher/pupil at the school, where she had studied with Ghislaine to improve her knowledge and pronunciation of French, in return for helping the younger pupils with their English—the happiest year of her life.
It was, of course, the only way she could afford to attend the exclusive school, her education having been undertaken by her father at home, which might account for some of the very odd things she had been taught.
She had been twenty during that precious year spent at the exclusive establishment. Beatrice had hoped to make a niche for herself at the school,
