New Year, Another Direction

Back in 2020, that year of disruptions, I published the last novel in the 12-book series Hearts in Hazard.

The Hazard with Hearts was intended to be the last time I touched the Regency period. Well, that didn't happen.

In that book I conceived an authoress Miss Beale, who wrote Gothic style mysteries: ruins and decaying castles, mysterious and brooding heroes, sweet damsels in distress as heroines. I listed the titles she had published.

That list was a mistake. I began to consider the stories behind those titles.

The Hazard with Hearts was intended to be the last time I touched the Regency period. I’ve now written a novella and a short story in the Regency period.

And a new series is now born: Miss Beale Writes, stand-alone stories, each from a different historical era of Britain.

Between 2020 and 2022 I ventured into other stories, yet soon the first Miss Beale novel demanded to be told. The Dark Lord, a Regency novella, published on 28 February 2022.

Everyone knows there’s no such thing as ghosts.

Tell that to the two ghosts haunting Elizabeth.

~ Regency England ~ the Northern Moors ~

Elizabeth Fortescue comes to Feldstone Grange seeking the position of housekeeper. She expects the Baron Harcourt to claim she’s too young and pretty for the position, even though she’s qualified and has excellent references.

Yet the baron is desperate to hire someone, having lost five housekeepers over the past six months. He doesn’t know what drove them away.

On her first night at the Grange, Elizabeth encounters two ghosts. One is the well-known Silent Lady; none of the servants know anything about the other ghost.

Over the next week, her connection with Lord Harcourt becomes more than servant to employer. She likes her position and her employer. He also appears to like her, wanting to meet with her daily.

One ghost, though, persists in its haunting of her, enticing her to follow it.

Is it a real ghost? Is a fellow servant attempting to terrify her? Or does someone have a wicked reason to haunt the new housekeeper?

Elizabeth doesn’t know the answer—but she has more incentive to stay than leave.

Will she remain at the Grange? Will the second ghost’s increasing hauntings drive her away?

Or lead her into death?

Read the first chapter below.

The Dark Lord is available as a single title in ebook format.

Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09TQ22DNC

Worldwide Distribution (B&N, Kobo, Apple, libraries, and more) https://books2read.com/u/38yprZ

In February will be the second Miss Beale title ~ which means I have properly started a new series. The Bride in Ghostly White is a Victorian mystery. The Regency / Victorian duology will be the focus for March. The duology is also available as a paperback. 

 

The Dark Lord ~ ~ Chapter 1

“You’re not to look at `im.”

That order about meeting her future employer certainly surprised Elizabeth. “I beg your pardon?”

The whiskered withered man did not himself look at her. He hadn’t stopped or even hesitated as he led her along the back hall. The dark paneled walls absorbed the light from the few sconces. On a sunny day, windows would admit the radiant sun and warm the shadowed interior. On this rainy day, the wind created a chilling numbness, and gloom dominated, oppressive and unwelcoming.

“He don’t like being gawked at,” the older man said. “You keep your head down, eyes on the floor.” He muttered something else.

“My apologies,” Elizabeth was forced to say, not daring to let anything slip in her quest for a new position. She’d traveled up from London, jounced along in badly sprung coaches, squeezed between smelly passengers, her savings eking away at every overnight stop. The service agency hadn’t guaranteed a position. Apparently, Baron Harcourt wished to interview any potential employee. “I did not hear what you said, good sir.”

“I said ‘It’ll be lucky if’n you last the first week’.”

“I am stronger than I appear.”

“Aye, well, that’s to be seen. The others didn’t last.”

“Do all servants follow that rule, sir?”

“The ones that want to keep their positions.”

That certainly depressed her. Keeping her eyes down constantly—she didn’t know if that were possible. She’d never followed such a rule. Indeed, her father had always warned her and her mother to keep their eyes up and open, watching fellow wayfarers for potential trouble, spying the land for potential ambuscadoes. Following the drum had entailed heightened caution, and since she’d entered service five years ago, she found that the wiser course.

A housekeeper would be expected to assume her responsibilities quickly. “What is the number of staff?”

“His lordship will tell you.” The man stopped before a door with matched panels, triple circles carved inside each square. He didn’t knock, just opened the door and stepped back. “His lordship will be up from the stables momentarily. Stand before his desk. Don’t touch nothing!”

He’d shut the door before she gained the rug.

Eyes down, she shivered. Rain had seeped through the dove-grey redingote she wore like a uniform. The fire behind smoked a little, but the heat didn’t penetrate her wet clothes. She dreaded to think what her hair looked like. She could feel tendrils plastered to her neck and her cheeks. The old man had taken her boiled wool cloak and her soaked hat, its shape lost to the steady rain. Without the cloak, she had immediately chilled.

A half-hour passed, tolled by the great clock in the entrance hall. The fire’s heat started to penetrate her clothing. Elizabeth no longer shivered incessantly. And she had memorized the rug’s pattern.

She peeked around her.

Bookcases covered any wall space that wasn’t devoted to the hearth, to windows, or to the large map behind his lordship’s desk. She read York and Sheffield and guessed that it depicted the north of England. The wealth of books in this isolated corner of the moorland surprised Elizabeth. The bindings looked weathered by time and many hands.

A long table occupied the floor beneath the window wall. The rainy panes gave a blurred view of the desolate moor rising behind the house. Behind her was the cheerily dancing fire that fought the room’s chill. The desk before her was cluttered with three open ledgers and spills of spindled paper, a neat stack of foolscap to the left of the blotter. In the baron’s chair, a grey cat licked its paws.

The cat couldn’t be bothered to examine her.

But a greymalken! For the strangest reason, that cat gave Elizabeth hope.

Little else about this opportunity gave her hope. The agency’s director had doubted she would be acceptable. He’d presented her detriments: too young, too pretty, too well-dressed, too quick with her opinion. She could change only the last of those, and she refused to rid her wardrobe of perfectly suitable clothes.

Then the director had presented Feldstone Grange’s detriments: too remote, too unfriendly to Londoners, too detailed with his requirements for the housekeeper position. Elizabeth didn’t intend to remain long-term; once her father and brother returned from the war, she would keep their lodgings. Until then, she needed work to occupy her, and the salary at the Grange would build a tidy nest egg. She didn’t inform the director of her plans.

Until the coach dropped her in Widderby and the wagon trundled over a long road to the Grange, she hadn’t really understood the word remote. The old Greystone manor perched on a rising hill before the massive moor. Should the baron refuse her employment, they would have to offer her supper and breakfast and a place to lay her head before sending her back to Widderby. The land around the Grange looked well tilled, with pastures of cattle and sheep.

The moor brooded over everything, rocky and barren of all but heather. On this early spring day, frigid wind blew from the heights. The slaty clouds hinted at snow.

That old man had taken one look at Elizabeth without her rain-draggled bonnet and judged her incapable of the housekeeper’s position. She hoped Baron Harcourt would not be so hasty.

She had inquired in London before she set out and again at Sheffield, York, and Thirsk, but little could she discover about the baron. The family had held Feldstone Grange and the region for centuries. Burnt-out ruins lay closer to Widderby. “New manor,” the carter had declared once the ruins came in view.

She had studied the blackened walls, the towers at the corners, reminiscent of the Tower of London. The pub host had said the Grange would be the grey-stoned building after the ruins. After the fire, the family had returned to the old Grange, with its sturdy stones.

Long and stolid, windows scattered along its breadth of the building. Multiple chimneys smoked at one end while no smoke drifted from the others. The Grange would be a nightmare for a maid to clean. Half-flights of stairs must access twisted passages. Damp rooms had hearths that would barely dissipate the cold. The unused end of the building would still need to be checked regularly.

Once inside, the entrance hall removed many of her fears about the house. Square and dominated by a stair with one landing, its painted walls held the weapons that often decorated old houses. Banners and family portraits brightened the entrance. Vividly painted doors led to four other rooms. She had looked around with obvious enjoyment. Several sconces and candelabra cast away the day’s gloom. While the flagstones looked dull and heavy, painted panels beneath the stairway led to a crossing for a back hall and more vividly painted doors. The stairs led to a well-lit open salon with corridors to either wing.

The décor would be the influence of the current baron and his father, perhaps his grandfather. Elizabeth had learned that the current Lord Harcourt had served king and country for several years, leaving the Grange to the tending of his steward. His father’s death in the previous year had recalled him to England. He’d spent the following Season in London, searching for a bride, only to return without one. He had no siblings, just a cousin. Beyond that, she’d discovered nothing about her potential employer.

She could assume, however. Whatever Lord Harcourt was like, he’d obviously been desperate for a housekeeper. The agency director complained that she would be the sixth in as many months. He had no explanation for their departure. That whiskered old man had claimed she wouldn’t last a week. She wished to prove him and the agency director wrong.

The grey cat jumped onto the desk then to the floor. It prowled close to Elizabeth without nearing her then curled up before the fire.

A boy came in to renew the fire with coals. He started when he spotted her then ducked his head. He didn’t look at her again. He lighted a lamp at the desk then scurried out.

Gawking, the older man had said. She must remember to avoid that.

Full dark came. The rising moor looked a blacker bulk against the starry night.

Then the door opened once again.

Elizabeth straightened her spine. Mindful of a good impression, she stared at the rug.

“Hicks,” the man shouted into the hall. He waited, then footsteps approached. “Has she been standing here this whole while? I daresay she was soaked through when she arrived.”

“Aye, your lordship, she were.” The voice belonged to the whiskered man.

“Did you think to give her hot tea? Fetch a pot. Bring something sustaining.”

“Aye, your lordship.”

Mr. Hicks left, his steps quickly muffled. The baron passed her with quick strides, speaking as he neared. “My apologies. They did not inform me that you had arrived until I came in from the fields.” He sat in his seat.

“I have not waited that long, Lord Harcourt. An hour and a little more, that is all.”

“Nevertheless—.” He didn’t complete that. In the upper edge of her vision, she saw the ledgers shifted. Papers rustled. “Miss Elizabeth Fortescue. You are applying for the housekeeper position?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You do not look old enough to have worked in five different households in five years. You must have started very young.”

Her gaze lifted before she could control it. She saw a long narrow face, a flash of dark eyes, and a faded scar slashing down his cheek, a sword cut, obviously gained in battle. Long dark hair, the ends still wet, flowed over his wide shoulders. His white linen shirt looked stark against his tanned skin. Handsome, except for the scar. From her days following the drum, she knew the nature of sword wounds: garish red and inflamed for several months, even after the fever left.

Lord Harcourt didn’t catch her look, for he was staring at the papers that the agency had sent, the one with her qualifications, the second with her recommendations. Elizabeth quickly returned her gaze to the rug and answered his comment about her age. “I entered service as a housekeeper at fifteen, my lord.”

“Fifteen!”

“My father’s man-of-business gave me shelter when I returned from Portugal. His household was woefully mismanaged. When the housekeeper left, I assumed the management of it, and he proceeded to pay me.”

“That is Mr. Severest? His recommendation is glowing. I assume the housekeeper didn’t like your attempts to correct her mismanagement. Why did you leave his employment?”

“His wife returned from Ireland. She’d spent several months there, assisting her elderly parents.”

“You stayed with Mr. and Mrs. Francis Beauchamp for ten months.”

“Until her confinement ended and she was able to resume management of their household.”

“The Tremaines give an adequate recommendation, certainly not glowing.” He glanced up, catching her peeking. She saw his mouth twist before she dropped her gaze.

“Lady Tremaine dismissed me after a few months. My interactions with her family were … difficult, shall we say?”

“A son?” he hazarded.

“No, my lord. Their children were too young to have any interactions with me.”

“Tremaine himself? Sir Henry Tremaine?”

She didn’t respond. Sir Henry Tremaine’s attentions were not worthy of mentioning—although she did not encounter difficulties from Lady Tremaine until she asked that she not take orders from him. Lord Harcourt did not need to know that.

When he realized she wasn’t going to answer, he asked, “Lady Millingrove? I see the agency listed you were there over a year and a line is here from a Chesterton, yet her ladyship does not provide a recommendation.”

“She is deceased, my lord. Last quarter. At her solicitor’s request I remained in employment there until the house was purchased.”

“You did not wish to work for the man that purchased the house?”

“No, Lord Harcourt.”

He settled back into his chair, his gaze assessing. She could clearly envision what he saw. A woman of 20, rain-bedraggled, her red hair still darkened by the water, her skin pale and lightly freckled. Her youth he’d complained of. What else would he find to reject her application? Not her qualifications, certainly.

“Where is your family?”

“My father and my brother are both in Portugal. My father is a field officer.”

“Major Fortescue? I believe I have heard of him.”

“He recently received a promotion to major, my lord. My brother is a lieutenant on Colonel Wellesley’s staff.”

“Where is your mother, Miss Fortescue?”

“No longer with us, my lord.”

“The occasion of your return from Portugal?”

She nodded without answering. He returned to studying the agency’s letter. “Lord Harcourt,” she thought it wise to say, “I am more than qualified for this position. I managed our household in Portugal after my mother fell ill. You see my recommendations here in England. Please do not prejudge me based upon my youth. I will say frankly that I need this opportunity, and apparently you need a housekeeper.”

His mutter sounded like something her brother Alexander would say.

The door opened, admitting a maid with a tea tray. “Here,” he said, “on the desk,” and he dropped the ledgers to the floor. She winced at the loud thuds.

The maid slid the tray onto his desk. A ceramic teapot with steam coming from the spout, two cups, two small plates, and a larger plate with an array of sandwiches. Her mouth watered. A fresh chill shivered her. The maid went out. She’d kept her eyes on the tray the entire time. Not once had she looked at her master.

“You be mother.” Lord Harcourt sounded more like an old friend than an employer. “Use that chair,” he pointed to the wingback before the desk. When both sat with teacups, the heat wafting into the air and the aroma tantalizing with its promise, he cleared his throat.

Her gaze came up and encountered his dark eyes. He didn’t berate her, and Elizabeth wondered if the order for a lowered gaze came from him.

“We’ve had trouble with our past few housekeepers.”

“The agency informed me. I would be the sixth in as many months.” She sipped the hot brew and felt the welcome heat begin to warm her. “What occasioned their leaving?”

He looked down at his tea then sipped before setting cup and saucer on the blotter. “The last three gave no reasons. The first two—I must say that I had problems with them. Problems not related to their position.” His color heightened.

Perhaps attractive young men of rank and wealth had problems similar to young and attractive housekeepers. She decided to sidestep that issue. “I am well acquainted with managing various types of household, Lord Harcourt. Granted, my paid positions were in London. In Portugal, we had a quartermaster from whom we could requisition supplies. Here, I would need to coordinate with your factotum to request supplies.”

“That would be Hicks, whom you’ve met. Factotum, butler, whatever I’ve needed. He survived my father and grandfather as well. I assume, in London, that the staffs you managed were not large.”

She tallied the servants for him: the footmen and maids, upstairs and down, the cook and her helpers, the errand boy, the occasional handyman. She didn’t coachmen or gardeners, rightly guessing those additions wouldn’t impress him, even though she’d often given them orders from her employers.

The numbers of servants that he listed surprised her. The household servants were scant while the kitchen staff had one maid too many. She had no idea of the gardening or stable staffs or the fields, but those would not be her purview. When she pointed out the lack of house servants, he frowned, his first true one. “I do not entertain, Miss Fortescue. Managing the house staff, running the Grange, these are your sole duties.”

“My lord, my chief concern will be your continued comfort.”

That answer received no response from him. He picked up a ledger from the floor and found a page near the back. Leaving the ledger open to that page, he transferred it to the fore of the desk. A sheet of foolscap followed, then the quill and a silver embossed inkwell. “There remains, Miss Fortescue, only proof that you can keep accounts.” The ledger page was for four months ago. He pointed to the left side. “Tot up this column,” he challenged.

Elizabeth hoped her inhalation was not as sharp as it sounded in her ears. Her ciphering was impressive; she’d always bested her brother Alexander. She seemed on the verge of winning the position.

As she leaned over the desk, she caught the scent of clean sweat mixed with bay, of leather and horse. That was no reason for her heart to race.

The numbers varied. Most were simple addition; a few needed multiplying. At the bottom of the column, to the right, was a greater number. The household tally, she guessed. The items included household goods, bought in quantity. Kitchen items: salt, flour, spices, wine, three kegs of ale, another of—. She stopped her survey and touched the un-inked quill to the item. “Six kegs of beer, but the total is multiplied for eight.” Her gaze lifted and looked directly at him, also leaning forward. “Do you wish me to correct or factor the incorrect total?”

The lantern cast an amber glow over the strong bones of his face. He’d missed a spot while shaving. “The number as intended,” he rumbled, which was no reason for her toes to tighten in her damp shoes.

Totting up numbers did not pose any difficulties. She wondered at the former housekeepers. Had they been unnumbered? The lord’s factotum, Mr. Hicks, was he illiterate, and that portion of his position fell to the housekeeper? Someone had obviously intended to steal from Baron Harcourt.

She glanced up once and found him watching, sharp as a hunting hawk.

Elizabeth wrote her figures in her decided hand, two tallies and a third that listed the difference in amount. She stared at the numbers for scant seconds then handed the sheet across the desk. Since she’d already broken Mr. Hicks’ injunction not to look at the lord, she kept her eyes on him.

He drew a sheet from underneath the stacked foolscap, additional figuring which he compared to hers. Then he gave a brief nod and set aside the sheets. “You’re quick and accurate.”

She returned the quill to the inkstand. The nub needed sharpening. She’d tend to that if he hired her. “The agency did not mentioned counting work as part of my duties, Lord Harcourt.”

“You will do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it.”

Is that growl an attempt to frighten me? Starvation was far more frightening. Yet those words did take a step further to hiring her. “Yes, my lord.”

“Hicks will give you my instructions. You will convey any matters needing my attention through him.”

Ah, the sticking point. “No, my lord,” she said quietly but firmly.

“No?”

“No.” She met his dark eyes directly. “At the Tremaines, the butler had an animus to me. He refused to present my concerns and questions to Lady Tremaine. He gave them to Lord Tremaine, and issues were not addressed in a timely manner. I asked repeatedly to report to Lady Tremaine. She was rather languid, but I merely needed a yes or no to my proposed solutions.” She realized she twisted her hands and drew them apart, curling her fingers over her knees. “The whole household, from family and through the staff, was most contentious.”

Lord Harcourt winced. He pushed back from the desk and stood up. Giving her his back, he stared at the large map behind his desk. “Doubtless Harry Tremaine created opportunities to meet with his pretty, young housekeeper. He was a rattling loose screw when I knew him. I daresay he hasn’t changed his ways. You are well out of that household.”

“Yes, my lord. I much preferred my time with Lady Millingrove.”

“You’ve no desire to return to Portugal?”

“I would love to return to my family. My father refuses to allow it. He says that Lord Wellesley will only increase his attacks against the French army. Until Napoleon is defeated, I must do more for my upkeep than subsist on the funds dispersed from my father’s man-of-business. My father has not lived in England for many years, my lord. He does not understand the cost of things.”

“Few do.” He turned. “You are unsuitable in many respects, Miss Fortescue.”

“Trust me, my lord. Granted I am young, but I will manage your household to keep you in comfort. I meet your qualifications, including the ability to maintain accurate ledgers. And I do not have designs upon your person.”

He laughed, a short bark, then shook his head. “The gossips will say that I have designs upon you, Miss Fortescue.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Then we shall prove them wrong, Lord Harcourt.”

He sank into his chair. “Continue to laugh at the gossip, Miss Fortescue, and we will survive the first month. Ring the bell.”

She found it beside the hearth, as expected, then came back to her former position on the rug. “Am I hired then, my lord?”

“You are. Woe betide those who question it.”

Mr. Hicks scowled when informed that Elizabeth would be the new housekeeper. He goggled when Lord Harcourt added, “You and she will see to the supplies. Miss Fortescue will keep the ledgers. And she will report any of her concerns directly to me.”

“My lord, that’s not how it’s been done.”

“A minor change, Hicks. Cook can also convey his problems to her. That will relieve you of that burden.”

The man didn’t quite know what expression to put on. He settled for muttering, “Obliged, my lord.”

Those dark eyes returned to Elizabeth. “Shall we say Monday and Friday mornings for our conferences? You will bring the household ledgers at those times.”

She curtsied and stepped back, feeling herself dismissed.

But Lord Harcourt had one final word. “Keep your humor, Miss Fortescue. You will need it.”

Remember, purchase links are above.