Gray Places

1790s Yorkshire, England - Katherine Gilbert sets out for Wainforth Manor in North Yorkshire to fulfill her father’s last request. The master of Wainforth, Thomas Norcliffe, does not welcome her unannounced arrival, so Katherine must tread carefully around his dark moods while attempting to unlock the history buried in his ancestral home.

After she receives more than one whispered warning from the townspeople in Wainforth Village, Katherine’s initial audacity begins to waver. Deadly secrets from the Norcliffe family’s past are resurfacing, and Katherine begins to realize that the biggest danger lies within herself—the wisest course is to leave, but she wants to stay at Wainforth Manor and uncover the truth about Thomas Norcliffe.

GRAY PLACES

Julia Byrd

Published by Tirgearr Publishing

Author Copyright 2017 Julia Byrd

Cover Art: Elle J. Rossi (www.ejrdigitalart.com)

Editor: Lucy Felthouse

Proofreader: Barbera Whary

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Thank you for respecting our author’s hard work.

This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DEDICATION

For the women in my orbit who are readers—for the women in my life.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To Brian Byrd, who cheered me on and talked endlessly about plot points and fed me snacks and never doubted me for a moment despite remaining utterly baffled by why anyone would want to read any book about a love story. Thank you, I love you.

GRAY PLACES

Julia Byrd

Chapter 1

Rattling down the road in a musty carriage toward a strange man’s home with the intention of introducing oneself and securing an invitation to stay awhile is a good moment to discard concern for societal approbation. So when I heard a female voice holler out from the hedges along the country thoroughfare, I did not hesitate to scramble hastily across the width of the carriage bench in order to trace the source of the noise. I had just stuck my head through the small window when I heard her again.

Whoa! she cried, and I craned my neck behind us to catch a glimpse. Whoa, driver!

I did not stop to think about whether she might have had ill intentions or been working on behalf of a gang of highwaymen. I pounded on the roof of the carriage interior to alert the driver, Mr. Brown. I had hired him that morning in Peterborough to take me to Wainforth Village, and his courtesy was buffed to a shine by a substantial fare.

Mr. Brown brought the horses up sharply. I had unwisely failed to renegotiate my center of gravity prior to this deceleration and thus slid to my knees on the carriage floor. While giving thanks for the privacy of a hired hack, I clambered back to the bench and untangled my skirts. Mr. Brown was responding to the woman’s hail.

Yes, sister? What’s this fuss? he called back as the vehicle jerked to a halt. I decided the situation was safe enough, and curious enough, for me to emerge, especially in my new independent incarnation. To my considerable surprise, our delay was created by a nun in a black-and-white habit who scurried toward us at a swaying trot. Before I could say a word, she resumed her shouting.

Did you see him? Did you see our lord and master? We must follow his lead, we must not stray from his path!

She had already trotted past the carriage in the narrow space between it and the hedge, but then she suddenly halted and reversed course. She swung around to face me. Her skin was damp and hectic, her expression desperate. I hung half out of the carriage, clinging with my left hand to a strap just inside the door. The muscle in my upper arm began to quiver as the holy woman hissed at me.

Cease this delay immediately. You must come with me now, and we will find him together. He cannot elude me much longer.

I gaped at her for a moment, then fell naturally into my most well-trod mental pathway, which was calm and factual. Sister, you appear to be overexerted. I am headed to Wainforth Village. Would you care to accompany me these last few miles?

The nun reached out as if to clutch at me, then recoiled. Her mouth twisted to a sneer. Foolish woman! We all have only limited hope in this world or the next, and you are too blind to see when hope must be chased.

With that cryptic pronouncement, she turned and angled for a stile in the stone fence that bordered the road. I caught a glimpse of a sturdy black shoe and pale ankle as she clambered over the gate and off toward a copse of trees between the fields.

Mr. Brown craned his head around the side of the carriage from his perch on the front bench. Do you want me to go after her, Miss Gilbert?

I considered the question. On the one hand, clearly the nun should not be left alone overlong in the countryside, even fairly close to the village. It would be dark in another few hours, and the air would surely be much colder overnight. She did not seem, at the moment, capable of undertaking rational thought. On the other hand, I knew neither her name nor anything else about her. She was hardly my business. Finally I shook my head. No, Mr. Brown, please drive on. That woman is long gone now.

It was true, I could no longer see her black habit. Maybe she went to pray at a secluded altar hidden in the trees, I told myself, not believing it for a moment.

Do you know the sister, miss? Mr. Brown queried. I could tell he knew the answer to his own question, but wished to review the odd event further.

I do not. She appeared to be…unwell, and anyway, she refused when I offered her a ride back to Wainforth. Tomorrow I shall stop in at the church and inform someone of her recent whereabouts and odd statements.

Very well, miss. He turned back and clicked his tongue at the horses.

My voice sounded calm enough, but in truth the nun’s frantic face had unsettled me. Had she taken temporary leave of her senses in a fit of religious fervor? Or was she simply a troubled soul, never strongly tethered to this earth? Another possibility, which I did not allow myself to consider long, was that her wild command that I should help her find someone, or something, was based on a true, desperate need.

While planning this trip, I had excused myself from the difficult task of winning my mother’s blessing for my present course of action, given that she had died over fifteen years previously. I was nearly certain that she would not have actively tried to prevent my going to Wainforth Manor, although likely she would not have provided hearty approval. I felt this trip to be necessary, even essential somehow, regardless of how it may have appeared. After twenty-six years spent carefully cultivating an aura of respectability, I deserved to spend my hard-won pristine reputation how I saw fit. Anyway, Father would have wanted me to go.

The second day after my father’s funeral, I had woken up at home in my bed and realized I wasn’t needed there. No one would care if I left. I wasn’t needed anywhere, really. My father had needed me and loved me and appreciated me, but he was gone. I had devoted myself to his work and, when he was ill, to his care, perhaps to the exclusion of much else. My childhood friends had their husbands and their children. I worried that my closest friend might be Sally, my maid, who spent much of her time worrying over her own family and didn’t bestow a lot of extra effort on me.

The hired carriage was an extravagance I could scarce afford, but I found the privacy to be worth the cost. The dark green interior had seemed plush when I first climbed in. Several hours later, I could attest only that it was private, not quite comfortable. An additional benefit to the carriage was its contribution to my efforts at making a good impression on Thomas Norcliffe, whom I intended to soon be my host, because huffing up from the post stop in the village, arriving covered in a sheen of perspiration and dust, would not give the first impression I sought.

Only another quarter of an hour now, miss, Mr. Brown shouted from atop the carriage.

Although my ultimate destination was Wainforth Manor and Thomas Norcliffe, I had asked Mr. Brown for a short stop in the nearby village. I intended to visit the inn and assess its suitability for lodgings, should Mr. Norcliffe slam his door in my face.

The afternoon had passed quickly in a sort of blue-green daze as we bumped along the ancient road into Wainforth. The carriage window afforded me a view of folded and creased fields, undulating like mounds of fabric just taken from the drying line. I had never before visited this part of North Yorkshire. I found the expansive view soothing, and the crackling blue of the clear sky seemed a good omen.

The dry stone walls dividing the fields appeared such a part of the land, it was easy to image they had sprung up from the bones of the earth, not been carefully stacked centuries before by the local farmers’ forebears—probably under the direction of Thomas Norcliffe’s forebears. The crisp air and the first few loose leaves hinted at autumn. I felt the season had advanced two weeks during the day of travel north from my home in Peterborough.

We soon pulled to a stop in front of the White Horse Inn, and I exited the carriage gratefully. Thank you, Mr. Brown. I shall look for you here in one hour. I knew he intended to stay here tonight and begin the return journey to Peterborough on the morrow. He touched his cap and turned the horses to circle them around to the stable in the rear of the main building.

Chapter 2

The White Horse appeared respectable enough, although apparently very old. I am tall for a woman, and the lintel of the front doorway was only a few inches above my head as I walked in. The main sitting room had an enormous fireplace and three tables. All were unoccupied.

A middle-aged man appeared as soon as I had shut the door behind me. Welcome….my lady, you are most welcome. May I offer you tea? Or perhaps a room for the night? He twisted a clean rag around his damp hands as he spoke, and his face struck me as honest. He’d hesitated over the proper mode in which to address me, and his selection of my lady was the flattering, safer choice.

Suddenly I sorely missed the presence of my maid Sally, if only for the status she would have conferred upon me in the eyes of these villagers, if not for her rather sour outlook on life. Sally had an elderly mother and a sick sister, and I had insisted that she stay behind. She had looked quite astonished. I am given neither to contrariness nor, at least until my father’s passing, to much independence. I assured her that Mr. Norcliffe had promised me the use of a local maid, a statement I created out of whole cloth. He may have, anyway, if he knew I was coming.

Thank you, sir. Just Miss Gilbert, if you please. I would like a cup of tea, or rather a pot of tea, but first I wonder if I may wash off some of the road dust.

Certainly, Miss Gilbert, very good. Let me take your coat. What brings you to town today? he asked politely.

I am an acquaintance of Mr. Thomas Norcliffe, and I am only stopping here briefly before continuing to the house.

To claim acquaintance was quite a far stretch, although our fathers had corresponded. My father, a gentleman and scholar named George Gilbert, had been researching and writing about the influence of the Italian architect Andrea Palladio on English country house style. In his research, my father found that Carlisle Norcliffe, Thomas’ father, had some decades previously undertaken a substantial renovation of the old Wainforth Manor in the Palladian style, but I found no evidence that my father had corresponded with the present owner, Thomas Norcliffe, regarding the older Mr. Norcliffe’s renovations. A fortnight ago, I had remedied that with a brief note expressing interest in the renovations for the sake of the book.

On the strength of his single, polite letter in response to my inquiries, I had decided to pack a few things and make the journey to North Yorkshire.

The innkeeper raised his eyebrows. I wasn’t aware he had many female acquaintances. And please don’t tell me you’ve left your maid in the yard! She must come in straight away. All are very welcome here, or she may have tea in the kitchen if she chooses.

I did like the friendly man, with his homely tufts of hair circling from his ears around the back of his head, although the comment about Mr. Norcliffe’s lack of acquaintances seemed out of place.

Oh no, I’ve no maid traveling with me at present. I am practically like family to the Norcliffes, so I’ve no need for a chaperone.

Mr. Norcliffe’s response had included a vague offer that a visit would be welcome anytime. Oh yes, very warm and so familial, Katherine, I reproached myself.

The innkeeper looked skeptical and did not reply on that subject.

Please, Miss Gilbert, come this way. After he hung my redingote on a peg near the door, we walked up the narrow stairs. The hallway had doors to what appeared to be several bedrooms, and another stairway led up to a third floor. All the doors were open, so I supposed them unoccupied at present. The White Horse Inn did not appear to do a brisk business, but everything was clean. I peered in at beds with colorful quilts and windows with cheerful curtains.

It’s quiet here today, Mister…

Mr. John Nowland, if you please, miss, he filled in with a dip of his chin. It is quiet at the moment. With tomorrow being a market day, Friday, we’re often run off our feet on Thursdays. But the market is held in the churchyard, for we’ve no town square in our humble village.

This non sequitur helped me not at all. I’m sorry, Mr. Nowland, but I fail to connect the lack of a town square with your present vacancies. I smiled apologetically, as if it were my fault entirely that his explanation lacked clarity.

Oh! Of course not, you being a traveler in these parts. Father Francis, who is our priest here at St. Sebastian, has called off the market for the past two weeks. He has a full measure of control over it due to the use of the churchyard. I’m not rightly sure of the reason for his decision, but I do hope all will return to normal next week.

Mr. Nowland’s words reminded me of another matter I had wanted to discuss in Wainforth Village. Mayhap it’s because one of the sisters is unwell. I saw a nun on the road just south of town, and she appeared to be severely anxious and not entirely of sound mind.

On the road! Mr. Nowland’s considerable eyebrows arched up. Was she short and of middle years? Or an older woman? There are only two sisters who are assigned to keep St. Sebastian and Father Francis nowadays.

I suppose she was somewhat older than myself, although certainly still light on her feet, I responded, remembering the odd sight of the nun clambering over the stile.

That would be Sister Helen. Sister Rosemary is a good deal older. Did she…say anything? Mr. Nowland peered at me closely.

I wondered if his was curiosity for village gossip or something deeper. She made some comments about chasing or searching for someone. Truthfully, though, she did not make much sense to me, and I was concerned for her well-being. She ran away when I offered her a ride back to Wainforth.

If Sister Helen is truly unwell, as seems possible according to your interaction with her, her illness might be the reason that Father Francis cancelled the market day. Mr. Nowland shook his head sharply. I shall relay this story to Father Francis, and I’m sure he thanks you. Now, Mary will bring warm water for you to wash.

With that, Mr. Nowland turned and disappeared back down the staircase. Soon Mrs. Nowland, the Mary he had mentioned, came bearing a pitcher of water and showed me to a small washroom. She was very quiet and only smiled politely at my attempts at small conversation.

A short while later, Mrs. Nowland also served me my tea and tarts in the sitting room. I did not see Mr. Nowland again. The White Horse Inn was not in any danger of soon filling all its vacant rooms, so I did not see the need to reserve one against the possibility that Mr. Norcliffe slammed his door on me.

The village so far had proved friendly and hospitable, and I hoped the manor, and its owner, would be even more so. Despite my rather loosely woven plan, I was glad to be approaching the manor. Upon his death, my father had left his last book unfinished and his daughter unmarried. I knew those two points to be his primary regrets. I had chosen to resolve the former and relinquished hope for the latter.

Feeling much refreshed, I ventured outside and found Mr. Brown waiting for me in front of the inn, lounging on a wooden bench. Shall we be off again, Mr. Brown?

Aye, miss. I’ve had good directions to the manor from the stable boy, though truth be told, the directions were hardly necessary. Apparently it’s nearly a straight shot from here to the doorstep of the big house.

The manor and the village had coexisted in close harmony for over a century, so I was not surprised to hear this.

As we bumped along again, I saw that thick gray clouds had rolled in while I dallied at the inn. The combination of those clouds above and the sinking sun on the western horizon created the look of a vast fire, with the burning orange of sunset capped by the smoky blue-gray of the clouds. A lovely rolling park offered a new scenic vista at every slight rise in the road. I wanted to determine whom Carlisle Norcliffe had employed as his landscape architect, if indeed there had been one. For my chapter on Wainforth Manor I had planned to include any notable work performed on the landscape at the time of the Palladian renovation.

If Mr. Thomas Norcliffe proved to be the sort of person who knew and cared about his father’s work on their ancestral home, this could be a fruitful and pleasant visit. If he did not care about the house, his father’s plans for it, or its architecture, this visit could be challenging. If he did not care for uninvited visitors, my stay might be very short. I prepared myself for a challenge and thought of the intent, focused look on my father’s face as he happily pieced together some fascinating new part of the tale of England’s great country houses. Maybe even more than I wanted to ensure the success of Father’s last endeavor, I burned to capture a piece of that joy in my own accomplishment.

Mr. Brown slowed the horses to a walk as we turned onto the Wainforth drive, and I pressed my face against the window glass for a first look. I could see a tall stone wall, broken only by a gate and a small hut directly at the left gate post. To the left and right of the road, the stone wall was visible for maybe a hundred yards before disappearing into a dense stand of trees. The gate itself, a wrought iron affair, stood wide open, and we passed through unchallenged.

The carriage wheels made a new crunching noise as the road transformed from dirt to gravel. I checked the view from both sides of the carriage, but could