Hollins Hill

1

Legend and rumour and heresy held that a great many creatures of many forms stalked Hollins Hill in the night. Ghosts, certainly. Sir George Hackham’s first three wives, or various other dead Hackhams in years past. The family was an old one (most held that the family was older than the house, but depending on how you reckoned family line, it was really a toss-up, and both were ancient and creaky), and there were a great many ancestors to haunt it. Perhaps even older and darker and stranger creatures as well. One village vicar had been heard to say that if goblins existed—which, of course, they didn’t—they would live at Hollins Hill. No one knew with Hollins Hill, and all those who were familiar with the ancient house tended to go a little in awe of it. Except those who lived there. After all, it was home .

It was a night both requisitely dark and stormy, with the occasional flash of lightning and crash of thunder, and the creature stalking through Hollins Hill’s benighted halls was Charlotte Hackham, better known as Charley, striding through the hallways with a candle in her hand and a checklist in her heart. The housekeeping keys had once jangled at her hip but they had migrated up with waistlines so that now they were closer to her sternum, bouncing against her ribs. She was tired and her shoulders ached. She had been on her feet nearly all day.

The sugar and salt were locked away in drawers for the night, so no servants would pilfer them in the night and re-sell them in town. When she had first taken over housekeeping duties after her stepmother’s death—her second stepmother—she had been too naive to believe any servant would steal from them—from the Hackhams of Hollins Hill!—but now she knew better. The silver was locked away as well. It was too heavy and old-fashioned to be stylish, but some of it was centuries old and certainly there was a quantity enough of it to tempt any thief. How suspicious housekeeping had taught her to be, but sometimes she felt she was all that stood between the Hackhams and utter ruin. No one wrote odes to praise the thrifty housekeeper, but how many families would come to despair without one?

These were her daily duties. Her regular routine. Today she had embarked on her twice-annual inventory, to catalogue what was missing, what had worn out and needed to be replaced, what had worn out but could be repaired, and what had mysteriously appeared. Given how active the house spirits tended to be the last was not half as unusual as it sounded.

Sir George Hackham had fourteen daughters. It sounded like the beginning of a fairy tale or a bad joke. But it was simple truth. Fourteen obscenely healthy daughters, and what had once been a wealthy estate was stretched to its limit to support them all. Fourteen daughters, one toddler son, the baronet, his fourth wife, an entire pack of immense wolfhounds, uncounted ghosts, sufficient servants to support them all, and an ancient manor house tumbling apart about their ears. It was Charley’s own ingenuity that kept them all fed and clothed: her painstaking lists so she always knew what they possessed, her knowledge of how to remake things so the same item could serve seven sisters in different forms, and her ability to never waste a scrap of anything. She was proud of her skills. She was also tired. And the thought could not help but occur to her that it would be cheaper just to go to bed. The odoriferous tallow candles they were reduced to for regular use were dear, but she had work to do yet.

Go to bed, Charley, the wind seemed to whisper as she ascended the stairs. Go to bed. She ignored it. No doubt one of her long-dead ancestors feeling sympathetic—or playful. She had never seen one yet in her six and twenty years, at least not in their full spectral and bloody form. However, she was more than accustomed to hearing them. They were a fact of life at Hollins Hill.

She turned the corner and rapped sharply on the door to the left of the stairs.

Go away, Dorothy! hissed a voice from the other side of the door. We want to sleep.

It is not Dorothy, she called out, It is me. Charley. She tried the door, which moved easily beneath her touch, and stepped into the room.

There was a candle still lit, casting a wavering light over the wide room, its walls hung with tapestries of deep blue in an old-fashioned style. It was a large room, nearly filled with a bed almost as large, a wardrobe built on similar dimensions, and a few other items of furniture, all fashioned out of wood very dark and solid. What floor space there was—beneath bed and wardrobe, fireplace and door—was currently littered with items: bits of shattered bric-a-brac, a few books (splayed in a fashion that the book-loving Sophy would never have allowed), and a wide assortment of clothing, from frocks and shifts to stays, and stockings.

Sophy was reading by the light of the single candle, face a perfectly composed picture of contemplation. In contrast, Louie, who was all of ten months older, was a nervous bundle of tangled copper-brown curls and wide worried blue eyes, curled in the armchair by the window. The only evidence of the presence of Gussie, Sophy’s twin, was a lump beneath the covers, a ginger tress on the pillow, and a loud snore.

Dorothy, said Louie by way of greeting, is being more than usually tiresome tonight. A tree outside creaked in the wind, and Louie put her hands up to her hair as if frightened the sound was Dorothy behind her with scissors. Given that Dorothy had indeed snipped Louie’s hair short when she was ten, Charley could barely fault her.

What Louie refuses to recognise, Sophy said, is that Dorothy gives her such attention because she is particularly fond of her, for who knows what reason. She arched one sooty eyebrow. I like the noise. It helps me focus.

Louie glared at Sophy and jabbed a stockinged toe into the pile of clothes. If you are here to inspect our wardrobes, Charley, Dorothy has kindly pulled them all out onto the floor for you. Although I do think your insistence on inspecting them by candlelight alone is how I have been stuck with that blue frock three years running.

You have been stuck, as you phrase it, Charley told her severely, with that frock because it is still perfectly good; it only wants turning, I think. Turning—unpicking all the stitching on a garment and turning it inside out, and then stitching it back up so the faded side now faced inside instead of out—was an old housekeeper’s trick. Charley found it made dresses last three times as long. It will be good for another year. Just be glad the fashions remain...small. I am afraid if hoops ever come back in style, the kittens may find arsenic in their morning porridge. ’The kittens’ were their affectionate way of alluding to their youngest sisters.

Charley! exclaimed Louie, startled. You are not suggesting that Father would—

Well, Charley said, picking up the dreaded blue dress from the floor and shaking it out, fourteen daughters is a tremendous expense, after all, and although someone might notice if one of us was missing, they can hardly tell one kitten from the other half the time anyway. At least I am pretty sure our evil stepmother cannot, and half the time Father cannot tell Penny from Peg. She called their stepmother evil in an ironic tone, but in her heart, she was half-convinced it was true. Then again, perhaps Mary was too petty to be evil.

It was a terrible thing to think they might all be better off if a few of them did not exist, but the thought would not go away.

In any case, she said, measuring the gown idly against her own figure, although she had an inch and a few pounds on Louie. It did seem to venture on distressing short on her, however. Perhaps Louie had a point. I will look at the dresses tomorrow. I came to tell you all to pack in the morning—

Pack? A trace of excitement lit up Louie’s face. She had always been considered ’the pretty one,’ with her milkmaid skin and wide blue eyes, and she looked even more so when excited. Are we going somewhere? Even Sophy put down her book—carefully and reverently—and looked interested.

Yes, replied Charley. In a manner of speaking. The twins are going to share the Pine Room with Emmy and Belle. Louie, you will come stay with Georgy and I. We have a visitor, and Father quite forgot we no longer have a guest room. They had not had a guest room for years. Even with the sisters sleeping two or three to a room they had no rooms to spare. It was normal for visitors to arrive at family seats with an introduction and stay for days. In polite society. But Hollins Hill was no great house to draw the curious; it was old-fashioned and far out of the way, and Charley was not quite sure they were any sort of society anymore, despite the age of their bloodline. It had been years since anyone had stayed the night. It had been over a decade since any visitor had come from more than fifty miles away.

Admittedly, many people seemed unaccountably nervous of spending the night.

Her sisters looked mildly interested. Who? asked Louie, momentarily forgetting about any threat Dorothy might pose to her hair. Is it someone we know?

No, replied Charley. Some writer or scholar or somesuch who wants to go through the library and write some very dull book about the history of the north, I suppose. Father is indulging him. She spoke more harshly than she had intended. She was tired, very tired, and irritated that Father, who wasted far more candles than she did, had sent her a note just as she had put her account books away and was pondering bed. Practicalities, to their father, was woman’s work. Specifically Charley’s. Men had the luxury of living in the theoretical.

Louie’s face fell and Sophy’s brightened in the same instant. Do you know who? Sophy asked. Anyone whose works I might have read?

I have no clue, Charley declared. Pack in the morning and try not to leave behind anything either necessary or embarrassing. And tell Gussie the same.

When she wakes on her own, Louie said with a yawn. A hurricane could not rouse that girl. She tossed a slipper in demonstration. It bounced off the blanketed lump that was their youngest full sister—the Hackham girls tended to divide along lines according to mother—and fell to the floor. There was not even a hitch in Gussie’s snoring. Sophy hid a smile behind her book. Louie eyed the pile of clothing, made scarcely worse by the throwing of the slipper, and asked with a trace of sourness, Why our room? The Rose Room is prettier.

I cannot shift Mary without a firestorm erupting, Charley replied. Besides, this is Dorothy’s favourite room. And if our guest is to inconvenience us unduly, he might as well share the room with the ghost.

She wondered at how petty she was becoming.

Petty and suspicious.

Sir Roger Faircliffe reflected that the northern roads were worse than he expected.

He wasn’t really sure what he was doing here at all. Embarking on a search for a holy relic wasn’t the way normal men handled trauma. They grovelled to their wives, or prayed, or donated to hospitals. But he believed there was something more. Not God, necessarily, or any sort of religion. (And if he had been a little more shy about voicing that particular opinion he might have been more popular at proper parties.) But some sort of divine, some sort of...well, magic, although that word seemed so trite. Something would help correct the craziness of fate. Restore the balance. An unseen world, greater than the dull world of flesh and stone. He had to believe. He always had.

The chaise hit another dip in the road, sending him flying from the seat again, bouncing off the front. He righted himself and muttered. This was a fool’s errand, no doubt. He should never have bothered with old Lord Bailey’s prophecies, which he had dug up in an antique bookshop and had convinced his best friend were the answer to all their problems (aided, no doubt, by the quantity of whisky they had consumed). Well, he had. His best friend had agreed to be blamed. Dusty prophecies scrawled on yellowed pages. Three hundred years old, and rambling on about a magical relic that would be found in the north, near a house of maidens.

A nunnery was his first thought. If they had any still in England, which they hadn’t. At least to the best of his knowledge. Were nuns allowed? Were Catholics allowed? Did the Church of England actually have nuns and he had just never noticed? There had been something about Catholics. Riots or something. Sometimes his own ignorance astounded him. He spent so much time in his head that sometimes he was honestly bewildered to discover that events had happened outside it. Belgium. There was something about Belgium and English nuns. He supposed no one else would go to Belgium.

Perhaps a girls’ school? Did it mean that there had been a house of maidens there, or was Lord Bailey looking ahead to a time where there was one? Or perhaps it was metaphorical. He should know about metaphors. He was a poet, dammit. Or at least he liked to think of himself as one.

This line of thought made his head hurt, so he had turned to what was usually the most expedient remedy—the nearest tavern. He rapidly got himself drunk enough he wasn’t moved to wonder what he was doing here, in a small tavern in the north of England, on a wild goose chase. Does the phrase ’house of maidens’ mean anything to you? he asked the man at the bar.

No, sir. Will you have another?

Indeed, replied Roger, and promptly rested his head on the bar.

I daresay, the barkeep said a little cautiously. It does remind me a little of Hollins Hill. Maidens and all?

Er? asked Roger, who was not particularly articulate after three or four glasses of good wine. Or strong wine, at least. Quality was quite debatable in this case. However, he had always been more particular about drunkenness than the vehicle of such.

Ah, you’re not from around here, sir, the bartender said as if his accent hadn’t given it away.One of the oldest estates in the county, if not the oldest. Held by Sir George Hackham, although the family was old long before King James—one or another of them—made ’em baronets. They turned down titles before that, they say, or that the king thought they were too mad for the House of Lords. Load of nutters, they are.

Oh, said Roger, still very articulate indeed. A headache was starting behind his right eye and he wondered what in the world this had to do with maidens. He also wondered why his headache was choosing his right eye and not his left. Were there reasons to these things?

Sir George is a strange man himself. Has a whole estate full of daughters. No one knows how many. Two dozen, maybe, and all free and unwed except for the eldest, who’s engaged to some soldier.

Two dozen daughters? Rogers echoed. Dreamily he imagined a house full of two dozen young women, all in shifts, braiding each other’s luxuriant hair. He shivered pleasantly.

Well. A lot, anyway. He’s on his fifth or sixth wife. Trying to get a boy, or else the estate’ll be entailed to some very distant cousin.

Roger raised his face from the bar. Is it an old estate?

Very. A large one, too. They took over the lands of an old abbey back in old Harry’s day.

Roger straightened up. That was beginning to sound promising.

A little digging, a few letters, and to his surprise he had been invited to stay with Sir George (and his daughters, however many there actually were) at Hollins Hill. He had told them he was interested in stories of their ghost. It was not a lie. A ghost and a romantic story attached to it seemed a prerequisite of a country house belonging to a family of breeding. Cliffwoods, Roger’s own estate, was new, clean, and ghost-less. His father, who had made his fortune most disreputably in trade, had built it and had first been awarded the title of baronet. A ghost—if there really were such things—was something. Proof of life after death, perhaps. A glimmer of something greater. Even if it would hardly help him in his quest.

But the roads were bad. And when he finally arrived at Hollins Hill, after a painful journey up said hill, full of bumpings and bruises, he wondered if he should not just turn around and go back to London. The house was low, dark, and old, perched atop the hill like a wide-brimmed hat on a maiden’s head. A cluster of dark pines clung to it, like feathers on the aforementioned hat. The drive’s mud swallowed the chaise to its axles, and there was no landscaping to speak of, only random rocks and twisted trees. It was not a pleasant prospect. In fact, it was a downright forbidding one, and it turned his stomach sour.

’Old’ seemed the dominant flavour to the decor, too. Even the low light of the candles could not hide the sad state of the wallpaper or the varnish of age on the dark wood. It even smelt old, of dust and aged woods and the faintest whiff of rain rot. He tested the floorboards delicately, covertly, when he was shown to the drawing room and was glad to see they seemed sound at least. For being very old.

Sir George was a rotund man, dressed in clothes that had been fashionable when Roger’s grandfather had been alive—a fact that seemed more remarkable when taken in light of the view that Sir George did not appear to be much beyond fifty. He was short, with a bulbous nose and keen grey eyes, his hair hidden by a yellowed wig, and he shook Roger’s hand with a firm grip. It is truly wonderful to see someone with an interest in real history, Sir Roger. I never do get a chance to show this place off.

Roger idly wondered if the house was shown off regularly whether it would be maintained in anything close to showable condition. Or exactly what there was to show off. He had seen some of the grandest houses in England. This was just a mouldering heap that should have, perhaps, been torched some years back, although the ‘mouldering’ state made him dubious as to whether it would burn. However, he nodded slowly and politely. It is all very fascinating, Sir George. As I mentioned in my letter, I am doing some research for a book—atmosphere and all that. I would like very much to see the old abbey, and to possibly encounter—what is it you call the ghost again?

Dorothy, Sir George said heartily. Lovely girl, she is, despite being dead and all that. For the life of me, I’m afraid I can’t remember whether Dorothy is her real name or just one that somehow stuck to her. She was supposed to be a sister of a past baronet. Crossed in love and all that, poor girl. We have other ghosts, of course. Probably dozens of them, he added as if infestations of spectres were to be taken for granted. Dorothy just happens to be the loudest. You shall have to speak with Sophy, of course. One of my daughters; she has put a lot of effort into reading the past baronets’ diaries and the like. She knows more about the family than anyone. I have always thought it a good thing that my girls all had their own pursuits to entertain them out there.

Roger entertained the uncomfortable feeling that he had become the seasonal entertainment for a house full of old maids. I am sure it will be of great use in my research, he said, after a long pause to search for the right words. He was not certain those were anywhere near the right ones.

Oh, of course. Well, I best let you go freshen up. Dinner is at five, and we don’t dress for it; tiresome business when there’s no one to see. I hope you will be comfortable; Charley put some effort into your room.

Charley? echoed Roger, wondering if their ghosts took care of their housework. Meanwhile, he repressed a shiver at the earliness of the dinner hour. There was provincial and there was indecent.This was dangerously close to the latter.

Oh, my eldest girl! Keeps house for me, and she is a wizard, that one. Now, go have a little rest, and try not to be afraid if things disappear. Dorothy likes your room.

There were seven of them.

That was Roger’s count at dinner. Seven of them. And he was mildly disappointed, just as he was mildly disappointed when nothing disappeared or moved mysteriously when he was washing off the dust—or mud, more literally and prosaically—of travel. Seven was a rather awe-inspiring number in and of itself, but he had been hoping for more. A bit of him was also mildly disappointed that they were not stunningly beautiful sirens with flowing tresses and low-cut dresses, locked away from the world for the world’s safety. A greater part of him was relieved they were not all middle-aged hags. The eldest could not have been out of her mid-twenties; the youngest was perhaps seventeen. They were all relatively pleasant to look upon, if not great beauties.

He had thought there were eight at first, but one of them—a pinch-faced brunette who seemed no noticeably elder than the rest—was introduced as Lady Hackham. The present Lady Hackham. The others were introduced as Miss Charlotte (so that was the famous Charley), Miss Georgiana, Miss Louisa, Miss Sophia, Miss Augusta, Miss Amelia and Miss Arabella. He managed to remember the names, but after a space of a minute, he could no longer match them to the girl.

You have a great many lovely daughters, Sir George, he said conversationally as the first course was served. It was fish.

Oh, one of them said lazily. She was perhaps the most conventionally lovely of the herd, with copper brown hair and large blue eyes, This is only half of us. There happens to be another seven back in the schoolroom.

Oh, Roger said. It was a good number, fourteen. Twice seven. Perhaps it was an omen. He picked the bones from his fish.

Roger Faircliffe? repeated one of the other sisters, a little dreamily. Are you the poet?

He looked up to meet her gaze. She was the darkest-haired of the sisters; fair-skinned, but black of hair and eye, and her stare was intelligent and far too cool to be comfortable. Some have charitably called me such, yes. The less charitable use worse names.

A poet, eh? Sir George tossed fish bones to the centre of the table. Well. Imagine that. We haven’t had a poet through here in years. His tone implied that a poet was some sort of rare and exotic animal. A bird, perhaps, or a fish with too many bones.

Roger returned to his fish, conscious of the eyes upon him. He was an exhibit, he told himself in an attempt to maintain his humour. Perhaps the Hackhams would put him in a glass case with a little tag, London poet, circa 1802, and he would be the chief topic of conversation for the ladies in the evenings.

He quietly battled this by observing the young ladies himself in the manner of a birdwatcher. Missus Hackhamus, in its native habitat. He catalogued them taxonomically. There were three brunettes, ranging from copper to black; two blondes, not flaxen but somewhat dark; one partway between brunette and red, and another who was undeniably, disagreeably red. Thus they came in every hue of plumage reasonably known to man. Three were slight and on the short side; another was middling and big-boned; the other three were tallish and well-formed. They were mostly dark-eyed, although the redhead had eyes of an indiscriminate light shade and that one brunette had brilliant blue eyes. Good thing his friend Blythe wasn’t here. He had always had a most serious weakness for that colouring.

He could not resist ordering them by looks as well. The blue-eyed brunette was lovely but badly dressed (although they all were, to an extent, their frocks as threadbare as the wallpaper was worn). The black-haired one was quite pretty but very grave. The auburn-haired one was quite striking but rather severe. The other four he would not have noticed in the normal order of things. They were not unlovely, but simply insignificant. Next dinner, he thought, he would bring a pencil and make notes on his shirt cuff. There might be a novel here, and given how isolated they were, he could probably lampoon them to the entire literary society of London and they would never hear a word.

At the close of the meal, Sir George dabbed at his mouth roughly with a napkin. As much as I wish to have conversation with a man again—surrounded as I am by the ladies—I think Sir Roger wants to start on his research. Sophy, my dear, will you show Sir Roger to the library?

Sophy proved to be the darkest-haired girl. She arose, setting her napkin aside delicately, and Roger followed her, a little startled at this turn of events. In London, no one would have dreamt of sending their maiden daughter off alone with him to a secluded room. He followed her down the hallways, admittedly taking some joy in the swaying of her hips beneath her muslin gown before she paused and opened a double door.

As he entered, he was immediately struck by the smell of books—paper and leather and ink and dust all pleasantly mingled together. It was a large room, its walls papered with shelves and shelves of books, and a few overstuffed couches clustered about a table in the middle, which nearly seemed to groan under the weight of yellowed papers. The windows were covered with heavy curtains, and the fireplace was dark. The only light was the candle the girl held.

He turned, and was surprised to find her following him in. Libraries, he said, and was surprised at the primness of his tone, are intended for men.

She set down her candle and arched a brow at him. With one man, one boy, and fifteen women and girls in this family, Sir Roger, you will find very few male preserves in the estate. One is my father’s study. The other is his chamber. That is all that is barred to us poor females.

I am sorry, Miss Sophia, he said hastily. I misspoke.

She did not reply, moving about the shelves. With the only light the single candle he doubted she could read the spines, but she seemed to know instinctively what she was looking for, her fingers going to the books and caressing their spines the same way one might pet a beloved pet. The sensuality of the gesture was at odds with her demeanour. She had a strange sort of air; there was something about her that reminded him of the moon—remote, cool and lovely. Her figure, undeformed by the rigidity of old-fashioned stays, was lovely, shown to great advantage in the simple gowns of the day; her inky curls clustered about her neck, and she had level brows and the regular features of a Greek statue. She should have been named Diana, thought Roger, and then re-thought. No, Sophia fit. Greek for wisdom.

I know what you are thinking, sir, she said, pulling some books from the shelf.

He rather hoped not. She seemed too unworldly a creature to realise he had been ogling her. You think so, miss?

You are thinking, she said, turning about, how queer a family we are. Well, it is true. We are. But I defy any family with fourteen daughters—if there are any other such out there—not to be at least a little queer.

Her phrasing made him smile. Oh, no, Miss Sophia. I assure you that was the furthest thing from my mind.

She eyed him dubiously. Stepping forward, she pressed the books she carried into his hands. These are some of the diaries of my ancestors—the volumes most concerned with Dorothy’s antics. The first, here, is that of Sir Henry, the first baronet, who had a daughter named Dorothy, whom we believe became our Dorothy. From my readings, it appears she died tragically at some point following her father’s death, but none of her brothers seemed to have kept diaries during the last of her lifetime. If you wish to wait, I can mark the pages for you, sir.

He took the books from her. Oh, no, it is hardly necessary, he assured her. Er. I had heard, too, there was an old abbey on the grounds?

Her brow furrowed lightly. Indeed. Rosington Abbey. It’s been nothing but a ruin for years. It was added to the family property after the dissolution of the monasteries.

Do you have any of its old records? Roger tried to sound as casual as possible.

She pursed her lips.Some mentions in old diaries; a few papers. Perhaps more, if I look more closely. Why? It would seem unrelated to Dorothy unless you have some very odd new theory about her identity. We have many other spirits here, but the monks do not bother us in the house. It was her you came to look into, no? You said as much at dinner.

He could not for the life of him remember what he had said at dinner. He had been too interested in cataloguing the species of Missus Hackhamus. He was quite certain that he did have a cover story, but he had forgotten it already. I am interested in old things, he told her, fumbling for a convincing explanation. Old things, rich with history. I mentioned to your father that I wanted a look at the ruins as well.

I hardly know what you expect to find there, she replied,