The Ghosts of HoneyCombe Farm
Introduction and Chapter One
Introduction: Clara
Tomorrow is All Hallow’s Eve.
The town bell will toll at sunset. As all village women do, my daughter Emily and I will set the oil lamp on the front steps and hang the bunch of garlic on the front door. We’ll murmur the ancient charms, gather our skirts together, and go inside quickly, locking the door behind us.
When night falls, the Dead will nose around the windows, whisper eerie threats and promises down the chimneys, and make moaning noises that set the dogs howling. They’ll drift by their old places, dressed in their antique clothes, crowding the dark country lanes and deserted streets. Their pale faces will look as they did while they were alive; their mannerisms, the same as before.
No one dares be outside on that night, for fear of meeting the Dead.
So the living spend the night in waiting and uneasy sleep. We rely on the lamp to show the Dead we honor their memories. The garlic reminds them not to disturb us. As for the charms, well, maybe they work, and maybe they don’t. We say them anyway.
Before first cock crow, while the world is still in cold and darkness, the Dead drift back to the graveyard and settle down, each in his or her grave, until next year.
Do the Dead rest? If so, why do they need this yearly release? I can’t say, and I suspect even the great witches and sorcerers don’t know either. But it seems to me that the Dead have some kind of score to settle with the living, or else why would they rise, and if given the chance, wreak mischief on All Hallows Night?
Whatever their reasons, they do malice against the living if they can. They sicken flocks and cattle, invite infection into the fields, sow hardship and hunger. So it is that by law, each household, each shop and business, leaves the lamp and the garlic outside to both placate and warn the ghosts. The punishment for neglecting this is death by hanging.
I am Clara Flanders, widow. I manage HoneyCombe Farm, on the estate of Sir Walter Eggle.
I’ve done my duty by the Dead every year. My ghosts are my parents, and my husband Will, who is supposed dead, and my little Tommy, drowned at age two. And I wonder if Tommy rests in peace. He died alone, in the river.
Tomorrow night, Emily and I will sit by the kitchen fire until it burns out, and then we’ll go upstairs to bed. The Dead will sweep past the house. Emily and I will be safe inside. All will be quiet.
Unless.
Unless I manage to invite Tommy back in.
Only Tommy. Only for one night.
So I can see my baby once more.
Chapter One
When I open my eyes each morning, I swing my legs out of bed, start thinking over the previous day’s jobs, and plan today’s. I dress without lingering and tidy my hair away under a kerchief. I slip into wooden pattens tied with leather strings.
The mirror reflects a tall woman in her late thirties, becoming ample, filling out. Not young, but not old yet either. My skin still stretches tightly over my cheekbones, and my color, that of a dark peach, is still fresh. I could still attract a man if I chose.
I grimace and wrap a clean apron around me. Too much to do, no time to waste thinking about men. The farm and my teenage daughter take up all my energy.
I smell food as I go down the stairs, Emily dawdling and yawning behind me. The housekeeper, Martha, has set an ample breakfast on the kitchen table. The outdoor workers and maids trickle in and eat with us. We sit down to brown bread and butter, cheese, jam from our own fruit, eggs and sausages, and creamy oatmeal. Plenty of strong, sweet tea.
Emily leaves for school. I catch up briefly with the workers and we all go our different ways.
I owe all this abundance to my father and mother, who rented the farm as a young couple and toiled over it fifty years. I was their only child, and I came to their lives late. They taught me everything about farming and business.
Honeycombe produces herbs and vegetables for the weekly market, as well as mead and beer. I also sell eggs, cheese and butter. My workers grow wheat, grass, barley and oats for home use. And I have a flock of sheep, and two cows, and some pigs. But the farm’s most important crop is honey and beeswax. The hives stand in the meadows, where fruit orchards to the east, and a stream to the south, mark the property’s boundaries.
The capital town, Teluna, is only a two-day ride away on horseback, but I’ve never traveled further than Eggelton village. My days are spent on the farm except for visits to Eggleton on business. When my parents lived, I’d take them to a wedding, festival, or funeral. They depended on me more and more as they grew old.
I didn’t think of marrying, although my mother would sometimes say something wistful about grandchildren. They died peacefully, within a month of each other.
After the funerals, I walked through the empty house, sitting down in Mother’s rocking chair and watching dust motes sparkling in a spill of light. Got up to put Father’s pipe on the mantelpiece and smooth the covers on his bed.
How quiet it was, without my parent’s voices, without the routine and bustle of servants in and out of the rooms, even my own voice. There was no one to talk to.
Into this abundance and quiet came Will a-courting.
He stood at the gate, slicking back his blond hair with one hand and holding his cap in the other. He was asking for me. I watched from an upper window and considered.
Let’s hear what he says, I thought. I changed into a good dress and told Martha to let him in.
“I was wondering if you’d like company,” he said frankly, accepting a cup of tea.
We sat in the hall, the house’s formal room. Evening had fallen. Candles fragrant with cinnamon and honey shed soft light. I was conscious of looking pretty. And conscious, too, of the tall, well-built man sitting across the table who was making such an effort to show his manners.
I raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I want company?”
He swept a glance at me, with those dark blue eyes that took in more of you than you intended to reveal, and made everything he said so significant. Eyes of a seducer, of a liar. But I didn’t know that then.
“Your good parents are gone. Doesn’t it get lonely? And I’ve always thought what a fine woman you are.”
“You mean I run a fine farm.” I sounded dry, but I meant to.
Will put his cup down carefully. “You’re a smart, hardworking woman,” he said. “Neither am I a fool. My forge is prospering. I can easily support a wife and family. I’m a bit older now, and I’m thinking it’s time to settle down. What’s wrong with combining our assets, starting a home on a secure footing?”
I looked at him over my teacup. Crow’s feet around his eyes didn’t detract from his good looks. Light-skinned, but tanned, with very light blond hair. A strong chin with a cleft. Tall enough, and muscular, from swinging heavy equipment around and picking up horses’ hooves.
How immodest my thoughts are, I thought. But I was enjoying myself.
“What’s wrong with my life now?”
Will shifted in his chair. “You’re right, here I am visiting for the first time and already I’ve said ‘settle down’ and ‘family.’ Let me visit again, and again. We’ll begin to know each other. Maybe by the end of the summer, you’ll make up your mind, make a decision.”
“A decision to allow your visits, or not,” I said, determined not to reveal how attracted I was.
He leaned closer to me, putting his hand next to mine on the table. He smelled of good soap, and a little of sweat, and he seemed to radiate warmth.
“A decision to marry, I hope,” he said in a low tone.
I withdrew my hand, took a breath, and said, “Fine. You may visit again. In the evening. We’ll sit in the kitchen, in full view of my workers and anyone who comes to buy beer or something.”
“As you like,” said Will easily.
He took his time coming back. I waited the whole following day, drifting around the house, reluctant to go out to the garden or work sheds, in case I’d miss him. The second afternoon wore away into evening and still no sign. By the third day I was completely out of temper.
Much I care if Master Flanders comes or goes, I thought. Damn him.
But I’d been dreaming about Will all the time, imagining him falling deeper and deeper in love while I lightly flirted and twisted him around my finger.
I was a fool.
What happened when Will came to visit again was that I almost ran into his arms. I’d fallen ridiculously in love.
He soon saw it. He knew how to torture me with kisses that promised so much more pleasure in just another second - and break off the embrace. “To keep us pure for our wedding night,” he’d say, laughing to see my half-closed eyes, my swollen lips; enjoying my embarrassment as I turned away to tidy my hair.
We married in July. The entire village celebrated.
I fell pregnant almost immediately.
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