Yet from what she could observe through the coach windows, much of that fine land appeared neglected. Fields lay fallow that should have been planted with winter wheat, and the few tenant cottages they passed seemed in poor repair, their gardens overgrown and their windows dark.
The village of Ravenshollow, when they finally reached it, proved to be a collection of stone houses clustered around a small green, with a church presiding over all like a stern patriarch. But even in the gathering dusk, Evangeline could see that many of the houses stood empty, their windows boarded and their gardens gone to seed.
"Is the village always so quiet?" she ventured.
"His Grace has had little interest in local affairs since his return from the war," Mr. Blackwood admitted with evident reluctance. "The people have suffered for his neglect, I fear."
They passed through the village without stopping, the coach wheels echoing hollowly on the cobblestones. As they emerged onto the moor road that led to the Manor, full darkness fell with the suddenness of a curtain being drawn. The coachman lit the carriage lamps, but their feeble glow seemed swallowed by the vast emptiness surrounding them.
And then, rising from the moor like something from a Gothic nightmare, Ravenshollow Manor appeared.
Evangeline's first glimpse stole her breath and not in admiration. The mansion was enormous, its dark stone facade stretching seemingly without end across her field of vision. Towers and turrets pierced the night sky at irregular intervals, while rows of mullioned windows reflected the carriage lamps like watching eyes. Much of the structure appeared to date from Elizabethan times, though additions from various centuries had created an architectural maze that spoke more of conveniencethan design.
But it was the condition of the place that truly shocked her. Even in the darkness, she could see that ivy had claimed entire sections of the walls, while several windows on the upper floors were boarded shut. One tower showed clear signs of fire damage, its stones blackened and its roof partially collapsed. The main entrance, approached by a sweeping drive lined with leafless elm trees, was illuminated by a single lantern that cast more shadow than light.
"Heavens," she whispered, pressing her face to the coach window. "It looks like something from a novel by Mrs. Radcliffe."
Mr. Blackwood cleared his throat uncomfortably. "His Grace has found little reason to maintain the public areas since his retirement from society. I am assured that the inhabited portions are quite comfortable."
The coach drew to a halt before the massive front doors, which appeared to be constructed of oak and iron and looked capable of withstanding a siege. As the coachman climbed down to retrieve her trunk, those doors swung open with a groan that seemed to echo from the very stones of the building.
Two figures emerged into the lamplight—an elderly man who moved with the careful dignity of a trusted family retainer, and a woman of middle years whose severe black dress and starched white cap proclaimed her the housekeeper. Both bore expressions of polite welcome that did not quite reach their eyes.
"Miss Hartwell," the elderly man said with a precise bow. "I am Higgins, His Grace's butler. This is Mrs. Cromwell, who oversees the household. We bid you welcome to Ravenshollow Manor."
"Thank you," Evangeline replied, accepting the butler's assistance from the coach with as much grace as she could muster. Her legs felt unsteady after the long journey, but shesuspected the trembling in her limbs were more due to nerves than travel fatigue.
Mrs. Cromwell stepped forward with a scrutiny that felt like an examination. She was perhaps fifty years of age, with grey hair and sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. Her voice, when she spoke, carried the broad vowels of Yorkshire tempered by years of service in a great house.
"You must be desiring to refresh yourself after your journey, miss. I've prepared the Rose Chamber for your use—it was Her late Grace's favourite room when she was in residence."
"That is very kind, Mrs. Cromwell. I confess myself quite fatigued."
"Naturally, miss. Traveling is wearisome, particularly in such weather." The housekeeper's gaze moved to Mr. Blackwood. "His Grace requests that you attend him in the library at your earliest convenience, sir. Miss Hartwell is to rest and take dinner in her room. His Grace will receive her tomorrow morning."
The careful phrasing did not escape Evangeline's notice. The Duke would "receive" her, as though she were a petitioner at court rather than his invited guest. Or perhaps, a more troubling voice suggested, as though he were a dangerous animal that could only be approached at specific times under controlled circumstances.
"Mr. Blackwood," she said as the solicitor prepared to take his leave, "you will be staying the night, I trust?"
His expression grew apologetic. "I fear I must return to London on the morrow, Miss Hartwell. Business matters require my attention. But you are in excellent hands here, I assure you."
And with that less-than-reassuring farewell, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving Evangeline alone with her new servants in the echoing vastness of Ravenshollow Manor.
"This way, if you please, miss," Mrs. Cromwell said, lifting acandle to light their way. "Mind the steps—they're worn smooth by centuries of use."
The entrance hall was even more impressive and intimidating than Evangeline had imagined. The ceiling soared three stories above her head, supported by massive beams that disappeared into shadow. A huge staircase curved upward into darkness; its banister carved with heraldic beasts that seemed to snarl in the flickering candlelight. The walls were lined with portraits of long-dead Hollowbridges, their painted eyes following her progress with what felt like disapproval.
But it was the silence that truly unnerved her. In a house this size, there should have been sounds, servants moving about their duties, fires crackling in hearths, the ordinary bustle of domestic life. Instead, their footsteps echoed through corridors that felt as empty as tombs.
"How many servants does His Grace employ?" Evangeline asked as they climbed the stairs, her voice barely above a whisper in deference to the oppressive quiet.
"Not so many as we once did," Mrs. Cromwell replied diplomatically. "His Grace prefers a smaller household these days. Quieter, like."
They passed down a long corridor lined with closed doors, most of which bore the dusty appearance of disuse. The few windows they encountered were heavily curtained, blocking any view of the grounds beyond. It was, Evangeline reflected, rather like being in a mausoleum dedicated to departed grandeur.
"Here we are, miss," Mrs. Cromwell announced, throwing open a door near the corridor's end. "The Rose Chamber."
The room that greeted her was a pleasant surprise after the Gothic gloom of the rest of the house. Though clearly in need of updating, it retained an air of faded elegance that spoke of better days. Rose-colored silk hangings adorned the four-poster bed, while a cheerful fire crackled in the grate, casting dancingshadows on walls decorated with pastoral scenes. A writing desk stood beneath tall windows that she imagined would provide lovely views in daylight, and her modest trunk had already been placed at the foot of the bed.
