They shared a smile for a long moment. It was the horse nickering that broke them apart. Mr. Pomeroy suddenly seemed to realize he was still holding her hands and dropped them, an embarrassed look coming over his face. He picked up the reins again and once more set the gig in motion.
“Are we returning to Ridgestone?” Sara asked after several moments of quiet.
He pursed his lips. “There is one more visit I was planning on making and it is directly on the way to Ridgestone. Would you mind terribly if you accompanied me? I can return you home if you would prefer.”
She smiled. “Of course not. Whom would we be visiting?”
“The new owner of Windent Hall. He arrived just the other day and I wish to welcome him to the village.”
“Oh.” A new person in the neighborhood. The usual nervous ants started walking around her throat, making her feel queasy. She took a breath to regain some sort of control. She was a grown woman, for heaven’s sake. It was far past time to be so affected by the thought of meeting someone new.
Besides¸ she thought, looking at the vicar, the last person I met was Mr. Pomeroy and look how well that has turned out. She cleared her throat. “Do you know what his name is?”
“Mr. Nathan Grant, recently from London.”
Mr. Grant. A new neighbor. She could do this. Mr. Pomeroy was here to help her.
Sara nodded. Yes, she could do this.
Mr. Pomeroy helped her down from the gig and Sara took a long look at Windent Hall. Curtains covering the windows shielded the interior from a visitor’s view, lending the building a cold and unwelcoming front. Rotted trees and dead grass lined the driveway and cracks were visible along the red brickwork; piles of crumbled mortar littered the edge of the manor house and even the front portico was listing to the side, on the verge of toppling over.
The place reeked of neglect, which was to be expected after thirty years of vacancy. What Sara hadn’t expected was the blanket of loneliness that shrouded the house, adding to the chilly ambiance. She couldn’t help feeling that it had been calling out to be noticed, only to be ignored that much longer.
She couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran down her body.
Sara turned to Mr. Pomeroy as he offered his arm. “Are you certain we should be here? We are uninvited.”
He led her gingerly up the front steps. “Even so, I feel it is my duty to welcome him to the community. One can see that taking on this place is a task of great proportions. He needs to know that he is welcomed here and be informed of the local tradesmen and laborers available.”
His logic was sound. But she couldn’t stop from wincing when the door protested his banging with a loud crack in the middle. Mr. Pomeroy and Sara shared a glance. He grimaced apologetically.
The door creaked open, only to stop partway. A muffled curse was heard from the other side and eight fingers appeared in the opening. Grunting started as whoever was on the other side started to pull. Mr. Pomeroy shrugged and added his efforts in pushing. With a loud squeal, the door inched open until Sara and the vicar were able to pass through.
They stepped into a dark foyer, dust covers over everything, including a large chandelier and all the wall sconces. The man who had opened the door was walking away down a corridor on one side of the main staircase. “I don’t get paid enuff fer this,” they could hear him muttering. He pushed open a door and pointed into the room. “Youse wait in there.” He disappeared farther down the corridor.
Sara stared. Mr. Pomeroy stared. They looked at each other. With another shrug, Mr. Pomeroy started down the corridor and she had little choice but to follow.
It was a parlor, as far as Sara could tell underneath all the dust. The pale green walls were faded and damaged, giving the impression of sickness; no paintings adorned the walls and no other small pieces one expected in a room such at this were evident. The furniture that was not hidden by dustcovers was torn and did not appear strong enough to hold any weight whatsoever. She sat on the sofa gingerly, hoping it would not give out underneath her.
“Perhaps we should not have come today,” she whispered to Mr. Pomeroy. “It does not appear Mr. Grant is prepared to receive visitors of any sort.”