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Seasons in the Mist

By Deborah Kinnard

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Chapter 1

I wish these clouds would break.
Bethany Lindstrom did an involuntary bounce in her seat and felt herself flush in embarrassment. Casting a covert glance around, she figured nobody had seen. Good thing, too. PhD candidate-overachievers should not bounce.
Not long now. In a moment, in only a moment, this plane will break through this infernal cloud cover. It can’t be long, we’re descending so fast. Seconds now—my first glimpse of England. England, Avalon, Narnia. Land of my forever dreams.
She’d planned, fantasized, speculated, and schemed this trip all her life. As a child she’d read every book in the school library about medieval British history. She’d studied until eye drops no longer eased the strain. She’d outlined studies, written theses, defended her dissertation, labored over ecclesiastical Latin and legal terms, learned Anglo-Saxon and vernacular Middle French until she could converse with a contemporary, should one materialize. At last, she’d taken the prize. Through the efforts of her faculty advisor, the good Dr. Richards, the university had offered a summer semester at Oxford and finally—finally—she’d dug up enough grant money to make the flight and to support herself during three fantastic months in England.
England. The very word beckoned like a siren song. Beth leaned forward to see past the lady in 17-A as clouds scudded past the tiny window, obstinately refusing to clear on final approach to Heathrow.
“It’s your first visit to the U.K., isn’t it?” asked her seatmate with a smile.
“Yes,” Beth answered. “I can’t wait to see it.”
“Oh, you’ll see plenty in a moment, love.”
She’d enjoyed chatting with her seatmate. Sheila Tyrrell lived in Cornwall and had visited Chicago on business. Violating every stereotype about the taciturn English, Sheila had talked volubly of her family, her small town on the coast and the local amenities. “You really must find time to visit,” she urged as Beth strained to see through the clouds. “No holiday is complete without seeing Cornwall.”
“Is it far from Oxford?” How would she afford bus fare, so tightly had she budgeted every last pound-sterling?
“Oh, not so far. You take the Inter-City to Exeter, and from there you’re just a short hop to Truro . . . “
Beth listened, fascinated. Learning she was a historian, Sheila mentioned many ancient sites in her native county. “Of course, most folks want to see the places associated with King Arthur.” She snorted delicately.
“Not an Arthurian fan?”
“Well, he belongs to the English, doesn’t he? Not the Cornish.”
“There’s a difference?”
That gaffe earned Beth a ten minute discourse on differentiating the present-day English and the Cornish—a Celtic race, and therefore superior. Sheila’s lecture fell apart in quiet laughter. “My, I guess I do get rather passionate about not being called English. We’re British, and visitors don’t know it matters.” Sheila dabbed her eyes with an airline napkin and gave Beth a helpless grin.
Then she said something Beth wondered about while watching the clouds part for her long-awaited first glimpse. “Passion isn’t always easy, though, is it? You’ll need all of yours, and more of strength, to finish your journey well.”
“Journey?”
Sheila waved her hand. “Never mind. My husband always jeers at my ‘seeings’, as he calls them. Just middle-aged rubbish.”
Seeings. Beth believed in facts, dates, translations, authorities, source documents. And her own intelligence. Not arcane glimpses into the future, or for that matter, into the past. So why, as the tidy rooftops of suburban London came into view, did Sheila’s statement ring in her mind like the tolling of Big Ben?
She put it down to excitement, nerves, and jet lag. Not that she felt tired. Quite the opposite. She had arranged to be met at the airport by a transportation service, so she’d see Oxford within a few hours. She would ignore fatigue if it hit later, for the April day was still fresh, and an entire “sceptre’d isle” awaited inspection.
Finally. This is England. I’d pinch myself, but I’m awake, and here at last.
At the Customs queue, they parted with a civilized handshake. Sheila pressed a business card into Bethany’s hand. “Do ring,” she said. “Whether you’re able to squeeze in a Cornish holiday or not. I’ll be that glad to hear how you’re doing.” Beth tucked Sheila’s card away in her blazer pocket and nudged her carryon an inch closer to clearing Customs.
An hour elapsed. Beth claimed her baggage, a single duffel. Her one good outfit sagged travel-wrinkled. She always traveled light, and for this trip Mom had helped her ruthlessly prune her packing. Beth disliked being overburdened. Her accommodations would be collegiate-small, and Spartan, like her tiny place in grad school at Midwestern. For a city-bred girl, she enjoyed a minimalist lifestyle, and she was more than ready to settle in. Now if only she could spot the driver from the transportation service. They said he’d be holding a placard bearing her name.
She wove in and out of bustling travelers until the offload from the 747 thinned out. No driver. Plenty of people holding signs searching for other arrivals, even entire tour groups. She hunted for a sign that read Bethany Lindstrom, Bethany, Ms. Lindstrom, even Beth. No sign. No driver.
The last uniformed chauffeur gathered his group around him like a hen with a brood of jet-lagged chicks. She dug the transportation firm’s business card out of her passport case and dialed. The cell phone seemed reluctant, but finally put the call through.
“That number,” intoned a British-accented voice, “is not in service.”
She figured she’d misdialed, so she tried again. Same result. Her heart sank, speeding up with a healthy additive of fear. How was she supposed to get to Oxford? Should she seek out an airline representative? Was there a booth for stressed-out, abandoned international travelers?
“My ivers! You’re still here?”
Beth whirled around to see Sheila Tyrrell bustling toward her, tugging a rolling suitcase and wearing a concerned expression. “Someone was supposed to come for me, but I think the plans got fouled up.”
Sheila clucked. “Do you have a phone number? I have my mobile.” She pulled the phone out of her jacket pocket.
Bethany’s heart warmed just to see someone slightly familiar. She’d been feeling six, not twenty-six, lost in a strange land with nobody to help—or care. “I tried to call. More than once. They’re not answering.” She gnawed on her lower lip, a habit Mom hated. “For that matter, why are you still here?”
“Graeme was to pick me up. He’s late, as always.” Sheila gave a shrug. “Sons don’t always listen carefully enough, do they?” Her expression lightened. “But I gave him a ring—he says the traffic on the M-4 is horribly snarled. I said, what do you expect, on a weekday noontime?” She chuckled, then raised her brows, apparently on a new thought. “Say—must you get to Oxford today, particularly?”
“Not today, but soon. I need to find another way to get there. My schedule’s open enough, but I only have three months and I don’t want to waste any of it.”
“If you’ve nothing pressing today, then, why not come to Cornwall? We’ve plenty of room, and we’ll get you to Oxford on the morning train from Truro.” She held up a hand. “Truly, Beth, this will be no inconvenience. Blame it on my foolish ‘seeings,’ and I never accost strangers. Bertie chides me for being impulsive, but I’ve never had an instinct go bad, and well he knows it. You mustn’t think me forward or brash—”
Touched, Beth chuckled. “Like Americans can sometimes be?”
Sheila smiled. “Do come to Mossock. Graeme won’t be much longer, and we can chat more on the way.”
“Mossock! You live at Mossock House? In Cornwall?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Of course.” Beth mulled her options for a quick moment. Her alternatives all looked bleak: Stay tonight at an airport hotel, wasting money she’d rather hoard for Oxford. Seek help from the airport staff, who might have the best intentions but couldn’t offer temptation to equal a medieval manor house. Brave the bus to central London and figure out which train might get her to Oxford, then from the train station to the college. Keep trying to get hold of the transportation company.
Or spend a wonderful day or two making notes and sketches in one of the older listed homes of England. No—Britain. She spent no more time deciding. “You’re very kind. And I’d love to see your house. Thanks—I think I will.”
* * *
Graeme Tyrrell pulled up almost immediately. Sheila’s son turned out to be a long, thin man of about twenty, with a low-key manner and virtually no conversation. Beth yielded to Graeme’s insistence that he load her duffel into the “boot” of a sleek black Land Rover. She froze a moment when Graeme got into what she considered the passenger’s side of the car—until she noticed the steering wheel was there, too.
Duhh. Knowing they drive on the left side sure isn’t the same as seeing it!
Sheila offered Beth the front seat, for the better view, and chatted comfortably from the back, pointing out various items of interest as Graeme wove skillfully through traffic and onto the M4.
“The West,” said the large blue motorway sign. Beth rubbernecked without shame as the superhighway wound through tidy communities, industrial parks, farm country of a lovely, luminous green. Hedgerows, another first, bordered the country roads they passed. Occasionally Sheila pointed out a landmark visible from the motorway.
The driving part of the experience Beth tried hard to ignore. Graeme drove too fast for her taste. Knowing the British drove on the left hadn’t prepared her for the visual effect. To Bethany’s eyes it looked as though driverless cars shot toward them at terrific rates of speed, from the wrong direction. She gritted her teeth. Calm. Blasé. Experienced traveler.
“Now over there—” Sheila pointed. “Up that road a ways is Stonehenge. I do hope you’ll get a chance to take a day trip. Really, no visitor to the U.K. should miss it.”
Beth nodded and smiled. Sheila continued, “Of course, you’re not on holiday but on business. I keep forgetting you haven’t sufficient time. A pity it is you can’t sightsee.”
Graeme glanced in the rear view mirror and chuckled, the first sound he’d produced in sixty miles. “She might get the chance, Mum.”
Beth felt obligated to explain. “More than anything I’d love to, but my project won’t let me. Given the short time, I’ll have my hands full getting the work done.”
Sheila and Graeme exchanged a glance. “Wait and see,” said Graeme’s mother. “Just wait and see.”
Small towns along the way spaced out further. When she turned to ask a question, Beth found Sheila dozing tidily without sound, her dark head canted back on the seat rest. “Catch a nap yourself if you’ve the mind to,” Graeme said softly. “We’re still an hour from home.”
“Thanks. It won’t bother you?”
He made a dismissive gesture. “I drive this route often enough to do it in my sleep.”
Beth shuddered. “Feel free not to.”
Graeme chuckled and lapsed into silence. Taking Sheila’s example, Beth rested her head and let her imagination take flight. England. England everywhere. This earth knew the footstep of people I’ve only read about. They lived here—William Marshal, John of Gaunt, Julian of Norwich.
And I’m headed toward Cornwall, an invited guest at a house written up in all the architectural guidebooks. How lucky can one stranded academic get?
She drifted on a tide of jet-lagged fatigue, dreaming in spurts of Mossock House and of her project. For two months she would join the dig team at New College, Oxford, where a fourteenth century plague pit had just been discovered. Then she’d have a frenetic month to analyze and write up her findings. Though many academics were interested in the pestilence, her conclusions would not echo theirs. With her paper, she would break new ground. With the excavation of the pit in New College’s quadrangle, a veritable gold mine of facts would emerge. No longer would those facts lie buried with the bones of the plague victims, waiting for undergrads’ eager shovels and the historians’ discerning eyes. Through providence and a timely research grant, Bethany Lindstrom, grad student, would join the ranks of the scholarly elite.
She knew the source documentation as well as any seasoned scholar. In old manuscripts she’d studied contemporary accounts, comparing the eyewitness version with that of modern scholars. Though the pestilence, as the contemps had called it, had depopulated all Eurasia, the decline had started in climate deterioration and famine three decades earlier. Had the pandemic never struck, the boom times were over anyway for unfortunate Europe. And the English had suffered worse than most. She had written a bare-bones outline of her paper, needing only field study to prove her theory. On the pre-plague famine years, and how they had primed the demographic disaster that followed, she pinned her hopes for a distinguished academic career.
“We’re home.” Graeme’s voice cut through the dreams and she startled awake. In the back seat Sheila was stretching; apparently both women had succumbed to jet lag. Beth stared into the hazy blue-gold of her first English afternoon, and gasped. An imposing pile of gray stone and slate loomed before her, ready and willing to rob her of breath. Mossock’s photos didn’t do it justice.
Sheila laughed while unfastening her seat belt. “Go ahead and look, Beth. It’s a bit run-down about the edges, but it’s home.”
“My word.” Beth had trouble finding her breath as she got out of the car. “It’s incredible.”
“Mossock,” Graeme said simply. “Welcome.”
Again he insisted on carrying her duffel. Beth gaped some more as Sheila, quite wide awake, led her in through two great iron-bound oak doors. “Bertie! Hullo, house. I’m home.”
Two huge dogs with wiry gray hair bounded out to be rubbed and greeted. On their heels a tall man of about fifty, clear-eyed and dark bearded, emerged from a side door. He caught Sheila in a massive hug. “So you are, sweet.” He kissed her soundly and set her onto her feet on the stone floor. “And who’s this you bring with you?”
Beth hastily put down her carry-on and took the man’s outstretched hand. His paw enveloped hers twice over, warm and firm. Sheila made the introductions. “Albert—we all call him Bertie—my husband. This is Bethany Lindstrom.”
“Welcome,” Bertie said with a smile. Puffs of graying dark hair stuck out over his ears like explosions, and his half glasses dangled askew on his brow. He reminded Beth of one of her lit professors, only warmer.
“Thank you for having me in your home.” Beth gave a futile gesture around the hall and the grand room into which it opened. “Amazing. The photos don’t capture its beauty.”
“But you’re not to tour it yet,” Sheila declared. “That’s for after tea. For now, let me settle you in a room. You’ll want to clean up—I’m certain I do.”
“You’re right. I feel as though we’ve been traveling forever.”
“Then come right this way, love. I have just the thing.”
* * *
After showering and changing, Beth crept—she could find no other pace—down the great staircase. Her bedroom had blown her away. More a suite than a room, it was decorated in yellow and navy, with ivory accents, the patterns harmonizing with the eighteenth century elegance of Chippendale furniture. The bed’s ivory curtains draped gracefully from a massive four-poster bed almost too tall to climb into. Large, deep-set windows faced the ocean, which muttered and hissed against the rocks fifty feet below a stone garden wall. The private bath seemed minimalist by contrast, but proved more than adequate. She’d indulged in plenty of soap and hot water to make her feel more like a human than a piece of abused airline baggage.
The staircase was straight out of Masterpiece Theatre, its banister a solid foot of wood so polished she checked for her reflection. Her footfalls made no sound on thick moss-green carpet as she entered the downstairs hallway. It smelled of furniture polish, with an overtone of something sweet coming out of an oven.
On the right, two sets of closed pocket doors, also varnished to a formidable luster. On the left, an open set. Toward these she ventured. Spotting her, Sheila waved her in. With a grin, Beth joined her hostess in a cheery parlor, where tea had been set up near French doors open to the summer evening.
“You’ll have to excuse Bertie and Graeme for now. They went into Newquay to look at a grass mower, or some such male concern.” Without asking, Sheila dropped a half-spoonful of honey into a fragile cup of floral china and added a tiny drizzle of cream. “They might be back by dinner-time. Feeling more the thing, are you?”
Beth accepted the cup and sipped. Hold on. How does she know how I take my tea? “I certainly do feel better. You didn’t mention you live in a famous house. It’s wonderful.”
Sheila smiled as if pleased. “Mossock has been in my husband’s family since the Civil War,” she said with a hint of pride. “It’s much older than that, of course. Parts of it—not the parts we live in, unfortunately—date from before Henry V. We’re greatly blessed to have our home. So many Cornish families lost their family estates to bad political judgments, poor management, hard times. This is not easy country in which to prosper.” She sipped from her china cup and handed Beth a plate on which many tiny sandwiches clustered as if fighting for the attention they deserved.
“Tell me about the house.” Beth took a sandwich.
Sheila gave another smile, almost conspiratorial. “Eat hearty, love, and I’ll do much better than that.”
Beth obeyed and finished without delay. A girl in a black turtleneck and blue jeans came with a friendly smile to clear away. Before the fireplace, one of the hounds sighed and lumbered to its feet. With the dog for escort, Beth followed her hostess down a bewildering maze of passages. Sheila knew not only her ancestral home’s structure but also its history, down to the fascinating personal stories and little details historians craved.
“You’ll want to see the oldest wings, won’t you?” she guessed with scary accuracy. Beth could only nod and rubberneck. Sheila turned to regard her, and after a long moment, returned her nod. A glint in her eye gave her a sudden sly look, making a shiver trace its way up Bethany’s spine.
“This way, then. Mind your step. These stairs are old, and not in the best repair.” From a pocket of her slacks, Sheila removed a huge cast-iron key and tried the lock. Beth expected the heavy iron-hinged door to creak in protest, but it swung open silently as if kept well-oiled. Sheila flipped a wall switch. “It’s not very well lit, either. We’ve neglected this part of the house. A pity, but family fortunes don’t grow on trees, do they?”
Beth followed her into a narrow passage that opened onto a large, high ceilinged room. Walls of the local gray stone formed bays along each side, with rounded arches framing doorways into other parts of the wing. A fireplace that could have cooked an entire ox took up one end of the room, its mantelpiece a narrow, angular funnel with carved corbels as trim. The roof beams, dim in the late afternoon light, appeared be hewn from entire tree trunks. It smelled of dust and sunshine. Vagrant beams slanted, dancing with dust motes, through narrow leaded glass windows.
“Wonderful,” she breathed. “It’s the great hall, isn’t it?” She whipped her tiny notebook out of her pocket and began sketching the fireplace and its glowering corbels.
“Yes. The oldest remaining part. We think this range might have been a fortified manor house, but the rest is long gone.” Sheila worked her fingernails into the dog’s coat just behind the ears. “There’s an undercroft, of course. One of the rooms has a manacle set into the wall. We can’t prove it, of course, but it might be where they stuck people they found—inconvenient.”
Beth laughed. A dungeon, eh? “Those high windows look defensive.” She pointed and did a quick thumbnail sketch. “Before they were glazed. And those squarish holes, up high on the wall? See the ones I mean? They could have held beams for a second story. That would be the solar, if this dates back as far as I suspect it does. “
“My word,” Sheila said on a chuckle, “you are the genuine article, aren’t you? And a fair rendering of the window, so fast! You’re good with a pencil.”
“My uncles were all in commercial art. The youngest taught me to draw. And as far as the historical details, I’ve lived and breathed the middle ages since I learned to read.”
Beth turned three-sixty, taking it all in, breathing, dashing off quick thumbnail sketches, drawing the feel of the old hall deep into her bones. And yet the experience wasn’t entirely pleasant. Like a roller coaster—scary and exhilarating, and vaguely unnerving because it must end all too soon. “How can you bear to leave it unlived in? Not to use it?”
“Well, there’s a reason.” Sheila’s expression changed, took on a sorrowful air. “It looks long-abandoned because it was. Bertie’s ancestors had the money to restore it. They didn’t want to.”
She looked a question at her hostess. Sheila continued. “They feared the places in this wing where one can sense something.” The dog gave a fretful whine and Sheila reached to scratch her huge bristly head. “There now, Wenna. That’s the girl.”
The dog’s unease triggered Bethany’s. “Something unpleasant?”
“Worse, I’m afraid. All these old piles have their ghost, their cold room—call it what you like. I almost think we English would be disappointed if they didn’t. As for Mossock’s, it’s no Victorian ghost. Ours goes back many generations. The tales Bertie’s grandmother threatened him with! That old harridan. She put fear into that boy, let me tell you. She warned him if he were rude, she’d let him spend some time in the old hall with the ‘Gray Lady.’” Sheila scratched the dog’s ears, making it sidle closer.
“What? Who was she?”
“Nobody now knows. But she’s called gray for good reason. Nobody’s ever actually seen an apparition, mind you. It’s more sensed than visualized. Those who report her presence call it an overwhelming feeling of displacement. As though she’s lost somehow, and grieves for someone. Yes, grief. Soul-deep and almost too much to bear.” Sheila’s eyes clouded and Beth wondered why, but in a second the look vanished. “According to legend, the Lady first appeared in the Trevorgas’ time. They held the manor in the sixteenth century. The Lady wouldn’t make herself known to just anyone. Only those of the family—and sensitives—could feel her.”
“Sensitives?”
“People like me, love. And like you.”
“I’m not.” Beth took a step back. “There are no such people.”
“No, of course not. You’re a modern woman. Practical. Such stories are no more than rubbish, aren’t they? Feelings, impressions, they have no root in fact.” Sheila spoke without emotion, but watched Bethany’s face for reaction.
Something motivated Beth to whisper, “And yet—I’ve always had the strongest possible desire to come here. To visit England. To do my work. To learn the stories forgotten long ago, and tell them.”
“Yes.” Sheila sounded unsurprised. “You were called, maybe by the Lady herself. Maybe, in time, she will tell you why.”
A link clicked shut. “You spoke of passion, and how it’s not always easy.”
“I spoke on impulse, but it’s true. Even before you got stranded at Heathrow, I felt our paths would cross again.” She gave a grin almost impish. “My foolishness doesn’t always make sense, even to me. What your journey entails, I can’t say. But I do feel that in time, you’ll know.”
“God brought me here,” Beth said quietly.
“You’re a believer?”
She mulled her answer for a moment. “Not active. I don’t attend church, if that’s what you mean. I did, once.”
“Well, then you already know He has many mysterious ways,” Sheila replied. “Past finding out.” The dog gave a higher, more insistent whine. “But that’s a conversation for another day. Come, the stables are out this way. Wenna wants to show you her new litter of puppies.”

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