Evelyn opened her eyes and blinked rapidly as she tried to focus. She had no notion how long she’d lay there in a crumpled heap, curled next to the body of her aunt. She felt no immediate pain, other than a pounding behind her eyes.
“Aunt Beatrice,” she whispered to the listless woman lying next to her. “Aunt Beatrice.”
She waited for a sign of life: a cough, a gasp, a sigh. But the world had fallen deathly silent. Flexing her fingers and lift
ing her arms to check her limbs were able, Evelyn grabbed the edge of the seat and tried to stand. The carriage lay on its side, the window above them framing a mass of purple and black clouds, so thick she imagined she could touch them.
Dragging herself up on her feet, she turned to examine her aunt’s body. Lying on her side with her head facing away, her aunt was too quiet, too still. She patted the folds of her aunt’s skirt, moving up to her arm and shoulder. Nothing appeared to be broken. Then she noticed her aunt’s head squashed against the shattered window. Evelyn pushed her hand under the old lady’s cheek and it felt slimy and sticky.
With a gasp she pulled her hand away, her pale pink glove now a deep shade of red.
There was blood, too much blood. She needed to get help, quick.
Pushing the carriage door open, she climbed out and lowered herself down to the floor.
An uprooted tree trunk blocked the road, the knobbly branches disappearing into the forest. No doubt this was the reason for the startled horses. Miraculously, they were unharmed and stood quietly waiting for instruction, oblivious to the disaster that had just unfolded or the upturned wreckage behind them.
Evelyn scanned the ground, looking for the driver and spotted the burly figure lying sprawled out on the floor. She raced over to him and touched the back of his coat, rocking gently in the hope of rousing him.
Nothing.
Her aunt’s words drifted into her thoughts.
It’s just a few miles to the inn.
After giving each one of the horses a reassuring pat and a few calming words, she wrapped her cloak around her, climbed over the trunk and hurried down the road.
She tried to run, desperate to reach the inn before dusk, knowing how difficult it would be to rouse help come nightfall but the biting wind made her task more arduous.
When she came to a fork in the road, she stopped and took a moment to catch her breath as she examined her options. Surely the road ahead led to the inn. It appeared to be wider, the well-worn grooves suggesting regular use. So why was she drawn to the narrower, overgrown lane? Why did she feel a strange tug in her stomach at the thought of taking any other route?
Dismissing the feeling, she carried on along the wider path, her thoughts focused on reaching the inn.
But then she stopped abruptly, glanced back over her shoulder and stared.
The earl lived near, her aunt had said.
For some strange reason unbeknown to her, she turned around, retraced her steps and hurried down the narrow lane. Evelyn had always believed, instinctively, one always knew what felt right. The further down the lane she ran, the more it felt like the right decision.
Doubt crept in when she came to the clearing, when she stumbled upon the huge, rusty iron gates. She could see the Elizabethan building at the end of the path — the home of the Earl of Hale, she presumed.
The gates were locked: a thick chain had been threaded through the railings, making it impossible to open. Judging by the amount of weeds sprouting out of the gravel, the entrance hadn’t been used for some time. The impression was one of neglect, of desolation, of utter hopelessness.
Evelyn was not foolish enough to attempt to climb the gates, and the stone wall running along the boundary seemed too high.
Surely there was another way in.
She followed the boundary to the left for a few minutes until she came to a tree whose lowest branch overhung the wall. Bunching her dress up to her knees she climbed the tree, receiving a few bumps and grazes in the process. If only she’d not discarded her blood-stained gloves, she thought, as she lay along the branch and pulled herself across before jumping down into the earl’s estate.
When she eventually reached the oak front door, it was dusk. With no sign of activity, she glanced at the twenty-or-so windows scattered across the facade. Not a single light shone from within. Each one looked dark and ominous, conjuring an image of its master’s disfigured face.
Evelyn wrapped her fingers around the iron knocker and let it fall, the dull echo resonating along the hallway beyond. She waited for the clip of footsteps, for the rustle of keys.
Nothing.
Determined to muster a response, she knocked again, twice.
Still nothing.