Page 1 of Haunted
Chapter One
George’s hired chaiselost a wheel some three miles from the next posting inn. Since the sky was already beginning to darken with both storm clouds and dusk, he chose not to shelter in the wrecked carriage, but to take his bag and walk on to the inn, from where he would send help back to the postilions and the horses.
Tired as he was, George enjoyed the walk. Since deciding to come home from his travels, he seemed to have spent far too much of his time cooped up in carriages, and his body appreciated the opportunity to stretch. However, he doubted he would appreciate the soaking once the storm clouds broke, so he strode on at a cracking pace.
Even so, he could hear thunder rumbling away in the distance, and the rain came on before he could have been more than halfway there.
The posting inn was on the edge of a village. It was not hard to find in the dark, since the racket of voices, music, and laughter penetrated the battering of the rain on his hat, and even the louder rumbles of thunder.
The inn was so packed that at first no one noticed his quiet entrance. The taproom seemed to have overflowed into the coffee room. A fiddler was scraping away in one corner. A few young women were screaming with laughter from the laps of young gentlemen. A cockfight appeared to be taking place in themiddle of the room, surrounded by raucous gentlemen yelling encouragement to the birds and waving money around. In fact, for such a large crowd, it seemed to have a disproportionate number of gentlemen to more ordinary country folk and travelers of other classes.
George did not care for crowds, particularly of the unexpected and disorganized variety. The flying feathers and blood made him feel sick. He had to hold on to his purpose quite hard to force himself to stay. He took off his hat, gripping it far too hard. The sea of noise was overwhelming enough to drown him.
From the depths of the heaving masses, a harassed-looking man in an apron, a feather clinging to his hair, squeezed through to him.
“Evening, sir. Can I help you?”
“My post-chaise lost a wheel three miles back on the Dover Road. The postillions need help to get the horses and the vehicle to the inn. I require a room for the night and dinner.”
If anything, the innkeeper looked even more harassed. “I’ll send a couple of ostlers to do what they can. Your postillions can bed down in the stables with the grooms. But as for a private bedchamber, sir, I couldn’t do it if my life depended on it.” He flapped one hand around the chaos. “There’s a prizefight in the neighborhood tomorrow, and it’s brought all the quality down from London and God knows where else. To say nothing of the hordes of lesser men. I like business as much as the next innkeeper, but this is ridiculous! My wife will be after blood—moreblood, and probably mine!—when she finds they’re holding cockfights in here…”
It was a long time since anything had panicked George, but he could feel it rising up from his toes now.
“When will they go to bed?”
“Half of them ain’t got beds,” the innkeeper said. “They’ll have to sleep here, which I admit I wouldn’t care for myself.”
“Neither would I,” George said, desperation clamoring. “Can you offer me nothing else? Discomfort I will live with, but it has to be private.”
“I got nothing like that, sir. Even my own servants are bunking in together, and my whole family’s in one room. I can ask if anyone will give up their chamber for a gentleman, but I tell you now, I wouldn’t hold my breath.” Perhaps he read the panic in George’s face, for he turned hastily to the nearest table. “Here, anyone like to give this poor, soaked gentleman their bed and sleep down here?”
“Not me, I’m going home to my Jenny,” rumbled a countryman.
A traveler of indeterminate rank shook his head furiously. “Sorry, friend, not for the king himself! I was here first, and here I stay.”
“Perhaps there is another hostelry in the area?” George said, trying to think through the noise.
“Not round here, no,” the innkeeper said. “And to be honest, I doubt anyone in the village will open their doors to a stranger. But you’re welcome to kip down here for nothing—dinner and breakfast half price.”
“I’d rather sleep outside in the rain.” It was truth, if vaguely insulting to the innkeeper, so George hoped he hadn’t said it aloud.
“Oh, I don’t know,” the countryman said with a grin George didn’t quite like. “There’s Hazel House. Loads of space up there. I’m sure the widow’d be happy to look after a gentleman.”
“Ain’t no call for that, Jack,” the innkeeper scolded, though George had no idea why.
“What?” Jack demanded innocently.
George didn’t care. “A lodging house? Where do I find it?”
“Straight through the village and take the right fork,” Jack said helpfully. A man on his other side grinned and nudged him. George saw it but was too upset to analyze the meaning.
“Good half-hour’s walk or more, though,” the innkeeper warned, glaring at Jack and his friend. “You’ll get soaked in this weather. If the lightning doesn’t get you. And she’ll likely not let you stay, anyway.”
But George, eager to be away from the inn, was already making for the door, calling over his shoulder, “You won’t forget to send someone to help with the post-chaise and horses?”
“No, it’s in hand, sir, but…”
George waited for no more. He almost crashed through the inn’s front door in his haste to leave. For an instant, the pleasure of having the barrier of stone and wood between him and the noise and the sea of raucous strangers was intense. Rain pattered on his head. He put his hat back on, and water ran off the brim and down the back of his neck. He shivered and set off through the village.
