“It’s drive. You ride a horse. You drive a car.”
“Rosie . . .”
“I just wanted to be sure you were ready. Really and truly ready.”
“Yes, we are quite ready. Now—”
I hit the gas, and the engine roars, tires squealing as the car launches itself down the empty hill so fast that Edmund screeches in delight and August’s hands fly to the dashboard, his eyes bulging.
I ease off the gas. “I did warn you, did I not?”
“Do it again, Mama!” Edmund says, legs kicking. “Do it again!”
“I will soon. For now, we must drive sedately through the village. Look! Do you see the lights on the trees?”
I continue pointing out the village decorations as we ease down the last part of the hill. We pass a cottage on the outskirts that I believe is the home of Bronwyn and William’s gardener, Del, and his wife, Freya. Del is a descendant of the Shaws, and Freya is apparently a descendant of my family. Through Edmund? Through an as-yet-unborn child? Or through one of my sisters? All I know is that Freya has my old cookbook, which she inherited as a family heirloom.
I also know that the whole situation rather makes my head hurt and that I shouldn’t ask for more details. Do I really want to discover that Freya is descended from my daughter, Millicent, whom I will give birth to in two years? Or do I want to see my “old cookbook” . . . the one I’m currently filling? Do I want to read annotations I haven’t yet written? Yes, it makes my head positively pound thinking of it. What I do know is that I should dearly love to meet Del and Freya someday. This is not that day, but if I can banish my fear of the stitch, it is yet another reward nestled in my future.
We pass the house, and I take the first turn out of town. We can drive through it more fully later, when it is dark, the streets empty, no one to question why a strange family is out in what is clearly the vehicle of Bronwyn Dale Thorne.
We continue on, up and down the narrow, steep roads of the North Yorkshire countryside. While there are no “highways” here, I still keep to the back roads and avoid those wide enough for two cars to pass.
“Once you’re out of High Thornesbury,” August says, “it looks much the same as in our time. Even that is not so much changed. Cars instead of horses. A few odd-looking buildings. And light, so many lights. Also signs.” He twists to peer at one as we zip past. “Signs for street names. Signs for steep hills. Signs warning of turns.”
“That was one of the first things I saw,” I say. “Before I realized I was in a new world. I couldn’t understand why coach drivers needed signs warning of curves and hills they could obviously see. But moving at this speed, drivers need all the help they can get. Not that they pay attention to most of them. Particularly the speed limits.”
August grins. “Are you paying attention to the speed limits, Rosie?”
“Certainly not.”
“I don’t suppose I could take a turn at the wheel,” he says after a moment. “The road seems empty enough. Perhaps we could find a flat stretch where I might try it? At an excruciatingly slow rate of speed?”
“You’d like a driving lesson?”
“I’m not certain how Bronwyn would feel about me using her fancy car, but if I went slow enough, and only for a quarter mile or so . . . ?”
“She would be fine with that. It’s a clear night, and as you said, these particular roads are empty. I think we just passed a road that looks like a suitable candidate. Let me turn around and go back.”
I three-point turn the car, showing off a little as I maneuver on the narrow road. Then I return to the even narrower lane we’d passed, which seems to snake off along grazing land, open and empty fields. As we pass the sign, Edmund pipes up from the back seat, where he has been quietly enjoying the ride.
“Did that sign say Hood’s Lane, Mama?”
I beam at him through the rearview mirror. “It did. Very good.”
“I knew the letters,” he says, “because Aunt Miranda read me a Robin Hood story, and then she told me about the ghost of Hood’s Lane.”
“Did she now?” I say, only half paying attention as I peer ahead. The night has fallen fast, and I don’t want to use that as an excuse to deprive August of his lesson. I need to find a flat stretch, open enough that he can see any oncoming traffic.
“It is a pirate ghost,” he says. “She has seen him herself.”
“A pirate ghost, hmm?” I say as August chuckles under his breath.
When I came back to Courtenay Hall, I discovered my husband reading a popular novel—a risqué pirate adventure, which I have since thoroughly enjoyed myself. My sister has been terribly interested in my opinion of the book, and we have begun to believe she is the author herself. I have asked, and she denies it, which is most vexing. If she has written such a delightful tale, I want to congratulate her, and I can hardly do that if she continues to pretend she has “no idea what I’m talking about.”
“Tell me about this pirate ghost,” August says.
He can tell I need to focus but hate to ignore Edmund, and I am grateful he takes over the conversation. I catch a little of the discussion, enough to understand that my sister has seen not a ghost but a phantom echo, the sort that usually results from a violent death, as if that death is imprinted on the world, endlessly replaying for those with the Sight.
Fortunately, however this “pirate” died, she didn’t share that part with Edmund. She just told him the exciting bits about the man himself, who seems to have been Black, as she refers to him as “dark-skinned.” She also, naturally, gives the pirate a sympathetic backstory. Apparently, he steals from the rich at sea and gives to the poor fishermen and sailor’s widows.
“It sounds as if your aunt has confused her pirates with her Robin Hoods,” August says.
“Because he was Robin Hood,” Edmund says firmly. “The Robin Hood of the Bay. That’s why this road was named after him. It’s where he perished, cut down by navy knaves.”
I swear I hear my sister’s voice in that last line, and I cough as August sputters a laugh. So it seems my sister didn’t skip the death scene after all. I should have known better.
“Navy knaves,” I murmur.
“Yes, because they were from the navy, and they were also knaves, which means a scoundrel.”
“I see.”
August returns to asking questions about the “pirate Robin Hood.” There’s a likely spot coming up for his lesson, where the road seems to straighten. I need to squint, even with the bright headlamps. It was overcast when we set out, but now it seems even more so, the cloud cover complete, the night ink-black above us. Still, not reason enough to deny August his lesson.
I pull over. August undoes his seatbelt, but I shake my head.
“Not yet,” I say. “Safety first.”
I go on to explain the pedals and the steering wheel and point out the indicators and headlamps and windshield wipers.
When I get to the emergency brake, August groans. “I am going a few hundred feet, Rosie. All I need to know is how to drive straight and then to stop again.”
I ignore him and continue with the lesson until even Edmund is groaning. Then I agree it is time to switch seats. When I get out of the car, I lift my head and sniff the air. There’s a heavy weight to it. An eerie quiet, too, broken only by the wind.