Page 1 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

Chapter One

Yorkshire, England

June 1873

Dearest Agatha,

I am writing to you under separate cover owing to the odd circumstances that have lately befallen me. Upon pain of death, you are NOT to share any of this with Mama and Papa! Or with Nick or Arthur, either! If any of them were to hear of my situation, they would fetch me home immediately. Which wouldn’t do at all. The whole purpose of spending my school holidays with Miss Champion and her widowed mother is to have new experiences. Strange as these experiences have become, I’m not ready to abandon them for another dull summer in the West Country.

The truth (which you are NEVER to tell) is that I am not, in fact, staying with Miss Champion and her mother. Or rather, I was, until three days ago when Mrs. Champion received a telegram informing her that her brother was on his death bed. She departed that very night for Hampshire in a great rush, leaving Miss Champion and I alone here in Yorkshire.

And yes, I know how improper this all must sound. Two girls of one and twenty, left to their own devices in a great big empty house in the wilds of North Yorkshire. But I promise you, we’re not completely unchaperoned. There’s the Champions’ housekeeper, Mrs. Goodenough, and their butler, Mr. Frog (though he is somewhat infirm, I confess, and only gets about with the aid of two sticks).

Which is entirely beside the point.

The point is, the Hall isn’t at all how it was presented to us—a quaint estate in a charming village with a delightful view of the moors. The house isn’t quaint, for a start. It’s drafty and creaking, with dozens of cold, dark rooms and no dogs or cats to liven the atmosphere. And the village! It certainly isn’t charming. Indeed, it’s CURSED!

The villagers hate the gentry. They even hate the Champions since they’re not true Yorkshire people but only come on holidays. According to Mrs. Goodenough, it’s all on account of an evil gentleman—the son of a dissipated old earl, apparently—who once did terrible things. He was so very bad that it brought a curse down on the village. The crops failed, the livestock perished, and the villagers lost all their happiness and good cheer. Even now, all these years later, with the earl and his son gone and never to return, no one dares go near the earl’s great manor house. It stands abandoned on the edge of the moor, with a great stone wall about it all overgrown with thorny branches and brambles.

Miss Champion made me swear never to go near it, even if it means I must walk a whole quarter mile out of my way when I visit the village. It’s the silliest superstition, but I abide by it, if only because the stories she and Mrs. Goodenough have told send a shiver down my spine. I’ve too much imagination, that’s the trouble. And they’ve left far too much out. My busy mind is quick to fill in the rest, and far more gruesomely too. Doubtless the truth is much more mundane.

I must close now before the day gets away from me. I’m heading into the village this morning, and then to a very pretty bridge nearby where I mean to sketch and to read. An assignation, as you would say, with the person I like the best.

Please convey my regards to Mr. Aloysius (courtesy of a cuddle and a kiss). Tell him I shall be back with him soon. And do remember to give Artemis an extra bucket of mash when you ride her.

I remain, your loving sister,

Charlotte

P.S. Burn this letter!

Charlotte Beresford clutched her sketchbook, pencil case, dog-eared copy of the latest Jules Verne novel, and just-finished letter to her older sister, Agatha, against her breast as she descended the stairs. It was half past nine. At home, the servants would have already been up for hours. The fires lit, the morning meal prepared, and clothing pressed and laid out for the ladies and gentlemen to dress.

Not so here at Sowerby Hall.

The tiled entryway remained dark and silent, with no sign of Mr. Frog or Mrs. Goodenough. No sign even of Miss Champion.

It was no great surprise. During their past three years together at Mrs. Daventry’s Finishing School for Exceptional Young Ladies, Charlotte had never once known Lucinda Champion to rise of her own accord. It had always taken repeated jostling, sometimes even unladylike shouts and threats, to get Lucy out of bed. A necessity, then, if they were to be in class on time and avoid the ire of their schoolmistresses. But not a necessity now.

“I shall let her sleep until I return from my errands,” Charlotte resolved to herself as she passed through the door that led down to the kitchens via a narrow servants’ stair. “It won’t be long. Just a quick jaunt to the post office, and perhaps the general store, then a walk along the⁠—”

“What’s that?” an aged voice inquired from below. “Is that Miss Beresford speaking?”

“’Tis I!” Charlotte called back, bounding down the last step.

A sharp turn around the corner and the kitchens opened before her. Mrs. Goodenough stood at the black iron stove, stirring a steaming pot. She was a portly woman with a frazzle of gray hair. Kindly, as it happened, but rather too familiar, Charlotte’s father would have said. Like a chiding old nurse instead of a proper housekeeper.

“Talking to yourself again, were you?” Mrs. Goodenough asked, still stirring. “Never did know a young lady who liked the sound of her own voice as much as you do.”

“I don’t like the sound of my own voice,” Charlotte replied. “Only my own company. And who else am I to talk to when I am alone?”

“In my day, young ladies were silent.”

“How terrible for you.” Charlotte reached past Mrs. Goodenough to retrieve a wicker basket from the counter by the sink. She tucked her sketchbook, pencils, novel, and letter to Agatha inside of it, along with a shriveled apple and a dry crust of bread. “Have we any cheese left from luncheon yesterday?” she asked. “I thought I might use it to tempt the moor cats.”

“Feeding wild animals and the like.” Mrs. Goodenough clucked her tongue. “Who’d have thought it.”

“It’s only a kindness. There are ever so many strays about.”