THE GHOST OF WARBOROUGH HALL

"One must never let go before having managed to set down one's first impressions."

– Pierre Bonnard, 1867-1947

ARC ONE - DESTINY

CHAPTER ONE:

As per Miss Hofferson's instructions, I got off at Wellingham Station the following morning, although not quite at half past eight (on the dot) as she requested but that was hardly my fault – the train was delayed! I was only fifteen minutes off anyway, so I did not think it would have mattered much.

I looked around when I walked outside the station, thinking that somebody was there waiting for me, perhaps even holding up a cardboard sign with my name on it or something, but found nobody carrying such a thing. In fact, the only people I could see were the station master, an old man in a tweed jacket he was smoking with, and a woman with a pram waiting for the next train.

I clenched my teeth and sat on my luggage, hands upon my chin, boredom already settling in. I had agreed to stay in the country for an indefinite period of time, yet my sanity was already being tested within minutes of setting foot here.

"I gather you are Miss Thorston?"

The voice came out of nowhere and so unexpectedly that I nearly jumped out of my skin. I stood up and whirled around, my hand already pulled back in a fist, and found the old man in the tweed jacket cringing, both hands up in the air in a sign of peace.

"Whoah, easy there girl. Didn't mean to scare you like that."

I slowly let out a breath. "Well, you shouldn't sneak up on people like that. I could have punched you and sent your face flying all the way to Antarctica."

"Sorry, lass." He chuckled. He then took his cap off and swept me a low bow. "The name's Paul. I was sent by Miss Hofferson to bring you safely to Warborough Hall. Although I hope you do not mind me saying this, but you're late."

"Only by fifteen minutes," I said defensively.

"You could have caught the earlier train."

"I could have what? Sweet Jesus of…"

"I do beg your pardon, Miss Thorston, I meant no offence. However, you… do realise who you are working for right?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Astrid Hofferson, yeah. So what?"

He lifted my huge luggage with a bit of trouble, and when I made to grab it back from him he shook his head and clicked his tongue. I shrugged at him, not really caring either way. If he wanted to break his back carrying that monster then so be it.

We started walking towards a car parked behind a couple of cabs. "My dear lass," he wheezed. "When my mistress says you must not be late, you must obey. Because, well… You do know she is dying, right? And, well, she does not like to be kept waiting," he added under his breath.

"Oh?"

"Oh." He confirmed with a twinkle to his blue eyes. "So come, come. Let us not keep The Lady waiting for much longer." He opened the door for me.

"Why so fancy," I muttered as I got in the car, and when Paul finally stuffed my luggage at the back and seated himself in the driver's seat, I asked: "Who does she think she is? The Queen?"

He chuckled as he drove. "No lass, she is so much more. She is the last of the Hoffersons."

I looked at him blankly. "And that's supposed to mean something to me?"

"No, perhaps not. But this is what I know: She is the last of her kind, the last with her specialty, her skills. She has no children to carry on the legacy after she's gone."

"And that gives her… the right to ask everyone to do her bidding to the T? Sounds to me like she thrives on people's pity."

"No, my dear, you misunderstand. It is not what she is that make people respect her, but what she has done, what she has become, what she has come to represent… what it means to be the last. That is why she commands our respect."

I admit I really didn't see the logic, but then a thought came to me. I looked at him closely. "Paul… were you ever in love with her?"

"Ever in love with her?" He sputtered, before he started laughing. "Dear lord, no. She is so old! I have served her family since I was but a boy helping the gardener, and she already a woman who had turned down many a marriage proposal. I did love her as an older sister, yes. But I did not love her like… that! That kind of love is reserved only for my Eliza –my beautiful wife."

I mentally slapped myself. Of course this man was not the man Astrid had fallen for. Paul had blue eyes, not the green that she described in her letter. I turned my head to the window and watched the blur of sheep and fields go past. I guess the mystery of the green-eyed man will remain a mystery. For now.

After a while we turned left to a narrow dirt road and, like magic, Warborough Hall was suddenly visible in the distance. Hiding behind a mass of trees ("The park," Paul said proudly, "we still keep deer there.") was a building that boasted of past grandeur. After another while longer we finally arrived at the gates, and Paul got out of the car to open it himself. I briefly wondered where the rest of Miss Hofferson's staff was.

"Hope you don't think us rude, my dear, but we will be entering from the kitchen," Paul said as he drove around the back slowly. "There are workmen fixing the front door – it was broken off its hinges yesterday."

"No way, those huge doors? How did it get broken?"

He shrugged. "Beats me. Between you and me, though, I think it was grumpy Molly – that's Missus Parsons to you, mind, and you make sure you don't call her Molly. She only allows The Lady to call her that, the rest of us aren't worthy enough. She's the housekeeper, you see, and a more severe woman you've never met."

He parked the car and I jumped out of my seat, itching to get on with this project. A woman in a plain brown jacket and brown skirt walked out of the wide kitchen doors, the brown eyes behind her glasses narrowing at me, her hair in a simple, neat bun at the nape of her neck.

"Ah, speak of the devil," Paul whispered behind me as he tugged my luggage free from the backseat.

"Miss Thorston," she said. "Welcome to Warborough Hall,"

"Thanks," I grinned and extended my hand. She looked at it for a moment before shaking the tips of my fingers. "And you must be Missus Parsons. I've heard so much about you."

Paul chuckled, which he quickly tried to cover with a sneeze. Missus Parsons' mouth went thinner than I thought was possible on a human being. "Indeed?" She glared at Paul, then she turned to me. "Follow me, if you please. Miss Hofferson has been waiting for you."

"M-Miss Hofferson?" I quickly grabbed my bag from my seat and stumbled after her, glancing behind at Paul. He grinned and waved me off. "I mean, I did not think I was going to interview her so soon, well at least not until I've unpacked, toured the place so I know where to pee – you know, things I thought you guys did to maintain a façade of politeness to guests."

"You are her biographer, and time is of the essence here, Miss Thorston. Did Miss Hofferson not state that in her letter?"

"She- uh, she did," I muttered as I tried to remember the exact contents of her letter, "I think." She did say I must not be late…

She led me through to the other side of the building, out some gorgeous French doors that opened out to a balcony overlooking a beautiful garden. There was a white latticed gazebo nearby, and in its shadow I saw an old lady reading a book.

My breath caught in anticipation. I allowed Missus Parsons to lead me down the steps, up the path and inside the gazebo, and I realised with increasing excitement that I was finally about to meet the great Astrid Hofferson in the flesh. She glanced up when she heard us coming, and she put her book down to rearrange the shawls around her shoulders. A walking stick was leaning next to her chair. She looked so frail, so fragile, yet when she flicked her icy blue eyes at me, I saw in them a woman who was far from weak.

"Miss Hofferson," Missus Parsons said when we arrived, "Miss Thorston."

"Good morning," I squeaked, nearly collapsing in the chair opposite her, utterly star struck. "I'm so sorry I'm late."

I mentally kicked myself for apologising for something that was not my fault.

Astrid's lips quirked into a ghost of a smirk. "Good morning. Molly, will you please serve Miss Thorston some tea, and then you may leave us."

Missus Parsons did as she was bid, and as her neat heels clicked away from us, I found myself being silently evaluated by this great woman. She swept her blue eyes over me, and I found myself hoping that she did not find me lacking. I did rememberto brush my hair today.

"I, uh, guess I just want to say thank you for inviting me to your home." I stated, trying to dissipate the slight awkwardness that settled around us.

"You are welcome," was her reply.

Silence.

"I'm a big fan, by the way." I tried again.

She smiled amusedly. "I am glad."

"And I –"

"We shall conduct our interviews at sets times every day," she interrupted. "I propose we schedule these in the mornings after breakfast and the evenings in the library after we have dined. I do love the outdoors, so we shall strive to meet here at the gazebo as often as we can during the day. Of course, weather permitting and as long as I am well enough to meet with you."

"Um, sure, why not." I reached for my tea.

"Wonderful," she continued. "We shall also conduct these interviews under certain conditions, and that is: No cheating. And that means: No questions."

I raised my eyebrows. "No questions? What do you mean no questions?"

"It means you are not allowed to ask, because that will be cheating."

"You do realise I'm a biographer, right? I will be asking some questions in –"

"And I imagine that you had never interviewed any of the people in your studies, seeing as they all died long before you were even born. I, on the other hand, have had many interviews in the past. We shall, therefore, do this under my terms."

I sipped the hot tea to cool my hot tongue, irritated by her rudeness. "Well, if that's the case, before you start your story and thus bind me to your rules I might as well ask you some questions right now." I took a notepad and a pencil from my bag and turned to a fresh page.

She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Just a few, you know, questions to ensure that what you will be telling me is the truth." I explained.

Her chest puffed out in indignation. "Miss Thorston, I assure you that everything I will tell you will be nothing but the truth."

"Forgive me, Miss Hofferson. You know that I write the biographies of people who have already died. There's a reason for that, and it's not only because dead people's stories have a beginning, a middle, and a definitive end. I write about dead people because dead people do not lie. They give up their secrets much more easily than living people do. And you have said so yourself that you have cried wolf far too many times before." I looked at her levelly. "I will need more than your assurance. I will need facts."

She grumbled. "And what kind of facts will you be looking for?"

"Names. Let's start with your name." I was thinking if we could start with her name, then we could naturally work down the ladder and list the names of the other people who had played big roles in her life.

But, curiously, she blanched. "My name?" She faintly asked.

"Sure. Your full name."

She was speechless for a while before her face started to turn red. "Miss Thorston," she huffed. "I am one of the most celebrated authors of this century! Do not waste my time!"

"I know that," I said gently. "But I'd like to start with the basics."

She narrowed her eyes at me sharply before lowering it to look at her tea. I poised my pencil as she took a breath before speaking. I looked up at her when she did not continue, and I was startled by what I saw. She was staring intently at her cup, her mouth poised in the middle of uttering the "A" vowel, but no sound came out.

"You will find that my name is…"

She choked. She looked up at me helplessly, and I saw a lost child in those eyes. For a while my reflection swam in those bright blue orbs. And then she blinked, and the spell was broken. The child was gone to be replaced by her old, steely self.

"You will find in the records, in my birth certificate, even down to the papers that I sign for my solicitors, that my name is still Astrid Hofferson. Surprisingly enough."

I just managed to bite back a retort. Her reaction to my question puzzled me, so for now I decided to keep quiet until I could dig up some more clues.

"What was your tutor's name?"

"Warborough Hall housed two governesses during my lifetime. You will find that their names were Nellie Mayfair and Mary Sawyer."

I noted their names down. "What was your nanny's name?"

"The nanny?" She snorted.

"It is important for my research." I said. I waited for her answer.

"She was known simply as Hettie, and I wish you luck in finding her," she said sardonically.

I wrote her name down all the same, and then let out a breath. My next question was something I had been anticipating to ask ever since I read her letter.

"Miss Hofferson," I looked at her unblinkingly. "Who was the green eyed man in your letter?"

She smiled. "Ah, was that the hook that baited you?" She shifted in her seat. "He was a blacksmith's apprentice, who came to visit Warborough Hall often. He became my best friend, although I was not his."

Heartbreak. And just like that, Miss Hofferson reeled me in deeper to her story. Was it because of the vast differences in their social situations?

"What was his name?" I asked.

Miss Hofferson shrugged. "He was known by all as Hiccup. I knew his father as a great and remarkable man. But Hiccup: we knew him simply as the blacksmith's apprentice. Prone to accidents, but renowned for his brilliance."

It was another potential dead end. Just like Hettie. But I frowned when something nagged at me. Something that did not add up…

She rearranged her shawls. "No more questions," she said briskly. "We will do these interviews my way from this moment on."

"I am your biographer, Miss Hofferson," I repeated. "You know I may need to ask questions."

She sneered at me. "I asked you to be my biographer, and I could just as easily dismiss you if we do not do this my way"

I looked at her levelly. "I was under the impression that I was here upon your request. I could just as easily have ignored your letter."

"And it would not have made a difference if you did. Your kind are a dime a dozen."

I stood up so quickly I spilled my tea on the table. I glared at her down my nose, and she smirked at me from her seat. After a while, I realised that she wasn't worth it, and I told her just as much. I turned and walked away from the gazebo.

"Wait!"

I stomped my way in the grass, making sure I left indents behind me.

"Miss Thorston!"

I ignored her.

"Do you believe in ghosts? My life is one giant, wonderful ghost story!"

I reached the balcony steps. I made sure I left muddy footprints behind me.

"How about a love story?"

My hands reached for the handles in the huge French doors.

"Miss Thorston!"

I opened the doors.

"Do you believe in dragons?"

Author's Notes:

Cliffhangers – I has em!

Firstly, I am so sorry for taking a while to upload this. I worked throughout the weekend when I thought I would at least have Sunday off. I hope you enjoyed this chapter though.

Secondly, thank you ever so much to the people who reviewed and added this story to their favourites/follow list. Especially LizzyLori, Sweettea8, and Silver Wings.X – you guys rock so much for reviewing! And Silver Wings.X thank you so much for your wonderful and very helpful review!

Thirdly, I think I need a beta. No matter how many times I read the chapters through I always manage to miss something. So if anybody is interested in being my second pair of eyes please PM me :)

Next chapter: In which Astrid tells the story of a certain red-haired man and his friend.