Del’s ancestor. I presume Harold Shaw is, too. That means telling Freya that her husband’s ancestor may have murdered hers, which is just . . . really, really awkward.
My first step, though, is looking up young Edmund Courtenay. I find nothing except proof of his existence—a birthdate and confirmation that his parents were The Honorable August Courtenay and Rosalind Courtenay, nee Hastings. I’d need to do a full records search to get a date of death, and that isn’t available at the High Thornesbury archives. I’m both disappointed and relieved. Disappointed because I hoped to find that Edmund Courtenay died a very old man. Relieved because it gives me an excuse not to look up my William’s death date. I desperately don’t want that information. It isn’t just fear that I’ll see a date sooner than I expect, but the grim reminder that, in my world—this world—William is dead. Long dead and turned to dust.
Freya had spoken of August’s tragedies, hoping he didn’t lose both wife and son. That’d given me pause, thinking, But his son is alive. August was just talking about him. To Freya, though, they’re both dead even if they lived to be a hundred. A tragedy that has not yet come in William’s world is ancient history in mine.
As unsettling as that is, my focus is on a tragedy that has already passed in William’s world, and that one I do find in the archives. The death of Rosalind Courtenay. The information I find matches William’s account to the last detail.
According to an article from the time, Rosalind was known to ride at night, but had not done so since her pregnancy. She rose to “tend to” her ten-month-old son, which I presume is a euphemism for breast-feeding him, a practice less common than wet nurses in her time and social class. At two a.m., a trio of “carousing youths” spotted her riding out of High Thornesbury, heading up the hill to Thorne Manor. The next day, her horse was found drowned in the ocean ten miles away. Police dismissed the claim of the drunken young men and presumed she’d gone to ride by the ocean, instead, where she’d fallen with her steed. The article also notes that the current resident of Thorne Manor, Lord William Thorne, had entertained the Honorable August Courtenay and his wife earlier in the day, but was already in London when the youths claimed to have seen Rosalind heading to his home. Since Lord Thorne lived alone, this further supported the police’s belief that Rosalind had not gone to Thorne Manor. Yet if I am correct, she had. Something drew her back to the manor and the moors, where Harold Shaw followed and killed her.
I hoped for a photograph, and not surprisingly, there isn’t one. That article, however, does contain a line that sends a chill through me. When the young men were trying to prove they saw Rosalind, they claimed she was riding a dark horse—which she was—and that the horse dwarfed her small figure, clad in a gown of blue, her blond hair streaming out behind her.
Small figure. Blond hair. Blue gown.
That fits the ghost in the moors. It all fits.
I continue my search but only find references to Rosalind’s story in local history books, the sort self-published by someone with an eye for tourism rather than truth. One claims Rosalind is seen riding along the cliff every year, dressed in white, calling for her lost child. Another names William as her killer, the “mad lord of the moors” who slaughtered his entire family, starting with his father . . . who actually died in India on business. When Freya sees what I’m reading, she clicks the browser shut.
“That filth will do nothing but give you nightmares, lass,” she says. “If you want the real legend of William Thorne, we’ll grab a pint in the pub. The owner knows all the old tales—the true versions.”
When I hesitate, she lays a hand on my shoulder. “It would do you good to meet a few people, Bronwyn. Your neighbors wish to respect your privacy, but they’re curious. They remember your aunt, and they remember you, and they’d like to say hello.”
I flush. “And I’ve been rudely ignoring them, dashing into town on errands and then dashing home again.”
“They understand you’ve been busy, but stopping by the pub would be a nice gesture. I’m meeting Del for a pint, so I was going to ask you to drop me there anyway.”
“Let’s get