Chiron Academy

Tales to Horrify #44: A Night Upon the Moor, Yorkshire, 1834

"This is an accursed land," de Burgh grumbled to himself, as he stared out the rain-drizzled window of the coach.

Dark rain clouds hung low over the rolling hills of the moor. From the safety of the dry carriage, he was able to look out over the endless expanse of grass and mud that they'd been traversing for the better part of the day. Just as de Burgh had expected, there was nothing, but the same desolate view to greet him. Just the muddy road they traveled on, cutting its way through the same stodgy grass mile after after mile. Here and there a sprig of sickly trees sprung up from the ground, seeming at random. What little gaiety might have been derived from the view of the simple pastoral scene was ruined by the ever-present rain that had plagued them since they left Haworth.

Or was it Oaksworth they had just left? He couldn't quite remember. They had passed through so many fly speck villages over the passed two days, they had all begun to blend together. 

Yes, he repeated to himself, this truly was a god forsaken land.

With a HARRUMPH, he sat back in his seat and took in his two fellow travelers.

He'd met none of them before boarding the coach back in London two days ago, and though they'd shared the cramped quarters for the majority of their journey, excepting the small villages they stopped in to sleep, they'd shared only the merest of pleasantries.

To his right sat Monsieur Leroux, a rather mousy young Frenchman. He claimed to have come from Egypt, where he had been studying tombs for some months. He had said he on his way to meet with a scholar in Glasgow. Or perhaps he had said he meant to see some of those preserved corpses they were supposed to have at a museum there. De Burgh couldn't quite remember. He'd found the whole affair of digging in the dirt about as dry as one of the mummy's they all seemed so fussed about. 

What was the point of studying something that was so confounded old anyway? If the ancients had any great knowledge to pass on, they wouldn't have died out in the first place.

Apparently, M. Leroux didn't feel the same way as his nose was currently buried deeply in a large tome. A title was impressed on the leather cover of the volume but the title was in French and De Burgh's abilities there, to his old governess's dismay, were far from conversant.

Sitting across from the two gentlemen sat a young woman. Her hair was curled into tight ringlets on each side of her head. He was rather surprised that she had been sent to travel so far alone. She had introduced herself as Mlle. Faucheux,

She hadn't said too much about herself, only that she was on her way to visit an aunt on a country estate. She had spoken a briefly with the Frenchman next to him a few times but since it was all in their own language, whatever it was that they'd discussed was lost on De Burgh.

It was just his luck that he'd be cooped up on an extended journey with only the French for company.

"So, mademoiselle," de Burgh said, breaking the silence," what exactly was it that drives you on this journey? If you don't mind my inquiring."

The woman looked up from a bit of embroidery she'd been working on in. Her face was a picture of quiet contemplation.

"As I told you, I am on my way to visit my Aunt in the country. She is overcoming a consumption, and I thought a visit would be highly welcomed."

"And so you come all the way from the continent to visit, braving both the channel and this frightfully drawn out carriage ride for an ill relative?"

"Yes, sir. She has always been a most reserved woman, and a friendly face is often few and far between."

"Hang me," de Burgh replied, shaking his head," if I'd consent to such a journey for a mere illness, save the most tragic of circumstances. How can you be sure that she will not be right as rain water when you arrive? Your trip will be all but wasted. Are you angling to receive a place in her will?"