Lady Aidan Campbell-McCody sat perched atop her noble Irish Draught, Wind Chaser, as she surveyed the expanse of property laid before her. To the west, stunted evergreens and malformed birch stretched gnarled limbs to the heavens, like almsmen begging for life’s blood. In vain, the pale sun of early twilight fought valiantly to escape the black-grey mourning veil of clouds that shielded its face. The north wind screamed through massive, thorny brambles twisting along the rutted path that would lead her to her unfinished home.
“Home,” Aidan whispered as she patted the muscular neck of the sound, sensible animal beneath her. Windy neighed and bobbed his head twice. With lightning speed, the courageous, grey steed plunged across muddy creek beds and leapt over decrepit logs. Aidan’s coal black velvet cloak billowed like ghostly clouds chasing her through the mist. At long last horse and rider arrived at their intended destination ... Ventrue Mansion, a grand Gothic Revival manor in Cotswold Valley.
Aidan drew in her breath and raised the veil of her top hat. A peaceful smile blossomed across her lips as she exhaled deeply and took in the completed clock tower and the owl gargoyle guarding the courtyard. An impish chuckle passed her lips as she thought back to the stonemasons who had raised the owl to its nest just below the stone slate roof. They had teased her that the sinister figure would, no doubt, bring about spells of bad dreams. “Stuff and nonsense,” she replied in a mock serious tone, as she fluttered her fan to hide her obvious delight over their attention.
“Craftsmen,” Aidan uttered, “Where ARE the craftsmen?” Aidan turned her body to the left and swung her leg and riding habit over the saddle pommels and gracefuly came to rest on the ground. Her inquisitive eyes searched for clues as to the whereabouts of all who had previously worked so diligently to restore and rebuild the twenty-seven rooms that she, Monty, servants, and staff would soon call their home. True, the letter from the local constable had informed her of the abandoned project, but Aidan found it difficult to believe that grown men would succumb to tales of ghostly apparitions and headless horsemen. “Stuff and bloody nonsense!” Aidan muttered to herself, “No doubt they are off squandering wages in pubs and bordellos and will return in leaner times.” Tomorrow, she would travel to the nearby village and post inquiries for replacement craftsmen and temporary staff to see to her needs until the home was made suitable for habitation.
Windy followed Aidan closely and stopped at the clearing near the back entrance to the house. Aidan reached on her tiptoes and grasped the sidesaddle for balance. With her other hand, she released the straps surrounding her tapestry valise from behind the saddle and fought with the bag until it finally fell to the ground. She would collect it after tending to Windy.
The two soon arrived at the cobbled stable hidden behind the house. As she tended to the horse’s needs, Windy playfully nudged and nipped at the brim of Aidan’s hat. Aidan scrubbed her fingers across her equine friend’s brow, “You are as incorrigible as your Master, silly boy.” Suddenly, Windy backed up and crouched on his hind legs. The horse reared, bellowed out a blood-curdling cry, and then came down hard on the hay-strewn dirt floor. Aidan fought to regain control and soon soothed the beast back into submission. Perplexed over the horse’s temperamental behavior, Aidan concluded that Windy must have been startled by a scurrying field mouse or bats roosting in the loft. After coaxing Windy into his new quarters, Aidan determined the stall’s conditions were adequate and comfortable, and then closed the gate and drew its massive bolt into locked position.
The petite-figured woman scooped her black-watch tartan riding skirt and petticoats into her arms and scurried across the path to the clearing. Her heavy tricot riding trousers chaffed her inner thighs, and Aidan could barely wait to discard them in favor of a more comfortable nightdress.
The great, wooden kitchen door creaked as it swung back from the imbalance of its own weight. As she walked the hallway to the unfinished portion of the mansion, dusty grey light filtered through split openings between dirty, tattered draperies ahead. Aidan gasped in horror as the true nature of the West Wing’s contents rested in sight of her now-focused eyes. It was true! The workmen had deserted their posts! Tools and ladders lay strewn between a myriad of massive golden limestone blocks and construction rubble.
Aidan sucked her bottom lip between her teeth as she wandered aimlessly through the turmoil. Despair tugged at her heartstrings as the unfinished tasks seemed monumental and endless. High above her head, a massive stone fireplace hung suspended on a short ledge, waiting for the floor to be built under it. She shivered, outwardly from the damp cold emanating from the stone and inwardly from the fearful anticipation that seemed to grip at her core. But, the inner hold soon relaxed as Aidan approached the East Wing of the house. A gradual transformation occurred before her eyes that proved a stark contrast. The massive mahoghany staircase in the Great Hall had been finished and , as she rounded the bend to the second level, a lovely scene unfolded to her.
