Chapter 1

It was late in the evening when Mrs. Astor  left for Much Wenlock, wholly believing herself to easily obtain lodge at an inn. She'd just come to visit family, but found herself entirely unable to withstand childish stories about royal moors, and therefore continued instead on to the quaint village she fondly remembered visiting as a child, and settled to visit Blackwood Manor the following morn. The carriage wheels clacked against the cobblestone streets welcomingly as she looked upon grim faces through shop windows on the journey to the aforementioned inn, wrapped distastefully in layers of ragged, withering clothing. she scrunched her nose as the driver pulled up to her temporary place of residence, stepping onto the cobblestone and approaching the inn slowly, she allowed the driver to proceed with her belongings.  She tugged her own cloak tightly around herself as she followed, not entirely assured that her presence would be welcomed here, given the absurdly indifferent looks she had been given upon her arrival into the little town itself.

Inside was much warmer, and certainly more inviting, as it had begun to rain quite heavily as she entered, her shoes clicking lightly on the wooden floors. She withdrew her cloak’s hood and peered about the parlor; a quiet, but charming space, decorated sparingly with a jeweled mirror and a few upholstered chairs near a roaring fireplace and soon discarded her cloak entirely for it, feeling instantly warmed by the busy flames that flickered and crackled.

An older woman approached her, a wrinkled smile on her face. “Shall I show you to your room?” she asked. Mrs. Astor nodded her consent, and was shortly led her up a flight of stairs and into the nearest chamber where her belongings were seated at the foot of the bed.

Indeed the old woman’s face had changed greatly, as Mrs. Astor noted when she turned to get a good look at the old woman’s face. “Beg pardon, miss, but haven’t you been in Much Wenlock before?”

Mrs. Astor grew quite pale at her question, which only seemed to affirm the old woman’s suspicions. “You remind me a good deal of a little girl who I saw running in the streets ages ago, who I do imagine lived out on those old moors.” The woman scrunched her brows together curiously. “Could that little girl have been you, miss?”

“It was,” Mrs. Astor replied curtly, and hurried over to unpack her belongings. “But I am no longer a little girl, I’m a married woman.”

The woman nodded politely, moving across the room to light a fire in the little fireplace in the corner which Mrs. Astor hadn’t really noticed before. “I shall leave you to it, madam. But here is a fire to keep out the cold,” she added.

The woman left promptly, and there was but Mrs. Astor, the crackling of the fire, the distant rolls of thunder, and her very particular view of the moors from her bedside window. Very unladylike, she crawled across the bed, reached over and pulled the curtains farther aside so she could get a good look out at the scene she would be acquainted with for the better half of a week during her stay in Much Wenlock.

Laurel Astor remembered the moors well, she remembered sitting in the middle of them on a sunny day, letting the sun beat down on her little face, feeling the tall, feathery grasses against her arms and legs. She remembered laying right down on the earth and soaking in the wild land around her right until her father called her back indoors. She felt she could almost see that massive old building beyond the tall heather and wispy grasses.

Laurel shook her head violently to clear such thoughts from her head. She opened the drawers to a little wooden dresser, folded her dresses and nightgowns and placed them within while contemplating whether it had been a good idea to come up to Much Wenlock at all. She hastily finished unpacking her things, stowed her bags beneath the bed and plopped onto the bed in a less than gracious manner.

It had been ages since she had even had the vaguest idea to return to her childhood home, and now that she was here, she longed for her husband and the manor; the open, refined spaces, the afternoon teas with neighbourhood women, and her dear children. All of these she had abandoned mercilessly by indulging herself in her wild past at Much Wenlock.

Still, she managed to gather her senses and at least take tea before she settled to bed. It only took a manner of minutes to set a kettle above the fire, prepare the tea itself, and pour it into a cup with sugar and cream. As the water heated she had changed into a nightgown and took down her hair from its stringent bun, brushing it out and then letting it fall down her back in loose, frizzy waves. The simplicity of the room, the messiness of her hair, all swept her back into times that were certainly not the present, and she hardly wished to remember her days at Blackwood Manor, not now or ever. Yet even as she sat presently taking tea with all the manners she could muster together,  she couldn’t fight the wave of memories of this very place overwhelming me with such speed she could hardly combat with mere willpower.

Laurel remained stunned as she cleaned up her tea and turned her bedsheets down, not noticing the chilling wind that blew at her curtains through the slight crack she had opened in the window earlier while looking out on the moors, until it had outnumbered the valiant heat of the fire. Before she retired to sleep she crawled once more across the bed to the window, moving to shut out the gusts of cold air, but something struck her vision from the corner of her eye- a light out on the moors. It was small and distant, but distinctly there. she squinted to determine the nature of the light, but could only see the slightest outline of a building obstructed by the darkness and faint wisps of the heathery moor grasses.

She knew that place. In fact, she had never stopped knowing it. But she shut the window promptly, crawled under the covers and surrounded herself in comfortable warmth, and let a peaceful sleep surround me like the afternoon sunshine on the Shropshire moors outside the window she so desperately wanted to forget.

“What’re you thinking, little Laury?”

Laurel lifted her head petulantly, crossing her arms and shaking her head. “I’m not little. Not anymore!” She promptly jumped from her perch on the window ledge, gesturing wildly. “I’ve grown, papa! Mum says I’ve grown two entire inches.”

“Have you, Laurel?” Her father chuckled as he scooped her into his arms, causing her to erupt into giggles as he began his descent downstairs.

Little Laurel clambered over to grasp at Mr. Blackwood’s shoulder, calling out, “Has Graham yet to come over, mum?”

“I believe he’s at the door,” her mother replied softly, removing her from her father’s grasp and setting her onto her own feet. “I wouldn’t keep him waiting, either. He seemed quite insistent on showing you something on the moors.”

Laurel needn’t have been told twice- she flew out of doors, nearly knocking down her little friend as she went. “Have you come to fetch me, Graham?”

Instead of replying directly, he grabbed her arm and went running out to the moors. “Come along, Laurel, I’ve something to show you!”

The two ran as fast as their tiny legs could carry them across the scalding earth as the mid-day sun beat down upon them, and the moors closed in around them. Graham stopped suddenly, pointing out at a sprig of heathery grass. “First of the season,” he boasted excitedly.

Laurel hopped over to the grass, examined it closely, then beamed brightly in approval. “It’s nearly spring, my papa says so. He says soon the whole moor will be all purple and green and pretty again,” she mused softly, then fell back onto the brittle remains of the previous summer’s grasses. “Isn’t it wonderful, Graham? Springtime again, and we can stay out as long as we like, and it won’t get cold or rainy as often, and even if it does rain I won’t leave, not ever! I’ll build a kingdom right here out of heather and grass and wood, and we’ll live in a castle right here! Right in this very spot!”

The two spent the entire afternoon frolicking in the delicious sunlight, rolling in the grass- Laurel didn’t mind her frock dirtying, even if her mother would- even when the ever present thunder clouds rolled in, and even as rain sprinkled down onto them. Rain soon became a full fledged thunderstorm, causing Laurel to scream excitedly and tug at Graham’s arms. Lightning flashed in the distance; then and only then did they decide it would be best if they returned home for the day.

Before they parted ways, Laurel grasped both of Graham’s arms, beaming delightedly at his messy, wet hair, his dark eyes brightened with adrenaline. “Oh, promise me we’ll live in the moors forever. You must promise me!”

“I promise, Laury,” he repeated firmly, marvelling at the persistent child before him. “We’ll build a moor-castle and rule the frogs and birds and everything out there.”

Laurel began to grin so fiercely her face ached, but she couldn’t be stopped. Her father ran outside to fetch her then, and she and Graham parted, but her smile remained for hours afterward.

Author's Note

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