Lutwyche Hall, the Hawkstone residence, is a sight to behold on a summer's day when the light hits the red brick aflame and ignites the blush of the cherry blossom trees, but I happen to think that Lizzie's presence is what truly gives the house its personality.

The way she instructs the Hawkstone children is a far cry from the stern demeanour of the governess that taught William and I, who had a face to freeze lakes solid, as opposed to one like my dearest friend, who brings such joy to her lessons.

I watch from the doorway of the schoolroom, attempting to leech as much happiness from this room as I can, for since my unexpected meeting with Percival yesterday, I have felt nothing but a bleak and hopeless cloud hanging over my head that surely seeks to suffocate me. I think I have washed my hand fifty times since he dared to touch me and still, I cannot remove the feeling of repulsion that disquiets my heart. I have not yet told Mama and Papa of his behaviour, mostly because I fear Papa's reaction may set off a chain of events that even the entire Naval force could not do battle with. While they may have felt pressured into accepting Percival's apparently generous offer before, they – like myself – did not know of the man he hides beneath his harmless exterior. Even Mama, in all her efforts to avoid scandal, would not allow such a match if she knew the truth. As much as I would dearly like to expose him and rid myself of him, I fear what he will expose my family to, should I reveal who Percival Baker really is.

And who is he really?

Despite his apparent offence at any accusation of wrong-doing, I am still not convinced Percival is not the person responsible for the necromancy inflicted upon Mr. Hawkstone and Mrs. Smallman. He certainly appears to have a vendetta to drive Daniel not only from the town, but straight into the hands of the Church. Of course, he may just see him as a rival and wish to vanquish and ruin him, and yet, what if he is something more? What if he is infinitely more dangerous than anyone would ever imagine? What if he is a monster?

'Okay, children, I would like you both to continue reading until I say to stop,' Lizzie says, and Ada and Arthur dutifully do as they are instructed. They might be little beasts at times, but it is rare that they disobey their governess. With their heads tucked inside their books, Lizzie joins me in the doorway, pulling me into the corner of the room.

'Darling Lillian, wherever have you been hiding? It feels like an age since I saw you last. The house is still in mourning, of course. I shall be ever so glad when I can rid myself of this dull black dress and...' She stops, furrowing her brows as she peers at me with concern. 'Goodness, you are quite pale. Are you well?'

'Oh, Lizzie,' I say, desperately trying to hold back the tears. 'I do so need your help. Will you help me?'

Lizzie purses her lips and squeezes my hand. 'Of course. You know I will. What has happened? You look quite distressed.'

'Distressed is not even the half of it. I need you to get an urgent message to Stella, can you do it?'

Lizzie tilts her head to one side when she hears Stella's name. 'Well, yes, I can get word to Edmund. In fact, he is due at any moment with the delivery from the farm. Can I ask why you need to speak with Stella?'

Reaching into my chatelaine, I pull out the sealed note and hand it to Lizzie. On the front, in my neatest script, it reads Mr. Daniel Carver. Lizzie's eyes widen upon seeing his name.

'I need Stella to take this to Mr. Carver right away. I will pay her. Be sure to tell Edmund I will pay her and then she will certainly go.'

Lizzie holds the note at the edges with both hands, examining it carefully. When she looks up at me, there is a sparkle in her eyes. 'You know, if you did not look so utterly solemn, I would be tempted to ask you what on Earth you had been getting up to with the Devil?'

I sigh. 'He is no more the Devil than you or I.'

She smiles, a little wicked touch to the curve of her lips. 'Well, I don't know. I can be quite devilish at times.'

Oh, I do love her so. Her humour has such a way of warming my soul just when I need it.

'Lily, dear, what has happened? Will you tell me?'

'I so wish I could. But I made a promise and trust me, there is no one I would rather tell than you and I will, when I am sure it is safe to do so.'

Lizzie frowns. 'I am not sure I like the sound of this. What do you mean when it is safe? What have you got yourself mixed up in?'

I want to tell her then. I want to tell her everything and unburden this weight that hangs about my shoulders like an iron shroud. Rid myself of this bleak cloud that waits to drown me in its downpour. But I cannot. I dare not.

'All I can say is that I tried to help Mr. Carver with a... predicament he found himself in and it has backfired terribly. Percival Baker discovered everything and now attempts to use the information he has procured to encourage me to accept his proposal. He has already spoken to Mama and Papa, Lizzie and oh goodness, if they are not considering it!'

Lizzie's face darkens with anger. 'How can they? Have they gone quite mad? Your father does not even like Percival Baker. I am certain I heard him once refer to Percy as a time-wasting ditherer. Why would he even entertain such nonsense?'

I glance at the children who have stopped reading and are now looking at us over the tops of their books like little owls with wide, interested eyes, no doubt aware there is some excitement afoot. I lean in closer.

'I cannot tell you, suffice to say, Percival is really not the fool we all think he is, and I must do something before it is too late. I need to see Mr. Carver today.'

Lizzie's mouth drops open. 'Today? Goodness, you really are in a tither.'

'Yes, I really am. Mama knows I am here with you. I said you needed my help with an embroidery task, it was the only way she would let me out of her sight.'

Tapping the note against her palm, Lizzie's frown deepens. 'Very well. I will ask Edmund to take the note right away, but I cannot leave the children. You can wait in Mr. Hawkstone's study. But, Lily, are you sure Mr. Carver will come?'

'Yes. Once he reads the note, he will come. I am certain of it.'

But the truth is, I am not certain.

I can only hope for hope is all I have left.

Lizzie knows I love to read, and I am sure she thought I would be at ease here in Mr. Hawkstone's study, surrounded by his vast book collection, but I cannot help but be reminded of that terrible day when Daniel was here, and Lizzie accused me of saying those awful things.

I pawn my own soul; I pawn my own soul.

It was easy to cast that aside when Daniel insisted there was no such thing as a curse, but standing here now, thinking back to that day and with Papa's tale of Edna Bates still haunting my thoughts, it is hard to know what the truth is. From the curse to the necromancer and now Percival's part in it all, everything is such a mess, and I am still no closer to unravelling it all.

Dust hangs in the cloying air as the light fractures through the glass of the window – the same window I recall Daniel staring out of when he was here, standing almost in the very same spot I am now. It does not seem as if the study has been used a great deal since Mr. Hawkstone's demise, if at all. The heavy scent of cigar smoke coats every surface. In this room, time stands still, a stagnant reminder of an age lost to death and rot.

If I did not feel so agitated, I would sit a while, but then I picture Mr. Hawkstone seated by the fireplace, his dead, bloated face staring into the hearth, his puffy pale hands gripping the arms of the chair and I cannot.

At that moment, it strikes me as odd that he did not come here to his home once awoken, as Mrs. Smallman did return to Wilderhope. This room is his. He haunts every corner. Every inch of rug. Every piece of furniture. Why would he choose to return to Rectory Wood of all places? If I am right, then Edith was drawn to that strange nursery room on the top floor of Wilderhope Manor. Undead, she might have been, but whatever memories she had attached to that place, lingered still in death and it was powerful enough to lure her in. What is there in Rectory Wood that would lure Mr. Hawkstone, apart from Daniel himself?

I am thinking on this very thing as I look about the room, when I see something that sparks my interest on Mr. Hawkstone's desk. Among the crowded framed portraits of his wife and his children, sits a wider frame showing a group of men, standing in an outdoor setting. I have never much cared for the solemnity of faces in photographs, wishing instead for a smile to show some spark of life, but there is something about the expression of these men that unsettles me. The stern demeanour and haughtiness in their faces denotes great authority and an air of superciliousness that seeps from the image in a way that almost makes me feel as if I have no right to look upon it, or indeed on them, yet as I scan the faces, all of whom are familiar, I see one I know very well.

At the back of the group, almost a head taller than the others, stands Papa.

I peer closely, disturbed by the look on his face for it is a countenance I am not sure I have ever seen him wear. I have seen all sides to my father. The man who would run with us through the Long Mynd, indulging our fantasies of pirates or battles with sea monsters. The man who would pick us up after we had fallen, comforting us if we cried. The loving husband. The Admiral.

Yet this version of Papa is almost unrecognisable, if it were not for the face I know so well.

I look at the other faces. Mr. Hawkstone himself, standing centre. Rector Williams. Mr. Darborough. Carson Baker, Benjamin and Percival's father. Dr. Benedict. William Orme Foster. Major Francis Smallman.

I am quite sure Papa has mentioned all of these men in reference to the gentlemen's club he often attends, but if this photograph was simply a gathering of those gentlemen, why was it not taken in this very study? Or in the parlour room where they would sit and drink whiskey and play cards together?

Studying the picture closer, I see a slight gap between the photograph and the frame, and I am not altogether sure, but it seems as if something sits behind the photo. A newspaper cutting, mayhap? Or a page from a book?

I am not sure what it is that prompts me to look up, nor do I understand what gives rise to the hair on the back of my neck, but all at once I sense I am not alone. My eyes instantly travel towards the servants' door at the back of the room, the same one where Lizzie and I stood on the day of Mr. Hawkstone's funeral. Was it slightly ajar when I entered the study? I cannot be sure, but the one thing I can be sure of is that someone is standing there now, cloaked in shadow. Watching.

My skin prickles. My heart seeks to escape from my chest, it beats so hard.

'Hello?' I say, and again when met by a hollow silence, 'Hello?'

'Hello, Lillian Elmes,' a voice says to my left, and I gasp, clutching my hand over my heart which, I think, is about to give up completely.

In the doorway to the study stands a man whom, at first, I struggle to place.

Well-presented and quite handsome, the man wears his hair slightly longer than most gentlemen of our time, his blonde locks reaching almost to the collar of his frock coat. The coat itself fits close to his torso, accentuating his toned frame and height and he wears a rather beautiful silk vest that William would probably sell half the Elmes' estate in order to possess. I realise that I am studying the man a little too intently, for I have said nothing in response to his greeting and when his mouth curls into a small smile, it is then that I finally see the resemblance.

'Captain Hawkstone?' I ask, still staring at him, for apart from the smile, any resemblance to his father is practically non-existent. In fact, I think he looks less like Mr. Hawkstone than he ever has, for this is not the man I remember. Admittedly, any meetings or sightings I have had of Captain Hawkstone have always been fleeting and he has spent much of the past ten years at sea, but he seems different to the man that Lizzie always claimed was not so far removed from his father's ways when it came to the fairer sex.

'Goodness,' he says, his smile widening. 'It really is you. I suppose it has been some time, has it not?'

'Yes. Yes, it has,' I stammer. 'Apologies, Captain, I wasn't aware you had returned from sea. Papa never mentioned it.'

The Captain links his hands behind his back. 'Ah, yes, I'm afraid we only docked on Monday. I am not entirely sure whether your father even knows I am here. Considering the circumstances, I would have been here sooner, but alas, sea travels have a way of keeping us far from home and news does not always reach us in good time.'

'Of course.' I nod. 'May I say how very sorry I am about your loss?'

'Are you?' the Captain replies, a warm glint of mirth in his eyes. 'I would have imagined the female population of Church Stretton all breathed a collective sigh of relief when they discovered the news.'

Clearly seeing my mortified expression, he laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle that has a way of putting me instantly at ease. 'Forgive me. I do not wish to embarrass you. That is the last thing I would want. But – and it pains me to say it - I am more than aware of my father's reputation.' The smile falters somewhat. 'He could be a difficult man and, quite the scoundrel when the mood took him.'

I know not what to say. Captain Hawkstone's honesty is refreshing but unexpected, and it still seems wrong to agree with his sentiments about his father, even if he has acknowledged what most of us think.

'What is that you have there?' he says, gesturing to the photograph I still clutch to my body.

'Oh, this.' My face warms. 'I am so sorry, I was just looking at this picture.' I hold it out to him so he can see. 'I noticed my father. See?' I point to where Papa stands.

'Ah, yes.' The Captain takes the picture, studying it closely. 'The old gang, I believe,' he says, raising his brows and smiling again. 'My father was never as happy as when he could entertain his friends and acquaintances. My mother would say it was the drink he loved more, and the friendships merely a pleasant by-product, but in all my years, I never once experienced father conversing with his wife and children more than he did with the men in this picture. Sometimes I think he considered them as more his family than he did us.'

'You do not really think that do you?' I say, downcast to hear him say such things. How sad to believe that your own father cared more for his acquaintances than he did for his own children.

The Captain brushes his thumb over the glass, before gently placing the frame back on the desk amongst the portraits of the Hawkstone family. 'Did that sound awfully melancholy? I should imagine it did and I am sorry for it.' He sighs, dragging his gaze about the room with a strange, sour look on his face. 'This house has seen too much sadness recently and I have no wish to add to the mood. This is the very reason I refuse to wear mourning attire, much to mother's disgust. I have always found it so pointless. Even father detested funeral black. He had a point; I'll give him that much.'

Pausing to shoot a glance at me, he says, 'I suppose this must all sound quite strange to you?'

'On the contrary,' I say. 'I cannot say I have ever held an affection for the morbid. Personally, I think we linger too long on it. My Grand-Papa once said we have a rather unhealthy obsession for death, sometimes more so than for life.'

The Captain smiles wryly and winks. 'Do not tell my mother I said this, but I think your grandfather was not far from the truth. We almost appear to enjoy it, do we not? So much effort and emphasis goes into all these strange traditions we have when someone dies, that it seems the act of mourning becomes more important than the person we have lost. Much better, I think, to get on and enjoy life, for there really is so much to enjoy, don't you think?'

If any other man had said that and looked at me so intently when he said it, I would think that his intentions were somewhat questionable, but I see nothing but genuine intrigue in Captain Hawkstone's eyes. How different he is from the man I thought him to be. He is charming, and really rather handsome, that is for certain, and mayhap I am just won over by the fact he is nothing at all like Mr. Hawkstone, but I cannot help but like him.

'I quite agree,' I say. 'Will you be home for long? The children must be so excited to have you here. I am sure they have missed you terribly.'

'And I, them,' he replies, before mock-grimacing. 'Although I fear they have grown quite wilful while I have been away. I am not sure this sea-weary Captain is any match for their spirit and guile.'

I smile warmly. 'You do not look weary to me at all.'

The Captain's eyes widen a little and I flush, wondering if he has mistaken my words for some other meaning, but if he does, he does not act upon it. 'Lillian, you are far too kind. I certainly feel weary. I am sure your father will tell you that the sea would leech the very soul from a man if it could. We man our vessels as if we are the masters of the oceans, when all the while, we are nothing but its servants, only there to do its bidding, as and when it pleases. I shall certainly enjoy existing on dry land for a while longer, at least here, I am subservient only to my own children.'

We both laugh then, and I am glad for it. These past few days have taken their toll in a way I have not quite realised. My heart has yearned for light and laughter and the chance to push aside my troubles, even if just for a short while.

'Well,' he says. 'I should really take my leave. I am not overly fond of this room but saw the door ajar and couldn't help but peek. Old habits, I suppose, but I must say it has been a pleasant surprise to see you again, Lillian.'

'And you, Captain.'

He rolls his eyes. 'Oh, let us dispense with that, shall we? Please, call me Andrew. Feel free to browse father's bookshelves. It would be nice to see someone make use of his books. After all, they were only ever for show as far as he was concerned.' He turns to leave. 'Oh, and if you should need any assistance, please do not hesitate.'

'I won't,' I say, and then, glancing at the photo, remember what was bothering me so much. 'Actually, could I ask you a question?' I pick up the picture again. 'Do you happen to know where this was taken? I feel as if I recognise this place but cannot quite determine where it might be.'

There is a momentary beat of hesitation and I think, some reluctance on his part to touch the photograph again, almost as if he senses the same feeling of unease as I do when he looks upon their faces.

'Why, yes, of course,' he says, glancing at the image once more before quickly handing it back to me with another warm smile. 'It's Rectory Wood. See there in the background? That's the site of the old pumping house.'

'Rectory Wood?' I murmur, staring down at the image.

'Right, well if there is nothing else, I am desperate to get out into the sunlight and away from all these people so obsessed with wearing black. Good day, Lillian. It really was lovely to see you again.'

'Good day, Captain... Andrew,' I correct myself when he narrows his eyes playfully.

He leaves and I find myself now quite unable to stop staring at the photograph.

Rectory Wood. Of course, it is. I can see that now. The ruins of the old pumping house are quite unmistakable, and I am not sure how I did not notice it before.

Maybe you did not wish to see it, Lillian. Maybe you did not wish to see it because it means you must ask questions you do not wish to ask. Maybe you fear what answers you will find.

One thing I do know, is that nobody from the town ventures into Rectory Wood unless it is absolutely necessary. Nobody ventures into Rectory Wood because all who live here, know full well it is where the Sin-Eater dwells and are we not told to stay away from the Devil himself unless we wish to be as cursed as he is?

So, what on Earth was Papa and his friends doing there? What business did they have in Rectory Wood?

'Papa,' I whisper, touching my fingertips to this face I struggle to recognise. 'Who are you?'