“Oh, Gabe, leave them be,” Helena scolded him.
The sound of husband and wife bickering as they returned to the house made Henry smile. “They are still as much in love as they were when they met.”
“Yes,” Florence said simply. “They don’t always agree, and occasionally they have the most spectacular rows, but there’s never any question that they adore each other. I think they work hard though, to keep understanding each other. They talk a lot.”
Henry nodded. “I suppose I need some practise with that. It’s only been me, Florence, for such a long time. I’m not used to discussing my thoughts or… sharing decisions, but I will try.”
Florence glanced ahead to see her mother and father were still discussing things and slid her arm through his. “Oh, don’t worry, darling, I shall remind you whenever the need arises.”
Henry laughed.
Chapter 14
Dear diary,
At last! I thought the day would never come, but with a great deal of plotting, some spectacular intrigues, a little spying, and a soupçon of luck, I did it!
I finally got hold of a copy of The Ghosts of Castle Madruzzo!
And this time, no one is going to stop me reading it.
―Excerpt of an entry to the diary of Lady Catherine ‘Cat’ Barrington, (youngest daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu).
Evening of the 17th of August 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.
Florence retired to the library after dinner. She was not ready to go to sleep yet. The events of the day had been too exciting for her to think of closing her eyes.
Henry loved her. She had expected to need to fight harder for him, or at least to gain the declaration she had wanted. It was clear his all too public jilting had hurt him deeply and made him distrustful of women, even of his own heart. So for him to give her those words….
She gave a happy sigh.
The amount of trust he was putting in her was astonishing, humbling, and she only hoped she could live up to it. No doubt he’d had many sophisticated lovers in his years abroad, women with experience of life and love and bedding, that she did not have. Would he grow bored with her? No, she scolded herself. She was well educated, and she had opinions, too many opinions some would say. Not Henry, though, and if there was something she did not know or understand then she would learn. Henry would help her. She smiled at the idea. Henry would enjoy teaching her, like he had taught her this afternoon, under the oak tree. He had enjoyed that a good deal, so had she… until Papa had arrived and spoiled it.
Florence sighed. Poor Papa. He couldn’t look at her this afternoon, or she at him if she were honest, and she had the rather lowering sensation that he was disappointed in her. Mama had assured her that wasn’t true, just that he was struggling with the idea she was a grown woman and no longer his little girl. Though, really, she had been out in society since she was eighteen, surely it couldn’t be that much of a surprise? She wondered who on earth had sent that odd letter to him. Her father had showed it to them, and the correspondent had been barely literate, the writing execrable. Was this the person who was making the corn dolls and causing Henry such strife? Surely, it must be connected.
She pondered this for a while before setting her book aside. She’d barely glanced at it, so there was no point in trying to read. The clock in the hallway struck ten and Florence sighed. It wasn’t late but, if she was just going to sit and stare at the wall, she may as well go to bed and do it in comfort. She was just crossing the hall when a slender figure moved in the shadows, hurrying towards the servant’s staircase.
“Susan? Susan Cooper?”
The girl stilled, staring at Florence as though she’d been caught out.
“It’s all right,” Florence assured her. “You’re not in any trouble. I just wanted to speak to you. If you have a moment?”
The girl hesitated, clearly not wanting to be rude but needing to get about her business.
“I’m sorry, I know you’ve work to do, and I expect you want to get finished and go to bed. Do you think I might speak with you tomorrow morning?”
“I… I bring you hot water in the morning. Perhaps then, just for a moment… but why, miss? Are you sure I’m not in trouble?”
It was Florence’s turn to hesitate, for in truth she did not know if the girl was involved with the trouble at the Hall after what Mrs Simmons had said. It seemed unlikely, though. This girl would have been a child when Henry left. She was younger than Florence, no more than sixteen or seventeen.
“I just want to speak with you about your grandmother, that’s all,” Florence said, realising she had not answered the question.
“Gran?” Susan stared at her, suddenly defensive. “What do you want to know about Gran?”
There was an edge to her voice which was hardly surprising. It must seem exceedingly odd that one of her employer’s guests was asking after a lower servant’s grandmother.
“I know it seems peculiar,” Florence said with an apologetic smile. “Look, don’t worry about it now. I just wish to ask you a few questions. I’ll explain in the morning and then you can answer me—or not, as you choose—once you’ve heard me out.”
“Very well, miss. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
The girl dipped a curtsey and hurried away.
Florence watched her go, wondering if she was wasting her time, or if the girl’s anxiety was not simply unease at the odd question, but guilt.
It was not until later that evening that Henry remembered why he’d been so intent on finding Florence earlier. The events of the afternoon had rather forced everything else from his mind. Helena had calmed her husband down sufficiently to talk him into receiving Henry tomorrow afternoon. The spectre of this daunting interview had been enough to fully occupy Henry’s thoughts for the rest of the evening. So, it was not until after dinner when he remembered Florence’s reckless scheme to interview the staff at Holbrook in search of a witch, of all things.
Still, she could hardly be interrogating anyone at this time of night. He must ask Helena if he could have a quiet word with Florence in the morning, before his interview with Gabriel. Hell. How did one go about persuading a young woman’s father you were the best choice for her husband, when you didn’t actually believe it yourself? He would simply have to be honest, which would likely mean Gabriel would agree he wasn’t good enough and tell him to sling his hook.
Henry was considering this as he readied himself for bed when the sound of breaking china reached him.
“Damnation, not again.”
It had been close this time. In fact, it sounded as if it had come from the room next door to Henry’s, the one that had once belonged to his mother, and would one day belong to Florence. Not that he had any intention of allowing her to sleep there alone. Henry moved to the connecting door, listening for any sound of movement. He doubted the servants would have heard the crash, as their rooms were far from the master suites. There was no audible sound of a presence in the next room, and yet Henry’s instincts prickled.
The fireplace poker was the best weapon he could lay hands on at short notice, but it would do. He reached for the door handle and eased it open a crack, listening. Still nothing. Henry waited, wondering what to do. He was bloody well not going to start believing in ghosts, but there was a menacing presence in the room, he’d swear it. The darkness seemed absolute, the light from his own room barely penetrating. His housekeeper kept the curtains drawn to protect the expensive carpets and bed hangings from the sun, and so no trace of moonlight outlined the shapes within. The looming canopy of the bed was there, but little else was discernible.
Henry stepped into the room, and pain exploded in his head as something stuck him hard. He went down, clutching at his head as someone kicked him in the stomach, winding him. The dim light from his room did not help illuminate the scene much, but it was just enough to glint off the edge of a knife blade.
It had been a while since he’d had to fight for his life, but He
nry had survived a reckless few years when he’d first left England, not caring much what happened to him, and living dangerously. He’d learned a thing or two, once he’d realised he didn’t actually want to die.
Though his head was exploding with pain, he rolled sideways and kicked out, striking at whoever had clobbered him before the knife struck. There was a grunt of pain, and he barely avoided another kick by shuffling back out of the way. In the dark he scrabbled on the ground for the poker he had dropped, and curled his fingers gratefully around the cold iron. He swung it, with more force than accuracy, but he hit something. There was a curse and the clatter of metal falling to the wooden floor. There was the muffled noise of someone searching the floor, then footsteps. Using the wall at his back, Henry pushed himself upright, fighting nausea as his head spun and his stomach roiled. A cool breeze washed over him and a strange musty smell, and then… nothing. No sound. No movement. Whoever it was had vanished.
There was the sound of feet again, but from the opposite direction—someone moving fast—and a light appeared in the doorway off the corridor.
“Sir?” came the familiar voice of one of his footmen. “Is everything well, sir? We heard—”
But Henry did not discover what it was they’d heard, as the darkness swallowed him up and he passed out.
18th August 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.
“Henry!” Harriet exclaimed, on seeing him the next morning. “What on earth happened to you?”
Henry winced at his sister’s shrill demand as the sound ricocheted through his head, scraping against the tender flesh like claws upon a wound.
“Attacked,” he said succinctly. “Last night. Intruder. Must see Florence. Now.”
Harriet stared at him for a long moment but thank God she was not one for hysterics or scenes.
“Come and sit down before you fall down. Temple, have someone ask Miss Knight to come to us as quickly as she is able,” she instructed the butler calmly as she guided Henry through to the yellow parlour, which seemed far too sunny for his beleaguered senses.
Henry sat, trying to ignore the sickening thudding of his head. The doctor who had attended him had told him in no uncertain terms that he had a concussion, and he would not be responsible for the consequences if Henry did not do as he was told. Of course, the old quack had wanted to bleed him, too, an idea which Henry had rejected. He felt sore enough without someone cutting him up. Naturally, the doctor had washed his hands of him, which suited Henry fine.
“Good Lord, Henry, you’ve a lump on the back of your head as big as my fist,” his sister exclaimed, on coming to examine him.
“Please, keep your voice down,” he said through gritted teeth.
“What happened?” Harriet said, lowering her voice, though not enough in Henry’s opinion.
“Someone in the room next to mine. No idea how they got in, or how they left. They just bloody vanished. The staff are all leaving in droves, they think it’s a ghost of all things.”
“How on earth did a ghost strike you hard enough to leave a lump like that?” Harriet demanded in disgust.
“Tell them that,” Henry grumbled, having tried and failed to do so himself. Everyone was too terrified to spend another night in the house, and they’d begun looking at him like it was his fault.
“Tell me what happened when you were attacked,” Harriet said, watching him with an expression that was full of concern. As clinical and precise as Harry could sometimes be, she was very caring.
“Get Florence first,” he instructed. He was damned if he’d explain himself more than once and Florence would certainly want an explanation too.
Harriet sighed but must have recognised the stubborn note to his voice. She ought to; she sounded exactly the same when she’d made her mind up. It was a family trait.
They waited until Temple reappeared. “My lady, it appears Miss Knight has left the house. On enquiring about the staff, it appears she was seen a couple of hours ago, walking towards the village.”
“A couple of hours ago? But it was only half-past six,” Harriet said in astonishment. “Was she alone?”
Temple nodded. “Apparently so, my lady.”
Something tense and agitated stirred in Henry’s gut. “Where was she going? Does anyone know? I must go after her.”
“I will ask the staff at once, sir.”
“And Miss Weston,” Henry added, pushing to his feet.
“Henry, what is this about?” his sister demanded. “You cannot go racing off in that state, you look ill.”
Henry shook his head and then fervently wished he hadn’t as his stomach roiled. “I don’t know, not yet, but I intend to find out. I must go after her.”
Harriet shook her head, trying to push him bodily back into the chair, which was not as difficult as it ought to have been. After fighting with Gabriel yesterday and then getting set upon in his own home, Henry was feeling more than a bit bruised and battered.
“Sit down, you great lummox! You’re not going anywhere yet, not until we know more. I will send a couple of the grooms in the direction she was seen walking in the meantime, but you’re not going haring off when you don’t know where she’s gone or for what purpose. You’ll only go off on a wild goose chase. Let us have the facts first. What do you know?”
“I only know that Florence has been asking your staff about anyone in the area that might be a witch. Pippin and Mrs Dharani said it was a woman behind the corn dolls, someone I or the family had wronged. I need to know if Florence spoke to anyone last night.”
“Before you were attacked, you mean? You think she’s spooked someone?”
Thank God for Harry and her extraordinary brain, for Henry did not have the energy to explain what Harriet had grasped at once. He nodded.
Harry rushed to the door. “I’ll fetch Helena and Gabriel.”
Henry was never more grateful to his sister for explaining everything to everyone concerned with brevity and speed. By now Jasper, Gabriel and Helena, and Florence’s sister Miss Evie, and their friend Miss Weston, had all gathered in the parlour.
Gabriel was pacing, glaring at Henry as though all of this was his fault. With a lurch, Henry realised he was right. If not for him, Florence would never have got mixed up in this. Oh, God, if she were hurt, he’d never forgive himself.
“Oh my.” Miss Weston was pale, her wide grey eyes enormous as she realised her friend might be in real danger.
Henry could not think of that, he would find her, now, before any harm could befall her. For all he knew she had just gone for a walk.
“I think I know where she may have gone.”
Henry’s stomach knotted tighter and tighter as Miss Weston spoke, and his hopes that the events of last night were unconnected with Florence diminished.
“Yesterday, we visited Mrs Simmons. She was ever so nice and told us a lot about witches and wise women, but then she mentioned Mary Thompsett.”
“Mary Thompsett? Good Lord, that must be over a hundred years ago,” Jasper exclaimed.
“You know the story?” Henry asked, looking up at his friend.
Jasper frowned. “Somewhat. She was a local woman, and one of the last women in the country hanged as a witch. I remember my father speaking about it. He said it was a dreadful miscarriage of justice. In fact… I think the family still works for us. I’m sure he said….”
Henry went very still. “Who?”
Jasper frowned. “I don’t know. I can’t quite remember the story, the names changed as they married. All women in the line, as I remember. I know Mary had a daughter. I think her sister adopted her and they changed her name, not that it mattered. People have long memories. Well, people other than me,” he added ruefully, frowning as he tried to remember. “Was it Hicks?”
“Yes, it was,” Miss Weston said. She was clutching her arms about her middle and looked as if she might faint at any moment she was so pale. “Mrs Simmons said Miss Hicks was rumoured to be a witch but denied it. She married a Mr Cooper, her
daughter Lucy died giving birth to an illegitimate child.”
“Susan,” Jasper said, nodding. His expression was grave. “Susan Cooper.”
“Wait,” Henry said, the name conjuring a memory of a young woman holding a posy of flowers. “I think I saw her. Was that the same Susan we saw that Sunday, outside the church?”
Jasper nodded. “Yes.”
Harriet tugged at the bell pull and, a moment later, Temple appeared once more. “Bring Susan Cooper to us, please, Temple, but don’t frighten her. She’s not in any trouble.”
Henry glowered at the door. “She damn well is in trouble if Florence is caught up in this.”
“It’s your bloody fault if she is,” Gabriel growled.
The man had been pacing back and forth like a caged lion since he’d come in. Henry could say nothing; he felt just as Gabriel did and could not deny his accusation.
Temple returned moments later. “It appears Susan is not on the premises. Indeed, Nancy, with whom she shares a room, says she did not sleep in her bed last night, but that she returned here early this morning for work. She took hot water to Miss Knight, and no one has seen her since.”
Henry’s heart clenched. “Where?” he demanded of Temple. “Her parents, her kin, where would she go?”
Temple shook his head. “Her grandmother was her last living relative to my knowledge, and she died some weeks ago. As to where she might go, I am afraid I could not say.”
“You wanted to see me, Mr Temple?”
A frightened looking maid whom Henry recognised as being Susan’s friend from that day outside the church appeared at the door, having been escorted by a burly footman.
“Thank you, Stevens,” Temple said, dismissing the footman. “Now, Rachel, don’t look so frightened, the earl and Mr Stanhope just want to ask you some questions.”
This didn’t seem to reassure Rachel in the slightest.
“I don’t know nuthin’,” she said, a sullen look darkening her eyes, twisting her apron around in her fingers.
“Do you know why Miss Knight might have agreed to meet Susan, or where Susan might go if she were in trouble, or wanted to get away?” St Clair asked.
Dare it all for Love (Daring Daughters Book 5) Page 16