In the Shadow of Croft Towers

by Abigail Wilson

I wiggled my toes in my half boots. “Yes, ma’am. I came to tell you the milliner had a message for you, and I—”

  She struggled to sit up, coughing out for Dawkins to leave the room.

  I never meant to relay the milliner’s words in company, but I was beginning to fear I wouldn’t be allowed any time alone with Mrs. Chalcroft. Now I wondered if I had made the right decision to speak up. But surely her lady’s maid knew of the arrangements with the milliner.

  With a heavy tread and a swish of her skirt, Dawkins brushed my shoulder as she stole from the room, put out as far as I could tell.

  Mrs. Chalcroft didn’t seem to notice or care and waited for the sound of the door latch before motioning me to a slat-back chair beside the bed. “Sit. Now.”

  I did so, folding my hands on my lap like a child in school.

  “So.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Mrs. Barineau had something to say to you? Why on earth did you not tell me yesterday? Well, it is no matter. Do so now.”

  I took a deep breath. “She indicated the man had already come and that you must be on time for your next order.”

  “But she took the letter anyway? You saw her put it away?”

  I nodded quickly, hoping to reassure her.

  Her voice shook. “I see.” She took a sip of water from a glass at her bedside. “Mrs. Barineau acted the victim then, eh?”

  “Yes. It seems the man wasn’t pleased to be inconvenienced. I’m not sure she had all the particulars about the bonnet; however, she did say he would see to it as planned.”

  “Hmm.” Mrs. Chalcroft shook her head as she spoke. “One cannot be too careful with Mrs. Barineau.” She spit out the woman’s name as if it burned her tongue. “I’m not sure how far the wretch can be trusted.” She met my gaze. “Or depended upon.”

  Trusted? For a hat? Since that late-night visit the day I arrived, I’d felt uneasy about the letters, but the more Mrs. Chalcroft spoke, the more I wished I understood the secrecy.

  “Perhaps I should—”

  “Never mind that.” Her fingers were in a flurry. “Get me a quill and some paper. I wish to write a letter at once.”

  I hurried to the escritoire, fumbling through several drawers to gather the needed items. Upon my return to the bedside, Mrs. Chalcroft snatched them from my fingers, her hand quivering as she plunged the quill into the ink. In a wavering script, she wrote:

  Dear Mr. Aberdeen,

  Slowly, her chin tilted up, her glare leveled at me. “That will be all for now, Miss Delafield.”

  The following week passed with little fanfare compared to my first few days at the Towers. My mornings were spent walking the estate; my afternoons reading at Mrs. Chalcroft’s bedside. The gentlemen of the house had found more pressing matters to attend to, urgent business calling Mr. Cantrell and Mr. Roth to London, while Mr. Sinclair simply vanished for a time.

  Which is why late one afternoon when I hastened into the drawing room to fetch Mrs. Chalcroft’s shawl, I shuffled back a step at what I found—Mr. Sinclair seated at the writing desk and Mr. Cantrell plunking away at the pianoforte. I’d heard the music in the hallway, of course, but I’d assumed his sister to be the performer.

  The music ceased, Mr. Cantrell meeting my eyes over the music rack. “Why, Miss Delafield, you have come at the most auspicious moment.” The men stood, Mr. Cantrell flicking a piece of lint from his coat sleeve. “Come over here at once. You are just the person we need to settle a little argument between Sinclair and me.”

  I hesitated at the door before advancing into the room. “Please, as you were.”

  Mr. Sinclair glanced down at his letter before casting an indifferent look at Mr. Cantrell. “I doubt Miss Delafield has time to play your insidious little games, Lucius.”

  “I—”

  Mr. Cantrell motioned me forward, patting the available space on the bench beside him, a smile gracing his lips. “Pay Sinclair no mind. He is simply writing his sisters, and whenever he does so, it seems to dump the man into the worst of moods.”

  The wooden slat-back chair creaked as Mr. Sinclair returned to his task. “Don’t be ridiculous. I take a great deal of pleasure in my letters to my sisters; however, I had hoped to have better news regarding the possibility of an upcoming season.” He tossed the quill back onto the desk. “Yet here I sit, forced to find the right words to quell any hopes and dreams that might have arisen.”

  I crossed the rug to his side. “Does that mean you’ve still no word from Lord Stanton?”

  Seemingly startled by my sudden nearness, he tugged the paper out of my view. “None, I’m afraid.”

  Mr. Cantrell motioned me again to the pianoforte, eyeing Mr. Sinclair for a brief moment. “There is little we can do to help Sin’s sisters at present, isn’t there? However, I am in great need of your very feminine assistance.”

  I tapped my fingers against my gown, wavering in my answer. “I cannot stay long. Mrs. Chalcroft is awaiting her shawl.”

  Leaning to the side, he found my hand and guided me onto the bench. “Nonsense. My aunt can wait but a few more minutes. We won’t keep you long.” He took care to adjust his seat on the bench. “Besides, you must settle the argument. We were discussing the romantic nature of music and its effect on the fairer sex. Who better to advise us than you?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I was unaware that you played.”

  He rustled out a quick scale. “Sin and I both do, which brings us to our present difficulty. Do you find that such a talent gives a gentleman the advantage?” He winked. “Moreover, do you fancy Handel or Mozart?”

  Warmth filled my cheeks. “I’m not certain.”

  He shuffled the music on the rack. “Then allow me to enlighten you. Perhaps then you will be able to settle our little disagreement.”

  Mr. Sinclair stood, shoving the chair beneath the desk. “There was no argument, simply Lucius rambling on about music while I chose to ignore him. I’m afraid I have far more pressing matters to attend to. Good day, Miss Delafield.” Straightening his jacket, he nodded and paced from the room, leaving Mr. Cantrell and me staring at the open door.

  Silence reigned until Mr. Cantrell’s fingers found the keys and Mozart’s Fantasia in D Minor materialized. “Bristly, isn’t he?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose he’s distracted by concern for his family.”

  Mr. Cantrell nudged my arm, turning his attention to the pianoforte and the music. “Perhaps.”

  Captured by Mozart’s tender melody, I listened motionless as the song swelled to a crescendo, the notes and rhythms winding their way through my veins. Mr. Cantrell was right. Music did invoke particular feelings, especially when played by a master. Involuntarily, my thoughts raced back to how Mr. Cantrell had looked at me that day in the garden and how close he sat beside me now, his very presence tickling my nerves.

  He didn’t glance up from the music as he spoke. “There is much I wish to know about you, Miss Delafield.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised or so insipid. You’ve not been missish with me before.” He nudged my arm. “Tell me, have you family hereabouts?”

  The warmth that had gathered in my chest turned cold. “Um, no.” My shoulders sank. “I am but an orphan who is regrettably unaware of the identity of her parents.”

  His mouth slipped into a smile, and he edged a bit closer on the bench, feigning a hard-to-reach key. “Yet you are quite well-spoken and educated?”

  “I was fortunate to attend a very fine school in London, but . . .” Twice I’d had to recount my embarrassing past. It wasn’t getting any easier.

  At the same moment, Mr. Cantrell’s finger found a wrong key, and he drew his hands into his lap, letting out a breathy laugh. “I daresay I cannot play with perfect accuracy if you will not turn the pages, and then how will you be able to determine how enchanting each composer is? Or how alluring you find the performer?”

  I rushed a breath, pushing to my feet. “I am sorry. I don’t seem to be able to follow the note
s at present.” I touched my forehead, casting a quick glance at the door as I backed away. The last thing I wanted was for Mr. Cantrell to detect the feelings churning within my chest or further any ill-advised intimacy. “If you will excuse me, Mrs. Chalcroft is likely missing me by now.” I grasped the shawl from the sofa and rushed from the room, unable to spare a look back.

  Hurrying into Mrs. Chalcroft’s bedchamber, I wrapped the shawl around her slim shoulders, my mind still arrested by the encounter in the drawing room. Surely Mr. Cantrell was simply having a bit of fun. I only hoped Mrs. Chalcroft would not regard my marked distraction.

  “Thank you, my dear.” She didn’t look up. “I must finish with my knitting before I can let you read to me today. I trust you’ve a book or something to keep you entertained.”

  I grimaced as I scanned the room, brightening at a thought. “I do need to pen a letter to Mrs. Smith and a few others at the school. Would you mind if I sat at the escritoire and did so?”

  “Not at all, child. That is just what I mean.” She shook out her needles and yarn. “My hands ache so frequently I prefer to finish my knitting when I am able to do so.”

  I could feel her gaze on my back as I settled into the chair and procured a paper and quill. Her voice was a bit dry as she spoke, her tone on edge. “I suppose my friend must be vastly curious about your new life here.” She mumbled something to herself. “And I find myself wondering just what is it you intend to tell her about all of us. Particularly about my younger sister’s silly grandchildren.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and took a calming breath. “That you have all been most accommodating and that I am quite pleased I applied for the position.”

  “What a silver tongue you have. I only wish I knew if you meant it.”

  “And why would I not?”

  “Yes, why not?” She lowered her voice. “I wonder.” I could hear the knitting needles clicking as she continued the work on her lap. “Pay me no heed. It is no matter, no matter at all if you are not happy here. I could just as easily find another companion if the situation presented itself.”

  “I suppose you could; however”—I scooted my chair about so I could see her face—“I’ve taken a fancy to this drafty old house, and do you know? I believe you like me.”

  “Stuff and nonsense.” She hid a smile. “I daresay one young lady is as good as the next.”

  “Possibly, but only yesterday you asked me to stay while you had your dinner, and we had a good laugh then, did we not?”

  Mrs. Chalcroft chuckled behind her hand, shaking her slender form. “My dear gel, when you compared Mr. Roth to a turkey, I could not help myself.”

  I returned a laugh. “It was a bit indelicate, I admit. However, he does allow one to lead him around so.” I turned my attention to my letter. “Perhaps I shall tell Mrs. Smith about him.”

  The bed gave a loud creak. “Don’t you dare expose me to gossip.”

  I shot her a smile. “As you wish.”

  Several minutes passed as I detailed my arrival and how pleased I was to have come to the Towers before my mind turned to my own difficulties. I laid the quill down for a moment, resting my arm over the back of the chair. I’d thought to remain silent, allowing Mrs. Chalcroft to direct any conversation, but I found myself speaking up instead. “If I may be so bold to ask, would you mind telling me how you met Mrs. Smith?”

  Mrs. Chalcroft drew her knitting close to her chest. “We’ve known each other many years, child. I suppose we met while we were both still in the schoolroom. Her father was steward at the Towers, you see. But it was only later that we formed a lasting connection.”

  I bit my lip. “Did she—well, when she reached out to you about the position, did she happen to mention anything about my parentage?”

  A sudden coughing fit drove Mrs. Chalcroft to reach for a sip of water, and I waited patiently while she regained control.

  She set the cup back on the table, her movements indolent. “Pray, why do you ask, child?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Curiosity, I suppose.”

  She rested her head back on the pillow, her lips pressed tight. “Deborah Smith merely relayed that you were respectable and what a good student you had proved to be. She felt it time for you to see more of the world.”

  “It is true. I have seen little beyond London, and there is much I yearn to see and do . . . and learn.”

  Mrs. Chalcroft smoothed her hair off her forehead, then gathered the eiderdown beneath her chin. “So you wish to roam the world, do you? Well, such a thought makes my old bones a bit tired. In fact, I believe I’ve changed my mind and won’t have you read to me today. I should rather take my nap.”

  I hesitated before responding. “Indeed. Till tomorrow then.” Slowly, I grasped the letter I’d begun from the escritoire and paced to the door, turning back at the last second to take my leave, hopeful I might ask one more question. But Mrs. Chalcroft had already twisted down into the covers, her eyes hard on the shadows lingering in the corner of the room. Startled by her stark gaze, I pressed my lips together and slipped out the door in silence, swallowing my questions for another day.

  11

  I found Anne’s grave on a blustery morning a week later, on a day I should have remained firmly within doors. Winter had rolled in from the north, and the temperature plummeted overnight, leaving the landscape a formidable companion for my walk. It was all I could do to keep my hands warm within my muff, but I needed to walk and think.

  As I plodded across the lawns, the wretched dance entered my mind. Thankfully, I’d not been pressed about it again, even though I knew I would have little choice whether I was to go or not. I also recognized I might as well accept the lessons Mrs. Chalcroft thought necessary, but I hesitated to do so.

  Lucius Cantrell had been kind—too kind really. I was so far beneath him in rank and fortune I found it hard to explain his partiality, which only seemed to grow the more I saw him. He was always the first to speak to me, the first to rush to my side after dinner, anticipating all I might need—quite frankly, the way a suitor might do.

  I could tell it drove his sister mad. And could I blame her? What a horrid misalliance he would make if he were indeed serious, which I doubted very much. Yet part of me wondered what it would feel like to touch his hand again, to have him watch me turn the figures of the dance.

  Near the back hedgerow, I angled east along the main road to Reedwick. A gaggle of houses was visible on the horizon and brought Thompkins’s plight to mind. I hadn’t seen her again or learned anything more about her disappearance, although questions about it never strayed far from my mind. Who had she been meeting out there in the garden? And where had she gone? With no one to trust, I had little hope of solving the mystery.

  I crossed the east rise, turning my back to the Towers and plunging into the trees, as I did often on my walks of late, particularly when I needed to be alone. I wish I could say those times were few, but between Mr. Cantrell’s attentions, Miss Ellis’s gabbing, and Miss Cantrell’s haughty looks, I spent more and more of my time out of doors, which is where I made the discovery.

  Anne’s grave lay just where Miss Ellis said it would be, beyond the swell of the rear hillside where two mounds met at a winding brook. Even battered by the icy wind, I realized I must be close and chose to press on.

  The gurgling sound of the brook drew me to the base of the hill where I nearly stumbled over the grave. An earthy scent tinted the wind as if the ground had been wet for too long. Moss circled the overhanging tree branches, while creepers lay as carpet along the path. Exposed, the headstone had a worn look to it as if it had been there for centuries, but as the tombstone revealed, Anne had only been dead about two and twenty years.

  Her name—Anne Chalcroft—had been hastily chiseled across the top in block letters. It was not as I thought it would read. She had been married to Lord Stanton at the time of her death. At least, that was what Miss Ellis said. If that were true, why had his family name been left off?<
br />
  I thought of the earl’s portrait covered in the east tower, the harsh look on his face. I was sure there was more to Anne’s story than a simple case of illness and death. Something had to have driven her out into the storm that night, something that caused her death.

  She was but a few years older than I on that fateful night, another resident of the Towers. My fingers found the bracelet on my wrist. I hadn’t forgotten how Mrs. Chalcroft had stared at it in the drawing room the night of her episode. How she had called me Anne. Did I have a connection to her daughter?

  Squatting down, I spread my hands across the damp earth and closed my eyes. Almost at once my back felt heavy, my arms weighed down with the immensity of Anne’s untimely death. Though it had happened long ago, I sat there for a moment without moving, thinking of her life as if it had ended only yesterday.

  A bird fluttered overhead. The bare trees creaked with each gust of wind as the rush of ivy leaves rolled like waves over the ground, moving in unison as if they were part of the sea. I folded my hands together, and for the first time in many months, I thought of heaven and peace and hope.

  After several minutes I stood and gave the small marker one last look before turning away. More than ever I wanted to know Anne’s story. I needed to know her story. She was real to me now in a way I couldn’t explain.

  I followed the bend of the brook for several yards before realizing it was time to head back to the house. I had wandered too far and they would be missing me soon. My fingers ached from the biting cold. But all at once, my movements were arrested near the edge of the path.

  Voices—just ahead.

  Like lightning I slipped behind a nearby tree, pulling my skirt against my legs. I knew that deep timbre. My stomach clenched. I took a moment to catch my breath before peeking out from my hiding spot.

  I swallowed hard. I had been right. It was Mr. Sinclair and the whiskered man from the town square, talking as if they were great friends. All kinds of terrible suppositions raced through my mind. Why hadn’t Mr. Sinclair acknowledged the man that day as we passed? Was he the business Mr. Sinclair had referred to? And why were they meeting out here in the wilderness, so far from the house?