We neared the ballroom before Mr. Cantrell spoke into my ear. “Surely you know this isn’t proper, Miss Delafield. You can’t simply wander off at will. Particularly when you are in my care.” He softened his voice. “I was concerned when I couldn’t find you.”
“I promise I would never leave the inn. I am not so wholly lacking in conduct.” I steadied my tone. “Do forgive me. I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, but I’ve heard differing accounts of your whereabouts this evening.”
“Wh-what do you mean? Accounts?”
“Only that when I went looking, several people informed me they’d seen you take a walk in the garden—with Mr. Sinclair.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“What do you mean, ‘Is that all?’” He narrowed his eyes. “After what I said to you before our dance, I’d hoped . . .” He took a deep breath. “Come with me. I’ve already called the coach. The horses have been left standing far too long as it is.”
We made our way back to the front door of the inn where I accepted my pelisse from a waiting servant. Mr. Cantrell donned his own coat in silence, a look of bitterness across his face. I’d hurt him somehow. I knew that now, but I’d not thought Mr. Cantrell’s declaration serious, especially after what Mr. Sinclair said earlier. I pressed my lips together. How could I believe either one of them?
The same liveried servant pushed open the inn door, and I was ushered into the dreary night. Gas lamps hissed and the horses stamped in place. Mr. Cantrell stood aloof, allowing the man to open the carriage door, but he stepped up and took my hand to help me inside at the last moment. I slipped my fingers around his York tan gloves, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “I—”
“Not now.” He tipped his head. “Inside.”
I ducked into the coach but then turned back. “Where is Miss Ellis?”
“She left with Elizabeth and Curtis.”
“And Mr. Roth?”
A slight smile stole across his face. “I arranged for him to find another way home.”
“Oh.” I slid across the bench. So we were to be alone.
The seat was cold, the window foggy with mist. I should have been glad to clear the air between us, but the hairs on my neck stood at attention. I crossed my feet at the floor, wiggling my toes within my slippers. There hadn’t been enough time to untangle my feelings, let alone form an apology for what must have looked like strange behavior on my part.
Mr. Cantrell settled in across from me, tapping the roof to signal the driver. With a jolt, the horses tugged forward, the coach rocking in their wake. The inn drifted from view and the lights faded to a moonlit darkness around us. Mr. Cantrell must have decided to ignore me, for he barely looked my direction. I, however, found myself unable to bear the stark silence. “Mr. Cantrell, I—”
Somewhere in the shadows his hand found mine, and he brought it to his lips.
I gasped, the sudden movement inciting a flinch.
“No. Don’t pull away.”
My voice came out shaky. “I-I believe I owe you an apology, Mr. Cantrell.”
“Miss Delafield, please.” He squeezed my hand. “I don’t want an apology. I fear I’m as much to blame for what happened tonight as you, allowing you to leave my side as I did. And I don’t wish to fight. What I want is . . .” A smile took shape in the darkness. “Surely you cannot be ignorant of my feelings.”
“But—” My mouth felt dry. “This feels quite sudden—you and I . . . Quite frankly, it doesn’t make any sense.”
There was a rustle as he crossed the coach to the bench beside me, the scent of brandy heavy on his breath. I wondered how much he’d had to drink.
His shoulder pressed hard against mine, and he leaned against me. “What do you mean? A beautiful lady . . . and a gentleman hopelessly in love. Please say I have a chance.”
I yanked my hand from his grasp, shrinking into the only available space left, focusing my attention out the window. He’d see how confused I was and put an end to such declarations—my one chance at romance dashed.
But he didn’t. Instead, he relaxed against the seat back. His fingers found the nape of my neck in what should have been a heartfelt caress, but it felt foreign and uncomfortable. I could imagine him sitting there, watching me in the darkness—a natural at intimacy, and me, no more than an innocent girl. What a fool I was. How I had dreamt of such a moment, a handsome gentleman in love with me. So why did my heart beat a rhythm of retreat? What was wrong with me?
“Mr. Cantrell?”
“Hmm.” He shrugged.
“You do me a great honor, but you and I . . . We are too far apart.” I took a deep breath. “It would be remarked everywhere.”
“As if I cared for that. My parents have been gone these many years. I assure you, there is no family to disappoint. And I must marry you.”
So he did mean marriage. “But what of money? What should we live on? I have nothing.”
His fingers stilled around a curl that had wandered from my coiffeur. “I’ll give it to you there, my darling. The crux of our difficulties.” His lips touched my shoulder. “You’re far more rational than me. Presently, I can’t see much past the moment.” Another kiss, on my cheek this time. “Join me. Love is a delightful thing to fall into.”
I pulled away as much as the coach would allow.
I thought I heard a laugh under his breath. “My little innocent, I won’t press you now for an answer, but Mrs. Chalcroft is family, and, well, I do have some hopes there.”
I froze for a long moment, digesting his words as a prickle ran up my spine. Did I care for this man at all? This handsome gentleman who saw Mrs. Chalcroft’s death as a possible chance for our future?
Once I had been attracted to him. The day he’d taken my hand on the way to the east tower stood out in my mind. He was the first man who paid the least bit of attention to me. I’d been lost to him then, but now, now everything felt different.
I couldn’t help but think of Mr. Sinclair. How safe I felt with him earlier in the evening, even in the garden. What would he say about Mrs. Chalcroft’s imminent death? He needed the money more than anyone. I shook my head. I couldn’t imagine him being so cold and thoughtless.
“Miss Delafield, I see your mind working.” Mr. Cantrell’s hand slipped down my arm. “There’s been something between us since we met. I’ve felt such a connection.”
I couldn’t disagree. Mr. Cantrell had been a good friend, but I pushed him away. “I-I need a moment to think. I don’t—”
“Shh.” He touched my lips. “Don’t answer now. Let us see how we get on together over the next few weeks. Give me a chance to prove myself.”
Allotted the space to breathe, I eventually nodded, easing back against the seat. Mr. Cantrell had offered me everything—his heart, his life. I would be a fool not to consider the proposal. There were hardly any other options. No other suitors. And within a few months, no position at the Towers. And more than anything else, there were no answers.
I dragged myself up to Mrs. Chalcroft’s bedroom with a heavy heart. Surely she’d be asleep and I could go to my room to work through the events of the night.
Moonlight crept through a slit in her curtains. The slight figure on the bed didn’t move.
“Mrs. Chalcroft,” I whispered, tiptoeing across the Aubusson rug. The small fire in the grate had died away, leaving a smoky scent in the room and a lingering chill. I rubbed my arms as I approached the bed.
Mrs. Chalcroft’s eyes were shut, her thin face tucked against her pillow. She looked peaceful, lying there in the shadows. I was about to turn to go when her eyelids flicked open.
She licked her lips. “I wasn’t asleep.”
I smiled and took her hand in mine. “Well, you should have been. It is late.” I noticed a book slanted on the bedside table. “Did Dawkins read to you before she left?”
Mrs. Chalcroft nodded. “I needed a bit of comfort, but I would have preferred you.”
“After the evening I’ve had, I
would rather it had been me too.”
She stiffened. “What do you mean? Did you deliver the letter?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I didn’t mean to startle you. That is all taken care of.” I paused for a response, for the merest clue as to what I had carried with me to the dance, but she gave none. “Mr. Aberdeen said he would personally see it taken care of.”
“Good.” She turned her gaze to the space above the fireplace mantel. “Then it is done for now.”
It was then I noticed the thick curtains had been pulled back and Anne’s painting was exposed, her haunting eyes presiding over our conversation. A slight chill pricked my shoulders.
Mrs. Chalcroft lifted her gaze. “Thank you for helping me tonight, but why do you say you wish you hadn’t gone?”
I bit my lip. I couldn’t speak of Mr. Cantrell or Mr. Sinclair. She wouldn’t understand. “There was an incident with Miss Cantrell.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Ah. That. Yes, Curtis has already been to see me.”
I pulled back. “He has?”
“And I suppose you agree with him. That I should leave a portion of my money to the minx.”
What? Mrs. Chalcroft breathed in and out slowly as my head pounded. Mr. Sinclair had made an appeal to Mrs. Chalcroft—for Miss Cantrell? “I don’t know what you mean—”
“Anne’s money.” Her eyes narrowed as she once again sought the painting. “If only she hadn’t run out that night, so reckless, and the heir . . . I wouldn’t be here alone with my guilt, left to grieve in the darkness.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Pay me no mind tonight, child. My demons are out in full force.”
My voice faltered. “Miss Ellis told me Anne’s baby died. I’m so sorry.”
Her hand moved to her throat. “Do not pity me, child. I do not deserve it.”
A bead of sweat gathered on her brow and I wiped it off. “It is late. We can talk more tomorrow.” I tugged at the covers. “You need your rest.”
“I get little sleep most nights, Sybil. I . . .” She pulled me closer, her hand quivering. “I need to tell someone . . . I must tell someone.” She pounded her fist against her chest. “It has burned inside me these many years until there is nothing left.”
Fearful of another episode, I acted quickly. “Speak if you must, but . . .” I covered her hand. “You know you are safe here with me.”
“I know, child. I know.” She swallowed hard as if a bitter taste had entered her mouth. “I-I thought I knew him, but he was nothing more than a devil in gentleman’s clothes. Abuser, manipulator, and I, her own mother, was the one who forced her to marry him.”
“Lord Stanton.” I froze.
“Yes. She came to me one night alone, very near her confinement, swearing she wouldn’t return to the fiend. But what did I know of such things? I thought her young and foolish. And scandal—I thought to guard against it at all costs. Her father’s legacy, you see. It would have been ruined. I told her she would find no shelter at the Towers. That she must return to her husband. She ran off that very night—straight into a winter storm. She died of pneumonia shortly after childbirth.”
I allowed a silence to settle between us. “I will not speak to something I know so little about. But no one can know the future. It was a mistake. What I hear is that you made a mistake. It does no good to dwell on the past, to keep it close and punish yourself day after day. Somehow, you must find a way to forgive yourself.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Yet doing so will not change the past.”
“No, only your heart, I suppose.”
She opened her mouth as if to say more, but changed her mind, patting my hand instead. “How did one so young get to be so wise?”
“I had a good teacher.”
Her wan smile faded. “I am glad you understand. It gives me more comfort than you know. For there are days when I find my own guilt unbearable.”
I rubbed my brow, trying to read her expression in the dim light.
She pulled the covers beneath her chin. “Good night, Sybil. Your eyes look tired.”
I leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Sleep well, Mrs. Chalcroft.”
17
Since I’d spoken with Mrs. Chalcroft about her daughter’s death, I couldn’t get the desperate look on her face out of my mind. It was tragic what had happened between them. I thought of Anne’s lonely grave buried deep in the woods, isolated and all but forgotten.
But not by Mrs. Chalcroft. No, she felt her daughter’s passing as keenly as if it had happened yesterday. What mother wouldn’t? However, there was more to Mrs. Chalcroft’s memory, more to her strange behavior. She’d said it was guilt.
And the letter Lord Stanton sent me never strayed far from my mind. Mrs. Chalcroft called him a fiend. How could I, an orphan from London, be involved in all this? Why would he write to me? I turned the bracelet around my wrist, the way I did when I was nervous. Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I felt something that day by Anne’s grave. Some kind of connection. I needed to know more.
I pulled my pelisse tighter around my neck. The blustery winter afternoon brought a chill from the north. The trees stood bare, their naked branches groaning in the wind and dried leaves crunching beneath my feet.
Freshly fallen acorns dotted the walk, but I paid little attention to them. The sunlight was waning and with it my comfort. I must hurry if I was to return from the churchyard before dark. Miss Ellis said Anne’s child had died as a baby. Considering the child had not been buried by Anne, there would be no better place for the grave.
I followed the stone wall that separated the church from the east wilds until I came to the stile. Gathering my skirt, I hopped up and over with little difficulty. Pink-and-orange begonias littered the path that wound between the graves.
Slowly, I walked along the headstones, passing name after name I didn’t recognize. There were several Chalcrofts and a Sinclair or two, but no infants in the first row. A feeling of sadness permeated each weathered stone until I too felt the melancholy of loss and death. I had no family, but many had filled the holes in their absence—Mrs. Smith, the girls at the school, Mrs. Chalcroft. I wondered where Thompkins had been buried, where her family lived. If she had any.
So little had been said or done about the murder at the Towers, except by Miss Ellis, who seemed to find the investigation entertaining. Part of me wondered if she meant to solve the case herself. I, however, who knew the sullen maid, however briefly, found her sudden death tragic. If the truth never came to light, Thompkins’s plight would remain a meaningless wisp on the wind. And that would be unbearable.
A rustle broke the somber silence and I watched as a starling took flight over the top of a beech tree. It was then I noticed a small, square stone nestled by the base of the tree. I took a deep breath. Could this be the marker for Anne’s child?
I rushed over to the stone and dropped to my knees. There, framed by snowdrop bulbs, an inscription was buried beneath a layer of golden leaves. I brushed them off and leaned down to read the words chiseled into the stone:
IN MEMORY OF ANNE CHALCROFT
So it wasn’t a grave exactly . . . or was it? I touched the cold earth, wondering what lay beneath. A spider skittered across my hand and escaped into the web it had built in the dew of the nearby hedgerow. I stood, shaking off a chill. The memorial wasn’t clear. I glanced around again, searching without results. There were no answers—not in the church’s graveyard at least. I took one last look at the stone before backing away.
Methodically, I checked the last of the gravestones before returning over the stile and heading home. I had discovered nothing. Nothing that would quench my newfound curiosity. It was time to start asking the difficult questions.
Dusk fell before I stumbled onto Mrs. Chalcroft’s eastern rise and made my way through the thin layer of woods that separated the fields. The moon had already set up guard for the night, but a remnant of the sun’s light remained.
All at once, like an arrow shot through
the twilight, shouts rang out ahead, followed by the pounding of horses’ hooves. Then a gunshot resonated off a nearby hill. I clapped my hands over my ears, my pulse throbbing. Earlier, I hadn’t wanted to explain my destination to a groom so I hadn’t taken a horse. But as the wind carried new, angry cries, my heartbeat doubled, and I wished I hadn’t been so hasty.
Another shout pierced the air, closer this time. I bolted straight for home, my bonnet ribbons flapping in the breeze, my feet frantically crushing the earth beneath my boots, past trees and shrubs into the heart of the small forest, unwilling to stop until I felt sure of being a safe distance away from the sounds.
Eventually I slowed to a jog, my skirt clenched in my fingers. I couldn’t maintain such a desperate pace, and my arms dropped to my sides, my lungs gasping for air.
I looked around, relieved to find I’d covered significant ground. As far as I could tell, the noises had faded off over the horizon. Whoever it had been, they were gone now. Recognizing the familiar Chalcroft land, I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was safe within the walls of the Towers.
My walk turned languid, but I couldn’t shake the nervousness that had crept over me, and my steps became stilted. I watched the breeze stir the leaves on the path in front of me, swirling them around. The rustle of the flurry, however, couldn’t hide the cock of a pistol.
Cold rushed across my skin. Inwardly I panicked, but my legs kept moving forward as if I were caught in a dream—or a nightmare.
Surely an animal had simply snapped a twig as it walked. But as I scanned the area ahead, somehow I knew I was not alone.
“Stop right there.”
I nearly screamed as I turned to see the toe of a boot slide out from the far side of a tree.
“Wh-What do you want?”
The man coughed and I saw a flash of moonlight as he lowered the pistol. “Is that you, Miss Delafield? Thank God!”
In the Shadow of Croft Towers Page 16