His eyebrows pulled together. “How long have I been asleep?”
“A while . . .”
“And you?” He tilted his chin. “What have you been about?”
I smiled. “Nothing I wish to discuss at present. Perhaps later. When you are feeling better.” I moved the candle onto the bedside table, hoping the continued light wouldn’t be remarked by anyone else in the house. I couldn’t let it burn for long, but I wanted to see Mr. Sinclair, every strand of his dark-brown hair, wild from today’s adventures, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the way his lips curved slightly at the corners. I needed to know he was safe.
I leaned my elbow down on the bedside table. “The dragoons have set up watch outside the house, but we’re out of immediate danger.”
“Good.” And just like that he slipped his fingers around my hand as if he’d done it a thousand times. “I was worried I’d involved you irrevocably in this mess.”
His grip was warm and strong like his arms had been the day of the dance. I didn’t breathe. He didn’t let go. My fingers tingled. “I knew the risks. I wanted to help.”
“But I never should have involved you.” He stared down at our hands, a strange stillness taking over his face as his thumb traced the lines on my wrist. “What you must think of me, I have no idea. I won’t put you in danger again. You have my word on that. Your life is too precious.” He breathed a sigh before focusing back on my face, his piercing gaze uttering something his lips wouldn’t.
The candle flickered. The room fell quiet around us like it too felt the stirring tension between us. My pulse raced, and all at once I knew the truth. The very thing I had been fighting for weeks, the reason Mr. Cantrell no longer interested me—I was in love with Curtis Sinclair, the next Earl of Stanton.
And he must never know. My fingers fell out of his grasp.
A pain swept my frame and we both awkwardly turned away. I was all wrong for him—penniless, common. And he, just as wrong for me. I never should have trusted a man with so many secrets. I stood, forcing my mind to come out of the muddle I’d allowed it to slip into with a simple touch of his hand.
Mr. Sinclair rubbed his eyes. “I need you to do something for me.”
I leaned forward. “Yes?”
“No more letters to town. No more rides to Reedwick alone.”
The muscles in my shoulders tightened. Mr. Sinclair was worried—for me? My gaze traveled to the dark window. He told me in the woods he’d been betrayed. By the same person who had killed Thompkins? Possibly. But she had been on the estate, in the garden at one point, meeting someone. Who?
My voice came out in a whisper. “I understand, but—” I cleared my throat, daring to venture where I never had before. “Why are the dragoons chasing you? What have you done?”
My question was met with Booth’s quiet knock on the door.
The light of morning brought with it more questions than I cared to think of, and certainly no answers. Pacing the confines of the small garden behind the house was doing little to ease my mind.
Booth had come to my room the previous night with two men I’d not seen before, and Mr. Sinclair was whisked away without more than a quick “Thank you” in passing.
I glanced up at the first-floor windows standing in a line, dark and foreboding. He was behind one of them, and I longed more than anything to know how he fared. There was no question of me inquiring, of course. I would have to bide my time until he was up and about. All I could do was wait and worry.
I’d already heard the rumors at breakfast that he’d taken ill. Booth would see to all his needs now. And a good thing too. I couldn’t risk another encounter. The time apart would do me good. Time to think. Time to plan.
Though I hated to face the truth, Mrs. Chalcroft would pass on soon, and I would be dismissed with nowhere to go. The thought frightened me more than I cared to admit, but I had to be honest with myself. Thompkins’s murder and the dragoons had become a distraction. I’d come to the Towers to discover the truth of my past. I’d found out little from Lord Stanton’s cryptic letter, and grave or no, Anne gave birth to a boy that tragic night—the heir. Mrs. Chalcroft had told me so. Yet I had to fit in somewhere. Lord Stanton would not have sent me the bracelet otherwise.
I thought of the painting that had startled me that first day in the tower. Though I’d been flustered at the time, I had felt a hint of familiarity, like I had seen the earl before. Perhaps I had not given the thought due course. What was it about his hard face that I remembered? That possibly held a clue?
My shoulders grew tight and I took a deep breath. Could I find my way back up to that tower alone? A shifting breeze played with what was left of the dried leaves, scattering them across the path. I clasped my hands in front of me, hesitating. I had come for answers, hadn’t I? Perhaps I’d best get on with it. I pushed my shoulders back, turned, and walked back toward the house.
The morning sun aided my ascent up the musty tower stairs. Soon enough, the darkness fought for control, and I was forced to be guided by candlelight. My hand shook as I held the solitary flame into the air, a thin line of smoke disappearing above my head. I compelled my feet to move. Higher and higher I climbed into the wretched blackness. A prickling chill met my advance. One more turn and the small brown door appeared beyond the last step.
My fingers fumbled with the rusty latch, and for a terrifying moment I thought it might be locked. At last the door creaked open with the gentle nudge of my shoulder, depositing me within the confines of the ghostly room. I shuffled forward, the white Holland covers leering at me as I passed to where I remembered the painting residing. It was no longer there. I peeked beneath various covers, certain Lord Stanton’s likeness had been somewhere in the far corner.
Nothing. I spun around, catching sight of the large gilded frame against the opposing wall. A chair had been perched beside it as if someone had spent time admiring the artist’s work. Odd. Slowly, I strode forward, holding out the candle, watching the colors of the canvas spring to life as the glow of the unsteady flame reached it.
The earl’s cruel expression struck me as it had before, but I settled into the chair, caught by the devilish gleam of his green eyes. After a quick look, I shook my head. I did not know the man, but a chill wriggled up my neck just the same. Seconds passed as I studied the picture before my mouth slackened and I leaned forward. Could it be?
The first time I’d seen the painting, it had been so difficult to look beyond those insensitive eyes, but I saw it all now in its entirety, the truth laid bare for anyone to see who endeavored to do so.
Lord Stanton had a long straight nose and a pair of thin eyebrows that peaked in the middle—just as mine did. And his lips . . . I had spent a great deal of time looking at my own. They were a perfect match. No one could deny the resemblance between us. All at once I was restless, standing, sitting, pacing the small space, the candle quivering in my fingers.
The shadows pressed in around me and I needed to get outside, into the sunlight and the cool breeze. Down the stairs and out the servants’ entrance, I raced across the east lawn, stopping only when I reached the back wall of the garden, collapsing against the cold stones.
Breathing in the crisp air, I gave voice to the thoughts lashing through my mind. I was somehow related to Lord Stanton. Could there be any other conclusion? But how? Could I be his illegitimate child? The daughter of a servant or nursemaid? Someone had paid for my schooling. Someone with money who demanded Mrs. Smith keep my identity a secret. Stanton fit the description. I glanced back at the house.
It was the only thing that made sense. And if I was correct, it meant I had no real tie to the Towers. These people were Anne’s family, and I would be leaving upon Mrs. Chalcroft’s death.
Mr. Cantrell’s kind offer came to mind. He loved me in some sort of way. Me. The orphaned girl from London with no money, no status. Not some adventurous version of myself I’d fabricated to gather information. He’d been honest at every step, a
nd we had a connection—one I’d at least felt at the start. I could find my way back to loving him, if I ever really had. Either way, I couldn’t dismiss his proposal so quickly.
I heard a voice from somewhere in the yard. Was it Mr. Cantrell, here this very moment? Boots crunched into the gravel of the path on the other side of the garden wall. Whoever it was, they were moving quickly. By daylight the garden didn’t frighten me as it did when caught up in the power of night, but I took a jerky step back.
The footsteps stopped and the voice I’d heard sliced through the old stones as if he stood next to me. “It will be the end of us.”
It was Mr. Cantrell all right, and he was angry.
“Please, don’t say that. Please, stop saying that.” Another voice. Miss Cantrell was with him. “I-I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner, but I was afraid.”
“Afraid of your own brother?” There was a shuffle and I heard a bump against the wall. “Well, you should be. You’ve likely ruined everything. You do realize my other . . . enterprises only keep us afloat.”
“Please let go. You’re hurting me.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Surely there is something that can be done.”
“No. It’s too late. I wouldn’t anyway. Ow. Lucius, I’m sorry. I made a mistake. One I will have to live with for the rest of my life. There’s nothing you can do to me now that will make me feel any worse than I already do.”
His voice betrayed an anger I’d not heard from him before. “This is how you repay me after all I’ve done for you! You worthless wretch . . . worthless.”
“You’re right about everything. I am the worst sort of person. But what will I do?”
There was a silence before another bump sounded through the wall. “You can blasted well figure it out yourself this time. I’m done with you. I was so close to getting everything, everything I wanted . . . so close, and you’ve thrown it all away.”
“No, please. Don’t say that. I-I couldn’t bear it if you cut me off too.” She was pleading now.
The scene on the terrace at the dance came to mind.
Mr. Cantrell’s voice sounded strained as it took on a leaden tone. “I need time to think, but I make no promises.”
“I understand. Please, just don’t do anything rash.”
“You don’t get to say what I will or won’t do. Not anymore. You’re nothing but a liability to me now. A duty I have no wish to fulfill.”
I heard first one leave, then the other, but I didn’t emerge from my hiding spot. Instead, I collapsed against the stone wall. What had I overheard? How did Miss Cantrell play into all this?
Everyone at the Towers had a secret. Every. Single. Person. And I could do nothing but claw my way through their web of lies.
20
A week later I left the house for a long walk. I couldn’t stand to be inside or look at the drab walls anymore. Mr. Sinclair finally made a brief appearance in the breakfast room before he escaped back to his room. I wish I could say I was glad he left. Goodness knows he needed time to recover. But when he chose to ignore my presence as he’d done a thousand times before, my heart ached in a way I’d not expected. I’m sure he meant to protect me, but after our night of camaraderie, I found it difficult to resume my position as Mrs. Chalcroft’s companion, who had no business setting my cap at a future earl.
I spent the whole of the morning reading and tending to Mrs. Chalcroft, fearing all the while she suspected my growing duplicity. Occasionally I noticed a keen look in her eyes that made me wonder if she knew more than she chose to let on. Before I left her, out of the blue, she reached for her head and declared she would retire to her room, insinuating I might wish to take a midday walk.
Of course, that was exactly what I longed to do, so I said nothing, retrieved my bonnet, and dashed from the Towers like a prisoner escaped from her bonds. Clouds threatened the sunny day, but it looked as if I’d have plenty of time for a walk before the weather changed. A quick burst down the front path and I found myself rushing across the east lawn with the express intention of losing myself somewhere in the woods.
The manicured hedgerow led me around the garden and through the rusty gate that separated the cultivated lawns from the rest of the estate. I’d walked that way often enough, enjoying every scent of nature and the quiet calm of the fields, but today—today I found the place sadly dreary. I saw nothing but bare shades of brown and gray—nothing to turn my mind from a certain gentleman and what I’d discovered about myself.
On the far side of the first field, the land took a gentle dip to the left, and long, flat rocks crested the soil. A small stream parted there from the line of the field and wound its way like a ribbon through bushes and gullies on its way to a thicket of trees that separated Mrs. Chalcroft’s land from her neighbor’s.
I followed the brook for a little way until the ground softened and the trees lengthened, making it difficult to go on. Most days, I would turn back at this spot for I was far too afraid to leave the estate. But for some reason, the tree branches pointed onward, cracking and moaning in the wind, whispering of adventure. Dried leaves flurried around me, tumbling down the shadowed path. There had been no news of the murder investigation or the dragoons for a full week.
My feet itched to move. My toes curled in my boots. I could feel the steady beat of my heart all the way from my chest to the tips of my fingers. Without thinking, I grasped my bonnet ribbons in one hand and my skirt in the other and ran—not the pitter-patter of a lady conscious that someone might be watching, but as a young girl, running only for the pure enjoyment of doing so.
The wind’s gusts tickled the trees over my head as the brook sloshed at my side. I flew down the trail as if I were nothing but a bird, darting in and out of the shadows. What a glorious moment to be alone and free. To forget the sight of Thompkins’s body and Mr. Sinclair’s bloody shoulder. To forget to be afraid.
After a time, the muscles in my legs burned and I was forced to slow to a walk. Panting, I propped my hands on my hips and turned into the wind to cool my face.
It was then I heard an agonizing cry. Not a child’s voice but a woman’s.
Breathless, I stared down the path, pressing my hand to my chest. More concerned than frightened, I inched forward, following the sobs into a dark section of trees, where the branches blocked the sun and the bushes grew like curtains around me.
I stopped.
There, collapsed on a log, was a woman with her face buried in her hands, gasping for air.
“Miss Cantrell!” I called out but didn’t move, still shocked by my discovery.
She glanced up at me through red-rimmed eyes but said nothing.
I lowered my voice to a whisper as I made my way to her side. “Whatever is the matter? Do you need help?” I looked her over from head to toe, trying to understand what had caused her to cry out as she had.
She lifted her head like a scared animal, her golden hair a ragged mess about her face. But she seemed to compose herself and stared me down for a moment before raising her chin. Her voice held her usual hint of irritation. “Why, Miss Delafield, I see you too took advantage of such a lovely day for a walk.” She wiped her eyes. “As you can see, I am a bit indisposed. I-I suppose I got a little winded while walking. I’d only meant to rest a few moments. But I’m fine now. Please, go on your way and leave me be.”
Beads of sweat dripped down the side of her face as her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath. I didn’t move. It was obvious that something else was causing her distress.
I took a tentative step forward. “You’re not fine. I don’t believe that for a moment.” I reached out for her hand, which felt icy cold and looked far paler than ever before. “You’re chilled. How long have you been out here?”
She looked away as if lost in thought.
“I daresay you need some help. I cannot leave you to walk back to the house alone.” I bit my lip and cast a quick glance at the trail behind me. “Perhaps it would be easies
t if I were to run back to the house and bring someone to assist you. The groom can bring a horse.”
A strange look crossed Miss Cantrell’s face, so I prattled on, “I would only be gone a short time, of course, and then John can be sent straightaway from the house for the doctor.” I raised my eyebrows. “Surely everyone is worried that you are gone. I’ll hurry. This log seems a comfortable enough place for you to wait. Do you think you shall be well enough till I return?”
Her hand shot out like a claw, her fingers wrapping around my arm. “Please . . . don’t.” My mouth fell open, and she relaxed her grip. “Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Delafield. All I need is a few minutes to . . . to catch my breath. I . . .”
She was winded but also unnaturally quiet, barely making sideways glances at me as she crossed and uncrossed her feet.
“Miss Cantrell, surely you realize I must bring someone to come assist you. You look pale. I cannot allow you to walk back in such a state. Or perhaps we could walk back together—slowly?”
She shook her head. “Please, I beg of you to go and think no more about me. I am quite well. I’ll return to the house”—she took a quick breath—“when I’m ready.”
Should I believe her? Should I stay or go? The memory of my arrival at the Towers came to mind. When I’d been so cold and tired, Miss Cantrell had done nothing to help me and certainly didn’t deserve my pity now. But no matter the memories circling in my head, I wasn’t heartless.
Miss Cantrell closed her eyes as if she could read my thoughts, then opened them with that waspish look I knew so well. “I wish to be alone. Surely even a lowly orphan such as yourself can understand this request. You do realize you’re not my companion. If I have to, I will be forced to order you to forget you saw me, and go on about whatever business it is you do around here.”
I hid my hands behind my back so she wouldn’t see my fingers clenched into fists. I learned a long time ago not to allow people to see when they hurt me. I took a step back. Nothing would be gained by staying any longer. Drawing in slow and steady breaths, I mouthed, “I tried.”
In the Shadow of Croft Towers Page 19