I set down the candle, realizing my light would be useless in the rain, then held my breath, hoping for a way to see. Amid the dreary clouds, a gray light persisted and illuminated a path beyond the door. I’d need the candle to get back down the stairs, so I left it on a small side table and made my way onto the roof.
The opening tunneled for a moment and cut off the majority of the wind and rain. But once exposed, I spilled out into the full onslaught of the rain. A small stone ladder came into view to my left and appeared to lead to the overlook at the top of the tower. My hands felt cold and shaky, but I climbed one rung at a time, making sure I had a firm grasp with each step.
A thread of lightning streaked across the dark sky as I crested the top, illuminating the world in white light for a breathless second. There she stood, her pale nightgown flowing in the wind like an angel watching over the estate.
“Mrs. Chalcroft,” I yelled as I made my way over the stone ledge, but she didn’t turn, and the last thing I wanted to do was frighten her. I wasn’t sure if she could hear me over the pouring rain, but I didn’t want to take any chances. She was near the edge and the stone she leaned against for support looked far too unstable. The dark rocks of the old battlement were chipped and cracked, the floor littered with the fragments of years of disuse. I doubted anyone had come up here in some time.
Careful with my movements, I inched my way around the curve to Mrs. Chalcroft’s far side, the howling gusts fighting me at every step. I never took my eyes from her feeble form. I couldn’t imagine how she made the journey, let alone stood there as she was, staring out over the estate.
The clouds pulsed with electricity, and I blinked away the assault of raindrops, utilizing the uneven stones to guide me. My wet frock clung to my legs. What was left of my chignon slipped loose and a splash of icy water ran down my back.
The quivers began, first in my hands, then my legs. I was never very good with the cold, but I pressed on, finally nearing her side. “Mrs. Chalcroft.” I reached out and touched her arm. It was ice beneath my fingers, but she wasn’t shivering. All at once, she turned her head, her blue eyes gray in the darkness.
She took an uneasy step back, her foot slamming against the low wall. “Anne? You’re here. You made it home. I-I thought I’d lost you forever. I was looking for you.” She pointed over the stones and into the wild shadows. “They told me you ran away. I thought somehow to see you from up here, to stop you from leaving, but . . .” She squinted. “I was wrong. Here you are. Safe and sound.”
I grasped her hand. “It’s me, Mrs. Chalcroft. Miss Delafield, your companion.”
She jerked back, covering her ears, her leg pressing against the edge. “Stop it, stop it now, Anne. I told you already. There is nothing to be done. You’re married now. You best start acting like it.”
The rush of rain stole my breath, but what could I say? Mrs. Chalcroft was not herself; she was lost somewhere in her mind. I touched her hunched shoulder, hoping to find a way to guide her back to the ladder. I hadn’t the least idea how I planned to help her traverse the steps, but there was no way we could stay up here. “Won’t you come with me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Her voice deepened in a way I’d not heard her use before. “Mark my words. You will go back to him. You know what’s due your family name even if you always were a spoiled child. Father’s little angel. I’ll hear no more of your fanciful notions.”
I stood there still as a statue. How could I find a way to bring Mrs. Chalcroft back to the present and away from the horror of the moment she was reliving in her mind? “I’ll do as you say. Please, come back into the house with me.”
Something changed in her face. She pressed her lips together as the silvery light and the dark shadows fought to claim her. “A baby, you say.” She looked about her as if she’d lost something over the stone’s edge. “We must protect him at all costs. Lord Stanton. It’s his fault, all his fault. How wrong I’ve been.” She covered her face with her hand, then met my eyes. “Will you not come home with me now, my dearest Anne?”
“I’ll stay with you, Mrs. Chalcroft. As long as you need me to. But please. You must come with me inside—now.” I held my hand out into the rain, willing her to take it.
“No.” Her voice turned dark, pulsing with a frantic energy. “First the letters. It’s more important than anything else. We must send them to the Frenchman in town. He’ll take care of everything. He’ll save us all. I know I’ve more money just over here . . .”
For a moment I thought she meant to come with me, but all too soon I realized I was wrong.
She spun to the ledge like a wild animal, emboldened by a world that existed only in her memories. The pouring rain slowed before my eyes as if it too had been caught up in a dream. I screamed, but the thunder hid my voice as soon as it left my throat.
I lunged forward, but I was too late. In my panic to grasp her, I saw the broken stone behind her. I screamed again, but Mrs. Chalcroft slipped on the loose rocks at her feet, careening toward the shattered ledge, when two strong arms appeared and pulled her back, one harrowing step at a time, farther and farther away from certain death.
“Mr. Sinclair!” Tears fell from my eyes and mixed with the rain. My legs shook as I knelt at his side.
He too seemed unable to speak, his eyes a mix of fear and compassion, but his hand found mine in the darkness as he cradled Mrs. Chalcroft in his arms.
22
The Frenchman. The letters!” Mrs. Chalcroft yelled, her gnarled fingers wrapping around my wrist, pulling me against the ledge. “Go, now!”
My knees scraped the jagged stones and I awoke with a start, surprised to find my clothes dry, Mrs. Chalcroft sleeping at my side, and Mr. Sinclair—watching me from the doorway.
A dream.
Breathless, I glanced around the room, all signs of the previous night’s turmoil washed away, all except Mrs. Chalcroft’s withered form.
I rubbed my eyes, wishing that too had been a dream. But it hadn’t. Mrs. Chalcroft had taken ill within hours of her flight to the tower. Fever racked her body with violent sweats and bouts of confusion. We all feared the worst. She’d been too long in the cold and rain. I hovered over her bedside deep into the night, bathing her forehead in rosewater until sometime in the early-morning hours when I’d drifted into a fitful sleep, dreaming of those frightful moments on the tower over and over again.
Still a bit confused from my lack of sleep, I leaned back against the chair slats, slow to meet Mr. Sinclair’s gaze as he approached. He didn’t speak at first, only poured a cup of water and set it on the bedside table.
As I’d come to recognize all too well, I could feel his presence behind me, the tingling of my skin, the subtle change to the beat of my heart, the scent of his pomade. I didn’t need to look to know he was near. Not anymore.
His whisper broke the silence. “I’ll sit with her now. You need to get some rest.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “What time is it?”
“About five o’clock. The maids should be in soon to light the fires.”
“Oh,” I yawned. “I-I must have let it go out sometime in the night.”
“Don’t be concerned. The room is warm enough.” He brushed my arm as he leaned down beside the bed to swipe a clump of hair from Mrs. Chalcroft’s forehead. “Her fever is down some.”
“Oh?” I took in a long breath. “I don’t know what I would do if . . . if she’d left us like that.”
I was tired and hadn’t chosen my words well, but by the look on Mr. Sinclair’s face, he knew what I meant. My gaze dropped to the bedsheets. “You’re the hero in all this, you know.”
He pressed his lips together. “Don’t.”
“Well, it’s true. How did you know we were up there on the tower?” I rubbed my arms. “And how desperately I needed help?”
“I have a pretty good view of the eastern tower from my bedroom window. You can only imagine my shock when I saw the two of you up there in the rain.”
“And you came and saved her.”
“I did no more than anyone else would do.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Did she say anything? Up there, last night?”
I hesitated then nodded. Most of what Mrs. Chalcroft had said didn’t make any sense, but two words still haunted my mind—the Frenchman. Regardless of my hope against it, the letters I’d been carrying all over town had to have something to do with the dragoons. And the murder? I wasn’t sure.
I felt Mr. Sinclair’s eyes on me, so I assumed a light tone I didn’t feel. “She called me Anne. You know—her daughter, Lady Stanton. I believe she was remembering a time long ago. She mentioned the child that died. The heir.” I watched for a response, but Mr. Sinclair only turned away.
“I shouldn’t be questioning you at such an hour. We can talk more later. What you need now is sleep. I won’t keep you any longer from your bed.” He squeezed my hand. “You’ve been wonderful through all this. And even if Mrs. Chalcroft won’t remember what you did last night, I will. She’s lucky to have you.”
I thought I saw his arm move as if he meant to touch my face or my hair, and oh how I wanted him to, but he settled it neatly on the coverlet at Mrs. Chalcroft’s side.
I rose from the chair. “And your shoulder? Is it healed?”
He twisted his arm in the candlelight. “It’s much better. I don’t think I did too much damage. Besides, I can’t stay hidden for much longer.” He grinned, then rubbed his chin. “Now go on to bed, Miss Delafield. I’ll keep Mrs. Chalcroft company.”
I took one final peek through the open door before leaving the room, knowing full well how much my heart wanted to stay.
I didn’t think it possible to achieve any semblance of sleep with my anxiety as fresh as it was. But with Mrs. Chalcroft’s initial crisis over, I fell into bed and slept soundly until evening when the onslaught of hunger pains chose to awaken me. Sluggish, I dressed and journeyed down to supper, only to find the house had gone into something of an uproar in my absence.
The doctor had been out twice to see Mrs. Chalcroft, ordering several draughts and worrying Miss Cantrell with his grave prognosis, but Mr. Cantrell assured me he’d seen no evidence of a full inflammation of the lung. All I could do was hope he was right. I wasn’t ready to lose her.
Though Miss Cantrell didn’t seem to take Mr. Cantrell’s cheery diagnosis as her own, I was pleased to meet her smile across the room. In the course of a day it seemed her small stomach had rounded and the house had been made aware of her joy. The burden of guilt and secrecy had vanished from her face, leaving behind a lady of distinction. I gave her a quick wink. It appeared our new friendship had every chance of success.
She motioned to the seat next to her. “I’m glad you had time to rest, Miss Delafield; however, your company has been sorely missed.” She cast a quick glance at Mr. Cantrell, who couldn’t take his eyes off his port.
I took a sip of water. “Any news from town?”
Miss Ellis sparked to life. “Is there! You’ll never believe it, Miss Delafield. Another woman has been found dead.”
Miss Cantrell widened her eyes. “Goodness, Evie, death is hardly a topic for dinner conversation. You’ve soured my stomach completely.”
“Elizabeth’s right.” Mr. Cantrell’s voice sounded hoarse. “She was no friend of ours at any rate.” He ran his finger along the stem of his glass. “Of course, I suppose there is a possibility that you knew her, Miss Delafield, since you said you met her maid.”
“Me?” I swallowed hard.
“I believe her name was Plume, was it not?”
I sat up straight. “Mrs. Plume? From Adisham?”
Miss Ellis chimed in again, undeterred. “And after her maid went missing and died and everything. It is interesting, is it not? What a mess the authorities have made of the whole affair.” She smiled. “I begin to wonder just what it is they think they are supposed to do.”
My plate blurred. Another passenger from the mail coach was dead. I cleared my throat. “What happened?”
Mr. Cantrell spoke slowly as if recounting a play. “Her carriage was found abandoned on the road this morning . . . her body still inside.” He raised his eyebrows. “Shot in the head.”
I closed my eyes for a long second before casting a glance at the ceiling, wishing I could see through the wood and plaster and into Mrs. Chalcroft’s room, where Mr. Sinclair likely hovered over her bed. Another murder. What would he make of this terrible news? Did he already know?
I could see his dark eyes twinkling in the candlelight as they’d done earlier when he asked me so innocently about what Mrs. Chalcroft had said to me on the tower. How I wished I could believe his question nothing but idle curiosity, but deep down I knew better. But murder? I couldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe it.
Yet there was much I didn’t know. Somehow, some way, my aging employer had gotten herself involved with French spies. The very traitors to England the dragoons were looking for. And Mr. Sinclair played into it all too somehow.
A part of me wanted to dismiss my warring thoughts, forget what all I’d learned. But there was one thing I couldn’t overlook—I was the only passenger left alive from that infamous day on the road, and there were far too many secrets within the Towers—secrets I couldn’t ignore.
Three arduous days passed before Mrs. Chalcroft’s fever broke at last and she became responsive. Three days that I could barely think, let alone process the newest murder. So much horrible death and no answers. The local investigation had turned up nothing.
Though the doctor spoke of improvement, one look at Mrs. Chalcroft and I knew she wasn’t long for this world. Her slight frame had aged over the past few days, and the spark to her personality, the one thing that set her apart, had dulled with her illness.
With what little strength she had, she asked me to read to her, which seemed to comfort her for a time. But she didn’t stay awake for long; her sunken eyes slipped closed behind droopy eyelids after only a few sentences. I slid the book back onto the bedside table, gave her a kiss on her forehead, and left her in Dawkins’s care as I headed back to my room to think, to make plans for my own future. Soon there would be nothing left for me in this place.
I sat on the edge of my bed to remove my slippers, and a knock sounded at the door.
“Yes?”
“May I come in, Miss Delafield?” It was Dawkins’s voice.
Curious, I crossed the room and unlatched the door, where I found her on the threshold, hands folded at her waist, wearing her usual stormy expression.
“Is something wrong? Is it Mrs. Chalcroft?”
“No. But I would have a word with you in private.”
I stepped back. “Then by all means, please, come in.”
Leading with her shoulder, she trudged through the door and made her way over to sit in a chair by the fireplace, where she fidgeted with the lace on her sleeve. Portia had drawn up a small blaze for the evening in my absence, and I joined Dawkins there in an adjoining chair.
Lost as to why she had come to my room, I smoothed my skirt. “Would you care for some tea? I’m sure I could ask Portia to fetch a pot. She’s rarely in bed at this hour.”
Dawkins cast a sharp glance up. “No tea. What I have to say won’t take long.”
So the conversation wouldn’t be pleasant. I lowered my chin, waiting for the attack to begin.
But she softened her voice. “I doubt Mrs. Chalcroft has ever told you why I came here.”
My mouth slipped open. “No, no, she hasn’t.”
“I was a child of seven. A village girl. My parents died of the fever and Mrs. Chalcroft brought me here.”
“Oh?” I pressed my hand to my chest. “I’m so sorry . . . about your parents. I-I didn’t know you’d been here so long.”
“I have no need for your sympathy, Miss Delafield. I don’t really remember them.” She raised her eyebrows. “I only remember Mrs. Chalcroft. You see, she brought me here as a playmate for Anne, who was an only child—lonely, wi
llful, forgotten. I was to become the sister she’d never had.
“But I was older than Anne by two years, and though we got on together, we were never that close. Because . . .” A slight smile crossed her lips. “Mrs. Chalcroft liked me better. Better than her own daughter, you see. Better than her own flesh and blood. She educated me, depended on me, loved me like no one else ever has.”
I leaned back in my chair, my voice nearly deserting me. “Why are you telling me this?”
“You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
She flicked a speck of lint from her frock. “Listen, Sybil. If she cared for me more than her own daughter, you have no reason to try anything now. I will not be replaced in her affections. Not by you or anyone else. What she needs through to the end is me. Am I clear?”
“I have no intention of taking anyone’s place.” I shook my head, finding it difficult to choose the right words. “Why would you think I wield such power?”
Dawkins huffed. “She’s grown frail, her spirit broken by years of guilt. She may not know what she’s doing.” Her piercing gaze shifted from the fire to me. “I’m afraid Mrs. Chalcroft brought you here for a reason, and it’s no good. It won’t appease her conscience. I suppose she thought no one would figure it out. But I did. You look too much like him.”
A bolt struck my chest like lightning on a summer day, making it nearly impossible for me to breathe. “What do you mean? I look like who?”
She laughed. “Lord Stanton, of course. The devil himself.” She lifted her chin, her words dripping out with precision. Clearly, she’d waited weeks to say them. “Who do you think took you to that school in London so many years ago?”
My mouth felt dry. “What are you saying?”
“It was me.” She gave her shoulders a pitiful shrug. “I did. Mrs. Chalcroft didn’t want you then, and she doesn’t need you now.”
The words of Lord Stanton’s letter came ripping into my mind along with the bracelet, the connection I felt to this place.
“That’s right. I see you working it all out. I suppose you have a right to the truth. I’m sorry, but Lord Stanton is your father.”
In the Shadow of Croft Towers Page 21