A Stranger at Fellsworth

by Sarah E. Ladd

  After an eternity of persistent pounding, her brother had ceased his efforts and returned to the party. His absence should have brought her a sense of peace. But no—panic took up residence in her heart.

  Annabelle pushed her long locks away from her face and looked down at her trembling hands. She clamped them together in front her.

  Wilhurst House could no longer be her home.

  She had to leave. If she remained, she would become Mrs. Cecil Bartrell.

  Crosley reentered the chamber from Annabelle’s dressing room carrying a nightdress. “Are you ready to dress for bed?”

  Tears sprang to Annabelle’s eyes. “I can’t stay here.”

  Crosley drew closer, her brow creasing. “What do you mean? In the morning things might seem—”

  “Nothing will be fine. You know that as well as I do. There is no need to pretend.”

  Crosley lowered the linen nightdress. “But where would you go?”

  Annabelle bit her nail as she considered her options. As far as she could determine, there was but one option. She turned to face Crosley as an idea, fresh and frightening, formed. It started as a glimmer, then her mind raced to keep pace with the onslaught of thought.

  Fellsworth.

  She might not have considered it except the gamekeeper mentioned it and by doing so revived the dormant memory.

  Her uncle and aunt were her only other living relatives, but there had been no communication for years. Even if her brother did want to find her after she left, he would never think of looking for her there.

  With renewed energy she hurried to her jewelry chest and pushed open the lid. She sorted through a handful of trinkets until she found what she sought: the carved hunting dog Uncle Edmund had given her all those years ago.

  He had been eager to help her mother. Would Uncle Edmund help Annabelle now?

  There was no way to know until she spoke with them. She just needed a way to get to Surrey. She had little actual money, but she held up jewel after jewel. These valuables could be sold.

  She was not without options—not yet.

  Annabelle glanced around the room. The elegance. The opulence. Once, such material advantages would have kept her firmly planted where she was, fearful of what it would be like to live without such luxuries. But day by day the world she knew was folding in on itself.

  Shouts once again met her ears. They were almost like a warning. Then a different sound rang out. A sound so unwelcome, so out of place, Annabelle winced.

  Crosley jumped up. “Was that a gunshot?” She ran to the door, flipped the lock, poked her head into the hall, looked to the right and left, and then straightened before she closed the door once again.

  The two women exchanged glances.

  Wilhurst House was growing dangerous. This was no longer the same home of her youth. Fear for her brother pricked, and Mr. McAlister’s letter of warning flashed in Annabelle’s mind. She did not doubt her brother was in trouble—he was far from innocent—but Thomas was beyond saving, at least by anything Annabelle could do.

  Her path was unmistakable, and she knew just what she needed to do. It was time to leave.

  Owen sat on the bench outside of the mews entrance. The storm had subsided, and now a gentle rain floated down from the moonless sky. A torch nearby crackled, and its light cast reflections on the wet cobbled street. He pulled his hat lower to guard his face from the rain.

  Even during the early morning hours, soot and smoke thickened the muggy London air. How Owen longed to fill his lungs with Linton Forest’s fresh air and earthy perfume. A fortnight had elapsed since he was last home and with his daughter, the longest they had been separated since his wife died nine years prior. He did not belong here, and the fact grew in veracity with each passing minute.

  The sound of a gunshot had pulled him—and a handful of the Wilhurst House staff—from bed and urged him out into the night once again. As a gamekeeper he was no stranger to the monstrous blast of a rifle’s fire. He associated the sound with field and forest, not a town like London.

  Even now his pulse raced at the unexpectedness of it. The servants had made a thorough inspection of the property and declared the shot must have come from a neighboring house or a skirmish on the street, yet Owen remained uneasy. He’d witnessed the inebriated state of the men upon their return from the Baldwin dinner. No good could come of it.

  The shot’s sharp crack had thrust his best bird dog, Drake, into a frenzied state, and now, after several minutes of silence, the giant brown dog finally sat and leaned against his leg, panting heavily. On more than one occasion Drake’s keen nose and sharp instinct had warned him of trouble, and Owen perceived the dog’s uneasiness. He surveyed the narrow alley with a trained eye and placed his hand on Drake’s head. “It’s all right, boy.”

  He was about to return to the tiny chamber above the stables when movement by the servants’ entrance drew his attention. He squinted to see through the misting rain and shifting darkness.

  The door opened wider, and a figure clad in a dark cloak emerged into the narrow courtyard. He’d expected to see a footman or another male servant, yet a slight feminine frame stood shrouded in the shadows.

  He straightened. What would a woman be doing out at this hour?

  Drake jumped to his feet and barked, and the woman jerked around and looked in his direction.

  “Sit,” Owen ordered.

  The figure paused. Then shifted. Then headed in his direction.

  Unsure of what to expect, Owen stood and took hold of his dog’s collar.

  “Mr. Locke?”

  The woman’s voice was soft and low, so much so he almost wondered if it was the whistle of the wind or his ears playing tricks on him. He cocked his head to the side. “I’m Owen Locke.”

  The figure finished crossing the courtyard and stepped near the mews wall, out of the torch’s light. She pushed her hood back to expose her face.

  Miss Annabelle Thorley.

  It would have been one thing if the woman had been a servant, but she was one of the ladies of the house.

  Unaccompanied.

  In the predawn hours.

  Alone in his presence.

  Owen was far from an expert on the subject of proper behavior for a lady, but he was certain this wasn’t it.

  The wind picked a few wayward strands of her hair and danced with them about her face. She cut her eyes to the left and then looked over her shoulder. “I must speak with you.”

  Drake pranced around Owen’s feet, and Miss Thorley’s eyebrows arched as she stepped back from the animal.

  “He’ll not harm you. What can I do for you?”

  She fixed her gaze on him. “Can I count on your discretion?”

  “Discretion?” he echoed, surprised at the odd request.

  “Yes. I need assistance, Mr. Locke, but I must request that what we discuss remains between us.”

  Earnestness burned brightly in her eyes, but alarm coursed through his veins. Nothing good could come of such an agreement with a lady. He knew nothing of her. And she knew nothing of him.

  What assistance could he possibly offer her?

  The memory of Mr. Bartrell’s rough grip on her compelled him. He’d failed to protect his own wife from another man’s violent hand, and the fact would haunt him until the day he drew his last breath.

  Was Miss Thorley in some sort of danger? Whatever her reason, he was quite certain that if he did not help her, or at least hear her request, and some peril were to befall her, he would never forgive himself.

  He gave a nod. “It will.”

  “You said you were from Fellsworth, is that correct?”

  “It is.”

  “My uncle lives in Fellsworth, and I need to travel there immediately.”

  Fellsworth was not a large village. Surely he would know her uncle. “Who is he?”

  “Mr. Edmund Langsby. He is, or at least was, the superintendent at Fellsworth School.”

  “Langsby?” he repeated,
making sure he had heard the name correctly.

  “Yes.” Her eyes widened. “Are you acquainted with him?”

  “I know him well.” In truth Owen had known Langsby his entire life. But he had never heard the older man mention family, let alone a niece.

  “I was hoping you could arrange transportation—a carriage—to convey me there as soon as possible. This morning, in fact.”

  Owen frowned. “That is very sudden.”

  “I would not ask, but it is imperative I leave London immediately.”

  Something was amiss. There was a carriage here in the mews. If there was need of a carriage, did she not have one at her disposal?

  The entire night was not adding up. The violence. The drunken display of vulgar behavior. The gunshot. And now this.

  He needed to make sense of it all. “Is Langsby expecting you?”

  She hesitated. It was the first time she broke eye contact. She toyed with the hem of her cape. “Not exactly. But he will accept me. I would hire a carriage on my own, but I admit I am not really certain how to go about doing so. You were so helpful in the street earlier today, I thought you might . . .” She looked to the ground, and the torch’s light splayed the shadow from her eyelashes on her smooth cheeks.

  Owen would like to think he could pride himself on rationality, but her demure beauty and vulnerability affected him. Did she know how convincing she was? Was the innocence in her face authentic? Or had she perfected such an affectation to get her way? He’d known women who had mastered the art of doing just that. Yet he was in danger of succumbing nonetheless.

  Her shoulders slumped slightly. “I can see that you are suspicious of me.”

  He shook his head. “No, not suspicious. But is there not someone at Wilhurst House who can assist you? Surely your brother would arrange for your travel during daylight hours.”

  She lifted her chin, as if his interest in her situation reenergized her. “This travel is of a personal nature.”

  He shifted his weight. “In other words, you don’t want anyone to know you have gone.”

  She held his gaze for several moments. “No. I do not.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. Never had he been asked to do such a thing. Drake turned a circle and then stretched out his nose to sniff her hand.

  Miss Thorley hesitantly reached out a slender hand and patted the dog’s head, then tucked it back in her cape. “I would, of course, compensate you for your trouble.”

  It was the second time now that she had mentioned paying for his service. She clearly saw him as a hired hand—a servant to do her bidding.

  Prudent thought screamed that he should decline to help her. What if she was leaving unwisely—to elope with a rogue or some other unsuitable reason? But then again, what if such an action was her last resort?

  Miss Thorley winced as a crash and shouts sounded from somewhere in the house. She turned wide, expectant eyes to him and bit her lower lip. In that moment she seemed very fragile. Her brave facade was beginning to crumble.

  He recognized the sounds of drunken debauchery, and he recognized the look of fear. As fond as he was of Treadwell, his employer did have a certain reputation, and he suspected the men in his company possessed a similar nature. He could not, in good conscience, deny her.

  If he refused to assist her, she would undoubtedly find a way to proceed on her own. But he doubted she understood the danger of a young lady engaging in such an undertaking. She could end up in a more dangerous situation.

  Another shriek echoed from the house. A fight of some sort was ensuing.

  Her full lower lip trembled as she opened her mouth to speak. “I—I can see I am troubling you. Good night, Mr. L—”

  “Be at the corner where I first met you. A carriage will be waiting for you at dawn’s light.”

  She expelled her breath, and for the first time since he had met her, she smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Locke. I will be there.”

  Chapter Nine

  Crosley! Where are you?” Annabelle flung open her chamber door and burst inside. “Quickly! We must hurry.”

  Crosley entered the sleeping chamber from the attached dressing room. Her brow furrowed as she assessed her mistress. “You’re all wet! Did you go out of doors?”

  “I did, but that isn’t important.” Annabelle wiped rain from her cheek. “I need your assistance.” Energized by her conversation with Mr. Locke, she tossed her cape from her shoulders, scurried to her wardrobe, pulled the heavy oak doors open, and sifted through the gowns inside. “Where is my pink gown? The one with the silver flowers embroidered on it?”

  Crosley scampered behind her to retrieve the damp cloak. “What do you need that for? It is time to retire. Perhaps later in the morning—”

  “No, this cannot wait until later.” Annabelle finally stopped her search and whirled around to face Crosley.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I won’t be here in the morning.”

  Crosley froze. A frown darkened her expression. “I don’t understand.”

  Annabelle resumed her search, found the gown in question, and folded it over her arm. “I can’t stay here, Crosley. I simply can’t. I am leaving at dawn to travel to Fellsworth. And you must come with me.”

  Crosley dropped the cape on the settee. “Fellsworth? Where is Fellsworth? You aren’t making any sense. You can’t just leave!”

  “I can,” muttered Annabelle as she reached down in the bottom of the wardrobe and retrieved a pair of kid half boots. “And I will.”

  “How will you get out of London, let alone to another town? And what will you do for money?”

  A rogue sense of adventure surged through Annabelle and ignored Crosley’s concerns. “This is my opportunity for a fresh beginning, free of this nonsensical behavior, and I’m going to seize it.”

  “But you’ve hardly even been outside of London. How will you get there?”

  Annabelle tossed the boots on her bed, lifted the candle from her dressing table to light her way, and stepped closer to Crosley. “Do you remember Mr. Locke? The man we met when we encountered Miss Stillworth on the street earlier?”

  Crosley nodded and pushed a stray lock of blonde hair from her face.

  “He is the gamekeeper on Mr. Treadwell’s estate and is traveling with him now. In fact, he is staying in rooms above the mews while Mr. Treadwell is a guest here.”

  Crosley propped her hand on her hip. “Is that where you went? How do you—?”

  “He has agreed to arrange a carriage to transport me to Fellsworth.” Annabelle handed the candle to Crosley, moved to the chest at the foot of her bed, and knelt before it. “My uncle is a school superintendent there.”

  Crosley held the candle up high to give Annabelle plenty of light. “I’ve never heard you mention an uncle before.”

  Annabelle pushed open the trunk’s lid. “He’s my mother’s brother. I only met him once when I was a child. Thomas has never met him and I daresay he may not even know of Uncle Langsby’s existence. Thomas would never think to look for me there. I can disappear.”

  “How do you know you can trust this man, this Mr. Locke? He is a stranger. He could be a criminal. Or worse. He could be a murderer.”

  Crosley’s point was a valid one. ’Twas no secret, impulsiveness was a trap that often snared Annabelle. Despite this flaw, she had always been able to rise above any truly negative outcomes. But never had she even dreamed of any action this brazen and reckless. But was she any safer here than with a man she did not know?

  She spoke quickly, as if to convince Crosley as well as herself. “I am willing to take my chances. Besides, Mr. Locke will not be traveling with us. He’s only making carriage arrangements. We will be quite safe.”

  “That’s even worse. It is not safe for a woman to travel alone.” Crosley shook her head, and in a rare moment of displayed affection, she rested her hand on Annabelle’s shoulder. “I implore you to act prudently. You’ve rarely traveled outside of London, and you’ve neve
r traveled alone.”

  Annabelle jumped to her feet, abandoning her search of the trunk, and grabbed Crosley’s hands. “That is exactly why you need to come with me.”

  The women locked gazes for several moments, and then Crosley drew a deep breath. “Please help me understand. Your brother is my employer. Will you be retaining my service in Fellsworth? Will I still be your lady’s maid? And if I don’t go with you, what of my position here?”

  Annabelle dropped Crosley’s hands. The first shadow of discouragement fell on her since she had left Mr. Locke. She had not considered the fact that Crosley might not accompany her. But she was right. Annabelle did not pay Crosley’s wages. Her brother did.

  Annabelle yanked the valise from the trunk and stood. “You are my lady’s maid. So without me, I fear there will be no position here for you.”

  Crosley swallowed and looked to the ground.

  Annabelle hated to see her uncomfortable, so she forced a cheery tone to her voice. “You can return to London and find another position after I am in Fellsworth. Or, consider that my uncle runs a school there, or at least he did. He might know of a position for you. Either way, I will write you a glowing recommendation. Please.”

  Annabelle chewed her lip. Time was not on her side, and her confidence wavered.

  A final idea popped into her mind. She hurried to her bureau and lifted her jewelry box. She retrieved a gold necklace with a small ruby pendant. Her father had given it to her when she was just a girl. She would hate to part with it, but right now, fear lanced her sense of sentimentality.

  She clenched her fingers around the piece and squeezed. Now was not the time to worry about such details.

  “Accompany me to my uncle’s house and this is yours. I don’t care what you do with it. Keep it or sell it, but consider this payment for a service.”

  Crosley’s blue eyes grew wide.

  It was a generous offer, and perhaps a foolish one on Annabelle’s part, for the necklace was easily worth at least a year’s wages for a lady’s maid. But she was not so obtuse that she did not see the truth in Crosley’s warning. Annabelle was acting rashly. She needed Crosley with her to be a voice of reason. And traveling would be much safer with a companion.