by Adele Clee
“What?” Juliet could not contain her surprise. “But you’re the most honourable man I know. I am confident you would do everything in your power to ensure the Blackwater Estate thrived in your care.”
Devlin’s warm eyes settled on her. “Your faith in me touches my heart.”
“It is the truth,” she said, choking back a sudden surge of emotion.
A look passed between them. One that needed no explanation. One that went beyond words or gestures.
“Excellent,” Dariell said, breaking the spell. “And so what would have forced a man of Ambrose’s integrity to break an oath?”
“Nothing.” Devlin seemed most adamant.
“Nothing?” Dariell frowned. “We know that is not true. Something prompted him to change his mind. Perhaps you should ponder that thought.”
The more Dariell asked his probing questions, the more confusion melted away. Why had they not spoken to him earlier?
Devlin took a moment to answer. “Perhaps Ambrose learnt something about Miss Bromfield’s character, something he found unsavoury. Perhaps she was too free with her affections.”
Juliet had to agree it was a possibility. When one craved attention, inevitably some men took advantage. Though Juliet had never heard talk of a scandal, and her father would have paid handsomely to silence any gossip.
“Oui, it is possible. Your brother, did you say he was a godly man?”
“He inherited his piety from our parents.” Devlin gave a mocking snort. It told Juliet all she needed to know about his childhood. “Some of us chose not to listen.”
It was not to his detriment. Juliet would not change her husband for the world. Anyone could preach of moral principles and love for all mankind. In Juliet’s limited experience, those who were truly caring did not need to force their opinions on others or ensure the whole world knew of their benevolence.
Dariell fell silent for a time before asking, “And he did not write to tell you of his betrothal? He did not write to tell you why he had a change of heart?”
“No. He wrote to tell me of our grandmother’s death, mentioned a few minor problems, and I never heard from him again.”
Juliet wondered how he’d come to learn of his brother’s demise. Was it a blunt letter from a solicitor informing him of all he had lost, all he had gained? Was it a letter from a friend expressing their deepest condolences?
“What sort of minor problems?” It was the sudden pang in Juliet’s heart that made her ask, not her logical brain. Perhaps Devlin had taken his brother’s words literally. She was still hoping for a clue.
“He spoke of unrest in the house amongst the servants, which is understandable considering they’d served my grandmother most of their lives. Mrs Barbary was particularly affected by her death. Ambrose spouted something religious as a means of dealing with the matter.”
Devlin rose from the chair. He crossed the room to the drinks tray, poured brandy into a crystal tumbler and swallowed the contents without pause. Juliet and Dariell declined his offer of refreshment, and so Devlin returned to his seat.
Dariell gave a curious hum. “And what were these pious words?”
“I cannot recall exactly.” Devlin closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. The action seemed to prompt his memory. “Something about trusting in the will of God, that under his watchful eye the truth prevails. It was the same speech my parents recited during difficult times.”
Dariell came to his feet and wandered over to the window. He stared out into the darkness. The soft glow of candlelight cast his reflection in the glass and Juliet could see him tapping his finger to his lips in thoughtful contemplation.
Devlin took the opportunity to capture her hand and bring it to his lips. His touch was warm, comforting. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered.
“I’m glad I’m here, too.” There was nowhere in the world she would rather be.
Dariell muttered to himself—a host of incoherent questions judging by the tone—but then he asked, “And where is God’s watchful eye?”
Juliet wasn’t sure if it was a rhetorical question or if he required an answer.
“It is … it is everywhere,” she stuttered.
“Oui.” Dariell swung around, his eyes wide, sparkling, like a sergeant from Bow Street having stumbled upon a vital clue. “While it is my humble opinion that we are closest to the Lord in times of servitude, there is a place where we feel at one with his presence?”
“You mean in church,” Devlin said.
“There is a private chapel here on the grounds is there not?” The Frenchman was already at the door before he stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. “Well, are you coming?”
Devlin rose slowly to his feet. “Coming where?”
“To church, of course.”
The wind howled through the ancient building. Dark shadows danced on the stone walls. The glass in the windows looked dull, the night having swallowed the vibrant colours seen vividly during the day. It was as if God had fallen into a deep slumber and the devil had invaded his house, determined to cause mischief. A bitter chill hung in the air, biting, clawing at one’s cheeks. They had left the house in a hurry, not bothering with the layers of clothing needed to keep out the cold, to protect them from the harsh elements.
“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?” Devlin said though he did not doubt his friend’s logic. Not for a second.
“Did you not listen to what I said?” Dariell sounded amused.
During the short walk from the house, a walk that saw them jog to outrun the arctic breeze that tried to catch them with its frigid fingers, Dariell had repeated his mantra.
Go where your heart leads you.
“What am I supposed to do?” Devlin shrugged. “Wander around until I receive an epiphany?”
“You must look to your heart, for there you will find your brother.” Dariell clasped his hands behind his back as he examined the centuries-old flagstones. “Take a moment.”
Devlin glanced at Juliet, who placed the lamp on the stone altar and held her hands in front of the flame. She must be frozen to her bones, and the thought forced him to concentrate on the task.
Devlin paced back and forth along the aisle. Various thoughts entered his head. The fact his wife might catch her death if they did not hurry back to the house being the most prominent. What he would do to the baron if murder were no longer a crime being another example.
“You’re thinking, my friend.” Dariell’s words cut through the silence. “That is not how this works.”
There was no logical explanation for the things Dariell knew. Perhaps the Lord spoke to him in a series of dreams. Perhaps he was skilled in reading people’s minds, the unique language of their bodies. Perhaps everyone’s destiny was written, and he was but one of the few privileged people to have viewed the book.
Juliet approached.
She placed her hand on his arm. “When would Ambrose come here? Only on Sundays? Only when he had something to confess?”
“The answer is I don’t know.” For most of their adult lives, they had lived on different continents. Blood bound them together. Their ancestral name gave them a joint purpose. Their parents had instilled the need for family loyalty, but as to the character of the real man behind the name, behind the position, Devlin could only guess.
An image entered Devlin’s head, of a lonely man burdened with responsibility, with no one to share in his troubles. Did Ambrose kneel at the altar and pray for a good harvest? Did he beg the Lord to send him someone to love, someone to share in his triumphs and woes?
Someone like Juliet.
Overcome with a sudden surge of gratitude, of respect, of love, he drew his wife into his arms and kissed her so deeply he hoped she could taste the passion pumping through his veins.
“Your lips are cold,” he said before kissing her softly one last time. “Let me carry you back to the house where it is warm.”
She smiled. “Like you did on our w
edding day. Except then it was because I couldn’t keep up with your long strides.”
It seemed like a lifetime ago. So much had happened. So much had changed. How was it his life was so blessed while Ambrose had suffered so miserably?
“That was simply an excuse to hold you close.” The sudden realisation that he could never be without her sent his heart pounding against his ribs.
“And I would love nothing more than to rest my head on your shoulder again, but we must try to focus on the reason we’re here.”
“We’re wasting our time,” he whispered in the hope Dariell wouldn’t hear him, but the fellow was standing before the altar staring up at the scene portrayed by the stained glass.
When one has a moral dilemma, let God decide the outcome.
Ambrose had written that in his letter, too, but Devlin had dismissed it as just another opportunity for his pious parents to preach from beyond the grave.
Devlin wrapped his arm around Juliet’s shoulder. “Come. If we’re to remain here a moment longer at least stand before the candle lamp.”
He drew her down the aisle to the altar, just as he had done on their wedding day, on the day she had put her trust in him. The urge to drop down onto the red velvet kneeler and give thanks came upon him once again.
Then a fierce gale blew the chapel door open, sending it smashing against the stonework. The blast of wind tore through the small building. The candle flickered in the lamp. Outside the trees creaked and groaned under the pressure. Rain pelted the tiny diamond-shaped panes.
Dariell opened the glass door on the lamp and blew out the flame. “The reverend, he has left the linen cloths draped across the altar. We cannot risk the lamp toppling over and starting a fire.”
Another howling gust sent Juliet teetering backwards—from fright more than the power of the storm. Devlin stumbled back, eager to stop her falling, but caught the heel of his boot on the kneeler and almost brought them both crashing to the floor.
“Damnation.” How he kept them upright he would never know. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Juliet put her hand to her heart. “Oh, close the door, Devlin, before we’re taken clean off our feet.”
Devlin was more concerned his wife might catch her death, but he raced down the aisle, slammed the wooden door shut and turned the key in the lock.
“We daren’t risk walking back to the house in this,” he said as he strode back towards them.
Dariell had removed a linen cloth from the altar and draped it around Juliet’s shoulders. “It should keep the cold out.”
“Thank you, Mr Dariell.”
As Devlin moved to step over the kneeler, he noticed he had ripped the velvet cushion from its wooden plinth as he’d fallen back. He crouched down to secure the padding back in place. Should Juliet trip over it in the dark she would likely twist her ankle.
“Is there something wrong?” Juliet asked when he failed to stand, when he remained rooted to the spot.
Devlin held the loose cushion in one hand while he studied the contents buried in the hollow space carved into the wood beneath. Blood surged through his veins sending his pulse racing. It wasn’t the fact that the kneeler had come apart so easily. It wasn’t the fact that godly intervention had led him to make the discovery. It was the fact that after searching every inch of the house in vain he had finally found a thin bundle of letters.
It didn’t matter that it was dark. The smell of musty paper wafted up to his nostrils. The length of pink ribbon securing the package spoke of a feminine hand. Devlin ran the tips of his fingers over the brown spots marring the paper, marks that spoke of age, of decay.
Juliet came to stand at his side. Her sudden gasp echoed his sense of shock.
Dariell was too busy rummaging around in the oak cupboard behind the pulpit to make any comment.
“Do you think they’re the letters from Hannah?” Juliet knelt down beside him. “From first glance, I am more inclined to believe they belonged to your grandmother.”
The crashing of flint against steel caught their attention, and Dariell came to join them a few moments later carrying the glowing lamp.
“If a man cannot light a candle in church then there is something amiss, no?” Dariell placed the lamp on the stone floor beside them. “Well, my friend, do you intend to sit here all night, or will you examine the contents of these precious documents?”
While everyone longed to hear the truth, sometimes it brought pain, it brought problems, it brought havoc to people’s lives. Devlin was the happiest he had ever been, and he couldn’t help but feel some reservation.
Devlin snorted. “The selfish part of me would prefer to remain ignorant.”
“But you’re a man who respects honesty,” Juliet said, “a man who prefers the truth to a pack of lies.”
“Indeed.” Devlin’s fingers shook as he reached down into the small space and retrieved the letters. The same trembling fingers tugged on the bow, unravelled the ribbon and placed the pile on the floor.
“May I?” Juliet said when Devlin could do nothing but stare.
“Be my guest.”
Juliet turned over the letter on top of the pile. It bore his grandmother’s name, the Blackwater address scrawled in the hand of someone unused to writing letters. The childlike strokes screamed of inexperience.
“Read it,” Devlin said, his tone harder than he intended. “I cannot.”
Juliet took the letter and examined the broken wax seal. “It bears no significant markings, though it is impossible to distinguish minute detail in this light.”
Devlin held his breath when she peeled back the folds. An eternity passed while she read silently. His heartbeat drummed in his ears in time with the frantic voice in his head that warned him to expect the worst. Whatever was written on the fragile pieces of paper, the words would be powerful.
Juliet slapped her hand over her mouth as she read. Devlin could tell from the exposed whites of her eyes that the news was as damning as he suspected.
“Tell me,” he commanded, not knowing what the hell to think.
“In a moment.”
Juliet picked up the pile of letters, flicked to the one at the bottom and read that, too.
She read another and another.
While Dariell sat patiently in the box pew and watched with interest, Devlin thought his head might explode from the frustration that came with waiting.
Eventually, Juliet looked up at him, confusion swimming in her eyes. “I need to reread them to gain a better understanding of the situation. Some are written to your grandmother by her maid. One is a letter written by your grandmother but never sent. It reads like a confession, a confession to God.”
“Juliet, please, put me out of my misery and tell me what the hell this is all about.”
She swallowed and sucked in a breath. “It appears that my father is … my father is illegitimate. It appears that my father is the son of your grandmother’s maid.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Baron Bromfield’s mother was a maid?” Devlin repeated for the third time. During those few minutes he had sat patiently waiting for Juliet to finish reading the missives, he knew to expect something shocking. But not this. “How is that possible? How is it no one knows the truth?”
The baron knew the truth. How else would Biggs have known about the old letters?
“I need to reread them, but I suspect your grandmother kept them as a form of penance.” Juliet picked a letter from those she had laid out on the flagstone floor. After one quick look at the words hidden beneath the folds, she handed it to Devlin. “Read this one.”
Dariell cleared his throat and stood. “There is no respite from this terrible weather.” He cocked his head and stared at nothing in particular. The brief moment of silence was broken by the patter of rain hitting the windowpane. “But I must venture back to the house. I must leave you to study these new revelations. Valentine, he wishes us to depart before noon tomorrow, and the need for sleep calls me
to my bed.”
Still clutching the letter, Devlin came to his feet. He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We would not have found the letters without your intervention. Had you not asked probing questions, we would still be clambering about in the dark.”
Dariell’s lips twitched in amusement. “This is true. Did you think I came only to sample your fine port and meet your delightful wife?”
“I would not presume to understand your mysterious motives.” The letter in Devlin’s hand burned for his attention. Curiosity forced him to embrace his friend and bid him goodnight. “Will you join us for breakfast in the morning?”
“Of course.”
Juliet rushed to her feet and hugged the Frenchman. “Thank you, Mr Dariell. You truly are a wonder.”
Dariell embraced Juliet as a father would a beloved child. In such a way that the connection went beyond the physical. In such a way that he seemed blessed to have met her. “You are everything I imagined you to be,” he said cryptically before bidding them goodnight and leaving them alone in the church.
“We will stay for ten minutes, no more.” Devlin scooped up the letters. “It’s too cold to sit on the floor. Come.”
He led her into one of the box pews, spread the letters out on the wooden shelf meant for prayer books and hymnals. “We should place them in chronological order.”
“They are all dated, so the task should not be too difficult.”
There were seven letters in total—six from the maid named Susan and one from Charlotte Drake. Devlin had no idea how long they spent reading each one, but an hour slipped away from them. He held Juliet close to his chest as she read them aloud for a final time.
“Evidently, the baron inherited his cold heart from his father,” Juliet said with an air of melancholy. “What sort of man takes advantage of a young girl?”
Juliet referred to her father as the baron more so these last few days. Her tone contained an air of detachment when she spoke his name. Yet Devlin knew that the baron’s lack of devotion caused her great pain.