Dedication
This novel is dedicated to L. E. G. in loving memory.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Epilogue
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Thief of Lanwyn Manor
Weaver's Daughter AD
Treasures of Surrey AD
Whispers on the Moors AD
Acclaim for Sarah E. Ladd
Also by Sarah E. Ladd
Copyright
Prologue
Winter 1808
Cornwall, Southwest England
A biting gust of Cornish wind screamed downward from the churning sky, billowing Cordelia Greythorne’s jet-black traveling cape. She reached to secure the hood atop her head, and as she did, her grip on her valise slackened. The heavy bag plummeted to the snow-laden ground below.
Through a veil of tears, Delia looked to the satchel, and the sharp burning in her lungs reminded her to breathe.
With the exception of her trunk that had already been loaded onto the carriage, everything she owned—every single possession remaining in her small, forlorn world—was encased in the worn fabric bag. She had packed and repacked it, as if the bag held treasure. And now it sat waterlogged on the uneven cobblestone, a dusting of fluffy flakes gathered on the bag’s wooden handle, appearing almost blue in the dawning light.
The rare snow would be gone soon. Warm air would eventually rush up from the sea, melting any bits of ice coating the harsh landscape. How odd that the weather should be so violent on her final morning, as if even the moorlands were attempting to push her away.
A fresh tear formed, and as she bent down to retrieve the valise, the coachman appeared at her side, the capes of his greatcoat flapping in the harsh gale, his shaggy gray hair whipping wildly. “May I?”
Delia pivoted to prevent him from taking it. “No, thank you.” She snatched it up and clutched the soggy bag to her. “I’ll keep it with me.”
The coachman retreated to the carriage and resumed his post.
She knew she should share the coachman’s eagerness to be about their journey and free of Greythorne House. Her life within these archaic walls had died with her husband. Nothing was here for her now, and yet her booted feet felt heavy and her tender heart refused to bid its final farewell.
She cast one last look back to the house’s ornate facade. It had stood for centuries, proud and majestic, on the cliffs overlooking the English Channel, and it would continue to stand, no doubt, for centuries more. The magnificent sight of stone and iron had thrilled her upon her first arrival here three years prior, but now the heartless house was as dark as the night and as severe as the moors spreading behind it.
Movement at the entrance caught her eye. Delia turned to see Ada Greythorne, her mother-in-law, outside the door, her narrow chin tipped high and her posture erect. No cloak or shawl draped her thin shoulders. She stood, still and unprotected, in the wild elements, clad from head to toe in her lustring gown of mourning black, its delicate van-dyke hem dragging over the wet stones. Even at this distance, hatred radiated from the woman’s icy eyes.
Mere weeks ago, that vicious expression had struck fear in Delia’s heart. But now, numbness pushed out dread and took up residence in her soul. She’d withstood every bit of hateful gossip and defamation. No further damage could be done.
Delia turned to step toward the carriage when biting words froze her steps.
“I suppose you think you’ve won.”
Delia looked over her shoulder. “No, Ada. I haven’t. Indeed, there is nothing to win.”
Ada locked eyes with Delia—a challenge boiling in their pale, empty depths. The wiry woman took two paces toward Delia and lowered her voice. “I’ll allow you one last opportunity to atone, in part, for your betrayal. You will tell me where it is. You owe it to your husband’s memory.”
Delia raised an eyebrow, her will to argue dead. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
She proceeded toward the carriage, but within moments footsteps pounded the path behind her, and before Delia could react, fingernails dug into her upper arm, sharp even through her cloak.
Delia winced and whirled to face her late husband’s mother.
Ada’s jaw trembled with each ensuing word, and her eyes narrowed as she hissed the words. “Don’t think that just because you’re leaving, we’ll—I’ll—forget what you’ve done. My Robert told me the truth before he breathed his last—when you were nowhere to be found. It’ll catch up with you, as sure as the sun rises and sets. Mark my words, you’ll pay one day for what you’ve done. If you’ve any sense in you, you’ll ne’er return to Cornwall. You’ve betrayed the Greythornes, and none will forget.”
A thin layer of perspiration shrouded Delia’s brow. She swallowed. Hard. She’d defend herself if possible, but weeks of protesting and attempting to reason had been fruitless. She ripped her arm free and resumed her walk toward the carriage.
“A curse on you, Cordelia Greythorne.” The shouted words hurtled toward her like a rabid beast pouncing on prey. “May you never know a moment’s peace or a day’s happiness for what you’ve done.”
With Delia’s next step a tear blazed a path down her cheek. She refused the coachman’s offer of assistance into the vehicle, and once inside she snatched the door closed and pressed her back against the tufted seat.
She’d heard the horrid accusations so frequently that she was almost beginning to believe them. Regardless, the truth—the ghastly, jagged truth—would always be on her side, even if no one else chose to believe it.
Delia squeezed her eyes shut as the carriage rumbled away.
She’d not look back. She wanted to remember how her home used to be, not foreboding and vile as it now stood.
Another tear fell.
How she wished things could have ended differently, but the dead were buried, and her shattered heart could endure no more.
Chapter 1
Easten Park, Yorkshire, 1811
Death. It seemed to follow her, affecting those around her.
In the three short years since Delia’s arrival at Easten Park as governess, death, an unwelcome visitor, had called far too many times. Only a few months
into her time at the estate, the children’s mother died. And at this moment their father, Randall Twethewey, was fighting for his life within these very walls.
A flash of lightning gleamed through the uncovered window, momentarily shedding its silver glow on Sophy, her youngest charge, who slumbered next to her, her head on Delia’s lap. Thunder growled, and Delia held her breath as the child stirred but did not wake. Delia slowly released her breath. At least, for the moment, the little one seemed peaceful.
Delia glanced at the mantel clock. It was not yet four.
The night had been a long one, thick with the suffocating trepidation that hovers during uncertainty. Minutes stretched to harrowing hours, but eventually exhaustion gripped her charges and offered a reprieve from the fear. Julia and Hannah, the older girls, slept on the settee. Johnny curled up on the rug next to the waning fire. Only Liam, the oldest boy, had been permitted to remain by his father’s side.
The nursery door cracked open, and Agnes, the children’s maid, appeared in the doorway. The willowy woman’s normally tidy hair hung in chestnut wisps about her narrow face, and her candle’s flickering glow highlighted the dark shadows beneath her eyes.
“What news?” Delia whispered as the maid inched in.
Her expression tight with concern, Agnes knelt next to Delia. “’Tisn’t good. Not good a’tall. Master Twethewey’s dying. At least that’s what’s bein’ said downstairs. His horse got spooked and fell when jumpin’ over a hedge o’ brambles in the east forest. The beast fell right atop o’ Mr. Twethewey, and the weight o’ it poked his ribs clear through his lung. He can breathe and whisper a little, but he can’t move and is gettin’ worse with each hour. The physician’s here but says there’s naught he can do.”
Delia’s vision blurred with unexpected moisture, and she brushed back Sophy’s ebony hair from her face. “The poor children.”
Agnes straightened and brushed her skirt. “The children are why I’ve come. Master Twethewey wants to see you and Mr. Simon.”
Delia frowned. “Why would he want to see me?”
“My guess is he wants to talk about the children and what’ll happen after . . .” Her voice faded, and Delia’s blood ran cold.
Silence—and its lingering apprehension—resumed.
Agnes nudged her arm. “Go now. I’ll sit with ’em. Mr. Steerhead’s a-waitin’ ye in Mr. Twethewey’s chamber. Here, take my candle.”
Delia eased Sophy away from her lap, slow and steady so as not to wake her, and then accepted the light.
Once outside the nursery, cooler air cloaked Delia as she made her way down the familiar corridor, her legs still shaky after having been seated for so long. The candle’s glow cast long, bending shadows on the painted walls and the ornate carpet lining the hall. During daylight hours this passageway always seemed broad and bright, but now, in the wee hours, when lightning glinted through tall windows and death lingered in the shadows, the ambience sobered.
Delia passed her own bedchamber as she approached the main staircase and descended the wooden steps, their creaking loud in the silence. She hesitated upon arriving at the first-floor landing. Hushed voices and an eerie glow spilled from an ajar door on the left. The last time she’d been summoned to a deathbed, she’d been too late for final farewells. Would that be the case yet again?
Breathless, she steeled herself and stepped toward the master’s chamber.
The air thinned as she crossed the threshold, and she lifted her hand to her nose, resisting the urge to wrinkle it at the putrid stench. The fire in the hearth raged, leaping and popping in its grate, and the heavy velvet curtains shrouded the east-facing windows, trapping in the heat and scents of wood smoke and perspiration. A strange, raspy sound emanated from behind the bed’s canopy curtains, like the unearthly cries of a nightmare.
Activity swirled in the sickroom. The vicar, the physician, and Mr. Twethewey’s solicitor all huddled near the bed, their heads bowed in hushed conversation.
She stepped in farther, sweeping her gaze to the left. Fourteen-year-old Liam and his tutor, Mr. Hugh Simon, sat in the shadows on a tufted bench opposite the men. The boy’s shoulders slumped, and he sat motionless, elbows resting on his knees, his attention fixed firmly on the carpet.
Mr. Simon, her only equal at Easten Park and the only person she dared to call a friend, was the first to notice her arrival. He dipped his chin in acknowledgment and stood to his full height.
As he approached, his dark eyes glimmered in the candlelight, his brows drawn together in a familiar manner.
Often she thought she knew him so well that she could read his mind from his expression. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour or the dire nature of their situation, but the firm set of his jaw gave nothing away. A lock of sable hair fell over his forehead, and an uncustomary scruff shadowed his square jaw.
Unable to wait for him to speak, she placed her candle on a nearby table and leaned toward him, knitting her fingers before her in impatient anticipation. “How’s Liam faring?”
“He’s not moved a muscle in hours.” Mr. Simon glanced back at Liam before he folded his arms over his broad chest. “He’s not eaten, not said a word. He merely sits there.”
“Perhaps we should insist he go to his chamber and rest.”
Mr. Simon shrugged a shoulder. “Liam’s not a child. He thinks he needs to be here, and I’ve no right to tell him otherwise.”
A protest hovered on Delia’s tongue, but how could she argue? This could very well be the boy’s last day with his father. Motherly affection squeezed her heart as her sights fell on the boy once again, and she feared what dawn might bring.
The group of men at the bedside dispersed, and Mr. Steerhead, Mr. Twethewey’s solicitor and friend, approached them. Delia gaped as the older man drew close and the candlelight illuminated his features.
Edwin Steerhead was a decided man—strict in his appearance and disciplined in his behavior. But at this hour, his thinning hair was wild and hanging free of its queue. He wore no coat, and his damp linen sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. White stubble framed his drooping jowl, and his normally florid complexion was nearly as pale as the cream silk of his embroidered waistcoat.
“Prepare yourself, Mrs. Greythorne,” Mr. Steerhead whispered as he leaned close, his iron-gray eyes bloodshot and his fetid breath hot on her face. “He’s not long for this world. He’s weak, as you’ll soon see, but he wanted to speak with you both, together, about the children. He’s altered his will and named a new guardian. Instead of Mrs. Twethewey’s sister in London, they will go to Mr. Twethewey’s brother, Jac, in Cornwall. This is very sudden, you know. And unexpected. But he’s in his right mind, there’s no denying that, and he’s determined.”
Delia’s heart thudded when Liam lifted his head, drinking in Mr. Steerhead’s words. The desire to protect him burned within her. “Perhaps Liam shouldn’t hear this. Not yet. Surely there are—”
“Young William will be the master of this family shortly,” Mr. Steerhead snapped, his steadfast stare direct. “It won’t do to hide the truth.”
Delia pressed her lips together and ripped her gaze from the boy’s pallid face.
“As I was saying, Twethewey is insistent that you both accompany the children to Cornwall. It’s his wish that you continue on as their educators, and he’s altered the trust provisions accordingly.” Mr. Steerhead stepped aside, opening a pathway to the canopied bed.
Delia hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until a rush of perspiration gathered on her neck and black dots blinked across her vision. With hesitant steps she drew close to the bed and garnered her courage to look at Mr. Twethewey’s face. Just the previous morning she’d encountered him as he prepared for the hunting excursion. His sapphire eyes had been vibrant, his round face ruddy and bright, his expression revealing his usual jovial demeanor. But now his closed eyes seemed sunken, and sweat plastered his jet-black hair to his sallow brow.
Horrified tears stung her eyes as
his chest stuttered and jerked with each labored breath.
Mr. Steerhead pushed past them and rested a hand on Mr. Twethewey’s forearm. “The governess is here. And the tutor.”
Mr. Twethewey’s eyes fluttered open, then widened as they fixed on her. “The children,” he gasped. “They’ll go to Cornwall when I’m gone. Penwythe Hall. They’ll know no one. They need you. Don’t leave them.”
They need you.
The words struck her. The desperation in his voice haunted her. She glanced toward Mr. Simon. His stoic face remained unchanged. She swallowed and looked back at the dying man.
He gasped a deep breath, then with sudden energy he grasped her hand in his clammy one. “You must go with them. Protect them. Promise!”
At the touch she jumped. He pressed her hand harder with each breath. Her throat parched, she scratched out, “Of course we will, Mr. Twethewey. Of course.”
He opened his mouth to speak again, but instead airy coughs racked his body. He dropped her hand, and the horrid sound of a choking man gagging for air quickly followed.
Someone grabbed her by the crook of the arm and jerked her backward. The physician nudged past, pushing her into Mr. Simon.
The men behind her whispered. To her left Liam let out a cry, and suddenly the chamber was alive with activity. People rushed to and fro, and yet for Delia, time slowed. Even as Mr. Simon ushered her from the room, she could barely tear her gaze from the scene unfolding before her—of a man fighting for life with the injury determined to take it.
Chapter 2
Penwythe Hall, Cornwall
Richard Colliver pinched the pink apple blossom between his thick fingers and plucked it from the willowy branch. He held the tiny flower to his bulbous nose, inhaled loudly, and then released the bloom, dropping it to the ground. “This is a risky venture you’ve undertaken, Twethewey. I’m not sure what to make of it.”
Jac Twethewey propped his fists on his hips and squinted upward as the bright afternoon sunlight filtered through the flittering leaves overhead. All around him, the early-blooming apple trees danced in the April warmth, oblivious to the somber nature of the conversation occurring beneath their boughs. “Once we’re past the danger of frost, all will be well.”
The Governess of Penwythe Hall Page 1