Jac grabbed his hat and headed out into the damp afternoon. What he had thought had been a disaster just might have turned into a new foundation of trust and honesty between him and his oldest nephew, and at that knowledge, fresh optimism swirled.
Chapter 45
Making carriage arrangements took much longer than Jac had anticipated. He was forced to go into Morrisea to find a carriage for hire—and in doing so he passed the Hawk’s Eye Inn.
Mrs. Greythorne’s warning stirred afresh in his mind. She’d said the entire town was run by the Greythornes, and he did not doubt it. He glanced at the faces he passed as he traversed the street, wondering what role, if any, they played in the Greythornes’ work or if they’d known Delia when she’d resided here. He kept an alert eye out for Thomas Greythorne, and for Mr. Simon as well, but his visit to the livery passed without incident.
After making the necessary arrangements, Jac returned to the main street. The thought that Delia had spent so many years here was not lost on him. She’d walked this street. Attended that church. So much of her life had been here—so much of her heart. His gaze fell on the graveyard next to the church—a rather large graveyard, with ancient oaks offering shade to the graves below. He sobered. The space called to him, drawing him in like a beacon, and he stepped toward the resting place.
As soon as he entered the walled enclosure, he noticed several ornate headstones carved with images of angels and animals, all of which bore the name Greythorne. Reginald Greythorne. Jane Greythorne. Matthew Greythorne. He continued down the row, until one name stopped him in his tracks.
Robert Greythorne.
From the dates, this had to be her husband. He pivoted to the side, and then he saw it. The infant grave.
Maria Greythorne.
Fresh flowers adorned both headstones. He did not doubt for a moment that Delia had placed them there. He could only imagine the pain of loss she had endured. He recalled the tenderness that lit her eyes and softened her expression when she had accepted the pendant earlier. But even as happy as that made her, it would never bring her little daughter back. And Maria could never be replaced.
He stared at the tiny marker for several seconds. A pair of noisy birds squawked above. He raised his head, and upon doing so he noticed wild daisies growing at the fence’s edge. He stepped over, gathered a handful, and placed them on the child’s grave.
If he could, he would take Mrs. Greythorne’s pain upon himself, but nothing could change the past. But maybe, just maybe, he could help change her future.
* * *
When Jac returned to the Widow’s Crest Inn, his stomach was grumbling. Surely by now Liam should be rested and ready for a meal. But when he arrived in the courtyard, no stablehand was there to take his horse. Odd. He settled the horse on his own before he returned to his room.
He entered the inn and found it deserted. No innkeeper was at the desk, no barkeep was in the dining room, and no guests milled about. Earlier the inn had not been lively, but people had been present. Now, the stillness was eerie.
He was not a superstitious man, nor was he prone to dramatics, but something about the inn’s still atmosphere and stuffy silence was unnerving. He sniffed. He’d be grateful to leave this place once and for all and return to Penwythe Hall. He was worried about the orchards and eager for life to get back to normal.
He made his way up the stairs. As he did, the hair on the back of his neck inexplicably prickled. It was too quiet. Once at his chamber’s door, he retrieved his key from his waistcoat pocket, but when he put the key in the lock, it struck him—the door wasn’t locked.
Alarm rushed him. He flung open the door.
Liam was nowhere to be seen.
Jac’s mouth went dry. His head felt light. He spun around with jerky, desperate movements, poking his head around the bed and in the cupboard. “Liam!”
No response.
“Liam!” he repeated, louder this time.
No sounds met him, just the sound of the sign outside the window banging against the wall in the breeze.
Panic ripped through him. He quickly took inventory of what remained. Liam’s satchel was on the hook on the door, right next to his. Beyond that, the room was devoid of any personal items.
“Stay calm,” he muttered. “There’s got to be an explanation.” Jac stomped to the window and looked down into the courtyard. No one was there.
He raked his fingers through his hair and whirled around. And then he saw it—a piece of paper on the pillow. He crossed to the bed in two paces and snatched up the note.
The time has come for her to right wrongs. As long as she meets us at Turf House, the boy will be unharmed. She knows the ramifications if she fails to comply. None will stand against us. She must come alone.
Jac hungrily absorbed each word of the note. Then he read it again. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, and dampness covered his palms.
Now he fully understood the fear roiling in her eyes the night of the Frost Ball. Thinking of her living with this terror for all these years tore at his heart.
He did the first thing he could think to do: he grabbed the satchels and the note and ran down the stairs. He flew to his horse, saddled him, and jumped on his back. There was not a moment to waste.
Chapter 46
Delia’s argument with Horace weighed heavy on her heart as she stood at her bedchamber window. She didn’t want to leave him and have their final conversation be an argument, yet he would not be happy unless she changed her mind.
And that she would not do.
She turned back to her valise and assessed her belongings, but the items on the dressing table caught her attention—Elizabeth’s possessions.
Horace had told her that she might have whatever personal items of Elizabeth’s she would like. Part of her wanted to pretend they weren’t even there. The pain associated with loss was still too raw, and experience had taught her that it would take a long time for that pain to subside—if it ever did. But as she walked around the room, her gaze fell on a leather-bound book on the small table next to the bed. Delia lifted it.
Elizabeth’s Book of Common Prayer.
Delia lovingly ran her fingers over the book’s cover and hugged it to her, and after several moments, she flipped it open. The words leapt off the page—words so familiar, so comforting. Especially after Elizabeth’s words of faith, Delia knew her sister would want her to have this.
She tucked it in her valise and was about to join the family down in the drawing room when hoofbeats thundered in front of the house. She frowned and crossed back to the window. Immediately she recognized Mr. Twethewey’s broad shoulders and black hair evident from beneath his hat. He’d said he would send word regarding their departure but said nothing about visiting again in person. And where was Liam?
She hurried down the narrow, paneled corridor and descended the straight staircase. By the time she stepped onto the main floor, Mr. Twethewey was pounding on the front door. Horace emerged from his study off the entry corridor, his face flushed.
He flung an arm out in Delia’s direction. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I’ve no idea.” Delia brushed past him to open the door.
Mr. Twethewey did not greet her. Instead, he stormed through the door and into Horace’s study and turned abruptly. “They took Liam.” He thrust a piece of paper at her as she drew nearer, and then he paced around her as she fumbled to open it.
Time slowed as she read the missive. Word by word, the meaning penetrated, deeper and deeper, as if sinking into the fabric of her being.
Her past had jeopardized the very boy who risked his life to cross the moorland and make his way to her.
Her hand flew to her mouth. “What did—? How did you—?”
Mr. Twethewey stepped quite close. So close she could feel his heat, his anger, radiating from him. “They. Took. Liam.” His blue eyes scorched her. “He’s gone. Whoever wrote this has him.”
Delia had almost forgotten abou
t Horace until he stomped into the study. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Mr. Twethewey ignored him and pinned his sharp gaze on Delia. “Do you know what they’re talking about?”
She tensed and pulled the study door closed lest anyone overhear their discussion. The very thing she had been fleeing all these years had caught up with her. The secret she was desperate to erase from her memory flared back to life. Vibrant. Haunting. Crucial.
She drew a shaky breath and locked eyes with Mr. Twethewey, and the intensity she found there almost frightened her. The less he knew—the less anyone knew—the better. “Yes, I know where they are referring to. I’ll go now.”
He launched forward in one great step and took her arm. “No, you aren’t.”
“Have you not listened to me?” she hurled, ripping her arm free of his grasp. Tears blazed in her eyes, and her voice cracked with uncontrollable emotion. “Did you not believe me when I told you how dangerous they are? I know what they want.”
Over Mr. Twethewey’s shoulder, she saw confusion darkening Horace’s face. Her brother clenched his fists and pushed closer, like a child determined to have his way. “Delia, I demand to know what is going on.”
Desperate, she turned her attention to Mr. Twethewey. A thousand words were exchanged in that single glance. With a grunt of impatience, he nodded toward Horace.
She followed his silent direction and extended the note toward Horace.
Horace angled the missive toward the light, and the color that had so quickly rushed to his face drained, leaving him pale. He lowered the note, dumbstruck. “I don’t understand.”
“Think, Horace,” she snapped at him. “Who do you know who would expect something like this of me? Who would be capable of this?”
Horace’s face fell, and he handed the note back to Mr. Twethewey.
Delia stepped nearer to her brother. “You’ve known all along what they are capable of. Did you really think that at some point I wouldn’t find out what they were?”
Mr. Twethewey’s nostrils flared. “We’re wasting time. We must go after him. Who is the magistrate here?”
“It’s no use.” She shook her head. “The magistrate is Thomas Greythorne’s cousin. He’d sooner throw you in the gaol than help us.”
“Is there no one then?”
Horace ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “There’s a customs office about three miles from here. I can’t make any guarantees that they’d be willing to help, but I can go there tomorrow and—”
“That will be too late,” Mr. Twethewey barked, pivoting to Delia. “Do you know where this Turf House is?”
She nodded, her stomach curling at the memory of the tiny dwelling with one window, flagstone floors, and a slate roof. “It’s on the moors, halfway between here and Morrisea. It’s near the sea.”
Mr. Twethewey’s mind had to be whirling. His eyes were wild, and he scanned the room hungrily. “Do you have any weapons here? Pistols, anything?”
Horace stuttered, “Our f-father kept a pair of dueling pistols, but only because they were given to him as payment for a debt. I—I don’t even know if they still fire.”
“I have my traveling pistol, and those will have to do. Fetch them, will you? Along with a hunting knife if you have one.” He turned back to Delia. “You need to tell me where this place is. Be specific.”
She shook her head. He was asking the impossible. “Surely you know I can’t describe that to you—especially when you’ve never seen it for yourself. The moors are nothing but rocks and crags. No road is straight. I—I have to be the one to go. Besides, they’d sooner kill you on sight than listen to you try to reason with them.”
He stepped closer and set his hands on her shoulders. He stooped to look her in the eye. “There’s no way I’ll let you go there. It’s too dangerous.”
She shrugged. “But you aren’t listening to me. They won’t hurt me.”
“You’ve been frightened of them since the day I met you,” he retorted. “Why would you think they wouldn’t hurt you?”
“Because I have something they want.”
She shifted her gaze between Mr. Twethewey and her brother. Her blood rushed through her head with such force that she found it difficult even to think, but she owed Mr. Twethewey an explanation, and it was about time Horace knew the truth as well.
Mr. Twethewey’s question was barely above a whisper. “What do you have?”
“Knowledge.” She licked her lips and tried to organize her thoughts above the wild beating of her heart. “Robert never really spoke of his true . . . occupation before we were married, but it wasn’t long into our marriage that I knew the Greythornes—all of them—were smugglers. The night of his death, we’d been invited to his cousin’s home to dine. He’d been so agitated in the days prior, and instead of taking the carriage and the main road as we normally would have, Robert took the trap and a pony. He was determined to travel through the moors, which was especially treacherous in the stormy weather.
“We rode out by the Turf House and cliffs, and all the while he muttered and scanned the horizon. He was frantic and said he was in danger. He kept repeating that he’d been betrayed and that if he died that night, I had to tell his brothers that the last haul was hidden in the crags above the sea. He was adamant about showing me the exact location so I could show his brothers, but I protested. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want any part of it. But he forced me from the trap, dragged me to the cliffs, and showed me the path. It was the first time I had seen with my own eyes exactly what he was up to when he would leave the house during the midnight hours. It was a true confirmation that he was a thief. I saw the crates. Saw the cave.
“He then forced me to go back to his cousin’s cottage and locked me in a room there, like a prisoner, while he went back into the night. It wasn’t until the next morning I was taken to the beach, and by that time he had already died. Apparently during the night he’d gone out to sea to meet another boat coming from France to unload the shipment, but he was right—he’d been betrayed, and the excise men were waiting for them. Robert was shot while on a boat. One of his crewmen somehow pulled him to safety, but he only lived long enough to tell his brothers that I knew where the haul was. They demanded that I show them where it was.”
She glanced up to see shock in Horace’s expression and sadness in Mr. Twethewey’s. Both men remained silent.
“I lied when they asked me where Robert had hidden the goods and told them I had no idea what they were talking about,” she blurted. “I emphatically denied knowing anything, because if I told them, I’d be breaking the law. I’d become one of them. I knew they’d never kill me, not with all eyes on them after the raid. Instead, they sent me away, but part of me was always prepared for the fact that one day they’d demand answers, and that day is here.”
She turned around. Horror had drained Horace’s face of color. Mr. Twethewey’s expression of sadness had morphed into anger. His brows were drawn, his lips set in a firm line.
She forced strength to her voice. “They want to know where Robert hid the crates. Apparently they never found them; otherwise they wouldn’t need me to show them the way.” She stepped forward. “I’ll go and tell them what I know. They’ll free Liam and it will be over.”
Mr. Twethewey shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
A sudden confidence surged through her, and she clutched his arm. “Nobody knows the Greythornes better than I. I lived with them and understand how they think. Furthermore, I know the moors and beaches like the back of my hand. Robert took me there often. Liam is a prisoner because of me. I’m going. You can’t stop me.”
Jac’s expression did not crack as he stared at her. She could see it in his eyes—his mind was mapping out every possible scenario. “Well, you’re not going alone.”
Did he not hear her? “I told you—”
“You’re not going alone, and that’s final.” He pivoted toward Horace. “Go to the customs office. Get the off
icers, now. Tell them what she just told you, and take the note.”
Delia turned her full attention on Horace. She searched her memory, calling to the forefront every detail she could remember. “Take them to the beach just above the east end of Bran Cove. Up in the rocks there is a series of caves. They are all connected, and you’ll want to find the northernmost entrance. That’s where the crates were stashed that night. It’s hard to see, and even harder to reach. But most of all, be careful. I can’t imagine there will be many men there, but you know the Greythornes’ reputation.”
She could see it in his eyes. Horace didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to get involved. Going against the Greythornes was a death sentence. She hadn’t known that before she married Robert, but she knew it now. And clearly Horace knew it as well.
“A little boy’s life is at stake, Horace.” Her strong voice echoed in the space. “If you don’t go get the customs officers, they might kill Liam. You don’t want young blood on your hands.”
Horace hesitated, then reached for his coat and hat from the pegs next to the door. “Very well.”
Her tone softened. Their relationship might be a complicated one, but despite everything that had happened, he was still her bother. “Do you remember that birdcall Father taught us?”
He nodded.
“Listen for it. And I’ll listen for yours. But be loud with it. The surf is loud against the rocks. It might be the only way for us to communicate.”
With that Horace left and turned toward the stable.
She was alone with Mr. Twethewey now. He said nothing but wrapped his arms around her and hugged her to him. She pressed her cheek against his chest, feeling his strength. Even through the broadcloth of his coat she could feel the steady yet fast beat of his heart. He was as frightened as she was. How could he not be? She clung to him for several seconds. They were partners in this—the two of them against what seemed an invincible foe.
The Governess of Penwythe Hall Page 27