The Thief of Lanwyn Manor

by Sarah E. Ladd

  Daniel Lobby, one of Wheal Tressa’s underground captains, stood to his left. He’d not had the chance to talk to him privately since Matthew returned the watch to him. Now was as good a time as any.

  “I’ve been meaning to thank you,” Isaac said as he approached the tall, wiry man.

  “Me?” Lobby jerked his head around. “Why?”

  “For telling Matthew about my pocket watch.” Isaac retrieved the shiny watch from his waistcoat pocket and cupped it in his palm. “I’m glad to have it back.”

  Confusion darkened Lobby’s brow. “What are you talking about?”

  Isaac extended his open palm before him. “Matthew said you told him you saw my watch at a peddler’s in Wheyton.”

  “What, me?” Lobby burst out a laugh. “What would I be doing in Wheyton?”

  Isaac frowned. “So you did not tell my brother about it?”

  “Not me, friend. Wish it were. But what a stroke of luck that was, finding that with a peddler, eh? Like a needle in a haystack, if you ask me. Bless me, everyone knows someone stole that from you. What fool would try to sell something like that so close from where it was taken?”

  Isaac gritted his teeth and stared down at the watch shining in the candlelight.

  Matthew had lied to him.

  What else was Matthew lying about?

  As he stared at it, Isaac noted the time. It was a few minutes past twelve. It was the time mentioned in the odd little crumpled note Matthew had tried to burn.

  Isaac glanced up and looked around.

  Matthew was nowhere to be found.

  Chapter 39

  Still clad in her gown of ivory silk, Julia locked her bedchamber door, removed her slippers, yanked a coverlet from her bed, and sat in a heap on the floor next to the fire.

  After receiving the threatening note, she’d managed to convince her aunt that she’d developed a dreadful headache and really was quite ill. It was a lie, of course, but what other choice did she have?

  Fear—and frustration—held her captive. No one but Isaac knew of the note, and she wanted to keep it that way—at least until she sorted out her thoughts.

  Ghosts and gossips, secret letters and hidden motives—all seemed to be as much a part of Lanwyn Manor as the tapestries hanging on the paneled walls. She’d not believed in the notion of curses, but it was becoming harder to convince herself of its folly.

  A bitter, driving winter rain pelted the earth, and the wind whistled in the cracks of the window. It would be a frigid ride home for the guests as they departed, but judging by the music and loud voices echoing from the lower levels, she expected the revelry would continue for quite some time.

  She settled back farther into the blankets, trying to fix her mind on the pleasant part of the evening—Isaac Blake and his gentle smile. His soft touch. Time slipped past and her breathing slowed. All of the anxiety had exhausted her. Her eyelids grew heavy. Perhaps she’d be able to escape into slumber after all.

  Then footsteps—heavy, like a man’s—plodded along the wooden floor. Whoever it was, was coming from the south and getting closer.

  She stumbled to her feet, pushed the blanket away, and snatched the candlestick on the desk, ready as a weapon if needed. No men should be in this part of the house, especially at this hour. Her heart pounded as the footsteps drew closer.

  Then they slowed.

  She thought of the rumored hidden treasure, and how the guests might go wandering in search of it.

  Flickering light inched along the narrow crack beneath the door. The sound of paper scratching against wood pricked the silence, and something white and square slid beneath her door. Then the walking resumed in the same direction.

  Pulse hammering, she froze as she waited for the night to fully absorb the footsteps’ echo.

  With stockinged feet she tiptoed over to the door and lifted the paper, hesitantly, as if at any moment it might burst into flames. She turned it over. It had been carefully folded but was not sealed. Biting her lip, she hurried over to the fire to glean whatever light she could and unfolded the paper.

  Her hand shook, causing the paper to tremble as she read it.

  You’ve worn out your welcome. Go.

  She pulled out the note she’d received earlier and compared them. They were written by the same hand, of that she was certain. Julia pressed her hand to her mouth, as if fearing saying something out loud would make this more real. Tears, hot as fire, blurred her vision, and that combined with the fire’s flickering light made the hastily written words seem as if they were leaping from the page.

  The first letter was unnerving enough, but this letter—and whoever delivered it—had tracked her to her chamber, where she was alone. Vulnerable. The hiding spaces and empty shadowed rooms she’d seen in the attic chamber above haunted her. She shuddered as her own imagination fanned the flames of her fear.

  The sudden onset of tension formed a real headache. She had half a notion to feed the fire with the note, but fear was giving way to anger. How could someone write to her this way? She was a lady and a guest in this house.

  No, she’d not throw it in the fire.

  She moved to her desk, put the note in the drawer with the first one, and turned the tiny key. Absolutely nothing could resolve this issue tonight. In fact, she wasn’t certain anything could be done about it ever.

  She could return to Penwythe and leave this place forever.

  But Jane was still ill. And Isaac . . .

  She moved to the door. After taking several seconds to garner her courage, she opened it and looked into the dark hall. The carpet appeared dark in the dead of night, with naught but a sliver of rain-soaked moonlight peeking through the window at the end of the hall. She closed her door and turned the lock.

  Satisfied nothing more could be done, she moved to the bed, placed the key on the table beside her, and slipped beneath the smooth bedcovers. Not even the memory of Isaac’s warm smile could put her at ease now.

  Chapter 40

  The afternoon following the Lanwyn Manor ball, Isaac stepped toward Miner’s Row, gripping a sack of peppermints. He’d promised Charlie he’d watch out for Margaret and Jory, and he intended to make good on his word. He lowered his hat against the wind, crossed the broad muddy street, and tapped his knuckles on the Bensons’ cottage door.

  Margaret appeared almost instantly, her wild auburn hair bound at the nape of her neck, a smile on her face. “Isaac. Come in.”

  He removed his hat as he ducked to fit through the doorframe. During the weeks immediately following Charlie’s death, Margaret’s eyes would be rimmed in red when she answered the door, but now, every so often, he would catch a glimpse of the Margaret he’d known for so long.

  Jory trotted up to meet him. In a single motion Isaac swept him up in his arms. “Aha! There now. What do you suppose I brought with me?”

  Giggling, Jory reached for the sack, and after a quick game of holding the treat just out of reach, the boy snatched the sack and threw his dark head back in laughter. Treasure in hand, he wriggled from Isaac’s arms to the floor.

  Jory skipped toward the warm fire and dropped next to the dog sleeping in front of the hearth, and at Margaret’s invitation, Isaac settled in the chair at the table, as he had so many times.

  Margaret retrieved two mugs and a jug of cider and joined him.

  “You did not come to the dance at Lanwyn last night,” he said, watching her pour the liquid.

  “Nay. I’d no desire to.” She scooted one of the mugs closer to him. “Besides, Charlie’s only been dead a month. It would hardly be respectable.”

  “Well, you were missed.” He wrapped his fingers around the mug. “More than one person asked if I’d seen you.”

  A sigh whispered from her lips. “I was in no mood for such a gatherin’—especially at Lanwyn Manor. It’s a farce, if you ask me. It’s shockingly obvious what Mr. Lambourne’s attemptin’ to do. I can only wonder how so many of the miners are buyin’ into it. Goodwill, indeed.�
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  He masked a smile. She might be in mourning, but her fight—her sass and vivacity—was returning. However, there was more than one side to the issue. “Maybe they are tired of the way things are and are willing to step out in good faith in an effort to change things.”

  She did not respond, only sipped the cider and returned the mug to the rough tabletop. She watched Jory for several seconds and then looked back to Isaac. “Or maybe they went to partake in a cheap night of merriment.”

  “So skeptical. And that’s not quite like you.”

  She huffed. “I’ll never be the same as I was. How could I?”

  “You’ve experienced a great loss. We all have, but you and Jory most of all.” The fire popped and sizzled in the grate. “I do wish you would have come. I don’t think Charlie would like for you to be lonely.”

  She shook her head and tightened the shawl around her shoulders. “I was alone, but I was not lonely. At least, not lonely for the sort who’d be at Lanwyn Manor. I know you don’t believe me, but I was in earnest when I said I’d no desire to attend. I’ve never been fond of that place. Something is amiss with it. Always has been.”

  He frowned at the strength of the emotion behind her words. “I guess I wasn’t aware you’d ever been on the property.”

  “Oh, aye.” Margaret nodded, pushing her hair from her face. “You know my mother was a midwife. When I was around fourteen, I assisted her with a birth there. A servant girl. A surprise to everyone—I don’t think her employer knew she was with child. The baby was stillborn.”

  Isaac winced. How had he never heard such a tale? “I didn’t know.”

  “I don’t think anyone knew. ’Twas Mr. Rowe himself that dismissed her. Horrible, to send a young girl out into the cold world after something like that. I often wonder what happened to her. It’s cursed, you know. The house. The land. Too much has happened within those walls for happiness to truly abide there.”

  “Curses are all folly, Margaret, and you’re too practical to believe otherwise.”

  She tossed her hair and shrugged. “Think what you will.”

  Isaac stiffened at the mention of a curse. Talk of it seemed to be everywhere. “Come now. You don’t really think that—”

  “Decades, nay, centuries of bad and evil people have plagued that house, and the current occupants are reapin’ the harvests of those who lived there before them.”

  “Mr. Rowe wasn’t evil.” Isaac leaned his elbow on the table.

  “Are you sure?” she challenged, her green eyes ablaze. “Regardless, I know what I saw, and I’ll ne’er step foot again in that house.”

  They sat in silence for several moments before she tilted her head to the side. “This sudden interest in Lanwyn Manor wouldn’t have anythin’ to do with a certain guest under its roof?”

  He took a drink of his cider. “I assume you’re referring to Miss Twethewey.”

  “Rumors are rampant regardin’ both you and Matthew. As one friend to another, I’d caution you against gettin’ involved in anythin’—or anyone—pertainin’ to the Lambournes. It would be a lapse in judgment.”

  His spine stiffened at the words. “You judge her harshly.”

  “She’s related to the Lambournes, Isaac. By blood. There’s no way to judge her but harshly.”

  Wishing to change the subject, he retrieved the letter from Edwin Richards and placed it before her. “Let’s talk of something else, shall we?”

  She lifted the letter. “What’s this?”

  “From a man interested in investing in Wheal Gwenna.”

  A glow of anticipation replaced the angry fire brimming in her eyes. “This is wonderful, is it not?”

  He shrugged. “I’d temper my excitement if I were you. It’s dangerous territory to agree only to buy supplies from one merchant. Something similar is going on at Wheal Tamsen with another merchant. His prices for basic supplies are ridiculous, but he’s the third largest shareholder and possesses a great deal of weight. I’m concerned that if we agree to these terms it could be months, perhaps years, before the mine yields a profit—if it ever does. Richards is a smart businessman—this agreement would allow him to eventually recoup his investment by overcharging us for supplies, and you and I might never see a farthing.”

  Her shoulders slumped, and a slight pout curved her lips. “So you suggest we wait?”

  “I’ll not negotiate on certain aspects, and we’ll only encounter men like Richards, who’s intent upon lining his pockets at our expense.” Isaac folded his hands before him and fixed his gaze on her directly. “Margaret, you mustn’t continue to wait for something that may not come to fruition. You must put this thought from your mind.”

  “You can’t mean not to open the mine.” Anger brightened her eyes. “You can’t mean that! This is what Charlie wanted. It’s what he wanted!”

  “But things have changed. Everything’s different. You’ve got Jory to think of, and—”

  “But Goldweth needs another mine. Bal Tressa is not going to fix the problems we have. Wheal Tamsen may not be able to sustain itself for much longer either, from what I’ve heard.”

  This was the first time he’d heard Wheal Tamsen mentioned in such a light. “What?”

  She crossed her slender arms over her chest and lifted her chin. “It’s Matthew. People are talking.”

  “I don’t care for gossip.”

  “This is not just gossip, Isaac.”

  They stared at each other for several moments. There was no reason to doubt her words. “What are they saying?”

  She hesitated, almost as if she regretted addressing the topic. She unfolded her arms. “Word is he’s fallen in with some dubious folks in the south. Even worse, he is defaultin’ on his loans. There’s even talk of him lookin’ to sell his shares of Wheal Tamsen.”

  Isaac stood, dumbstruck. “Who’d you hear this from?”

  “Is it true?”

  “No, it is not true.” He squeezed his hand into a fist, then released the pressure.

  “Well, you’d better be sure, because if Goldweth loses control of Wheal Tamsen and there are no other operatin’ mines to support the folks around here, I fear the worst.”

  Chapter 41

  The clock struck a late-afternoon hour, and Julia looked up from her needlework. Next to her, Jane slumbered and a steady rain tapped on the windows.

  Two days had passed since the dance at Lanwyn Manor, and Julia still hadn’t told anyone about the threatening notes. Both Miss Prynne and Matthew had called to speak with her, and she’d claimed yet another headache and refused to come down to the great hall. Julia had sequestered herself in Jane’s room and spent the days doing needlework.

  Only when she received a letter from Aunt Delia did Julia’s tension ease. The very sight of her aunt’s handwriting warmed her. How good it was to feel connected to one she loved so dearly. With a glance at Jane to make sure she was still asleep, Julia returned to the sofa, tucked her legs beneath her, slid her finger under the wax seal, and unfolded the letter.

  My Julia,

  It is hard for me to know you’re so far away and that you are hurting. I wish I could be there by your side and help you face every difficulty. But you are finding your way, my dear one. Oh, the journey can be difficult, but it is one that will shape your future. Furthermore, it is one that only you can navigate.

  When I read your letter, I saw fear written in between your words, and I could almost hear it in your voice. But, child, do not let it rule your decisions and guide your tongue. Darling girl, you know this to be true. You had your heart broken, but I promise you, it will mend. Your aunt Beatrice has much to offer you in the way of guidance, but God has given you your own intuition and has already sent tests to strengthen and refine it. Learn from what has happened in the past. Trust the man who will not break it again, and your aunt Beatrice cannot tell you who that man is, no matter how much she may want to. You are the only one who can reason that for yourself.

  I am proud of y
our decision to be by your cousin and not to leave her during her lying-in. She may not be able to verbalize it, or even realize it now, but it is giving her strength. And it is good for you—when one learns that serving another person diminishes one’s own pain. In the long run, the giver always becomes the receiver.

  How I long to see you again, but how I am eager to see how you will grow. You are giving to another and growing your character. You will never regret such actions.

  Tears formed in Julia’s eyes, not tears of sadness but of relief—relief that someone desired the best for her. In a world where no one seemed to care about her—the real her—it was a treasure indeed.

  As Julia returned to her chamber to prepare for dinner, her steps slowed. The sliver of light coming from the cracked door was not unusual, but the whispered voices emanating from the space gave her reason to pause.

  She approached the door with caution. She used her fingertips to nudge it open. Julia stopped short.

  Aunt Beatrice, Uncle William, and Mrs. Sedrick all stood within her chamber.

  She fought the sense of betrayal that her privacy had been invaded. “What’s going on here?”

  Uncle William extended his hands. “I’d ask you the same question.” In one hand he held a brooch. In the other the corner of a tapestry. Just beyond him, where the tapestry had hung, was a small open door.

  Immediately panic battled confusion. She moved past him to get a closer look. Sure enough, a small door built into the paneling opened to a large closet of sorts. Inside lay several treasures. A silver candlestick. A piece of jewelry.

  “Why are those there?” she blurted.

  Her aunt’s watery stare pinned her. “Perhaps there’s something you would like to tell us.”