by Martha Keyes
But she couldn’t run. Her fears were far eclipsed by that stubborn hope that she had tried in vain to extinguish over the past eight years: hope that there was something more for her than the solitary life she watched Aunt Sara and other spinsters lead; that she might fall asleep and wake to the familiar presence of someone whose happiness mattered to her more than her own; that there was someone whose heart would respond to hers in perfect reciprocity.
Her time in Rushbury had fanned that little hope to a raging fire within her—one her fears were entirely unequipped to snuff out.
It had been quite some time since Samuel had slept in past six o’clock, and even when he rose from his bed with the small hand of the clock tipping toward seven, his movements were more sluggish than usual. His body fought against his wishes for movement, his arms and back aching, the skin on his hands feeling tight with the promise of blisters. He was sincerely glad he had refrained from following Archie’s lead in drinking more than one glass of brandy—he couldn’t imagine adding a throbbing head to everything.
A quick, urgent knock sounded at the front door, and Samuel’s brows drew together as he tied his cravat. It was far too early for any callers.
A knock only slightly less urgent sounded shortly after on the door of his bedchamber. “Come in,” he said.
His maid appeared in the doorway. “It’s Mr. Burke, sir. He says it’s urgent.”
Samuel nodded and shrugged on his coat, following his maid from the room and taking quick strides toward the front door.
Burke was looking down at the floor, spinning the hat in his hands distractedly. His head came up at the sound of Samuel’s footsteps.
He grimaced and shook his head. “Bad news, Sam.”
“What is it?” Samuel said, gesturing for Burke to precede him into the study.
“The Gilmours’ machines. Someone took an ax to them—broke the window to get into the house and then went to work destroying the machines.”
Samuel’s mouth opened as his muscles tensed. “Luddites?” He shook his head, rubbing his mouth. “How could they have received word of the machines so quickly?”
It had been a few months since any news had reached them of Luddite violence, and Samuel had secretly hoped that the riots and uprisings were a thing of the past—an unfortunate but short-lived blemish on the histories of Yorkshire and the surrounding counties. He sympathized with the men, of course—they were desperate to feed their families and guard their livelihoods—but the fear and havoc they had spread across the North had been palpable.
Rushbury had been mercifully unaffected by it all. As a village slow to embrace progress and technology, there had been no reason for the Luddites to come there.
Burke pinched his lips and brows together, holding Samuel’s eyes as if he wished for Samuel to understand something without speaking it.
“What?” Samuel said.
“I don’t think that word did travel so quickly, Sam.”
Samuel sucked in a quick breath and clamped his eyes shut as he let it out. “John Reed.” The man had been impossible to catch since the arrival of the machines—he had brushed off Samuel’s attempts at conversation, usually drunk when he did so. John knew what it would likely mean for him and his family. More hardship. Lower wages for the same work. And all with a growing family.
“I don’t have proof,” said Burke, “but I highly suspect it was he. He hasn’t been sober in a week, and you know how he is when he’s been drinking.”
Samuel nodded, running a hand through his hair. John had abstained from drink for some time before this when he had realized how unhinged and violent it made him—and how it had affected his children to see him that way.
Burke shrugged helplessly. “The Gilmours are insisting I put up a sign calling for information—offering a hundred pounds for the identity of the person responsible.”
“A hundred pounds?” Samuel said incredulously. He let out a gush of air. “That’s more than twice the normal reward.”
A hundred pounds come by without any work was a sum unimaginable to most of Rushbury’s residents.
But they wouldn’t turn on one of their own. At least not willingly.
Burke nodded. “A servant has already been sent to order the printing of the signs. I reckon I’ll have them in hand by noon. And the Gilmours want them up without delay.”
Of course they did. They saw this act as a threat to all their plans for Rushbury, and Samuel suspected that they would be merciless with the offender. They would make an example of him.
“I must find John,” said Samuel. “I must speak with him and help him see reason. No one will inform on him—I am confident of that. But he cannot think to get away with such a crime with no repercussions.”
Burke slapped his hat against his leg softly. “Then what? What are you proposing?”
Samuel grimaced. “I have no idea.”
There were no good options. He couldn’t watch as one of his closest friends was tried and transported—or worse, hanged—for a decision made out of desperation. It was a terrible decision—there was no arguing that—but he didn’t deserve to die, and his family didn’t deserve to be left alone, worse off than ever and deprived of a father and husband.
He would need to speak to John. But first he needed a plan—something to force John to come to his senses and see that he was hurting no one more than his own family. He was putting the village in a terribly difficult position. If the Gilmours were intent upon finding the criminal responsible, they had the ability to tear Rushbury apart by putting pressure on the villagers to tell what they knew.
He suppressed the desire to swear. He couldn’t sort through this on his own. He needed to speak with Georgiana. Perhaps she would know what to do.
Chapter 17
By twelve o’clock, Georgiana was feeling too anxious to sit inside anymore. Fortunately, she had remembered two or three things which she had forgotten to detail in the surveyor records the day before. They were small matters, but whoever took up the position once her year of service was over would surely be grateful for her meticulous documentation.
It sounded like a frail excuse even to her, but she took it, nonetheless.
Patience helped her into her light blue spencer and handed her bonnet to her. She had only been acting as maid for a few days, but she was looking more tired than usual. Georgiana couldn’t help but wonder if she was trying to help her family as well as performing her duties at Granchurch. Georgiana had purposely given her flexibility, insisting she only needed her at certain times of day, but she was beginning to doubt the wisdom of this. What had been intended as an act of charity and consideration—and a way to safeguard her own freedom—might instead be taken as an excuse by Patience to overwork herself, devoting her time and attention between Granchurch and home.
Georgiana would have to see if she could draw Patience out. She was a very kind and amiable young woman, but Georgiana had the impression that she kept her thoughts and feelings close and shouldered burdens heavier than someone her age should have to bear alone.
Georgiana tingled with anticipation as she stepped outside, and her heart quickened as she passed the spot where she and Samuel had stopped yesterday evening, the memory bringing a warmth to her cheeks. She was only halfway down the hill, though, when she spotted the vicar himself striding toward her. He was looking at the ground and seemed to be frowning.
Her heart stuttered. Had he already thought better of things? Was he coming to clarify that he hadn’t meant anything by what he had said and done the day before?
He finally looked up, and the frown melted away, the corner of his mouth tugging up slightly as he slowed and then continued walking toward her more quickly.
The slightest sigh of relief escaped Georgiana, and her mouth broke into a smile. “Samuel,” she said, feeling her nerves flutter at her forwardness. She had meant to let his behavior dictate her own, but she hardly felt in control of herself.
He came up to her, taking h
er hands in his as a vestige of the frown reappeared on his brow. “I have bad news, I’m afraid.”
She clasped his hands more tightly. “What is it?”
“The Gilmours’ machines,” he said. “Someone vandalized them last night.” He glanced over his shoulder toward where the village lay, and his mouth drew into a line.
“Good heavens,” Georgiana said.
He looked her in the eye and then shut his, shaking his head. “I am fairly certain I know the culprit.”
Her mouth parted, and her stomach clenched. “John Reed?”
He nodded. “Burke is under orders by Sir Clyde to post signs all over the village and those nearby, seeking information about the act in exchange for a reward.” He paused, his nostrils flaring. “One hundred pounds.”
Her eyes widened. One hundred pounds was of little note to someone like Sir Clyde. But to one of the villagers….
“You think someone will inform on him?” she asked. “Were there any witnesses?”
Samuel shook his head. “Not that I can discover. The village was very quiet last night. Everyone was to bed earlier than usual, exhausted from the day’s work, I imagine.” He looked into her eyes, increasing the pressure on her hands. “I feel confident that none of the villagers would inform on him, even if they knew. The only person I am unsure of is…your brother.”
Archie. Would he do such a thing? She couldn’t imagine him even taking notice of the dealings of Rushbury.
She shook her head. “No, we needn’t worry about Archie.”
He frowned. “Perhaps I should speak with him to be sure.”
She smiled wryly. “Quite unnecessary. My brother is lamentably true to the portrait painted by people like Mrs. Green: he thinks himself above the dealings of the village.”
He looked at her with uncertainty. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “If you wish, I will speak with him, but Archie is not nearly observant enough—or interested enough—to concern himself with such matters.”
Samuel nodded with a little smile. “Opposite from you, then?” He looked down at her fingers, fiddling with them distractedly. “When I heard the news, you were the person I wanted to speak with.” He looked up at her, and the somberness in his eyes led her to put a comforting hand to his cheek. “I cannot let John—or his family—be ruined by this. But neither can I turn a blind eye to his reckless and foolish choices. Besides, from what I know of the Gilmours, they won’t rest until they find the person responsible and make him pay.”
She nodded. “I very much fear you are right.” She paused, taking in a breath. She wanted to lift Samuel’s burden however she could. “I will speak with them.”
He put a hand to her cheek and looked at her in a way that made her feel that, no matter how unpleasant it might be to speak with the Gilmours on the matter, it would be well worth it.
“You will take your maid, I trust,” he said, a glint of humor lighting up his grave expression for a moment.
“I wouldn’t dream of jeopardizing things by neglecting to do so,” she said.
They stood smiling into each other’s eyes for a moment before Samuel sighed and Georgiana’s smile faded, the weight of the situation settling back in on them.
“I would like to continue our conversation from yesterday,” he said, “but I wish to do it without the necessity of brevity and without John Reed’s future hanging over our heads.”
She swallowed and nodded, her heart flapping against her ribcage.
“I must first ensure that John doesn’t take his recklessness any further—or alternatively, succumb to his conscience and confess all before we’ve had the chance to decide upon a plan.”
“Go,” she said. “Ensure his safety. In the meantime, I will try to discover from Lady Gilmour what they intend to do in the event that no information is brought forward”— she rubbed her lips together nervously —“or in the event that it is brought forward.”
“Bless you, Georgiana,” Samuel said. “You are an angel.” He put a hand behind her head, leaned in, and set a soft kiss on her forehead.
Stifling the desire to wrap her arms around him and prevent him from going, she merely smiled sadly and shook her head. “If there is anything more I can do to help, please let me know.”
He nodded, pressing her hand in his, and then turned on his heel.
Samuel frowned as he closed the Reed’s door behind him. John was not well. Defensive and almost belligerent, he had refused to acknowledge that what he had done was wrong.
As Samuel had suspected, he had been drinking too much before making his way toward the house at the end of the lane, but John insisted that he would have done the same thing sober. How he could claim such a thing was difficult to understand, since he still smelled too strongly of drink to lay any claim to sobriety.
And yet, Samuel had seen the fear in his eyes and the way his gaze flicked to his wife and her rounding midsection when Samuel spoke of what would be in store for him if he was arrested.
Mary had been painfully quiet during the visit, going about her duties in the kitchen silently and with a defeated and resigned quality to her movements. Samuel sensed that he was merely repeating what had already been said to John by her.
It had been all Samuel could do to extract a promise from John not to do anything more to jeopardize his or his family’s safety. The man was desperate, after all, and he could only see the ruining of the machines in a positive light, so sure was he that he would not be found out.
John saw the Gilmours’ bringing the machines into Rushbury as the breaking of a promise—one that needed to have consequences.
Samuel grimaced as he caught sight of the reward sign hanging on the nearest tree. He sincerely hoped John was right about there being no one who could—or would—claim the reward. In time, John would see the error of his ways, but Samuel was still at a loss for how he could make amends without confessing and risking his own death or transportation.
Preoccupied by the dilemma for the entirety of the day, Samuel found himself wondering whether Georgiana had already spoken with the Gilmours and what she had discovered. If they wouldn’t listen to Georgiana, there was little hope for John, he feared. It would only take the detective work of a novice to discover that, not only was John the one with the most motive for breaking the machines, he’d had opportunity to do so. If Mary was interrogated as to his whereabouts on the night in question, she would be forced to choose between lying and setting the seal on her husband’s fate.
Samuel was no closer to thinking of a solution when a knock sounded at his door as he prepared himself for bed. He paused in his shirtsleeves, straining his ears to hear who had come to the parsonage at such an odd hour. Recognizing the distinctive quality of Burke’s voice, he tossed his cravat onto the bed and strode down the corridor, dismissing the maid and welcoming Burke in.
Burke’s face was grave as he followed Samuel into the study. Samuel pulled the door to behind them and took in a breath, trying to prepare himself. He had never seen his friend look so somber, so completely without the customary good humor that lined his eyes and mouth. Unbidden, memories of a similar late evening visit came to his mind, when Burke had informed him of Miss McIntyre’s marriage.
He pushed away the thoughts. “What is it?” He took the brandy from the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses.
“Information has been brought forward against John,” Burke said, his eyes fixed on Samuel.
Samuel’s face fell, hand pausing in the act of passing a glass to Burke. “What? Already? The signs have only been up a few hours.”
Burke said nothing, merely shrugging.
It wasn’t fair. He’d not had enough time yet to come up with a palatable solution to the problem. He had never imagined anything would happen so soon.
He clenched his jaw. He so desperately wished he didn’t have to ask the question on his lips, but it was no use. He would discover the identity of whatever villager had betrayed John, one way or another.
Was it the Mitchells? They had passed a particularly difficult year, and he could well see how a hundred pounds might be too tempting an offer. “Who came forward?”
Burke paused, his lips compressing into a tight line as he watched Samuel carefully. “Archibald Paige.”
Samuel’s breathing stilled, and he blinked once.
Burke nodded. “He came to me just half an hour ago with a name and description of John Reed.”
“How? How would he know?”
“Seems he saw John exiting the house at the end of the lane with an ax in one hand and a bottle in the other just after we left here the other night.”
Samuel swore softly, rubbing his chin. “I don’t understand. Georgiana assured me he wouldn’t interfere—and she promised to speak with her brother in order to ensure it.” He lifted his shoulders. “He’s not even met John to know his name.”
Burke tipped his glass from side to side, lips pressed into a line. “Well he knows it well enough now. And so will the Gilmours.”
Samuel tried to suppress the fear and unease that was making his throat feel blocked and tight.
Burke hadn’t touched the brandy in his glass. “I told him it was too late in the evening to collect the reward from the Gilmours—that I would communicate the information in the morning.” He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I don’t see what else I can do. My hands are tied.”
Samuel nodded. It wouldn’t be fair to ask Burke to withhold information or evidence from the Gilmours—not when it was his job as constable to see that the law was followed in Rushbury. He began pacing the short distance of the study. “What will happen to John?”