Praise for The House at the End of the Moor
“No one writes action and page-turning tension like Michelle Griep! Filled with danger, romance, and faith, The House at the End of the Moor is sure to captivate readers everywhere.”
–Julie Klassen, bestselling author
“Filled with intrigue, danger, and toe-curling romance, The House at the End of the Moor is a masterful tale of redemption, forgiveness, and the beauty of restoration. A story to cherish!”
–Tara Johnson, author of Where Dandelions Bloom and Engraved on the Heart
“An eerily, wonderfully written tale from master storyteller Michelle Griep. This book deserves a place of honor on your shelf!”
–Elizabeth Ludwig, USA Today bestselling author
“She must learn that love is stronger than fear. He, that forgiveness trumps rejection. Griep never disappoints, and she’s penned another winner in this heartfelt tale of vengeance and grace!”
–Shannon McNear, 2014 RITA® finalist and author of The Cumberland Bride, The Rebel Bride, and The Blue Cloak
“Another masterpiece by Michelle Griep; The House at the End of the Moor is hauntingly beautiful and a must-have for every home library.”
–Ane Mulligan, Amazon bestselling author of the Chapel Springs series
“The moors come alive in this tale of hidden souls, dangerous secrets, and burgeoning love. With echoes of the Brontë sisters and the deviousness of Dickens, Michelle Griep has spun a masterful tale of survival and love. I was captivated and did not escape until long after the end.”
–Jaime Jo Wright, author of Echoes among the Stones and Christy Award–Winning The House on Foster Hill
“I couldn’t put this novel down. It has everything I want: a richly detailed and atmospheric historic setting, robust characters who grow from one chapter to the next, and timeless truths convincingly and naturally portrayed. Not only does The House at the End of the Moor sparkle with wit and wisdom, but the spiritual insight is seamlessly and powerfully delivered. Another impressive offering from Michelle Griep. I can’t wait for her next!”
–Jocelyn Green, award-winning author of Veiled in Smoke
“Michelle Griep is my go-to author for heart-throbbing hunks; independent, feisty heroines; and a story that not only warms but keeps my adrenaline raging. The House at the End of the Moor is no exception. Danger, suspense, mystery, and romance all wrapped up in a masterfully written historical novel that not only entertains but teaches a spiritual lesson you’ll not soon forget.”
–MaryLu Tyndall, award-winning author of The Legacy of the King’s Pirates
“How can a tale be both eerie and yet filled with such light and hope? The House at the End of the Moor pulls you into another time and place, completely atmospheric and full of everything that is great about Gothic-style fiction. Griep uses meticulous research as well as her signature wit to craft a tale that will leave you feeling as if you have trod the moors and scaled the tors of southwest England with Oliver and Maggie.”
–Erica Vetsch, author of The Lost Lieutenant
“This sharply clever adventure captured me from gritty opening to brilliant finale! Griep has crafted a wonderfully terrible plight for her characters with a stunning conclusion and a romance that warms right through the pages. A true masterpiece of vivid creativity!”
–Joanna Davidson Politano, author of Lady Jayne Disappears and other historical mysteries
© 2020 by Michelle Griep
Print ISBN 978-1-64352-342-2
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-64352-575-4
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-64352-576-1
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design
Published in association with Books & Such Literary Management, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.com.
Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com
Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.
Printed in the United States of America.
In honor of Jocelyn Pagano, a stalwart warrior of the faith who fought a brave battle for her life against a sinister enemy—cancer.
And as always, to the One who holds the power to vanquish any enemy, no matter how malevolent, Jesus Christ.
Contents
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 One
March 1861
Dartmoor Prison, Devon, England
Death prowled the cellblock like a dark animal seeking prey—especially the weakest. But Oliver Ward would be hanged if he’d let the beast devour the man in the cell beside him. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.
When the next spate of coughing ended, Oliver scooted close to the wall separating him from Jarney. “Listen, when Barrow comes by, lay low. I’ll tell him you’re not fit for work today.”
“No, I cannot let you, my friend.” Jarney’s ragged voice leached through the stone blocks. Whenever a fever raged, his French accent grew thicker—and today it was viscous enough to blend the words into a syrupy mess.
Boots thumped. Keys jangled. Cell doors swung open and Barrow’s barks permeated the perpetually damp air. Oliver clamped his mouth shut. Speaking when not spoken to by an officer was asking for a lashing, and half the time Barrow didn’t even need a reason to strike.
A second later, the hinges of Oliver’s door groaned. Officer Barrow’s broad shoulders filled the doorway. His arms were a little too long. His mouth just a bit too wide. And if he had a neck, it was buried beneath a thick scruff of black whiskers.
“Out!” Barrow bellowed. “Daylight’s a-wastin’.”
Oliver’s gaze climbed the grimy walls, slick with mould and stained to an oily brown by the guilt of men. Near the top, a barred open space let in cold air and light as grey as his evening gruel. Daylight? Hardly.
Even so, Oliver shoved to his feet. Tarrying would earn him a crack in the skull—not that what he was about to do would merit a lesser punishment. Chains clanking from the shackles on his wrists, he strode out of his cell and swung into place at the back of the line of other prisoners.
As soon as Barrow reached for Jarney’s door, Oliver wheeled about. “Officer Barrow, sir! Jarney’s ill. I’ll take his share of work today.”
“That so?” A slow smile slashed across
Barrow’s face.
The hairs at the nape of Oliver’s neck stood out like wires. Barrow never smiled. Oliver swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “Yes, sir.”
The three prisoners behind him turned, the whites of their eyes catching lantern light and flickering with interest. Anything, even something as mundane as a few words to an officer, generated curiosity. Boredom was as real a killer as the pox.
“Huh.” Barrow grunted, his brows arching to his hairline—which wasn’t far off. Crazed locks of bristly black shot out in all directions from beneath the man’s hat. “I don’t recall asking you about Jarney.” Those same brows lowered, drawing into an ominous line. “But now that I know you’re capable of doing more, I shall expect it. Oh, and Ward? No talking unless spoken to.”
Barrow’s fist shot out. Knuckles slammed into cartilage, which gave way with a sickening crunch. Oliver’s head snapped back. He stumbled, barely catching himself before knocking into the man behind him.
Laughter bounced off the walls, mocking without words.
Blood dripped onto his lips. Oliver swiped it away with the back of his hand, then once again faced Barrow, undaunted. “For pity’s sake, man! You’ll get no work out of Jarney today. Let him rest, and he’ll live to work tomorrow.”
Barrow chuckled. “Never learn, do you, Ward? Just can’t keep that pretty mouth of yours shut.”
Oliver raised his fists, ready to parry—but too late. Barrow yanked out his truncheon and whacked away, driving him to his knees as if he were naught more than a railroad spike to be pounded into the ground.
Blackness closed in. Sound receded, save for a bothersome buzzing and the muffled growl of Barrow ordering Jarney out of the cell.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Slowly, Oliver’s vision crept back. Pain banged around inside his skull, radiating from crown to jaw. Turning aside, he spat out a mouthful of blood, then rose on shaky legs. One day Barrow would pay for his brutality—and Oliver could think of a hundred ways he’d like to see that justice served.
Jarney lurched out of the cell, shoring himself up with a hand on the wall, the chains on his wrists scraping against the rock. His hair hung in strings, hiding half his face, but he stood, thank God. He stood on his own. If he fell, Barrow would show no mercy.
Barrow slapped the end of his club against his open palm, the harsh sound making a point. “Let the thief no longer steal, but rather let him labour.” His dark eyes drilled holes into Oliver and Jarney. “Therein shall ye find salvation.”
Oliver blinked to keep from rolling his eyes, which would only invite another clout to the head. Officer Barrow fancied himself as the vicar of Dartmoor Prison, spouting scripture with as much gusto as a stiff eastern wind. He never got it quite right, though. A missing word. An added phrase. His own doctrines colouring God’s precepts to a cadaverous shade. On the longest, coldest nights, Oliver often spent the black hours wondering if the man were Eden’s snake come in human flesh.
“Move it!” Barrow smacked his club against the wall, the echo urging the five of them to turn about and tramp through the bowels of the prison.
It was a blessing, this broken nose of his. The stench in his own cell was putrid enough, but the reek in the passageways was worse. This time of day, when prisoners were yanked from their dark holes and hauled outside for manual labour, the opening and closing of doors stirred all the noisome stinks and collected them into one big, eye-watering vapor trapped in the corridor. It used to gag him. Now it just annoyed.
As they mounted the stairs, he whispered over his shoulder. “Grab hold, Jarney. I’ll pull you up.”
Chains rattled. Fingers dug into his shirt. Hopefully Barrow wouldn’t notice Jarney’s grip on his shoulders.
The stairway opened into a large hall, a hub of activity. Convicts of worse crimes than his shuffled about in leg irons. Those who’d committed lesser offenses wore nothing but the wrinkled clothing they’d arrived in. But all had been issued shoes with nails pounded into the soles in the shape of an arrow—a dead giveaway should someone be reckless enough to escape, leaving a trail so obvious a blind bishop could follow. Oh, they were easy enough to take off, but running barefoot in the wild could mean death. If not from the nip of an adder, then from the bite of rocks and gorse on the moorland, which could cut through the toughest of flesh or callus.
And nothing but miles upon miles of moor surrounded the prison.
Oliver trudged along. Around him, guards prodded prisoners, some destined for meaningful work such as oakum picking, but most were headed for rock breaking. Only God and Barrow knew how Oliver and his cohorts would spend the long hours of this day. Personally, he hoped for oakum. It was hand-shredding work, but at least it served a purpose.
Before they turned down the passageway, a crab-like man, ruddy-skinned and hunchbacked, scuttled sideways over to them. One of his legs was shorter than the other, giving him an off-beat gait. It was a wonder Officer Whimpole was yet on the payroll.
“Hold up there, Mr. Barrow.”
As much as Oliver—and no doubt the rest of them—wanted to turn around and watch the exchange, to do so would mean time added to their service. And time was oft more brutal than the actual work.
Oliver strained to hear. A belch of damnation spewed out of Barrow, then he stomped to the front of their line and faced them. “Sorry, girls. There’s another matter to which I must attend posthaste. Officer Whimpole and Mr. Piggins will oversee you today.” He aimed his index finger at the prisoners like the muzzle of a gun. “And if I hear that any of you give either of my colleagues so much as a crossed eye, I’ll send you to your Maker. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!” they shouted in unison.
Barrow stalked off. Whimpole took his place, making sure to handle the revolver at his side. He was an arthritic old coot, but no less deadly with that firearm loaded and ready to go.
“Outside.” He tipped his head towards the front door. “The lot o’ ye. Piggins has a wagon ready.”
So…no oakum or rock breaking, then. And best of all, no Barrow. Oliver resisted the urge to make eye contact with Jarney, though the man had to be thinking what he was. Any little twitch might give him away—give them away—and this was too momentous an occasion for error. This might be it, though. The day. The show. The single moment Oliver had been counting on since he’d arrived in this hellhole.
Escape.
Whimpole pivoted and led the way. Mistake one. No guard should turn his back on his prisoners. Oliver flattened his lips to keep from smiling.
Outside, a cold blast of air drove misty rain sideways, cooling the hot throbbing of his nose. He hoisted Jarney into the back of the wagon while eyeing the big blob on the driver’s bench, reins gripped in hands the size of mutton roasts. Mistake two. Piggins was as dull-witted as Whimpole was arthritic. The warden never should’ve paired them up. Surely this was a sign from God.
Oliver climbed into the wagon bed and sat beside Jarney, opposite the other three prisoners from their corridor. Snooks, Badger, and Flayne ignored them. Ignored each other. Ignored anything other than the sound of their own breathing. It was safer that way. Oliver had learned early on that self-containment could save your life, though he broke that rule for Jarney, a man as unrighteously accused as himself.
As soon as Whimpole pulled himself up and hunkered next to Piggins, the wagon rattled forward, and they left behind the grey hulk of Dartmoor Prison. Not that the surrounding countryside was any less forbidding. Unforgiving moorland stretched farther than the eye could see. Desolate. Dangerous. Whoever thought to put a prison in the middle of this godforsaken terrain was a genius.
As they bounced along, Oliver leaned towards Jarney. “Today’s the day,” he whispered.
“Oui, for you.”
He narrowed his eyes. Was Jarney having second thoughts? “For us,” he encouraged.
The wheels hit a rock, jostling them all. Oliver shored up Jarney with a grip to his arm.
His friend
faced him, his skin as colourless as the pewter sky. “I will slow you down. I am not worth your getting caught.”
Oliver slipped a glance at the other men. None looked their way. Not that they would’ve understood Jarney’s accented words or heard his own above the rumble of the cart, but even so, Oliver lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “Don’t be ridiculous. Every soul has value.”
“Even Barrow’s?”
He sucked in a breath. That stung. Of course Barrow was one of God’s creatures—but so was a rat.
The wagon rattled onward and didn’t stop until Whimpole shouted, “Ho!”
They halted near a breach in a sheep fence on the farthest reach of the prison grounds, where Whimpole turned to Piggins. “I’ll take this one. Next break is bigger, near a half mile on. Ye’ll see it. Swing back this way when ye’re done, aye?”
Piggins’s big head bobbed, and Whimpole lowered himself to the ground, a hammer in hand. “Ward and Jarney, out!”
Oliver gripped the wagon’s backside and hauled himself over, chains clanking, then offered up a steadying grip as Jarney descended. His friend swayed when his feet hit the uneven turf. Oliver anchored him with a hand to his shoulder.
Whimpole threw the hammer at their feet. “Have at it, boys.” Then he hunkered next to where the wall was yet whole, gun in his lap, protected from wind and rain. Mistake number three. Oliver hid a grin.
He retrieved the hammer and nodded for Jarney to follow him to the other side of the fence. A nearby cluster of sheep complained at their presence. Good. Their bleating noise combined with the occasional whoosh of wind off the moorland would cover up a whispered conversation. He turned to his friend. “This is it. You fetch rocks. I’ll pound them, taking care to break my shackles as well. Then we’ll switch places and you—”
“No.” Sorrow etched lines in the grime on Jarney’s brow. “I cannot make it. I will only slow you down. Once you are free of your chains, I will distract Whimpole and you run.”
“I’m not going without you. You deserve justice every bit as much as I.”
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