The House at the End of the Moor

by Michelle Griep

  My lower lip quivers, and I press my mouth into a tight line. My father left me a letter, tucked inside a copy of Jane Eyre of all things, assuring me of his love, but there is a hole in the world now. A hole in my heart. The vast emptiness of it catches me by surprise. Papa and I never had the closest of relationships, so why do I feel such a keen loss? Though I’ve pondered the question since I learned of my father’s death yesterday, I have no answer. All I have is a heavy weight in my chest that will not easily be cast aside.

  Leather creaks and warmth wraps around my folded hands. I pull my gaze from the glass and meet Oliver’s concerned stare. He leans forward in his seat, his fingers infusing strength into mine. He is a shape-shifter, this man. First an escaped convict. Then a gentleman. Now a footman. His crisp black livery with the Corbin insignia on the lapel rides the strong lines of his shoulders. It is a stark contrast to my voluminous bloodred skirts. It’s not the exact dress I wore on that fateful night, but it is close—thanks to Mrs. Corbin’s resourcefulness.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know.” His voice is low, a soothing accompaniment to the dull rumble of the wheels. “We’ll figure out another way.”

  “Oliver is right.” Next to him, his father shifts on the seat. His hawkish face turns towards mine. “You’ve taken a serious blow, my dear. There is no shame in backing out now.”

  I shake my head, willing the movement to dislodge some of my melancholy as well. “No, I want to do this. I need to do this. Had it not been for Ambrose Corbin driving me away, I’d have been here for my father. Maybe spent his last moments on earth at his side. Tonight, I sing for him. For his sake, and for yours.” Turning my hand over, I grip Oliver’s with an affirming squeeze, new strength unexpectedly filling me as my own words reach back inside me. My father is beyond Corbin’s reach now. The threats that had bound me for the past nine months no longer wield any power. I lift my chin and breathe deeply for the first time since learning of my father’s passing. “I will delight in exposing Mr. Corbin for the true villain he is.”

  As we turn onto the well-lit Corbin drive, light bathes half of Oliver’s face. He pulls back and straightens on the seat, his expression a strange mix of admiration and trepidation.

  Once again, I peer out the window, this time focusing on the task at hand. The carriage veers off the main drive, bypassing a lineup of other coaches, and circles the building until it finally stops at a side door. Once the three of us alight, a shrouded figure steps from the shadows and beckons us to follow.

  Inside, we are immediately ushered into a storage closet that smells of muddied Wellingtons and waxed canvas that’s been dampened one too many times. My nose tickles, and I press my fingers against it lest I sneeze.

  The door closes. A lamp is lit. Mrs. Corbin removes a dark hood and mantle. Her pale green evening gown shimmers with hundreds of tiny seed pearls. Her silver-streaked hair is perfectly coiffed and curled, held in place by diamond-studded combs. Despite being a woman of middle age, she sparkles with elegance—a testament to the depravity of her husband, for any man ought to be proud to call her his wife and not seek to gratify himself with other females.

  Her lips part—then suddenly close when her gaze lands on the ruby necklace resting on my collarbone. Little furrows crease her brow, but, though I try, I cannot figure out if it’s sadness or anger that troubles her so.

  Then her chin lifts, and the trance is over. “There is no time to waste.” Her gaze drifts from me to Oliver and finally lands on the barrister. “The magistrate is here and already making noises that he shan’t stay long.”

  Oliver’s father grunts. “I was afraid of that. Old Hunter is a stickler for a pipe and his bed by ten o’clock. I shall have my work cut out for me to keep him within arm’s length the whole evening. Well then, a quick rundown, shall we?” He claps his hands and rubs them together. “Miss Lee, have you the half-paste necklace to pass on to Mr. Groat?”

  I nod. “It’s in my bag.”

  Next to me, Oliver’s deep voice rings out. “And I have the other, ready to slip into Mr. Corbin’s pocket.”

  “Very good.” The barrister nods.

  Mrs. Corbin sweeps her hand towards me. “And I shall endeavor to match your performance tonight with as much flair as you, Miss Lee. As soon as you’re finished singing and the applause dies down, I will accuse you of stealing my necklace.”

  “At which point I will refute you and point out the real thieves.” And oh, how good that will feel!

  “When all is accomplished, we shall meet back here. Godspeed everyone.” The barrister tips his head towards Oliver and me, then opens the door and holds it wide for Mrs. Corbin. “After you, Adelia.”

  They step out, but before I can follow, a light touch on my sleeve turns me around.

  “Maggie, I…”

  Oliver’s words stall, yet hundreds more are birthed in his stare, none of which I can decipher. Like a book written in a foreign language, I can no more read what he was about to say than I can read Portuguese. But no words are needed. Somehow, some way, I understand this man as if he’s poured out his heart to me. He is worried—and rightfully so—but it is more than that. Something deeper. He cares for me in a way that goes beyond a kiss or embrace, and that does strange things to my belly.

  Leaning close, he presses his lips to my brow and whispers, “Be careful.” Then pulls away.

  The loss is staggering. Even so, I curve my mouth into a brave smile. “I will. And you as well.”

  With a last glance, I leave him behind and join Mrs. Corbin, who waits for me in the corridor. The barrister is already gone back to the carriage to make a grand entrance through the front door. Oliver will descend the servants’ stair to join the ranks of the many who serve refreshments.

  I follow Mrs. Corbin along a back passage. No plush carpets or golden sconces adorn this mean passage. Just oak planks and tin candle holders mounted on walls of somewhat cracked whitewashed plaster. What would the servants who use this corridor think to see me in my ruby gown trailing the sparkling skirts of Mrs. Corbin?

  Before we run into any maids, Mrs. Corbin stops at a plain door. Strains of conversation and laughter crescendo as we enter. It is a small sitting area. A sofa. Two chairs. A tea table, fully stocked. And a ceiling-to-floor set of burgundy brocade draperies partitioning this area off from the rest of a great hall. A chill lifts gooseflesh on my arms. This is the same place where I stood nine months ago.

  Mrs. Corbin turns to me and gathers my hands in hers. “May God bless you—bless us—on tonight’s performance.”

  Before I can respond, she flees like a ghost in the night, slipping through a crack where the curtains meet the wall. Against all reason, I follow, driven by a compelling urge to see just how many and who are in attendance. There is only an inch gap, but it is enough for one eye to peer out.

  Most of Bath’s society mingles in their silk gowns and white cravats. Over in one corner, a small ensemble plays quiet music that underlays the chatter. All is familiar. My preperformance nerves begin to unspool—until a certain gentleman strolls into the room like a Greek god. The crowd parts, allowing him passage. I shrink back and snug the curtain tight against the wall. My heart pounds in my chest like a caged sparrow mad to get out. Just the sight of Ambrose Corbin chokes me, and I lift both hands to my neck.

  How on earth will I sing tonight?

  A London townhome. A country estate. An abbey, a castle, or hall. No matter the venue, every party was the same. As much as the wealthy liked to preen and prance, wearing bespoke suits and gowns in order to stand out, the lot of them looked identical. Oliver frowned. Picking out Corbin amidst the sea of black tails would be as tricky as keeping his tray balanced.

  Weaving through the revelers, he donned a more placid mask as he searched for the scoundrel. Now and then guests signaled for him to stop and relieved him of yet another glass of champagne. Though he hated to slow his search, he had no choice but to comply.

  Across the room, his
father cornered Magistrate Hunter. Not a very dangerous assignment, but a difficult one, nonetheless. Oliver’s gaze lingered a moment more, focusing on his father. As always he wore a mantle of power that demanded attention, but this time Oliver detected something more, a determination to set right a wrong, a stance he couldn’t help but admire. Despite his promise to Maggie, he’d not yet had time to make amends with the man—but he would. Tonight, God willing. When this whole sordid affair was behind them all, he’d speak with his father and set things right, as much as it depended on him, then comfort Maggie, somehow, for the loss of hers.

  Near the door, people suddenly parted. Steadying the tray, Oliver turned towards the movement. Long legs in perfectly tailored trousers strolled in, each step stoking another log onto Oliver’s burning anger. Corbin. Just the sight of him twisted his gut.

  The glasses on the salver rattled as Oliver upped his pace and reached into his pocket. A slight bump. A quick transfer. Justice would be served before the midnight buffet was fully stocked with platters.

  But then a silver-haired matron stepped in front of him, blocking his path. Her eyes were pinched. No, her whole face was wrinkle upon wrinkle. A prune in an evening gown, clutching a small dog to her breast. She stroked the pup’s head, rings glittering on her fingers, diamonds sparkling on the dog’s collar. Oliver blinked.

  “Portia here needs a drink.” Each word snipped the air like a pair of scissors. The queen herself couldn’t have commanded with any less authority.

  Nodding, Oliver sidestepped her. Let some other hapless servant see to her Yorkshire’s needs. Now was the perfect chance to pass off the necklace. Corbin stood with his back towards him. He might not even have to bump into the man from this angle. Just a quick pass-off and—

  “I said Portia needs a drink. Now!” The shrill words turned heads—Corbin’s included.

  Oliver pivoted. If this demanding dowager exposed him before he could plant the jewels, all would be ruined. Forcing his lips into a smile, he dipped his head in a polite bow. “Of course, madam. I will return with some water posthaste.”

  “Which is what you should have done in the first place. Humph!” She sneered, her lips rippling like a clamshell. The little dog squirmed in her arms. “I should think the Corbins would not keep such ill-mannered help.”

  Ignoring the barb, Oliver clenched his teeth and made his way back to the sideboard. One glass tipped over as he set down the tray. Liquid spilled out in a bubbly stream. Blast! He cast about a covert glance, preparing for a dressing-down from the first footman, but miracles apparently still happened. No one noticed. Good, then they also wouldn’t notice if he shoved the tray to the back of the table, picked up a small bowl, and dumped the nuts in it onto the mess. Working quickly, he reached for a crystal pitcher and filled the now-empty bowl halfway with water, then retraced his steps back to the woman.

  “Here you are, madam.” He held out the bowl with two hands.

  “Finally,” she barked and, ever so tenderly, extended the pooch so that its pink tongue could lap up a drink.

  Degradation came in all forms. The crushing defeat of a prized piece of legislation. A stripped-bare beating in the prison yard. Standing amidst the wealthy, serving a dish of water to a dog that ranked higher than him by society’s standards. Oh how far he’d fallen.

  Finally the pup quit drinking. The woman curled her upper lip at Oliver and strolled away without so much as a thank you. Blowing out a long breath, Oliver once again donned the servant’s face he’d practiced with James and returned the bowl to the sideboard, then started all over again to scan for Corbin.

  Thankfully, the man hadn’t moved far. Corbin yet stood somewhat near the door, engaged in a conversation with… Oliver squinted. Ahh. Lord Callahan. Of course. Corbin always made it a habit to woo the most influential, and Callahan was a high-ranking member of the House of Lords.

  Shoving his hand into his pocket, Oliver fingered the necklace and edged his way over to the pair. Closer. Arm’s length, now. A slight reach and—

  Corbin turned his way.

  So did the matron with the dog. “You there! Portia needs—”

  Thunderation! It was now or never.

  Averting his face, Oliver bumped into Corbin’s shoulder, hopefully diverting the man’s senses from detecting the necklace he slipped into his pocket. Without missing a step, Oliver kept on walking, straight for the door.

  “Stop right there!” Corbin bellowed.

  Oliver upped his pace, crossed the threshold, reached the front hall, and—

  “I said stop.” The words were a growl.

  His step faltered. Causing a scene here and now would attract attention, possibly expose him, destroy everything before Maggie had a chance to pass off her necklace to Groat.

  He halted and, though it galled him to do so, hung his head and sagged his shoulders in a display of submission. Every other muscle, though, knotted from the strain.

  “Your pardon, sir,” he mumbled.

  Corbin’s leather shoes clicked on the tiles, stopping just behind him. “Do not think you can so rudely assault me in front of my own guests. You’re finished here. Take off that livery and get out of my house.”

  Slowly the tension ebbed. That was it? A simple dismissal? The man could have no idea the service he’d just rendered.

  “As you wish, sir.” Smiling, Oliver once again walked away.

  “Wait!” Corbin’s heels caught up with him. “I will have your name as well. Never again shall you work in a genteel home. I’ll make certain of that.”

  Of course he would. Rotten powermonger. He should’ve known better. Corbin wouldn’t let him—or any servant—off so easily.

  He cleared his throat and pitched his tone lower than normal. “My name is—”

  “Face me like a man when speaking!”

  Fingers dug into his arm, jerking him around.

  And then he was staring into the devil’s eyes. Blue. Piercing. Rock hard—and flashing with recognition.

  “Ward! What the deuce are you doing here? And in my livery, no less!” His gaze narrowed to slits. “How did you get out of gaol so soon?”

  Inside the ballroom, chatter ceased. The clickety voice of Groat rang out. Oliver’s hands clenched to hard balls. As much as he might like to thrash Corbin, that bit of justice was not his to mete out. He was only here to make sure that justice was indeed done.

  In one swift move, he cranked Corbin’s arm behind his back and snapped up his wrist towards his neck. One false move and Corbin would dislocate his shoulder. An effective hold. One Oliver knew well, for it was one of Barrow’s signature pins.

  He shoved the man forward, towards the gathering, and spoke low in his ear. “I’ll explain later. I wouldn’t want you to miss tonight’s entertainment.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I run my clammy palms along the smoothness of my red gown. This time, it is not my father’s life that hangs in the balance but that of a man whom I’ve come to care about deeply.

  Oh God, grant Your mercy on this night.

  I pour hot water into a teacup and stir in a spoonful of honey. Bless Mrs. Corbin for remembering my preperformance penchant. The cup shakes in my grip as I lift it to my lips. It is not the fear of singing that trembles through me—just the usual amount of nerves in that respect. It is all the what-ifs that crawl over my skin like invisible spiders.

  What if I drop the necklace instead of slipping it into Mr. Groat’s pocket and the whole crowd sees?

  What if the magistrate leaves before the true thieves are exposed, giving Mr. Corbin and Mr. Groat time to disappear? Or time to gather false witnesses and somehow turn the blame back on me or Oliver?

  And—worst of all—what if none of this charade makes any difference and Oliver is once again locked away, perhaps for forever?

  “Are you ready?”

  The words click through the air, and my stomach sinks. I turn to face Mr. Groat. The curtain still sways behind him from where he shimmi
ed between like a cockroach through a crevice.

  I set down my cup. “I am.”

  “And the jewels?” His head angles, his black little eyes probing my face. “You have them?”

  “I do.”

  “Then let us not tarry.” He lunges, so that he’s nose to nose, his moist breath dampening my cheek. “And do not think for one second to cross me again, hmm?”

  It takes all my courage not to shrink back. “I will keep my word if you keep yours.”

  His dark gaze violates mine a moment more, then he’s gone, the curtains swinging behind him.

  Sharp clapping rings out. “Ladies and gentlemen… pardon me… your attention please.”

  The guests’ droning fades to a hum, then disappears altogether.

  “I am pleased to bring to you a talent that has not been seen since last year, here, at a gathering much like this.” Mr. Groat’s announcement click-clacks like sharp heels against a wooden floor. “Some of you may have even been fortunate enough to be in attendance that night.”

  A few oohs and ahhs filter through the room.

  “This songbird,” Groat continues, “is well known for her vocal capabilities. Most often she dazzles audiences at the Theatre Royal, but tonight marks a milestone in her career. After this evening, this famed soprano will fly on to other stages, other towns, other cities, for she is now a free agent, no longer tethered to Bath, and no longer mine alone to direct. This is a very special gathering, indeed.”

  He pauses for theatrical effect, and I inhale deeply, breathing in freedom. The bond is broken. He is no longer my manager. For the first time in my life, I am none but my own—a completely exhilarating and frightening thought.

  “And so without further ado, I give you…”

  When he pauses again, I palm the incriminating necklace and scoot close to the curtain.