The sun had only intensified over the hour we’d been at Grovesly, and I retrieved my fan from my reticule. “Why have we stopped?”
“You looked a little green back there.”
I gave a rather unconvincing laugh. “I don’t know what you mean.”
A knit formed on his brow. “You’re a puzzle to me in so many ways, Charity. You always have been. When you were young, I thought you quiet and shy, then came to learn you were full of imagination and curiosity. You were the only one who would listen to my lectures about the plants in the garden. You came nearly every afternoon to visit Seline, yet more often than not I found you wandering my garden alone. Were you always waiting for me?”
My face felt impossibly hot. “You know I was. You were a breath of fresh air for a young lady exhausted by the tedious instructions of watercolor. I will never be an artist.”
“And then we met that day on the eastern slope. You remember, you told me you’d escaped your governess. I can still see every detail of what you wore, how your arms swung at your sides. You’d found an orange, if I remember right, and you vowed to grow a tree from one of the seeds. You were relishing every minute of freedom. I was intrigued. I was lost.” He looked up. “I’d never felt anything like it before.”
“That was the day you gave me one of your flower drawings for the first time.”
“We had precious little time to make sense of what happened between us. And then you were gone, and my entire world turned upside down.”
I glanced up. “And then you wrote that letter.”
“Yes, I did.” He swallowed hard. “After everything that happened with Lord Kendal, I believed at the time it was best if I removed myself from your life. Your brother certainly thought so. But I want you to know, now I understand what a terrible mistake that was. I fear your adjustment to Ceylon could not have gone smoothly. Seline read me your first few letters. Though I struggled to do so, I could not hear you in them. They felt like nothing but empty words.”
He ran his hand down his face. “Earlier today I saw you flinch when Tony mentioned secrets, and I shan’t pry; however, I want you to know that I will always stand your friend.” He shook his head. “I guess what I mean to say, rather badly mind you, is that I have no intention of abandoning you again. We practically grew up together. I’ll always care for you.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Like a sister?”
He chuckled beneath his breath. “All right, not precisely like a sister.”
Everything I thought I knew, all my plans, all my intentions fell about me like frozen rain, little ice pellets that scattered on the flagstones in all directions. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone my story, but Piers wasn’t just anyone, was he?
As if he followed my thoughts, he slid his hand closer to mine on the bench, carefully extending his pinky finger beneath mine. I couldn’t speak or move.
A subtle gesture, but the ramifications were endless.
My heart quivered as a delicate gust of wind sent my bonnet ribbons fluttering across my gown.
Piers knew me better than anyone, but I couldn’t focus, not with his hand so utterly warm against mine. My head swelled with dizziness, my mouth went dry. He wanted me to take his hand. But I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t do it.
What if I panicked? What if I pushed him away when I needed him the most? I lowered my head as the true depths of my fears and isolation took shape in my mind. It wasn’t Piers I was afraid of—it was me.
Chapter 23
Piers said little on the remaining carriage ride back to Loxby, though he acted normal enough. Perhaps I’d read too far into his innocent gesture in the first place. Intimacy had always come naturally with us. It was a kind move he’d intended for a friend . . . Nothing more—an olive branch, so to speak.
At least that’s what I told myself as I was forced to take his hand while he helped me out of the curricle, and then again when he delayed me on the front drive. “Will you be willing to accompany me back to Rushridge? After what Tony said about Hugh coming to Whitecaster, we have no choice but to approach Hugh again.”
“When do you plan to go?”
“Tomorrow if at all possible.”
I looked away, my gaze following the sweep of the horizon, the subtle shades of an evening preparing to rest. “I’m afraid I’ve sorely neglected your mother and father. What they must think of me, I cannot guess.”
He paused. “I’ll be happy to wait for you if you so desire, but if you’d rather I go alone, I can certainly do that as well.” He gave me something of a smile, but it wasn’t an easy one. The tenuous nature of our friendship hung so delicately in the balance.
I did my best to appear unfazed. “Wait for me.”
It was an innocent enough response, but the way Piers’s face changed made me acutely aware of the bond we’d forged in the past and how those precious moments would affect us forever.
He gave me a little nod, doing his best to lighten the mood. “Two days, then. In the meantime, I certainly have estate business I’ve been avoiding. I’ll send Hugh a letter to expect us.”
“Thank you.”
Piers moved to walk away, but I grabbed his arm. “Seline will appreciate all you’re doing to help her.”
He paused to roll a stray piece of gravel back into place with the toe of his boot, and then his face fell. “Assuming she’s still alive to thank me.”
* * *
Piers’s ominous words followed me throughout the evening and into the next day, like a vicious specter hovering constantly over my head, threatening to descend at any moment and expose that which I feared the most. A tremor flashed across my skin as I glanced at the small casement clock in my bedchamber, the roots of fear plunging ever deeper into my heart. With every passing day, the likelihood of finding Seline alive slipped farther and farther away.
Glad no one was present to read my thoughts, I rested my hand on Mr. Cavanagh’s door latch. The very decision to stay at Loxby had been difficult enough, but now things had taken a dark turn and I had been left to drown in a muddy lake.
Mr. Cavanagh’s visits proved to be the only respite I got from the overwhelming anticipation of the household.
Every last person was awaiting something. Mrs. Cavanagh, a letter from Charles; Piers, his duel with Lord Kendal; Avery, the curricle race; and all of us most of all waiting desperately for a word about Seline. I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before someone reached their breaking point.
Carefully pushing into the room, I was a little surprised to find Mrs. Cavanagh at his bedside. She seemed a bit shaken by my sudden arrival, for she dropped her sewing onto the floor and fumbled rather dramatically to retrieve it.
Though my eyes went straight to the bed, I was equally startled to find Mr. Cavanagh seated in a large wingback chair near the fireplace, his cane gripped in one hand, the other busy patting the armrest of the chair. “What do you think, Miss Halliwell? I’ve managed two hours today.”
I darted Mrs. Cavanagh a worried look, then turned back to Mr. Cavanagh. “That’s wonderful.”
A smile spread across his face and I knew I’d made the right decision to come.
“Won’t you join me by the fire for a coze?”
I forced my legs to carry me across the rug to his side, knelt to kiss his hand, and took a seat in a nearby chair. Though I could feel Mrs. Cavanagh’s eyes on me, I kept my voice light. “How did you know it was me at the door?”
He folded his hands in his lap. “You have a nervous little twitter to your steps, my dear. I hadn’t noticed it before, but I certainly do now.” He rubbed his whiskered chin. “What has kept you away the last few days? I’ve waited for you to come every afternoon.”
“I’m afraid that’s my fault.” Piers’s deep voice startled me, and I turned to see him waltz into the room.
Mr. Cavanagh had always had a hearty laugh, and it slowed my pounding heart. He grasped the hand Piers laid on his shoulder. “Here I lie day after day with no
t a single visitor, and then everyone arrives at once. Good afternoon, son.”
Piers seemed a bit lost for words, his eyes tracking mine as he neared the fireplace. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I merely came to discuss repairs, but I can see now that you are more pleasantly engaged.”
“Don’t run away, boy. I’m glad you’ve come.”
There was a shuffle at the back of the room as Mrs. Cavanagh flew to her feet, and her voice came out a bit jarring as she huffed, “You may take my chair, Piers. I have a basket of letters to attend to.”
I waited to see if Mr. Cavanagh meant to delay her, but he seemed only too pleased to have us to himself. A flounce of muslin, an irritated sigh, and the couple’s connecting room door slammed shut.
Mr. Cavanagh crossed his legs, an expression of derision darkening his features. “Mrs. Cavanagh thinks I know nothing, living as I do in this room day after day.” He hesitated a moment, then ticked his finger back and forth between Piers and me as if he could see us sitting there. “Now tell me, when’s the wedding?”
A rock hit my stomach, and Piers coughed. “What wedding?”
“Why, Miss Gervey and Lord Kendal’s of course. Who else could I mean?”
Piers’s eyebrows slanted upward as he looked away, a whisper on his breath. “Who else indeed?” Then, for his father’s benefit, he said, “We’ve not had our invitation as of yet, but the banns have been read.” Piers’s voice sounded hollow as he grappled to fill the silence. “It shouldn’t be long now.”
“Ah.” His father made a show of nodding. “I hope your mother hasn’t quibbled with you about Miss Gervey, for I thought her a silly little chit who was always beneath your notice.”
A strange smile crossed Piers’s face. “We never were suited for one another, were we? Mother should have seen that from the start.”
Having stumbled all too awkwardly into a private conversation, I began to wonder if the two of them had forgotten I was there, which is precisely when Piers gestured to me with his chin. “There was something else I came to speak with you about today, Father, and I hope you won’t take my mentioning it amiss. You see, Miss Halliwell and I stumbled upon an old book of yours in the library.”
Mr. Cavanagh shifted in his seat. “Oh?”
“It contained information about the Gormogon’s society you were once a part of. Do you remember telling me about your secret group?”
Something flashed in those lifeless eyes. “My dear boy, I’d forgotten all about that book, but yes, I remember discussing it with you and Avery long ago. What brings that to your mind now?”
“Several things actually. First, answer me this: the society was disbanded in 1799, is that correct?”
He was slow to nod. “As I understand it, yes.”
I inched forward in my seat. “A secret society? Will you tell me about it?”
Mr. Cavanagh stifled a small chuckle. “Not a topic for a young lady, I’m afraid.”
I feigned irritation. “Well, since it was disbanded long ago, can you at least tell us what the society was for? If it’s not too impolitic, that is.”
A smile joined the wrinkles on Mr. Cavanagh’s chin. “The Ancient Noble Order of the Gormogons was never impolitic, my dear.” He rested his head on his hand. “The society was brought over to Britain from China, but it was really a Jesuit scheme to establish a Jacobite club. The members of my particular sect, however, weren’t Jacobites at all.” A raspy laugh. “No, we simply enjoyed ridiculing the Freemasons . . . and the government at times.” Then his face grew serious. “Regardless of our affiliations, joining was a serious matter, and every member gladly did so to seek justice for the people of Britain. Such a commitment was not taken lightly.”
Piers stood, his brow tight, before pacing to the window. “Have you heard from any of the former members of late?”
“Not at all. I suppose they’ve all moved on with their lives. The society was for young, healthy men, not gentlemen in their dotage. I daresay my friends and I would make a poor set of revolutionaries now.” Mr. Cavanagh turned his attention back to me. “Did you bring a book to read to me today?”
Caught off guard by the sudden change of subject, it took me a moment to answer. “I did actually. I found a copy of The Monk by Matthew Lewis.”
Piers cleared his throat, darting me a look. “Apropos, I daresay.” Piers had not finished his questioning, but we both knew Mr. Cavanagh had ended any further conversation on the subject.
I attempted a slight shift. “I must confess, I’ve never read The Monk, but the other day Piers reminded me about the stories you used to tell us as children—to keep us away from the remains of Kinwich Abbey. I found the book in your library earlier today. An inspiration perhaps?”
Mr. Cavanagh dipped his chin. “I’d forgotten all about that silly novel. It’s been some time since I read The Monk, but if my memory serves, I must warn you that it has a decided horror aspect to it.”
Piers smiled as he paced back to the fireplace. “Dare you proceed, Miss Halliwell? Doing so might keep you up at night—with that view of the abbey from your window.”
“I’ve never been one of the simpering females I detest.” I settled the book on my lap and opened the cover. I tempered my voice. “What do you think, Mr. Cavanagh? Shall we proceed?”
“I believe so, but pull the bell, my dear, if you would. I’d prefer to move back to my bed. I’ve had enough sitting up for one day.”
Piers took a step toward the door. “If the two of you will excuse me, I must beg my leave. Father, I shall visit you again before nightfall to discuss the business I came about. Though I’d enjoy doing so, I haven’t the time to sit and listen to The Monk.”
Though I thought him curiously anxious to leave, Piers bent down to my ear on his way to the door, his voice a fervent whisper. “Rose garden. One hour. Understand?”
I looked up helplessly, and he raised his eyebrows.
Caught in his pointed gaze, I couldn’t help but nod. If Piers requested to see me, I would always go.
* * *
I found him an hour later as planned in the far section of the garden where we used to meet in our youth. He stood with his back to me, his arms resting on the trellised wall. Piers had always been a thinker, a student of the world before him, and I found his mind a restful one. When we were younger, I could watch him for hours as he drew every last detail of whatever small plant he was curious about at the time.
Today his focus was on the fields as the sun melted into a far hill, crafting rose-colored hues that swept across the clouds and the countryside below. Small insects glistened in the waning light, dipping in and out of the tall grass; the ruins of Kinwich Abbey stood artfully within the valley’s thin mist.
Slowly I drew up beside him. “Beautiful.”
He turned at once, surprise clearly written on his face. “I didn’t hear you enter.”
I motioned beyond the wall. “I found the sunset so reverent; I didn’t want to disturb it.”
“Gardens have always been a special place of mine . . . of ours, I mean.” He glanced around. “I’m pleased to see the undergardener has done a fine job of keeping it up. The plants are healthy, the flowers as sweet as I remember.”
“Have you a garden at your home in Liverpool?”
He relaxed into a sigh. “Indeed I do. I’ve spent years cultivating it as well as an orangery.” His eyes found mine. “You’d love it. I know so much more about the plants since my studies. My current wilderness has a symmetry and beauty to it . . . I . . .” He tucked his hands in his pockets. “Standing here though, I think I realized something—something I’ve been searching for. My garden in Liverpool doesn’t feel like home, not like this place.”
My eyes misted, and I was forced to look away. I, too, was searching for a way back. “I understand what you mean. I may never see my childhood home again. Flitworth Manor is leased, but it almost doesn’t matter. It was here at Loxby where the vast majority of my memories were formed—at least t
he ones I cherish today.”
“For years I thought it best to stay away—from everyone in my life. But standing here, breathing in the world I left, I’m not so certain anymore.”
Piers had always had depth to his thoughtful demeanor, unassuming mannerisms, careful words, but my mouth went dry as I raced to understand what he was discovering about himself and what he meant to do with it. “Then you plan to stay at Loxby indefinitely?”
He shrugged. “For the time being. I see now I’ve neglected not only my family but the estate as well . . . Among other things.”
He took a step closer, feigning interest in a rosebush at my side.
The familiar rush of nerves splashed across my shoulders and trickled down my arms. We’d been so close before—sharing every part of our lives. Should I not tell him what animal lived in the shadows of my mind, what would always exist between us?
I glanced up to find him watching me. “Oh, Piers. How does one find their way back when they’ve lost so much of themselves along the way? It’s like the whole world is blurry and no matter how hard I squint, I can’t seem to see clearly.”
He extended his arm slowly, carefully wrapping his fingers around mine. “I’m not certain anyone can go back, not really. It’s more about finding a way to go on, to move forward, to trust that God will take something bad that has happened and work it for good.” He stared down at our hands. “It doesn’t mean the path will be easy. I just know now that I don’t want to take it alone.”
For a moment everything fell motionless, the warmth of the sun, the look in Piers’s eyes, the living garden around us. Then a bird took flight from a nearby tree, rustling the branches, effectively snapping the spell.
The moment was lost.
I recovered my hand and moved to take a seat on the bench where I sat still for several seconds. When he said he didn’t want to take the path alone, did he mean his family . . . or me?
Piers hesitated at the rosebush, a far-off look about his eyes. Then he walked over to join me on the bench. “Did you leave my father well earlier today? He seemed much improved this afternoon.” Piers had regulated the sound of his voice, his lightened tone feeling almost foreign amid the murky waters of my turbulent emotions.
The Vanishing at Loxby Manor Page 21