For four days police officers spent every hour of daylight at Castle Courtenay, observing, interviewing, and inspecting what seemed like every nook and cranny. Given the size of the house and the number of people who lived and worked here, Sarah found it remarkable it didn’t take them a month. But having them in her home made her decidedly uncomfortable. Beyond her own thorough interview with two officers, she’d barely encountered them. It was a sizable house and there were plenty of places she could go to avoid them. But just knowing they were present left her feeling on edge.
When it occurred to Sarah that these men might thoroughly search her wardrobe, she panicked. Considering the size and intricacies of the house, which she knew far better than any stranger, she carefully moved the box to an unused guest room in another wing and slid it beneath the bed, pressing it against the wall beneath the headboard as far as it would go. She then cordially invited the officers to search her rooms before she guided them to continue their investigation in the remainder of the rooms in her wing, which were all left unused—the furniture covered to protect it from dust—except for her sitting room and Poppy’s room which was across the hall. When they finished searching that wing, Sarah suggested that Poppy take the men down to the kitchen to have some lunch—since it was conveniently that time of day—which gave her just enough time to get the box and sneak it back into the bottom of her wardrobe without being seen. She was relaxing in her sitting room with a book when Poppy returned with a lunch tray for both of them to share, and they talked about what they’d mostly been talking about for days—the horror and absurdity that Oswald may have been murdered, the discomfort of having their home overtaken by the police, and the many unanswered questions that lay ahead regarding the matter. They didn’t say anything that hadn’t been said many times already, but it was all so much to take in that they both seemed to need to keep talking about it. Perhaps when the matter was resolved they could talk about something else. For now, there was no point pretending they could think about anything else; therefore, talking about it felt like the healthiest thing to do—rather than trying to pretend the situation was different than it actually was.
When the police finally announced that they were leaving Castle Courtenay, Sarah knew her relief was shared by everyone else in the house. Although, with the secret hidden in the bottom of her wardrobe, she doubted anyone could be more relieved than she was. She was informed that after they did some more investigating and put together all their information, a formal inquest would be held to determine whether Oswald Courtenay’s death had been the result of a criminal act. Sarah felt freshly horrified to hear it put that way, and she wanted to ask what would happen after that—but she couldn’t bring herself to pose the question. To her it seemed impossible to ever find out who had committed the crime. Someone clever enough to poison a person was not going to be stupid enough to leave clues for the police to find—especially so long after the fact. The very idea that a murderer could be living and working under this roof, calculating ways of disguising their hideous actions, left Sarah continually uneasy. But what was to be done about it? She’d considered a great deal—and discussed with Poppy—the advice Mr. Curtis had given her in regard to the possibility that her own life might be in danger. Even if it were true—which she couldn’t even imagine—she didn’t know what could be done about that either. She wondered if she would ever feel at peace again. She’d always felt safe and secure here in her home, but that feeling had vanished and now she always felt uneasy, which made it difficult to relax. And she certainly wasn’t sleeping well at night. The entire matter was just so thoroughly absurd—and the absurdity increased dramatically each time she thought of what was hidden in the bottom of her wardrobe, and how she’d come to find it.
Eight days after Mr. Curtis had first revealed to Sarah and her trusted aunt and Mr. Halford his suspicions regarding the true reasons for Oswald’s death, Halford informed Sarah after supper that the official inquest would be held the next day, and he told her that she had the option to attend; she didn’t need to be there because her testimony of the events according to her perspective had been carefully taken into consideration in the investigation, but she was certainly welcome to be present if she wanted to personally see for herself how the inquest proceeded—and be there for the outcome.
Sarah only had to think about it for a moment. “I don’t want to be there,” she said firmly, “but I . . .”
“What, m’lady?” he urged in a tender voice he’d used with her throughout the whole of her life.
“Halford,” she said with kind firmness, “first of all, let me make it clear that I do not wish to have you call me that. You’ve always called me by my name, and I find this formality highly uncomfortable.”
“It’s proper,” he replied, unruffled.
“I don’t care,” Sarah stated with vehemence. “I’m asking you to simply continue calling me by my name.”
Halford sighed, as if he were torn between his strict training on proper protocol versus his respect for her. “Very well,” he said, “if that’s what you wish. I’ll agree to a compromise. There are times when certain people are around when it would be inappropriate for me to speak to you so informally. Only during such occasions will I revert to formality.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Sarah said. “Thank you. As for the inquest, I was wondering if you’ll be attending.”
“I will,” he said.
“Then I know I can count on you to give me an accurate report of all that was said and also the . . . outcome.”
“Yes, you can count on me,” he said. “I will even take notes to help me remember important details.”
“Good,” Sarah said on an exhale of relief. “Do you need me to help convince my aunt to remain at home? I’m certain her being there could be very disruptive.” She laughed softly but felt no degree of humor. “You know more than anyone besides Poppy how very much I love her, but her inability to restrain her emotions can be . . . challenging in certain situations.”
Halford smiled knowingly. “I understand completely . . . . Miss Sarah.” His smile twitched upward just a little more as if to declare he was following her orders to use her given name. “I have already spoken to her and assured her that it would be too difficult for her, and she was quick to agree. I do fear she will want to spend the day with you, and she might require a great supply of handkerchiefs while she considers the possibilities of what might be happening.”
Sarah smiled at him, a little more naturally this time. “Don’t worry. I’ve been close to Penelope my entire life; I can keep her calm—and well supplied with handkerchiefs. I still find that preferable over sitting in a stuffy room listening to men talk about the details of my father’s death.”
“I understand,” Halford said and wished her a good evening before he walked away.
Sarah stood where she was—near the foot of the stairs—for a long moment before she decided to go to the library and try to find something she’d not already read that might hold her interest. Reading would be a good distraction from all that was happening, and nothing she had in her room at the moment had been able to hold her attention. But surely hidden amongst the many hundreds of books in this room lined with majestic bookshelves she could find something to help distract her from the unfathomable possibility that her father had been murdered. And perhaps if she was immersed in a book tomorrow while she waited with her aunt, she might be able to more easily convince Penelope to remain calm and quiet so that she could read; she could even offer to read aloud to Penelope which might help keep them both calmer.
By the time Sarah got to the library, the need for a good book had settled into her as something mandatory. She stood in the center of the room and turned in a circle, trying to feel drawn to some particular section, since she didn’t even know where to begin to find a novel she hadn’t read that might sufficiently intrigue her. As much as she’d read books from these shelves her entire life, she still had trouble understanding how they were organized—or perhaps they weren’t. Her eye was drawn to some particularly large books that were stacked on their sides because they were too tall to fit upright on the shelves. She’d noticed them before but had never felt any curiosity over what they might be. However, at the moment she did feel curious and took the top book off the stack, blowing dust off of it, appalled by the evidence of the maids’ neglect in keeping the books dusted. But then, there were so many books, and surely there were more important priorities for them elsewhere in the house.
Sarah felt her heart quickening when she read on the front of the very old book in her hands, History of the Family Courtenay—Eighteenth Century. On the day of her father’s death—with all the strangeness that had occurred—she had wondered if such a thing existed here in the library, but then she’d forgotten all about the idea. And now a shiver rushed over her shoulders as she considered the way she had just been led to find this. She stared at the title while she considered that they were not so many years into the nineteenth century, so perhaps that volume was yet to be written. But who exactly was meant to write and compile such a record? Was this yet another of her responsibilities of which she’d not been informed? Hadn’t anyone ever thought to keep a list in an obvious place in the office of the house that might make her duties and responsibilities clearer?
Sarah sat on the floor since the book was heavy, and she set it down on the carpet in front of her, carefully turning the pages and scanning some of them to quickly realize this was an incredibly boring book. Her forebears had lived bland and ordinary lives—at least in the eighteenth century. Then a thought occurred to her that made her gasp. Perhaps the eighteenth century had been boring for the Courtenay family, but what about before then? She now felt impatient and eager as she took down the other books in the stack, the oldest being the family history from the fourteenth century. Starting there, she carefully turned the very old pages and scanned them, realizing this was the story of her ancestor—William Charles Courtenay—a man who had personally associated with the royal family. He had been a brave warrior who had apparently saved the lives of more than one of the children of the king and queen during some terrible rebellion that had been kept from the knowledge of the public so as not to cause alarm. But because of William’s bravery and sacrifice—having been severely wounded in the scuffle—he had been given a title and a great deal of property and wealth. Ironically, everything that had been given to William Courtenay was property that had been impounded from a titled and wealthy man who had committed treason in numerous ways, and therefore he’d been tried, found guilty, executed, and all of his property had been confiscated—and given to William. With such an enormous amount of wealth, he had decided to have the old home on the property torn down completely and have a new home built. Apparently, the queen herself had suggested putting turrets into the design of the house, and it was also the queen who had bestowed the name of Castle Courtenay on the house. Sarah felt taken aback by such a revelation, and a little sheepish about her inaccurate ideas regarding how the name of the house had been founded in some kind of grandiose arrogance. According to the book in her hands, the royal family had come here more than once while the house was being built. But before the house was completed a death had occurred and the crown had been handed down to the next generation. And the familiar connection William had shared with the royal family dissipated. But his wealth and title remained.
Sarah scanned through the pages, bored by details of building the great house in which she had always lived, and little anecdotes about happenings among the family and servants. Sarah concluded that perhaps one day she would take more of an interest in such stories, but right now she was still too preoccupied with her father’s death. Still, she found herself methodically turning the pages to see if anything else from the fourteenth century caught her attention. She yawned and decided to return the books to their resting place, knowing they would be here whenever she found herself in the mood to learn more about the history of her family. She methodically turned one more page and froze as if a blast of bitter cold air had just rushed into the room, instantly turning her into something like unto a statue, unable to move and barely able to breathe. There it was. Right in front of her. Again, it felt as if she’d been mysteriously guided to this book and this page on this night.
Breaking free from her numbed state, Sarah looked in both directions as if she feared she might find the ghost of William Courtenay standing behind her, guiding her from the great beyond to this moment. Of course, she saw nothing, but a distinct shiver rushed over her entire body as she turned back to stare at the perfect drawing of the sword that was in a box at the bottom of her own wardrobe. She leaned closer to the page, examining the drawing carefully, amazed at the exact proportions, the details of the carvings in the hilt, and the perfection of the details of the emerald heart. At the top of the page were the words: The Emerald Heart of Courtenay. And below the drawing was a paragraph stating that a man who had worked closely with the royal family for many years—and whose life had also been saved by the bravery of William Courtenay—had presented William with the gift of this remarkable sword, which had been crafted by this man’s brother, as an offering of immeasurable gratitude. All of this made sense to Sarah, and she was glad to know the history of what was now in her possession, but what she’d read so far didn’t explain the reasons for how mysteriously the box with its precious contents had been hidden, nor the way her father had been babbling about it so strangely before he died. Sarah read on, gasping again as she took in the words before her: This mighty sword has been blessed to hold great power to whomever shall possess it. To possess it is to possess great blessings upon the head of the possessor and all of the House of Courtenay, therefore if the rightful possessor of this great sword allows it to fall into the hands of evil, a great curse shall come down upon the House of Courtenay. So it has been blessed, recorded, and declared forevermore.
“Good heavens!” Sarah muttered, pausing in her repeated reading of those last few sentences to ask herself if she believed in such things. Her father had rambled something about a curse upon the house . . . the family . . . he’d said both. The incidents in the family that her father had suggested might be somehow attached to a curse just seemed like natural events to Sarah. But then her father had been so frenzied during that conversation that it was difficult for her to put together the pieces of his actual intentions. She’d tried so hard to remember exactly what he’d said that it only seemed to become more muddled in her mind. But she knew now—looking at the words directly in front of her—that he had said the phrase rightful possessor, and he’d said that person was her. Given that she knew he’d given her clues on how to find the sword, she had little doubt he was referring to this strange prophecy or tradition or whatever it might be related to the sword, and somehow, he’d known he was dying. But murdered? She became eerily haunted by all things combined and resisted the urge to again look around as if she might see the ghost of William Charles Courtenay. Or perhaps that of her own father.
Realizing how ridiculous her thinking had become, Sarah gave herself a chiding moan and looked once more at the page in front of her, the drawing of the sword, the strange words written about it, perhaps attempting to memorize them. When she realized she couldn’t, she stood up and went to the writing desk in the corner to retrieve pen, ink, and paper, which she took back to the floor where the heavy book lay open. Sarah carefully copied down the exact wording of those last few sentences. She could recall the story behind the sword well enough, but she wanted to study these particular words more carefully when she wasn’t so tired. She returned the pen and ink to the desk and folded the paper once she’d blown on the ink to dry it, tucking it into her bodice since her dress had no pockets.
Taking one last, long gaze at the image of the sword, Sarah truly had to wonder what on earth her father would have wanted her to do now—or to know. Oh, how she wished she could speak with him. She let out a gasp bordering on a scream when she heard Poppy say, “Oh, here you are!” She then giggled and added, “Sorry, I thought you would have heard me come in. And you know I can’t go to bed until I make certain you’re all taken care of.”
“It’s all right,” Sarah said, now wanting to get these books put away as quickly as possible in order to avoid questions for which she had no answers.
But before Sarah could close the book, Poppy asked, looking over the top of her head, “What is that?” She’d moved closer than Sarah had realized, but she asked the question with complete innocence; of course, she would have no reason to think that a drawing of a sword in a very old book would mean anything at all.
Sarah slammed the book closed and carried it to the shelf, recalling that this volume had been on the bottom of the stack. “I came here looking for a novel that might distract me tomorrow.” She put the other volumes of her family’s history back in place, in their proper order. “And I found these old books about the history of the house and the family. I was just glancing through one of them.”
“Oh, how fascinating!” Poppy said.
“Most of it was rather boring,” Sarah said, leading the way out of the library.
“Did you find out why the house was called a castle?” Poppy asked, sounding amused. They’d joked about it a great deal, which made her question valid—and a mutual source of humor.
“Actually, yes,” Sarah said as they headed together up the stairs.
Sarah told Poppy the gist of what she’d read about the story of William Charles Courtenay, and how the house had been built by him. Sarah found as she repeated the story—perhaps inspired by Poppy’s enthusiasm—she felt rather fond of William who had been richly rewarded for his bravery. But Sarah said nothing about the sword.
Once Poppy had helped Sarah out of her corset and made certain Sarah had everything she needed, they said good night and Poppy went across the hall to her own room. But Sarah couldn’t sleep. Her mind was smoldering with thoughts of tomorrow’s inquest—with all its implications—combined with all she’d learned about the treasure she’d been guided to through her father’s final jumbled conversation with her.
Sarah finally got up and lit a lamp. She retrieved the folded paper she’d hidden at the bottom of a bureau drawer earlier when Poppy had been distracted. As if reading it again and again might help her understand it, she did so until she concluded that it actually made no sense at all, so she hid the paper again and forced herself to go back to bed, even though it took her a long while to go to sleep.
Sarah awoke to the sound of rain falling, and the room heavy with the same dark gray of the clouds outside. A glance at the clock let her know she had slept late into the morning—which was not surprising. And as expected there was a cloth-covered tray on the table near the window; Poppy was nothing if not consistent in anticipating Sarah’s every need, and she was sensitive enough in her care of Sarah that she would never want her to go hungry even for a short time.
Sarah lay in bed for a few minutes, looking toward the rain drizzling down the windows, thinking about the inquest taking place today regarding her father’s death, and feeling deeply grateful that she had been able to remain at home. Not only had she been spared from having to wake up early and get ready after getting so little sleep, but she also didn’t have to listen to the details of Oswald’s illness and passing—details she’d already reviewed in her head way too much. The last thing she wanted was to hear them discussed freely by men who hadn’t even known her father. She could only pray that the outcome would be favorable. But what might that mean exactly? She wanted desperately for an official conclusion that it was not murder, and that the doctor was simply mistaken. However, her deepest instincts were telling her that there was something foul regarding her father’s death, and if it was officially declared murder, then what? Was her life truly in danger? And why? Why?
Unable to even think about it, Sarah forced herself out of bed and freshened up before she put on her most comfortable dressing gown and sat down to enjoy the tray of food Poppy had left for her, deciding that she preferred remaining in her rooms today for as long as possible.
Sarah had barely finished her breakfast when Poppy came with a few novels she had found in the library, thinking Sarah might enjoy them. Being the close friends they were, Poppy knew Sarah hadn’t read these particular books. Sarah felt deeply grateful and told her so, because she very much needed a distraction but didn’t feel like getting dressed and going down to the library herself. Poppy also reported that Penelope had left earlier in one of their carriages to attend a ladies’ luncheon that was a regular occurrence. Sarah couldn’t deny feeling some relief that she wouldn’t have to feel obligated to check on Penelope—or sit with her while they waited for Mr. Halford’s return.
When lunchtime came, it hadn’t been that long since Sarah had eaten breakfast, but she still enjoyed sharing a meal with Poppy in the sitting room and was surprised by how hungry she was. They talked about anything but the inquest taking place—and all things remotely related to it. After lunch Poppy went to take care of some of her responsibilities elsewhere in the house and Sarah made herself comfortable on a sofa in the sitting room, diving into one of the novels Poppy had brought her. She was just beginning to lose herself in the story when Poppy returned, sounding a bit frantic as she informed Sarah that Halford and Mr. Curtis had returned from the inquest and wanted to speak with her and Penelope right away. Penelope had returned only a short while earlier and had gone to her room to freshen up; a maid had been sent to retrieve her.
Sarah hated the sick knot that immediately tightened in her stomach, and her quickening heartbeat that only tightened the knot further. With Poppy’s help she hurried to get dressed and look presentable. Poppy hugged her before she headed down the stairs, assuring her that everything would be all right, but Sarah felt a deep dread that something was very, very wrong—and this was just the beginning. Three times on the way to the drawing room she told herself to stop being so paranoid, and three times she recounted a great deal of evidence that told her she had good reason to feel the way she did.
Sarah entered the room to see Penelope seated very ladylike in a bright yellow gown that was puffy to the point of overwhelming her. She looked as if she were trying to be brave, but the emotion just beneath the surface was evident. Sarah knew her aunt feared the worst, and the very idea of losing her brother this way was tearing her apart inside. Sarah doubted it would be long before Penelope was sobbing into her handkerchief—again. Halford and Mr. Curtis both came to their feet as she closed the door, and she felt as if she had intruded upon a silent tension reeking of awkwardness, and they were all glad for her arrival. But a quick perusal of their expressions told Sarah everything she needed to know.
“Gentlemen,” she said with a nod. Then to Penelope, “Aunt.” And another nod. She was pleased with her ability thus far to keep her voice steady, and glad to be able to move to a chair and sit down with at least as much poise as her aunt without revealing any evidence of the nervousness buzzing inside her.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” Mr. Curtis said as the men both sat back down. “The inquest concluded beyond any question that Oswald Courtenay was murdered.”
Unsurprisingly, Penelope began to sob into her handkerchief, but Sarah could tell she was attempting to remain as quiet as possible. Sarah didn’t know what to say, how to react. She was just barely becoming accustomed to having others look to her for answers and directions, now that she was officially considered in charge of all things Courtenay. Forcing her thoughts to stop swirling, as if she’d silently ordered them to be still, she found a reasonable question and did her best to ask it with dignity and composure. “Was there any information revealed that I’m not already aware of?”
“No,” both men said, and she was glad to not have to endure learning about any more unexpected horrible details regarding her father’s death. “I should clarify, however,” Mr. Curtis added, “that it was the doctor’s examination of your father’s body following his death that bore the greatest evidence. I don’t understand such things enough to be able to repeat what he reported, but the police seemed to know what he was talking about.” A long silence followed as if he expected Sarah to comment, but she couldn’t think of a thing to say. He finally cleared his throat and added, “I wish I had more to tell you, m’lady. I wish the news were different. Without the doctor’s keen perception, we might not have ever known.”
“Perhaps that would have been easier,” Halford said and Sarah agreed with him—at least the part of her that preferred to just move on with her life as simply as possible agreed with him. But another part of her felt frightened of what might have happened had they not known the truth, of being caught unawares at some point in the future, considering that the murderer was still at large—and likely in this very house—and no one had any idea who it was or what their motives might have been.
Sarah tried to think of a way to say all she was thinking without babbling a myriad of comments and feelings that would likely make no sense. She settled on simply saying, “What now?”
“A very good question,” Halford said. “We’ve been discussing that very thing. The police will continue their investigation, but it’s evident they have very little to go on, and neither of us,” he nodded toward Mr. Curtis, “believe they have enough information to find out who is responsible.”
“And yet it seems evident it must be someone in this house,” Sarah stated the obvious.
“Yes,” Mr. Curtis said grimly. “Which is why we . . .” he hesitated and nodded toward Halford and Aunt Penelope, who had calmed down but wore a severe expression, “have taken the liberty of arranging protection for you.”
“What kind of protection?” Sarah demanded, not liking the sound of this at all. As much as she hated the feeling that someone in this house might wish for her to follow in her father’s footsteps, she couldn’t imagine what might be done about it. And she didn’t like the idea of these people—even as much as she trusted them and knew they cared for her—making plans on her behalf without consulting her.
“You need to remain safe,” Penelope said with a forcefulness that rarely showed itself. But that didn’t answer Sarah’s question. “You are the heir to everything your father left behind, dear girl. Without you, everything would fall into . . . chaos.” She nodded toward the two men in the room, then looked again at Sarah. “We all agree that until this mystery is solved, we must do whatever it takes to see that you are protected.”
“And what if this mystery is never solved?” Sarah snapped, wishing her agitation wasn’t so evident. “Am I to live my life in fear, always wondering if someone might want to do away with me? And how can I really be safe when we don’t even understand the reasons why my father was killed? Perhaps it has nothing to do with me at all.”
“Perhaps it doesn’t,” Mr. Curtis said, “but for the time being, I feel better assuming that it does and therefore taking the necessary precautions.”
“And I agree with him,” Halford said.
“So, I am outnumbered three to one,” Sarah said, her voice still snappy.
“Four to one,” Halford said. “We have spoken to Poppy and she has already been helping keep you safe. She is entirely in agreement with us.”
Fury overcame Sarah as if someone had poured a bucket of ice-cold water over her head. She stood up both to try and stifle her temptation to shout, and to be able to turn her back toward the three people in the room who had been plotting on her behalf without her knowledge. She took a few deep breaths, reminding herself that it was her safety and well-being they were concerned about. She reminded herself that they genuinely cared about her, and their intentions were to do what was best. Feeling calmer but not calm enough to turn and look at them, Sarah asked, “What exactly—may I ask—does my being protected entail? Am I to remain locked up in my rooms every minute of my life? Will you provide weapons for all the stable hands and have them surround me even while I walk through the gardens?” Sarah couldn’t help her sarcasm; she was only grateful to know that these people all knew her well enough to know that her anger was based more in frustration than in anything personal. And they all had to know that grief and shock over her father’s death were still very close to the surface for her, for all of them. She couldn’t begin to grasp why anyone would have wanted to kill her father, and she missed him so dreadfully that sometimes his absence created a very real pain in the center of her chest that could only be alleviated by a bout of sobbing that she would permit herself only when she was all alone.
“Please sit down, Sarah,” she heard Halford say with a gentle firmness that reminded her of her father. She did so but remained at the edge of her seat. “We understand that this is very upsetting for you—for a number of reasons. You are accustomed to being very independent, and we all know that. However, the three of us discussed our concerns the very day we found out about the doctor’s suspicions. I have written to a very good friend of mine, a fine man whom I have known most of my life. I wrote to him because he has a connection to a man with some very specific training and experience in protecting people who are in danger. While serving in the military he was chosen for his keen perception and excellent skills to help protect members of the royal family. When he grew weary of certain aspects of working in that situation, he became somewhat of an independent . . .”
Halford hesitated as if he were searching for the right word, or perhaps more accurately, a word to describe what this man did that would not make Sarah even angrier. She quickly came up with the most likely word he might have said and blurted, “Bodyguard? You’ve hired a bodyguard to what? Follow me around like some kind of bloodhound?” She resisted the urge to stand up again, mostly because her limbs felt a little shaky.
“In essence, yes,” Halford said, remaining calm. “But he’s discreet and he will be respectful of your privacy. He’s a decent man or I would not be trusting your safety to his care. But you must do as he tells you, Sarah,” Halford pleaded. “Even if his instructions might not make sense to you, you must trust him.”
“You must!” Penelope pleaded. “You’re a headstrong girl,” her aunt added, somehow making it sound like a compliment and a reproach at the same time. “Your personality will serve you well as heiress to this estate, but you know nothing of being able to keep yourself safe when we’re not even certain what or who exactly might be a threat to you. Mr. Halford knows what he’s talking about. You must trust us. And you must trust this man and do what he tells you.”
“I think I would rather remain locked in my rooms,” Sarah declared.
“I can understand why you’d feel that way,” Halford said, “but given the fact that your father’s murder took place right here in this house, I’m not certain that’s a safe option. Not to mention that we all know you well enough to know you would go crazy being stuck indoors for more than a day or two.”
“Then what exactly are my options?” Sarah demanded.
Halford sighed loudly. Mr. Curtis and Penelope did the same, like an echo trying to release some of the pressure building in this conversation.
“For now, you need to meet Mr. Noble and hear what he has to say,” Halford told her. “You may be the heiress, but you are still very young, and you need guidance from the people you can trust to help keep you safe. We are those people, and we are unanimous in this.”
“So, the decision has been made,” Sarah declared, now making no effort to conceal her disdain. “I have no say in this. You’re just turning me over to this Mr. Noble, to do whatever this man tells me to do, whether I like it or not.”
“That’s exactly what we’re doing,” Halford said, “and quite frankly, I feel confident that if your father were still here and he had a say in this decision, this is exactly what he would have done. I’m more concerned for your safety than whether or not you are angry with me.”
“And I can say the same,” Penelope stated, unusually composed and firm.
“I’m just the solicitor,” Mr. Curtis said, “but I have been made to feel a part of this family for a great many years, and I too am in complete agreement.”
Sarah shook her head and closed her eyes, as if that might help her think more clearly, but it only let her know that she had no valid argument for everything she’d been told. It seemed all she could do for now was resign herself to being under the protection of this bodyguard that had been hired without anyone consulting her.
“Very well,” she said and let out a long, weighted sigh, “when might I have the pleasure of meeting this Mr. Noble?” She couldn’t help her sarcasm, especially when emphasizing the word pleasure.
“As a matter of fact,” Halford said, now showing a smile that irritated Sarah, “he’s here now; he’s been waiting in the hall.”
“What?” Sarah said more harshly than loudly, not wanting to be overheard. Halford just stood up and walked toward the door, pulling it open with a triumphant glance toward Sarah, who felt nothing but dread.