Wait here, miss, and I shall fetch Miss Fitzherbert.”
“Thank you.” Ella dripped upon the Axminster carpet as the maid left her alone in the dark sitting room. A clock on the wall ticked away the minutes.
At last, a candle swept through the doorway, and Dorthea appeared with paper curlers tied in her hair. “My dear, dear Ella! The maid just aroused me.”
Ella prevented her from a hug. “You mustn’t touch me, for I am frightfully drenched and dirty.”
“Oh my, but you are bandaged. Lord Sedgewick has tried to kill you—”
“No, he did not harm me.” Exhaustion shook her knees. “He only asked me to leave.”
“And sent you walking into the storm? My heavens, did you walk all the way from Wyckhorn?”
“I walked of my own choice.”
“Oh my, but—”
“Please, Dorthea.” Ella rubbed at her eyes. “I can bear no more questions.”
“No, of course not. I shall have the maid heat some water while I find something for you to wear. Wherever is your luggage?”
Had she left it in the carriage? It hardly mattered. “I—I don’t know.”
“Never mind. Follow me upstairs.” Dorthea took her arm, chatting quietly on the way up the stairs about how difficult it had been for her to conceal the secret. “Do you know how often the topic of Sedgewick arises? Talk of his new governess too—and I burdened with the knowledge I could not tell.” She swung open a door. “And the social events. Dear Miss Pemberton, I could hardly look at you without giving it away. I hope you do not mind that I stayed at such a distance. I thought it may give way to suspicion if we appeared too familiar.”
“Yes.” Ella entered the warm room. “You did right, Dorthea.”
“I thought so.” She lit a candle. “My, how pale and cold you appear!”
“Just a bit weary.”
“Well, do lie down, and I shall have the water sent up. You shall be comfortable in no time at all.”
Ella sank to the edge of the bed. “Thank you.”
Dorthea’s face was empathetic and soft in the candlelight. “You are most welcome, Miss Pemberton. I am only glad to see you have not been murdered by that wretched man.”
He is not a wretched man. Ella shivered and curled onto the bed. No matter what he might say of himself, I cannot believe he murdered anyone.
Someone would have heard the gunshot. Someone was coming, had to be coming.
God. Colors made circles in front of his eyes as he grasped the doorknob. Didn’t budge. Please do not let this happen.
He thrust his shoulder into the door, then again. He backed up and lunged for it, but the pain sent him sprawling to the floor.
Blood leaked beyond his hand, seeping down his trousers, even as he heaved himself back to his feet. A sob shuddered through him.
Ewan was taking his son. He was stealing him from his little bed.
Peter wouldn’t understand. Probably wouldn’t even fight, only do as he was told. He was good. He had always been good, always such a good boy …
Dear God, please. With another plunge, Henry threw himself against the door. Over and over and over again, until the pain made him senseless and the blood oozed onto his boots. Please don’t take my son.
Ewan wiped the sheen of moisture from his forehead. How long did he have before the house was no longer asleep? Before the servants came running up the stairs, opening and closing doors, murmuring about the strange sound that had awakened them—just as they’d done before?
But there had been nothing any of them could do. It’d been too late. She’d been dead before she ever hit the floor.
The horrors of that night pounded at his chest as if crying to be released. They made him run faster in the darkness. They made him hope that Henry bled to death in his chamber. They made him forget any notions of killing himself, because for the first time, there was something to live for.
When he reached Peter’s door, he wiped more sweat from his face. Then he threw it open and watched as the child in the bed raised his head.
“Papa?”
Ewan dashed toward him. “We have to go.”
The groggy face inched backward. “Is it morning?”
“Yes, yes … morning.” Ewan grabbed the child into his arms, startled at the way Peter’s body stiffened.
“Where we going?”
“Away.”
“With Papa?”
“Yes.” But not the Papa you think.
As if comforted by the words, Peter’s head leaned into Ewan’s neck. He yawned, rubbed his eyes.
“Go back to sleep.” Ewan’s whisper echoed in the corridors. He hurried, slipped downstairs, and found the room he had not entered in so long.
Henry’s study had the same smells their father’s always had. Leather, books, ink—a strange mixture that drew him back into a childhood he’d hated. He approached the desk and opened just the right drawer.
The money was there, as he’d known it would be. He stuffed it into his pocket, smiled, and eased the drawer shut.
He was almost free.
“M’lord?”
“Slide the lock!”
“Oh yes, m’lord, but is everyth—”
“The lock, woman! Hurry!”
There was a mumble, a rattling sound, then the door swung open. “I heard the shouts an’ bangin’, m’lord, and wondered wot—”
“Get Dunn.” Henry stumbled past the maid. “Get all the men. Hurry!”
“Right away, m’lord, but you be bleedin’ …”
Henry broke into a hobbling run, his breaths coming out quick, choppy. Halfway down the stairs, he slipped and rolled. Pain exploded in waves so great they were deafening.
No. Gripped the banister. Dragged himself back to his feet. My gun … got to get my gun.
Something stirred below. The whining of a door.
“Ewan!”
No answer.
Henry lunged down the steps. The night air fanned his face as the door moved back and forth with the wind. “Ewan!” He bellowed the words as he flung himself into the darkness.
There was no answer, only the fading echo of a horse galloping away.
“Miss Pemberton?” A pause, a nudge. “Dear Ella, can you not hear me?”
Layers of sleep began to erode.
“You have a visitor awaiting.”
Ella’s eyes flew open. Henry. He had come to talk with her, to offer her a chance to explain—
“A Mr. Beaumont arrived more than an hour ago,” said Dorthea, “and I could not let the poor man wait a moment longer.”
Her hopes deflated. “Send him away.”
“Oh, I cannot! Father is speaking with him now, and the two are getting along splendidly. How embarrassing it would be for all of us to send him away now—and him being a vicar.”
A groan filled Ella’s throat. She ripped back the covers and stepped barefoot onto the floor.
Dorthea crossed the room and lifted something. A dress. “Recognize this?”
“That is mine.” Ella’s gaze dropped to her friend’s feet. “My luggage—however did you retrieve them?”
“Not I, Ella, but the vicar.” Dorthea tossed her the gown. “And if you ask me, he seems a bit tender-eyed when he speaks your name.”
Without looking at her, Ella took the dress. She held it close to her chest. So had Henry.
Dunn’s face was a blur, his voice a drone. “Lie down, my lord, I beg of you.”
“I only came for a fresh horse.”
“Yes, my lord, but—”
“Enough!” Henry sagged against the doorframe of the front entrance. “Now go and pack me provisions. Quickly.”
“No.”
Henry’s gaze snapped up. “What did you say?”
“I said no, my lord, with all due respect. You and the men have been gone the length of the night. God knows how much you have bled, but I shall allow you to bleed no more. Now please, my lord, come lie down.”
Never in his life had Dunn ever gainsaid him. Henry’s mind hurled with a reprimand, but maybe the man was right. After all, how much could he do for Peter if he was dead?
“Fine. Hurry.”
Dunn took his arm and led him into the quiet drawing room, where he positioned him on a sofa. “You stay here and I shall fetch bandages.”
“Yes. That too, my lord.” He hurried away.
Henry slid his eyes closed, exhaustion cramping his body, his mind, his soul. He and the servants had been gone all night, following empty roads, roaming soundless woods. He would have never come back without Peter, except the horses could plod on no farther.
“I know very little of this sort of thing,” said Dunn upon his return, as he ripped at Henry’s trousers, “but I shall do the best I know.”
“Do it quickly.”
“The bullet is still there.”
“Then dig it out!”
Dunn’s face paled. He nodded and began to wipe the blood away with his rag. “You have seen the constable?”
“No.”
Dunn reached for the knife. “Then you must allow the servants to accompany you again—”
“There’s no need!” Pounding filled Henry’s temples. He drew in air. “There’s no need,” he said again, “because I shall find him alone.”
“Do you think that wise, my lord?”
“I know my brother better than anyone.” Henry eyed the blade in Dunn’s hesitating hand. “Now use that.”
“I am no doctor—”
“I do not care if you slice off my leg. Now use it.”
Dunn nodded, murmured, “Yes, my lord. You were saying?”
“Anyone else would hinder my speed. Every minute lost, they gain distance.” The knife sank into his flesh and every muscle strained against the pain. “I … I need every moment if I am to catch up with them.”
“But he will not …” Dunn’s words caught. He dug deeper before speaking again, “He will not harm Master Peter, will he, my lord?”
“I … do not … know.” Henry gripped the sofa and gritted his teeth.
The knife twisted farther into his wound. “But if he does … I’ll kill him.”
Mr. Fitzherbert’s comment on the weather could be heard from the hallway, followed by the vicar’s monotonous praise of the view from his church bell tower, from which point he could detect an upcoming storm.
“Yes, yes, storms are much better borne when one is made aware,” answered Mr. Fitzherbert. “Do you not think so, Mrs. Fitzherbert?”
Ella entered in time to see his wife smile and nod—until her gaze swung to the doorway. “Miss Pemberton, you are here at last.”
Ella curtsied.
The vicar came to his feet. “I hope you were not disturbed on my account.”
“Yes, I was.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert gave a small gasp.
“Though Dorthea has informed me that you returned my things, for which I should be grateful.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert. “That was a most kind gesture, Mr. Beaumont.”
The vicar clasped his hands, then unclasped them. “Won’t you sit, Miss Pemberton?”
Ella sat without looking at him.
He had no more than returned to his own seat before he sprang back up. “Perhaps you would enjoy a walk? I am certain Mr. and Mrs. Fitzherbert would relish the return of their privacy.”
Both offered denials, but the vicar still approached her. He held out his hand. “Shall we?”
With her back stiff, Ella grimaced as he walked her outside, where he directed them to a small garden path that wound around the house. When they were out of view of the windows, Ella jerked away her hand. “I must speak with you.”
“And I with you.” His steps slowed. “In hindsight, I realized the error of my injudicious actions. But please know that if I have hurt you in any way, I have done far worse to my own dignity.”
“And what of Lord Sedgewick?” She tried to curb the anger, but a bite still sharpened her voice. “Have you any inkling of what you have done to him?”
“He does not concern me. Nor should he concern you, if I may be so bold.”
“You may not be so bold,” she snapped. “And he does concern me.”
“What are you saying?”
“I am saying you may forever put away any notions of gaining my heart, sir. It has already been taken.”
He blanched. “Him? You have fallen prey to that … that blackguard?”
“You know nothing about him.”
“Only that he killed your sister—”
“I know him incapable.”
“And your father?”
Fury stirred. “What about him?”
“What would he say to such a thing? If you recall, he wanted only for you to marry a man who would not harm—”
“My father wanted me to marry you, Mr. Beaumont. Let us not talk in circles, shall we?”
His shoulders caved as his eyes turned to pleading. “Is there nothing I might do to win you, Miss Pemberton?”
“No.” She hugged her arms, looked away. “No, I am afraid not, sir. I think you had better leave.”
“What shall I tell your mother and sister?”
“Tell them nothing.”
His chin dipped in a nod, but he seemed to lack a voice. Taking his hat into his hands, he offered a bow. “Perhaps you will return to Abbingston soon. I know you are dearly missed by all.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded again, perspiration dotted above his frowning lips. “Then this is goodbye, Miss Pemberton.” He started away, returning the hat to his head.
He turned quickly. “Yes?”
“There is something I must thank you for.” She hesitated, unable to meet his eyes. “All those years there was not one of us who could reach our father, who could offer him comfort. None, that is, save you.”
A flush crossed the vicar’s face. “I did not do much.”
“Yes, sir, you did. You led him to Christ.”
“I did not think such a religious decision would mean anything to you, Miss Pemberton.”
“It didn’t.” Joy unfurled inside her. “Until I became a believer too.”
Mr. Beaumont’s face said all the things his lips never spoke, and with a teary smile, he turned and walked away.
The house was quiet when Ella returned to the sitting room. Mr. Fitzherbert stayed buried behind a newspaper, and his wife gave none-too-subtle grunts about the poor vicar.
Dorthea came to her rescue quickly enough. “Oh Ella, has your visitor left so quickly?”
“I wonder that he did not depart sooner,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert, “with the sort of unamiable company he received.”
Dorthea reached for Ella’s hand. “Come, you have not had breakfast. We must find you something to eat.”
When they had escaped the room, Ella drew to a halt. “I must ask a favor of you.”
“Breakfast first, then we shall talk—”
“No, immediately. Please.”
“Oh.” Dorthea faced her. “Of course. Ask me anything, and I shall give it to you.”
“A carriage?”
“Certainly, if you wish. Do you desire a ride? Why yes, that is just what you need. I shall go too, and you will feel much better—”
“I must go alone.”
“Alone?” Dorthea’s eyes widened. “You are not going back to Wyckhorn? Surely you would not go back there.”
Ella squeezed her friend’s hand. “I must.”
“I cannot let you.”
“Dorthea, please—”
“I cannot be a part of your death, my dear Ella, for I am entirely too fond of you.”
“Then I shall have to walk.” Ella pulled away. “And there is nothing you or anyone else can do to stop me.”
“Wait.” Dorthea snatched her elbow and tugged her back. “You are ever the impish creature Lucy told me of.”
“Then I may have the carriage?”
“Yes.” Dorthea sighed. “You may have the carriage. I only hope it will return you.”
And I can only hope it does not.
There it sat, gilded by the afternoon sun, as unchanged as it had been yesterday. Wyckhorn Manor was lovely. Sad, somber, quiet—yet ever lovely, as if God had bestowed more grace upon that rocky cliffside than anywhere else.
The carriage wheels disturbed the air, announcing to the world her entrance into a place she no longer belonged.
But her heart belonged. Would belong always, no matter what Henry said.
God. The small whisper of a prayer rent through her. The carriage stopped. The door swung open. God, make him listen to me. Make him understand.
With shaking limbs, she managed each step toward the entrance. The shadow of Wyckhorn fell over top of her like a shroud.
Please. At her first knock, the door ripped open—almost as if in panic.
A pale butler stared back at her. “Miss Woodhart.” A pause. “I mean, Miss Pemberton.”
“I must speak with his lordship.”
“I—I am afraid that is impossible.”
“I know he does not wish to see me, but if I may be permitted one word with him—”
“His lordship is not at home.”
“Oh.” Had he gone to the village? “Well, I shall wait for him.”
“Another time.”
“There is no other time.” Her mother would have been proud as she drew on her years of training, drawing herself to her full height and using her firmest lady’s voice. “Now let me in this instant.”
His face growing whiter, he stepped aside and allowed her entrance. “I am sure Dunn shall want to know you are here.”
“Certainly. May I see him?”
“He is in his study.”
“Thank you.” Ella brushed past him and navigated through the corridors that were finally—achingly—familiar. When she reached the steward’s study, she tapped on the unlatched door.
“Who is it?”
She hesitated. “Miss Pemberton.”
Silence, then a small sigh. “Come in.”
She entered the small, leather-scented study. Sharp stabs of light escaped around the sides of the drawn curtains.
Dunn sat at his desk, fingers woven into his hair, shoulders sagging as if he’d known no rest. When he glanced up, his eyes were bleary, reddened. “You can be of no help. You might as well return to the village.”
“Is that where Lord Sedgewick has gone?”
“What?”
“To the village. The butler said he was not home.”
Dunn rose as if he’d aged ten years overnight. “Then you have not been told.”
“Told what?”
“That Ewan has taken Master Peter.” Dunn sank back into his chair with a moan. “And heaven knows if Lord Sedgewick can ever bring him back.”