Chapter 9
The dreary moorland landscape flashed by Charlotte through the rain-streaked carriage window. To many, the moorland would seem cold and foreboding. But to her, the isolation—and privacy it afforded—offered the unexpected comfort of familiarity in a callous world that no longer seemed recognizable.
She adjusted Henry on her lap and tightened her wool cloak around them both to guard against the chilly gusts permeating the door. After fitful hours of riding in the jolting carriage and a handful of stops along the way, he’d finally fallen asleep.
The ride that should have been relatively short had become a difficult one. A delayed departure, coupled with an onslaught of rain and a broken wheel, conspired to put them hours behind schedule. But if the journey progressed with no other delays, they would be home soon.
Home.
How many times over the past few years had she dreamed of escaping Leeds and returning to the moors of her carefree childhood, when she was free and life was simple? Where no other way of life existed except to be content and bold, of being supported and loved. Yes, she’d always wanted to return, but not like this—a widow surrounded by watchmen with pistols.
And not just any watchman, but Anthony Welbourne.
She could not prevent her wearied mind from turning to thoughts of him. She blamed her lack of mental discipline on sleep deprivation and the consternation of the entire situation, but the truth was, the sight of him awoke a part of her that had long been dormant. How had he gone from the carefree, enthusiastic young soldier to one of Walstead’s Watchmen, an ensemble renowned for braving danger and the shadows of night?
She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the tufted seat and swayed with the carriage’s movements. She was not sure how long her eyes were closed, but when she opened them, she spied it, like a veiled dream that had suddenly manifested: Hollythorne House.
Charlotte nudged the sleeping Sutcliffe to alert her to their impending arrival and leaned forward even farther, hungry to see the ancient stone building and slate roof topping it. It was hundreds of years old, constructed of gray gritstone that had blackened over time. A large wall of mullioned, multipaned windows overlooked the gated, cobbled courtyard, and faded ivy vines clung to the facade despite the autumnal wind’s tenacious attempts to loosen them from their stronghold.
The carriage paused to allow one of the drivers to open the wrought-iron gate, and then he navigated the conveyance through the narrow opening. Unable to wait, to be free of the carriage, she pushed open the door. And a gust of moorland wind swept in, rich with the familiar aroma of damp earth and heath.
And with it the sudden longing for what had been.
Oh, if only she could be returning to the bosom of her childhood, the gentleness of her mother’s embrace, and the warmth of their family home. Here, on this land, she could almost hear her father’s booming laughter, laced with joy and good humor.
But it also revived other memories—ones that were equally as tied to this moor—ones of disappointed love and heartbreak.
She drew a deep breath, allowing Blight Moor’s pensive aura to brush over her. She would not linger on thoughts of Anthony Welbourne. He was but a piece of her history here at Hollythorne House. An entire life had existed before him, and she would dwell on that. She would remain mistress of her thoughts, of her emotions, for she could not get distracted from her goal—Henry’s well-being. Too much was at stake, and this freedom was what she’d wanted for so long.
Eager to see the house that she knew as well as any living creature, she passed Henry to Sutcliffe and adjusted the ribbons securing her wool traveling cloak. Without waiting for assistance, she stepped down. Her sturdy leather half boots sank heavy into the sodden earth, as if the land itself was reclaiming her and, as a result, filling her with confidence. This was not a new environment she had to learn to maneuver, as she had done at Wolden House. This was her home.
With Henry once again in her arms and the iron key in her free hand, she stepped toward the heavy oak door.
“A moment, Mrs. Prior.”
She stopped. She need not turn to identify the speaker, for the timbre of Anthony’s voice was etched in her memory as deeply as her own.
A part of her wanted to be happy to see him again, but a much larger part of her was far too aware of how her experiences of the past four years had hardened corridors of her heart. Now, uncertainty and the basic need to establish a safe environment for her and her son trumped any emotional inclination.
She turned in response to his request, trying to look both directly at him but also past him.
He continued. “Before you go inside, Timmons and I will inspect the building and the grounds to ensure all is secure and in order.”
She shook her head. She’d not traveled all this way to wait outside of her own house. “There’s no need. It will be dark soon, and I should like to ensure that we have at least one fire lit before night falls. I needn’t tell you how difficult it can be to see anything after the sun sets on this moor.”
“Even so, it’s protocol to assess the property before we can allow you and your son inside.”
She raised her brow at the word allow. “I’m sure it is, but as I frankly informed both Mr. Walstead and Mr. Prior, Sutcliffe and I are quite capable of handling this situation on our own. If you feel the need to explore the grounds, then you are more than welcome to do so.”
Without giving him the opportunity to respond, she pivoted and cut her way across the muddy, leaf-strewn courtyard to Hollythorne House’s entrance. With Henry on her hip and Sutcliffe immediately behind her, she inserted the key in the lock and turned it. The lever gave way with a satisfying click, followed by the squeak of the heavy door swinging open on its hinges.
Relief flooded her as she stepped into the low-ceilinged screens passage and then through to the open great hall. Murky darkness and the stodgy aroma of disuse besieged her senses. She lowered her cape’s hood and turned a full circle, absorbing every visible portion of the great hall. The gray light of dusk slid through the dirty windowpanes of the southern wall, lending a somber glow to the dirty stone floor beneath her feet and the timber beams crossing the ceiling nearly two stories above her head.
She and Henry were home.
But then, in the very next breath, the magnitude of what she’d undertaken engulfed her.
Sutcliffe stepped next to her and placed the lantern from the carriage on the long table anchored in the room’s center, the light from which further illuminated the dust-laden surfaces. Charlotte exchanged an uneasy glance with Sutcliffe. Complete darkness would be on them shortly, and the house, such as it was, was unopened. It was up to her to give direction—up to her to decide where to put their efforts first.
Mr. Timmons entered, a welcome relief to her pensive reverie. A trunk was balanced atop his shoulder. “The driver and footman are unloading the carriage now. Where would you like this?”
Charlotte, followed by both Sutcliffe and Mr. Timmons, took up the lantern and led the way to the tenebrous wooden staircase and ascended a few steps before sharply pivoting on the narrow landing to the left. The stairs groaned beneath them and their footfalls echoed from the high ceilings and heavily paneled walls, as if in protest of being awoken from their otherwise undisturbed slumber. At the top of the steep staircase, they reached the railed minstrel’s gallery that overlooked the great hall and continued to the corridor leading to her chamber. “My chamber is to the left. Please put all the valises and trunk there for now.”