There was much to do, but unable to resist the temptation of spying a room that had been so precious to her, she paused and looked in the bedchamber of her childhood. Here, time had stood still, frozen in a tribute to a bygone era.
White cloths draped over all the furniture, the garnet curtains were pulled tight over the multipaned windows, and darkness met her: dark paneling, dark floor. And yet in this familiar space breathing felt easier. Her shoulders felt lighter. She stepped to the west-facing window that looked out toward Blight Moor, tugged the curtain aside, turned the metal handle, and pushed the creaky window open. A cool gust burst in, as if it had been waiting for an invitation, and swirled into the room’s corners, like a large inhale after a deep sleep. She then stepped to the east-facing windows on the opposite wall and pulled back the dusty window coverings to look down.
There, in the courtyard, was Anthony at the drystone wall that separated the courtyard from the main road, securing the black iron gate.
For just a moment she let herself take in the sight of him. To her knowledge, he’d never stepped foot on Hollythorne property before. A property dispute between her father and his uncle led to a bitter feud that resulted in Mr. Welbourne refusing to offer his milling services to her father’s tenants. It had been a silly, petty disagreement, but one that had a lasting effect on the community.
She let the curtain slip from her fingertips. Whatever might have been between Anthony and her at one time had ended. She’d bid her final farewell to him years ago in her heart and in her mind, and a new life had emerged. The only thing that mattered was Henry. And there would be no turning back.
Chapter 10
Anthony could hardly blame Charlotte for the cool indifference of her tone when they spoke in the courtyard. He’d been hired to be here, to protect her and Henry, yet he felt like an unwanted intruder, invading a personal matter.
The sentiment dominated his thoughts as he made his way to Hollythorne House’s rear courtyard after completing his initial assessment of the property. Out of respect he’d avoided interacting with Charlotte for much of the journey. After all, her husband had just died. She was mourning, and given their history, it would be foolish to think his presence would be welcome. He could not forget he was at Hollythorne House merely to perform a task. Entertaining any thought to the contrary would stir unnecessary unrest.
By the time he reached the rear courtyard, night had fallen, and he stepped to the half wall separating the space from the land beyond. After setting his lantern atop it, he retrieved his pencil and small book to make notes to include in the assignment log that would be shared with Mr. Walstead.
Hollythorne House’s property was hemmed in by open moorland on three sides, save for the east-facing wall of the home that overlooked a broad forest. A rectangular cobbled courtyard filled the space between the house and the main road, and next to it to the left stood the modest stone stable and a few smaller outbuildings. Behind the house stretched a rear courtyard and two individual walled gardens connected to each other by a wooden gate, and beyond that another stable, a carriage house, a graveyard, and two more outbuildings. Hollythorne House itself was a secure structure, as there were only a few entrances, but the inside was a maze of passageways and corridors, chambers and halls, each added on or altered by new generations.
The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and Timmons’s words drew his attention. “T’ driver and t’ footman are settled, along with t’ carriage and horses. They’re none too ’appy about spendin’ the night ’ere, though.”
Anthony glanced to the stone carriage house where faint orange light flickered from dirty windowpanes. The original plan for Mr. Sires’s driver and footman—deliver the Priors to Hollythorne House, rest the horses, and have them back to Leeds the same night—had been foiled by foul weather and impassable roads. It was an ambitious timeline, not to mention dangerous for the horses.
Anthony leaned his elbows on the drystone wall. “Couldn’t be helped. One can’t predict what the weather holds.”
“No, but we’ll make t’ most of it.” Timmons tugged up the collar of his greatcoat to guard against the misty rain that had started to fall. “Besides, it doesn’t really matter what any of us think, does it? All that matters is that this assignment is for Silas Prior ’imself. That can only be good for us.”
Anthony would undoubtedly feel the same if he did not have a personal attachment to it. He’d not served on a Prior assignment before, but Timmons had, and it was no secret it had been his most lucrative task to date.
“Should be easy,” continued Timmons. “This place is even more isolated than I thought. Anyone not familiar with it will ’ave a devil of a time findin’ it, even though it seems a might far-fetched that someone would travel all the way from Leeds to ’arass a widow and baby.”
“I don’t know. You’ve seen how the mill workers get when they band together.”
Timmons smirked. “Ah, those boys were just lookin’ out for themselves. Can’t blame a fellow for that, I reckon. I’d probably do t’ same thing in their stead.”
Anthony glanced up from his writing but did not respond to Timmons’s opinionated words. They were friends, yes, but since their return from war, the treatment Timmons had received because of his injury had made him cynical, almost to the point where Anthony wondered which side of the law he was really protecting.
Pushing aside the thoughts on his capricious comrade, Anthony straightened from the wall and adjusted his wide-brimmed hat against the wind. “From here on out we’ll each take four-hour shifts and rotate between the house and the outer perimeter. We’ll sleep as needed during the daylight hours. There’s a bedchamber above the kitchen for us to use.”
“Yes, sir.” Timmons chortled with mock formality, then snorted at his own little jest. He sobered, and his eyes scanned the murky landscape. “Are we close to your mill, then?”
Anthony hesitated, unwilling to share his personal past with Timmons. He’d never told him about Charlotte, or really any significant details of his personal life prior to the war, and now that Charlotte had resurfaced, the past suddenly seemed a secret to be guarded, and he would prefer to keep it that way, given the damage that could be done if word of their relationship became public. But there was no harm in answering Timmons’s question. “Not exactly. We could ride there and be back in an afternoon, though.”
It was a lie.
They were very close. By horseback he could arrive there in a quarter of an hour. He could even walk.
“Surely you’ll pay it a visit then.”
“Maybe.”
“‘Maybe’?” Timmons scoffed. “Savin’ your money t’ repair that mill ’as been your fool’ardy mission since we returned from the United States. Ye say ye might visit it? Bah. I don’t believe it. You’ll be there as soon as ye can sneak away.”
Yes, Anthony wanted to go to his mill, but returning would force him to revisit memories he was not ready to face.
His uncle had been vocal about his concern over Anthony following in his father’s military footsteps. But it had been his father’s last wish, and he’d left enough money for Anthony’s commission with the instructions that it be used for that purpose alone. Anthony had given up contemplating what his life would have been like if he had taken his uncle’s advice. If he had, he never would have been injured. And who knew, if he’d been home to help fight the fire, his uncle might still be alive and the mill might be intact.