“It is quite beautiful, especially during a summer sunset. When the evening sun hits the grasses just right, it sets the entire moor afire. It looks like endless ribbons of gold.” Their conversation faded and as stillness resumed, gratitude toward her lady’s maid fell over her. Not many maids would have consented to embark on a journey to such an isolated, rugged place, especially given the circumstances. “Everything has happened so quickly has it not? I’m curious to know what you think of this new arrangement.”
“It’s not really for me to have an opinion on it, is it?” Sutcliffe shrugged. “If you’re content, then I am too.”
It was the perfect answer for a lady’s maid to give her mistress, yet Sutcliffe’s opinions had to be stronger than she’d indicated. She had shared that she’d once been the member of a prominent family, but her parents’ deaths had greatly reduced her circumstances. The skills she developed as a gentleman’s daughter made her an excellent candidate for a lady’s maid, but the position was just that—she was still a servant, and as such she had little time for romance.
Charlotte’s situation was very different, but in truth, neither of them were free. She, at least, was on the cusp of a unique version of independence, but a great deal of work stretched ahead of her. Sutcliffe’s only hope for a different life would come through marriage. Charlotte would not dissuade her friend from watching a man who caught her fancy. “Surely you must have thoughts. Hollythorne House is quite different from Wolden House.”
Sutcliffe stepped away from the window to the pile of gowns on the bed. “The surroundings may be different, but we’re still the same people. Besides, I’m fond of a new situation. I am content.”
Charlotte pulled one of the heavy, deep-garnet brocade drapes away from the bed’s canopy and secured it with a thick gold cord, just as she remembered her maid doing every morning when she was young. “You’re not frightened at all to be here, this far out of the city? Given the concerns about the mill workers?”
“Perhaps a little, but Mr. Walstead has been tasked with keeping us safe, so that provides a measure of confidence. And after speaking with Mr. Timmons earlier this morning, I earnestly believe he takes his position rather seriously. Have you noticed his hand?”
Charlotte shook her head.
“’Tis horribly injured.” Sutcliffe’s wide-set eyes widened. “Scarred and disfigured. Some of the fingers are missing.”
Charlotte stiffened. “Do you know how it happened?”
“He caught me looking at it, and he told me it was injured in the war.”
Anthony’s scar flashed in her mind.
Sutcliffe continued. “It does make one feel secure, does it not? Knowing someone is watching after things while we sleep and keeping an eye on things during the day?”
The young woman didn’t conceal the tone of admiration in her words. Charlotte did feel safer with the watchmen’s presence, especially knowing Anthony’s character, but Sutcliffe knew nothing of her past with Anthony, and Charlotte wanted to keep it that way.
The women turned their attention to the task of unpacking the trunks. As Charlotte sorted through her belongings, including the box with her jewels and the chest she’d retrieved from Wolden House’s strongbox, the importance of understanding her financial situation struck her anew. She’d be receiving money from the will as well as from the estate to see to Henry’s care, but she needed funds now to make Hollythorne House livable. The money Mr. Sires provided to her before leaving Wolden House would only last for so long, and she would have to pay servants and see to immediate repairs.
She moved to the small traveling desk atop the writing table opposite the bed and opened it.
“What are you doing?” Sutcliffe lifted her attention from the wool stockings she was sorting.
“I’m writing to Mr. Greenwood. I must speak with him as soon as possible to get an understanding of Hollythorne’s finances before things go too far. Mr. Welbourne told me Mr. Timmons is to post a letter in the village today, and I want this to be included.”
Sutcliffe lifted the box of jewelry and opened it. “Do you still want to sell some of these? If so, I can return to Leeds after the new staff arrives. If I borrow one of the horses, I can go there and be back within the day.”
Charlotte took in her maid’s eagerness, and yet she hesitated. It was a risky endeavor. Charlotte trusted Sutcliffe—that was not the issue. She did not, however, trust the jewelers or the sorts of men who would be buying the goods. But what choice did she have? She turned to the locked chest, which was also atop the desk, opened it, and inside were several storage boxes—each piece of jewelry in its own case.
She picked up a leather box and opened it to reveal a ruby pendant. “This is the first piece Roland ever gave me.” She touched her fingertip to the ruby’s smooth surface and shivered. The beautiful gem—an attempt by Roland to pacify her—propelled an exchange with her husband to the forefront of her thoughts, and the memory of the experience raced through her mind.
“That’s the best I can do.” Disappointment colored Sutcliffe’s tone as she stepped back and assessed her work.
Charlotte, too, turned her face to the looking glass. No amount of powders and creams could conceal the deep purple-and-blue bruising around her eye, nor the crimson gash on her cheek left by Roland’s ring.
Her stomach roiled and tears gathered in her eyes. The physical pain would subside, but the knowledge that she was married to the man responsible for her injury terrified her.
Heavy footsteps echoed, and the sound of someone whistling drifted in from the corridor.
Charlotte and Sutcliffe locked gazes.
Roland.
“I don’t want to see him,” whispered Charlotte, gripping Sutcliffe’s hands with desperate strength. She wanted an escape, some sort of shelter, but what could be done? If Roland wanted to see her, there was nothing either she or Sutcliffe could do to stop him.
The door to her chamber flung open. Charlotte winced at the suddenness of it.
“There you are, my darling.”
His voice was loud. Booming.
Charlotte caught Sutcliffe’s sympathetic gaze before the maid curtsied and withdrew, leaving her alone with her husband.
It had been two days since she’d last seen him—two days since he roared at her in drunken anger and struck her. But now he strolled in, nonchalant and unaffected, his smile and voice uncustomarily bright. “Mrs. Dalton tells me you haven’t been eating.”
She somehow mustered courage and met his icy blue gaze in the mirror’s reflection, but trepidation robbed her of speech.
“You must keep up your strength, my darling.” He stepped closer behind her and placed his large, heavy hands on her shoulders, his suffocating scent of tobacco and sandalwood engulfing her. “We can’t have you falling ill.”
Her gaze dropped slightly from his round face to his right hand and the heavy signet ring on it—the very ring responsible for the gash on her cheek.
“She also tells me you’ve a headache. A pity.” He continued with a click of his tongue that commanded her attention. “How I wanted to show off my beautiful wife at the Rogers’ ball tonight. I doubt you’ll feel up to attending.”