Silas Prior.
The house was still in shambles.
She was a mess.
Her hand was bleeding.
This hardly seemed the proper household to raise the Prior heir. Charlotte resolved herself. She could not avoid Silas forever. But for now, she would pretend all was well.
* * *
Anthony ran his hand down his horse’s neck and gave her a pat as he settled her into the stall, bits of hay and dust floating in the morning air. He’d just returned from a ride to check the property’s perimeter, and a sudden drop in temperature signaled yet another impending change of the weather.
But Anthony was far too distracted to think on the weather.
What had Charlotte meant when she said that she’d seen harrowing things?
He’d assumed that as Roland Prior’s wife her life had been a privileged one, and he’d attributed her general aura of melancholy to grief over her husband’s death. But she was right—her demeanor was clearly different from what it had been. And there had to be a reason.
After straightening his dark green waistcoat and brushing straw and debris from his white linen sleeves, he reached for his discarded coat and pushed his arms through the wool sleeves. As he stepped from the stables in the front courtyard, he looked up to Hollythorne House, with its myriad windows and blackened stone, its slate roof and imposing presence, and he sobered. In its prime, Hollythorne House must have been a sight to behold, but it paled in comparison to Wolden House.
Silas Prior wanted both Charlotte and Henry to remain in Leeds for their protection, but she refused to stay. What would compel a woman of her standing to leave a home like Wolden House, abruptly, and come to a place that was currently so obviously beneath the standard to which she was accustomed?
It did not make sense.
When the horse was settled, he closed the stable door and lowered the bar across it. Perhaps he was making too much of the circumstances. It had only been three days since Roland Prior’s death. Three days was not much time to accept the reality of the death of a spouse and to make such life-altering decisions. Perhaps she was locked in some strange grief. Or perhaps her actions weren’t hasty at all. Reports from the other watchmen about the Prior brothers, at times, had been quite odd. The Priors, both of them, had strange reputations.
The distant sound of hoofbeats on packed earth rumbled, and he looked up. A lone horseman was approaching at a canter through the late-morning fog. Anthony stiffened. Had something gone wrong with Timmons and Miss Sutcliffe’s journey? But as the figure drew nearer, the rider boasted one unique identifier—white-blond hair. Silas Prior was paying them a call.
The servant girl was crossing the courtyard, and he called to her. “Go inform Mrs. Prior that Mr. Prior is here. Quickly.”
The girl nodded, and Anthony approached the gate, then opened it to allow the rider through. The horse had been ridden hard—mud splattered the owner’s otherwise elegantly fashioned Wellington boots and fawn buckskin breeches.
“Horrible roads,” Mr. Prior muttered as his feet hit the mud beneath him. His jerky movements and sour expression conveyed more annoyance than any words could, and he stared blankly toward the house. “So this is it, is it? The Hollythorne House my sister-in-law was so resolved on returning to?”
Anthony followed the guest’s gaze to the house, struck by the unmasked haughtiness in the man’s tone. “It appears so.”
Prior’s startling eyes fixed on him. His pale brows were drawn, and the tight lines on his face emphasized the hard angles of his high cheekbones. “You’re Welbourne?”
“I am.”
“You’re the one Walstead said is from here.”
“Not here, but near.”
Silas shifted his gaze toward the western moors before extending the reins to Anthony. “I can see why you prefer Leeds. Dismal bit of earth. The horse will not need to be unsaddled. I do not intend to stay long. But have your boy water her, will you?”
Anthony accepted the reins. “There’s no stable boy, but I’ll see to your horse.”
“Unbelievable.” Silas clicked his tongue in apparent disgust. “Where can I find her? Inside?”
“Yes. I’ve just sent one of the servants to notify her of your arrival, but I can show you inside.”
* * *
Anthony secured the horse before escorting Mr. Prior into the great hall. Given the last interaction between Charlotte and Mr. Prior, Anthony was curious regarding what to expect.
But he did not have to wait long.
The house itself was anything but quiet. A single breeze or even a footstep would give life to the ancient timbers and wooden floors, so Anthony was not surprised that he could hear her approach before they saw her. Instead of crossing the upstairs gallery and descending the main staircase, she took a smaller staircase near her chamber and emerged from a small corridor just off the parlor.
She’d changed from the cleaning gown he’d seen her in earlier that morning, and now she was dressed in a square-necked mourning gown of inky black, with long sleeves covering her lithe arms and a gauzy black fichu that hugged her neck. Her hair, which had been bound loosely at the base of her neck earlier, was now coiled into a tidy chignon. Not a single wisp escaped. She appeared every bit a lady in proper mourning until he took notice of a white linen bandage secured around her hand. There wasn’t time to contemplate how such an injury had occurred, for she swept into the great hall without casting Anthony a glance. Her expression held no warmth, and she fixed her golden eyes on Mr. Prior. “Silas. I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Are you?” He fairly spat the words as he assessed the room. “We need to talk. Is there somewhere private we can go where the whole of the house cannot hear us?”
She cast Anthony an empty glance before she stepped back and motioned toward the parlor. “In here.”
As he watched them exit, the strange sense that Anthony should not leave them alone engulfed him. It was a ridiculous notion. Silas Prior was paying for her security. She was perfectly safe. But something was not right about the relationship between Charlotte Prior and the rest of the Prior family, and he did not think he would be able to relax until he found out what.
Chapter 18
Charlotte ushered Silas from the great hall to the parlor, employing every bit of discipline to quiet the qualms roiling within her. Silas would never trouble himself to come out to visit her without a significant reason. Yet she refused to match her brother-in-law’s adversarial energy, for her ability to manage her response and stay calm was her power. She could not control his demands or his expectations, nor the plans he was weaving in his mind. But she could control her responses to them. She’d be rational and well-spoken—she would combat the infamous Prior temper with a logical, cool head.
They entered the parlor, and it was just as she’d left it—a cleaning bucket on the table. Rags scattered about. A shattered windowpane. The moment the door closed behind them, Silas’s sharp tone sliced the silence. “This pile of stones is the home you could not wait to return to, and Roland not even yet buried?”
She ignored his indignation and stepped closer to the fire, hoping its warmth would help calm the nervous chill racing through her. “I trust there is a reason for this visit, Silas, besides merely to question my rationale.”