“You grew up in this world. Did you not tell me you overheard more conversations in the parlor than you cared to admit? You lived this life, and it is part of you.”
She slowed her steps and lifted her gaze to the house rising before them. “My father would be furious if he knew this was how it turned out, with Hollythorne House in this condition.”
“No, no. I don’t agree. Your father would be proud.”
“But you never met my father.”
“I know his reputation. I know how he interacted with my uncle—or, rather, didn’t. Hollythorne is just a house. Made of stone and slate, timber and rock. He would be more concerned with you. He would not want you to flounder or find fault with yourself. No man would want that for his daughter. He’d want you to fight. He’d expect you to fight. And if you need help to get there, then ask for it. But do not let anyone think, for a single moment, that you can’t do this. For the Charlotte Grey I know was fearless.”
“Fearless, eh?” She laughed, and the sound, the goodness, the gentleness, the memories in it lit a fire in his soul. She stopped and turned to him, raising a playful brow. “You said you would help me if you can. If you really want to do that, find a way to open your mill and not turn away my tenants.” She gave a little laugh, as if her comment was an offhanded one. “Or if you have not the inclination, allow someone else to.”
To this, he could not respond.
He’d been avoiding it for so long—but now it was clear he could avoid it no longer.
What was he waiting on?
Perhaps he’d been waiting on this moment: the moment he would find true purpose in it—find the reason to leave the life of thief-taking behind and strive for a new sort of justice.
And now she was looking up at him with her wide, expectant eyes. He’d never been able to deny her. He cleared his throat in an attempt to gather his thoughts. “I’ve not seen the site in a couple of years, but when I did see it last, the roof was completely gone, as was the wooden waterwheel. The stone and bricks seemed intact, but with fire you never know. The mortar could be crumbling or have other structural issues. It will take a great deal of money to make it fit for its purpose again.”
“But you know how to run it.” An eagerness he’d not heard since their arrival brightened her voice. “You know how to build it.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
But he stopped there, reluctant to say more. He’d not admit that it rekindled memories he did not want to deal with. After pausing to consider his response, he said, “How about this? I promise that I will visit the mill site and assess it and see what needs to be done.”
Her smile was a reward for the commitment he’d just made. But now that the words had been spoken, he could not take them back—even if he wanted to.
Chapter 26
The next morning as Anthony was completing his morning rounds, a wagon wheeled up the road. Mr. Greenwood had sent word that workmen would arrive to see to various necessary repairs, so Anthony crossed the courtyard to intercept the wagon.
The wagon drew closer and the driver came into focus, and a smile spread on the driver’s face as he lifted a hand to wave. As the vehicle halted it was clear that an introduction would not be needed. “’O, there! I ’eard you were back. Didn’t believe it though.”
“Benjamin Spencer,” Anthony announced with a grin as the man climbed down from the wooden bench.
Spencer thrust his hand out in greeting and clapped his other hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “Never thought we’d see ye ’ere again. Thought you’d gone to Leeds for good.”
Anthony shook the hand of the man he had counted a friend in the years before the war. “I’m here on assignment.”
“I ’eard. Walstead’s Watchmen, if I’m not mistaken. Ye don’t think you’d come back to the moor and none would be the wiser, did ye?” Spencer laughed heartily and squinted in the morning light as he looked up to the slate roof. “Mr. Greenwood sent me and me boys out to look at the roof and the back stairway. Says it’s in need of repair. Remember me boys? Thomas and Daniel.”
Anthony looked up to the two identical auburn-haired youths and was struck. He remembered them as little boys before his departure, and now they appeared adolescent.
“There’s another one at home, a baby toddlin’ about, but m’ wife says ’e’s too young for work,” quipped Spencer. “I say it’s never too early for a man t’ start learnin’ ’ow to use ’is ’ands, but she won.”
Anthony chuckled at the exaggeration. “You’re a fortunate man. They’re fine boys.”
“That I am. Word has it that you own your uncle’s gristmill now, or what’s left of it,” continued Spencer. “’Orrible fire.”
Anthony stiffened. He’d not really spoken to anyone in detail about the actual fire. In fact, the only information he had about it was when he returned and found it in the charred state and subsequently spoke with the vicar in the village. His shock at the time had limited his interest in the details. Now curiosity was taking hold. “I was told lightning was the cause.”
“Aye. I remember t’ storm.” Spencer crossed his brawny arms over his barrel chest. “I daresay everyone livin’ on t’ moor remembers t’ storm. Not much rain, but t’ lightnin’ was fierce and lit up t’ sky for ’ours. Best we could guess t’ lightnin’ struck one of t’ trees next to t’ mill, and it fell against it.”
Anthony’s interest piqued with each detail the man shared. “You were there?”
“Oh, aye. I was there. Not initially, of course. But me and lots of other folks came from all around to try an’ put it out on account of t’ black smoke. By t’ time I got there, it was mostly out. And a good man was lost in it. A sad day. Always thought one day you’d come back and open t’ mill back up. It’s not destroyed, just in need of repair. ’Ave ye seen it?”
Spencer’s question echoed the thoughts that seemed to be at the forefront of Anthony’s mind as of late. “I saw it briefly a couple of years ago. I intend to visit it again before I return to Leeds.”
“So you know the state of it then. I ’elped assess it myself right after the fire. The roof’s gone and the beams, if I remember right. The fire was worst on the east wall, and the mortar’s crumbled from t’ heat and flames. But that was a while ago.” He paused. “If you want me t’ look and see what all would be involved in repairing it, let me know. T’ farmers here could use a closer mill. But I’m sure ye know all of that.”
Anthony saw his opportunity and inquired after some of the farmers in the area. Each new piece of information emphasized the dire situation the local farmers were facing. As owner of the estate, Charlotte certainly had her work cut out for her.
But it was not empathy for her plight that caused Anthony’s chest to tighten. Because like it or not, he had a role to play in this situation as well. He owned the solution to a big part of the problem.
As he led Spencer and his boys to the areas in need of repair, the haunting realization stole over him: He thought he’d return to Blight Moor, do his assignment, and escape back to his life in Leeds—untouched and unchanged. Charlotte was right—they might have both left Blight Moor for different reasons, but they had been called back.