Chapter 27
Perhaps it was Charlotte’s nearness and the memories it evoked.
Perhaps it was being in such proximity to the mill and where he had spent so many years with his uncle.
Perhaps it was pausing long enough to allow his mind to contemplate the emotions associated with each.
Anthony was not sure what the reason was, but this job was unlike any other he’d done as a thief-taker. With every other assignment he’d been able to turn off all emotion beyond the desire to bring about justice. But now his personal feelings were interfering with his responsibilities, and that had to change, for it was his ability to act with his head and not his heart that made him so successful in his profession.
Anthony lowered his hat against the drizzle as he turned his horse away from Hollythorne House’s outer perimeter. He’d just completed the evening check of the grounds, and now he adjusted the thick collar of his caped greatcoat as he made his way toward the stable, but as he did he quickly took notice of how a lantern light appeared in the back courtyard and slowly moved in his direction.
Assuming it to be Timmons or Tom, Anthony steered his horse toward it. But as he drew closer, Charlotte’s slight, feminine figure came into view. The wind billowed the skirts of her gown and caught her uncovered hair as she cut through the courtyard. Once he reached her he dismounted, looped the reins over the horse’s head, and held them in his gloved hand.
At this close distance he noticed the pallor of her skin was made even whiter by the contrast against the deepening dark of dusk. The muscles around her lips were tight and her brow furrowed.
“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
She extended a piece of paper toward him. “This was left on the kitchen doorstop. Tom found it.”
He pulled his glove from his hand, accepted it, and angled it toward the light from her lantern. The words sobered him, and the unmistakable prick of failure stung.
His sole reason for being here at Hollythorne House was to protect the Priors from the outside world and from anyone who might mean them harm. And yet this letter had been delivered, unobserved and unprevented, by them all. It was what he had feared—that his distraction would lead to him missing something important.
Her words tumbled forth, each syllable increasing with intensity and each word faster than the last. “It must mean Henry. Someone must want to get to him, like Silas said. A kidnapping for a ransom. What else do I possibly have that anyone would want? Silas said the mill workers had made threats against us. It must—”
He reached out to touch her arm—as much to comfort her as to calm her racing words.
Her lips pressed shut at the touch, and she fixed her expectant eyes on him.
“You and Henry are safe.” He refused to break her eye contact. He stepped closer. “This letter—the brevity of it and the manner it was left—is surely meant only to frighten you.”
“Well, they’re succeeding.” She pulled away from his touch and wrapped her arm around her waist.
The rain, cold and intense, started to fall in stronger sheets, and Anthony motioned toward the back stable. Once they were inside the dark structure, he put his horse in a stall and returned his attention to her. The scent of damp hay and ancient wood and stone surrounded them, like a safe canopy of protection, shielding them from the outside world.
She placed her lantern on a half wall, and its yellow light splayed on the stone walls and wooden beams. She then paced the quiet space. “What could Roland possibly have done to anger someone to this extent? Henry is just a baby! I wonder whether someone has approached Silas. I wonder if . . .”
She was spiraling.
He stepped nearer and put his hands on her narrow shoulders, to silence her with the directness of touch. She was trembling. Her teeth were chattering. She wore no cloak over her thick wool gown, and the rain pasted the fabric to her arms and adhered her hair to her brow and cheeks.
He resisted the urge to smooth away the lock of hair hugging the side of her face and stooped his head slightly to look her straight in the eyes. “I know it’s difficult, but you must stay calm. It’s the only way to think clearly, and you must think clearly.”
At length she lowered her eyes and spoke again, her voice low and barely audible above the wind whistling through the stable’s rafters. “Henry’s all I have. He’s truly the only thing that matters—not Hollythorne House, not the Priors . . .”
Her voice faded, and he smoothed his thumb over her shoulder in a show of comfort. “Then we will protect him. Charlotte, trust me.”
A tear slipped over her lower lashes and slid down her pale cheek. “After all that has transpired, it is difficult for me to trust anyone.”
“Then let me prove to you that you can trust me again. Where is Henry now?”
“With Rebecca.” She sniffed. “She and Mrs. Hargrave are both with him in the kitchen.”
He nodded. “Did you tell anyone what was in this letter?”
“Not yet. I wanted to tell you first.” She rubbed her arm and sniffed again. A flash of vulnerability darkened her face. Even with all the hard realities she’d faced since her arrival at Hollythorne House, he had not seen that expression. And it broke him. He wanted to fix everything—to erase that pain and return her—return them both—to that place of peace.
“You’re not alone here, Charlotte. Timmons and I are both here to keep you and Henry safe. We will let nothing happen to either one of you.”
At the mention of Timmons, she wiped moisture from her cheek and looked to him again. “You said earlier that you trusted Mr. Timmons with your life. What did you mean?”
He’d not expected to talk about the war, here, under these circumstances. Yet if he wanted her to trust him, really trust him, transparency was needed.
He dropped his hands from her shoulders. “Timmons and I were both injured at the Battle of New Orleans—one of the last battles of the war. We first met each other while recovering in the field hospital and were transported home on the same hospital ship. On the voyage home I fell ill. Very ill. Most of the ship did. There were not nearly enough nurses or physicians aboard, and many of those who were there fell ill from fever as well. Through the voyage Timmons kept me alive when so many others did not live. And then, when we returned, he used his connections to get us both positions, which, considering how many other soldiers were returning from war, was quite a feat. I trust him, not to mention I owe him, a great deal. He can be trusted.”
The tension in her face eased, and her shoulders lowered. She looked up at his face, but she was not looking at his eyes. Her gaze lingered on his scar. “How were you injured?”
Instinctively, he ran his hand over his face—the side-whiskers. The start of a beard. The scar. “An explosion. I was cut by shrapnel, or so I’ve been told. I’ve no recollection of the incident, but it hit here.” He pointed from his temple and then down across his chest, like a sash. “My arm took the brunt of it.”
“I heard the reports of that battle.” She tucked damp locks behind her ears. “Absolutely horrible.”
“I can assure you that whatever you read, the truth was exponentially worse.”
Silence fell over them. Now she was mere inches from him. They had somehow been pulled together, drawn by some force as they had when they were younger. Her next statement was barely above a whisper. “I did wonder about you, and what happened to you.”