A fresh cloak of melancholy settled over Charlotte. At the moment Hollythorne House was not feeling like the safe haven she had hoped it would be. She’d longed for a place of reprieve and shelter, but now with the suspicious letter, it felt as if every moment offered a new threat. She had hoped that by visiting this chamber she would feel a sense of closeness to her past and belonging, but instead it emphasized her loneliness.
“Here you are!”
Charlotte turned at the sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor. Sutcliffe propped her hands on her hips as she entered and lifted her eyes to survey the room. “What a lovely chamber this is.”
“This was my mother’s chamber,” Charlotte responded absently, allowing her gaze to linger on the yellow-and-green floral paper lining the walls. “Did you need something?”
“Ah yes. Mr. Timmons sent me to fetch you.” She reached for Henry. “There’s a young woman here to see you.”
“Is she here about the housekeeping position?”
Sutcliffe shook her head as Henry came to her and settled on her hip. “No, ma’am. She said she is one of your tenants.”
Relief and anxiety intermingled. Charlotte knew she would meet her tenants at one point, but she’d hoped to have a better grip on the realities of the estate before she did. But if the woman was here, there was no time like the present to meet her. “Is she in the parlor?”
“Yes,” she responded. “And I already asked Mrs. Hargrave to prepare tea.”
After giving Henry a kiss on the cheek, Charlotte made her way down the creaking staircase, pivoted at the landing, and crossed through the great hall until she was at the parlor. Inside was a petite woman with long auburn hair; dark, wide-set eyes; and an abundance of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She curtsied awkwardly as Charlotte entered.
“Welcome to Hollythorne House.”
“Thank you.” The woman’s white-knuckled grip on her reticule was matched only by the nervousness tightening her expression. “My name’s Molly Mayer. I live at Thresh Cottage on t’ moor’s edge.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you.” Charlotte smiled, attempting to allay the woman’s anxieties. “But you’ll have to forgive me. I am not familiar with your name.”
“Mayer is my married name,” she rushed. “My father’s name was Jerome Simmons, ma’am.”
Faint recollection glimmered, and Charlotte lifted her head. “Ah yes. I remember now. What brings you to Hollythorne House, Mrs. Mayer?”
“I came t’ pay m’ respects. An’ offer a gift.”
“Oh.” Charlotte’s gaze fell to the bundle at the woman’s feet. “A gift is not necessary.”
The young woman ignored Charlotte’s protest and knelt to lift the bundle of vibrant blue broadcloth and extended it toward her. “It’s a shawl, made from t’ wool of our own sheep, spun in the ’ouse by ’and.”
Charlotte accepted the beautiful piece, immediately struck by its softness. Such a piece would likely cost the young woman greatly. “This is far too much.”
The woman’s expression dimmed. “Then if you will not accept it as a gift, perhaps you will accept it as a form of payment.”
Charlotte sobered as the reality of the situation was taking hold.
“Mr. Greenwood was by, and since it is just me and my mother, we haven’t t’ money to pay t’ rent quite yet.”
Charlotte kept her tone steady. “You mentioned you were married, Mrs. Mayer. Is your husband not at your farm?”
Her face colored, and she stared down at the toes of her scuffed boots. “He left for Leeds, been gone a month now, t’ get more work.”
Charlotte had heard of this happening—of farmers and country laborers leaving their farms for the lure of steadier and more predictable factory work.
Their conversation was interrupted when Rebecca appeared with a tray of tea and placed it on the carved table in the parlor’s center. Once Rebecca retreated and all was once again quiet, Charlotte poured the girl a cup and extended it to her.
“Oh no.” Mrs. Mayer shook her head. “I couldn’t accept that.”
“Of course you can. I insist.”
Once the tea had been accepted and Charlotte poured herself her own cup, she motioned for Mrs. Mayer to be seated in one of the wingback chairs and then settled herself in the one opposite her guest. “Tell me of your farm, Mrs. Mayer. I’ve been away for so long that there’s a great deal for me to catch up on.”
Charlotte listened as the young woman told of her sheep and the recent harvest, of the orchard and outbuildings. As she spoke Charlotte’s gaze fell to the calluses on the woman’s palms, her ruddy, wind-burned cheeks, and the patched holes of her gown. Charlotte was struck in that moment of how fortunate she was, how fortunate she’d always been, to have confidence in always having a roof over her head and food to eat. Life could be uncertain for a single woman—widowed or otherwise.
When the tea was gone and they were nearing the end of their chat, Charlotte stood. “Excuse me for a moment, Mrs. Mayer. I’ll be right back.”
She left the young woman in the parlor and hurried up the smaller staircase to her chamber. Ensuring she was alone, she moved to the floorboard where she kept her valuables, pushed the table aside, and pulled out a small pouch of coins. She selected a few, folded them in her palm, returned her chamber to its original condition, and hurried back down to her guest.
Mrs. Mayer stood as she entered.
Charlotte approached her. “I would like to pay you for the lovely shawl.”
The woman shook her head adamantly. “Oh no, ma’am. If anything, that was meant by way of rent. I couldn’t—”
Charlotte took the worn hand in hers and folded the coins in it. “This is for the shawl. It is lovely and I shall wear it proudly. As for the rent, we will address it when the next payment is due. Trust me when I say I am figuring all this out, and we will figure it out. Together.”
Chapter 30
Anthony was rarely nervous or trepidatious, yet as Walstead and two other men thundered toward Hollythorne House atop their horses, both sensations accosted him. His conversation with Timmons was heavy on his mind, and now that Timmons knew of his past with Charlotte, he would essentially be lying for him. And that made Anthony uneasy.
Even so, another part of him was equally relieved that Walstead finally was arriving. Initially he was supposed to visit a few days after their arrival to assess the situation and provide them with a more substantial update, but days had stretched to a fortnight, and they were all eager for updated news.
Anthony met the new arrivals at the gate and opened it to allow the horsemen through, then closed and secured it. Walstead immediately dismounted and approached. His blue wool coat with wide lapels and fabric-covered buttons was a bright contrast to the courtyard’s drab grays and withered browns, and it made his sharp eyes appear even darker against the bleak landscape. The tall black beaver hat atop his head added several inches to his otherwise unimpressive height, but Mr. Walstead’s mannerisms, his pretentious comportment, made him seem as if he lorded his position above all around him.