Anthony was not dressed as an immaculate soldier as he had been when she’d last seen him. Instead, a bulky caped greatcoat, slick with the morning rain, cloaked his broad shoulders and a beard’s shadow altered the angles of his face, but what altered him the most was the subtlety in his countenance, one of time and experience that now trumped the adventurous, boyish expression that used to reside there.
Mr. Walstead’s quick, matter-of-fact words snapped her back to the present. “This is Mr. Welbourne, lead watchman on this assignment. He’ll be in charge at Hollythorne House in my absence. You’ll not find a more capable watchman. You and your son will be in excellent care.”
Anthony bowed slightly, stoic and inscrutable, as if seeing her again had no effect on him. No casual grin lit his face as it did in her recollection of him. In fact, he barely met her gaze.
Conversely, she struggled to even speak as memory after memory beset her.
As she regained control, her defiant streak flared.
She did not know why or how he was here, but she did know that nothing good could come of his presence at Hollythorne House, regardless of how much time had passed.
She should demand he be sent away.
But on what grounds?
She’d seem a petty, foolish woman if she told Mr.Walstead about her girlhood heartbreak. And what had her experiences with the Prior family over the past three years taught her? Any sign of emotion would be interpreted as a hysterical response by men.
She had to keep her composure.
And shewouldkeep her composure.
Mr. Walstead, seemingly unaware of Anthony’s effect on her, continued. “Welbourne here is from Blight Moor, and his particular knowledge of the area will be helpful. Mr. Timmons will also be at your disposal, should you need assistance. Both men were soldiers and are experienced watchmen. What’s more, with Mr. Prior’s approval I have engaged servants on your behalf,including a housekeeper, a manservant, and a nursemaid. I’m told there are none currently working at Hollythorne House, and if my men are to guard, I prefer to have staff that has been inspected.”
Charlotte could only stare at the man as his words tumbled forth.
Servants. Guards. Watchmen.
She dare not shift her gaze to look at Silas, for she knew what she would find there—a smug grin of satisfaction that, despiteherdecision to leave, he was still taking control.
It was all too much—the reappearance of a man she thought she never would see again. The racing emotions of the death of Roland mingled with her fears for her son. And now, all the men were staring at her, waiting for her to decide, and who, no doubt, expected her to succumb to womanly emotions and fanatics.
She would prove them wrong.
For they had no idea to what extent she would go to protect Henry.
All she had to do was survive this moment—keep her composure and determination—for a bit longer, and then she and Henry would be away from here. She could deal with the watchmen and Silas’s manipulation another time. But if she did not leave Wolden House now, the opportunity might not come again.
Chapter9
The dreary moorland landscape flashed by Charlotte through the rain-streaked carriage window. To many, the moorland would seem cold and foreboding. But to her, the isolation—and privacy it afforded—offered the unexpected comfort of familiarity in a callous world that no longer seemed recognizable.
She adjusted Henry on her lap and tightened her wool cloak around them both to guard against the chilly gusts permeating the door. After fitful hours of riding in the jolting carriage and a handful of stops along the way, he’d finally fallen asleep.
The ride that should have been relatively short had become a difficult one. A delayed departure, coupled with an onslaught of rain and a broken wheel, conspired to put them hours behind schedule. But if the journey progressed with no other delays, they would be home soon.
Home.
How many times over the past few years had she dreamed of escaping Leeds and returning to the moors of her carefree childhood, when she was free and life was simple? Where no other way of life existed except to be content and bold, of being supportedand loved. Yes, she’d always wanted to return, but not like this—a widow surrounded by watchmen with pistols.
And not just any watchman, but Anthony Welbourne.
She could not prevent her wearied mind from turning to thoughts of him. She blamed her lack of mental discipline on sleep deprivation and the consternation of the entire situation, but the truth was, the sight of him awoke a part of her that had long been dormant. How had he gone from the carefree, enthusiastic young soldier to one of Walstead’s Watchmen, an ensemble renowned for braving danger and the shadows of night?
She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the tufted seat and swayed with the carriage’s movements. She was not sure how long her eyes were closed, but when she opened them, she spied it, like a veiled dream that had suddenly manifested: Hollythorne House.
Charlotte nudged the sleeping Sutcliffe to alert her to their impending arrival and leaned forward even farther, hungry to see the ancient stone building and slate roof topping it. It was hundreds of years old, constructed of gray gritstone that had blackened over time. A large wall of mullioned, multipaned windows overlooked the gated, cobbled courtyard, and faded ivy vines clung to the facade despite the autumnal wind’s tenacious attempts to loosen them from their stronghold.
The carriage paused to allow one of the drivers to open the wrought-iron gate, and then he navigated the conveyance through the narrow opening. Unable to wait, to be free of the carriage, shepushed open the door. And a gust of moorland wind swept in, rich with the familiar aroma of damp earth and heath.
