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—theymight have both left Blight Moor for different reasons, but they had been called back.
Now that he was here, it was clear that the hold over him was stronger than it had ever been, and it would not release him until he made peace with the demons that had kept him away for so long.
***
Night was falling. The bone-chilling rain had subsided, leaving in its wake a thick, damp fog that hugged the rugged landscape. Charlotte knew what it would feel like to be outside on an evening such as this—the gusts would sweep down from the frost-laden moors, ushering in a frigid, relentless bite. As uncomfortable as such a clime could be, she oddly was finding comfort and familiarity in it.
They had been at Hollythorne House nearly two weeks, and in that time she’d endeavored to ensure that not a single hour was wasted. Other than the time she spent with Henry, every spare second, from dawn to dusk, had been dedicated to making Hollythorne House a worthy home once more. She was not sure when the transformation had happened, but somehow, in the undeniably difficult and emotional days of sweeping and washing, scrubbing and dusting, the tasks she’d undertaken to occupy her time had also calmed her mind.
Now, in this twilight hour, she found herself sitting in the comfort of the modest kitchen feeding Henry. Rebecca sat next to her, a needle in her hand and a basket of sewing at her feet. Arobust fire roared in the hearth, shedding amber light on the kitchen’s occupants and ushering warmth on a scene so very different from her views at Wolden House had been.
Henry shifted in her arms and cooed as he gripped the ruffle on her sleeve. With a smile she guided his attention back to his bottle. Even her ability to feed him had improved. He no longer wailed in protest at her attempts. She’d been worried that it was too late to form the sort of bond she wanted with him, but each day proved that nothing could be further from the truth. If there was one cause for celebration in this entire experience, it was that there were no limits on the time she could spend with her son—no nosy nursemaids observing and reporting to Roland her every interaction. For the first time in his seven months, she was getting to know and understand her child, and she truly loved the little person he was.
Movement outside the kitchen in the direction of the screens passage captured her attention, and she leaned forward in her chair to look through the shadowed corridor. A whisper and a giggle met her. Concerned over the suspicious sound, she stood, Henry still in her arms, and stepped just far enough in the screens passage to spy Sutcliffe in the shadows of the great hall and Mr.Timmons in the corridor.
She should intervene in their flirting.
It was not proper.
What sort of mistress would she be if she knowingly allowed a romance to blossom under her roof? Her father had once discovered a liaison between the groom and one of the kitchen maids, and he’d wasted no time in sending them both packing. He’d always stated that one should expect the same level of decorumand integrity from everyone attached to a household, not just the immediate family members. As mistress of Hollythorne House, she should continue this sort of discipline.
But Sutcliffe was happy.
Charlotte could intimately recall those intense feelings that accompanied blissful stolen moments. For her, it had been with Anthony during the evening hours at Even Tor. Despite everything, she would not trade a single memory.
She withdrew from the screens passage back to the kitchen, just as Mrs.Hargrave was opening the door from the back courtyard and stepping inside from the chilly night. “The menfolk’ll be taking their meals soon. I saw Mr.Welbourne comin’ in from back by t’ garden gate. I imagine ’e’ll be ’ere soon enough for somethin’ t’ fill his belly.” The housekeeper wiped her chapped red hands on her linen apron. “Will you eat ’ere before they come in?”
Charlotte looked to the long table that had been anchored in the center of the chamber for as long as she could remember. Since their arrival, she’d taken to eating her meals in the kitchen. The dining room had not been adequately cleaned yet, and her bedchamber felt unnecessarily lonely. She opened her mouth to respond, but Mr.Hargrave appeared in the doorway, his graying hair whipping about his weathered face and his coat slick with rain. He paused, stooped to pick up something, and stepped inside.
“What’s that?” asked his wife.
“Letter. On the door stoop.” He looked at it briefly before extending it to Charlotte.
Charlotte’s heart thudded as she accepted it. She angled it toward the light.
Mrs.Roland Prior.
Gooseflesh prickled on her arms as the reality of what was in her hand registered. All correspondence was to go through the watchmen. “Where did you say you found this?”
“Right out here, on t’ step, propped against t’ wall.”
Determined to gain more information, Charlotte stepped to the door and opened it. The wind rushed her and rain pelted her face and clung to her eyelashes. She looked down at the step, and upon seeing nothing out of place, she lifted her gaze to the black night. Trees swayed and bent, and the wind whistled through the branches, but she saw nothing.
She returned her attention to the letter pinched in her hand. She handed Henry to Rebecca, who had joined her at the door, took up a lantern, and hurried into the corridor. She slid her trembling finger, now wet from the rain, beneath the wax seal, popped it open, unfolded the letter, and angled it toward the light.
You have what we want. We will get it. We will be in touch.
She blinked and then stared at the strong, bold strokes. The jarring words were so blunt, so blaring, that it seemed as if they were being shouted at her instead of delivered to her in a missive.
All had been so quiet since their arrival, and she’d been lulled into a false sense of security. But this changed everything.
The only thing she had that anyone wanted now wasHenry.
As the realization trickled through her being, her head swam, dizzy and light.
