With every limb trembling she hastened through to the greathall, expecting to encounter Mr. Timmons where she’d spied him but minutes prior. But he and Sutcliffe were no longer there. Blinking to adjust to the large chamber’s darkness, she jogged to the front windows and peered out to the courtyard. There was Timmons, clad in a heavy greatcoat with a lantern in his hand, heading toward the front stable. She hurried to the main door and opened it.
“Mrs.Prior.” Timmons turned as she exited, his round face creasing in concern. “Is everything alright?”
Mindless of the rain, she stepped into the courtyard and closed the space between them. “I need to speak with Anthony—that is to say, Mr.Welbourne. It is quite urgent. Do you know where he is?”
“I do not.” He frowned in the night’s darkness, his eyes not visible beneath the shadow of his hat’s brim. “Is there something I can do?”
She eyed him. She’d already had her suspicions about him, given his behavior with Sutcliffe. As it was, she rarely spoke with Mr.Timmons, and somehow it felt safer to share this with Anthony. “If you see Mr.Welbourne, will you please inform him I need to speak with him? As soon as possible, please.”
“I will.”
She nodded and turned back toward Hollythorne House.
Charlotte would be embarrassed later for slipping and saying Anthony’s Christian name. For now she had to inform him of what had happened. She had to make sure she and Henry were safe. After all, that was the entire reason why they were here.
Chapter27
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 lanternlight 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 fora 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 youmustthink clearly.”
