As they rode, Charlotte attempted a few more questions. “What is your surname, Margaret?”
“I’m just Margaret.” She sighed.
Could the woman really not have a last name? It wasn’t possible she was trying to hide who she was, was it?
Charlotte inhaled. “And what do you do for work?”
“I’m good with the washin’, milady.”
“I’m not a lady, Margaret. You may call me Miss Roylance.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, miss.” Margaret’s knuckles blanched, white cracks of skin beneath the grime as she clutched the pommel for dear life. If this woman indeed washed clothes, her own apparel needed attention, and her hands seemed far too dirty for her to have done any recent work.
After a long silence, Charlotte ventured another question. “What is the last thing you remember?”
“I woke up in these woods, alone, with a terrible headache. Mighty goose egg on me ’ead. I lay there a while, but when I was awake enough, I thought I should at least try t’ walk.”
So she’d withstood a head injury. That perhaps explained some of her responses. As they rode on, Charlotte could see the detailed parts of the castle windows coming into view. “And no memory before that?”
“Nothin’ ’cept when I was a girl, miss, washin’ clothes.”
Again the same story. Charlotte felt compassion for the woman, for she was clearly addled. Whatever trauma she’d endured must have caused her to forget a great deal. Her story didn’t completely make sense, but perhaps it would just take time to help the woman remember the missing pieces.
As soon as they were inside, Charlotte called for the housekeeper, Mrs. Cliff, who promptly met them in the vestibule.
“This is Margaret,” Charlotte said. “She’s suffered a head injury and has forgotten the particulars of her recent past.” She glanced at Margaret’s shaking hands and back to the housekeeper. “I told her we’d allow her to rest and give her nourishment in the servants’ quarters, and once she’s improved, perhaps she could be of help to the maids. She says she has skills in washing and mending.”
“As ye say, Miss Roylance,” Mrs. Cliff said and bobbed a curtsy. She turned to Margaret. “Down that corridor and take the stairs at the end.”
Margaret nodded and Charlotte pulled Mrs. Cliff aside. “If you learn anything about her, please inform me immediately.”
“Yes, Miss Roylance.”
She wished she had more details about Margaret’s situation. Not knowing how to find someone who might know her, Charlotte wrote a letter to Rebekah Laurence, asking to make inquires with the members of her husband’s congregation. Hoping that would lead to something, Charlotte then went in search of young Walter. A good ride would have to wait, but she owed her brother some quality time.
***
Alex stood outside the closed office door of Mr. Cartwright, waiting to be summoned by the enraged man. Cartright had threatened to dismiss him if he didn’t get the Alnwick Mine by now. Alex wiped perspiration from his brow. He couldn’t lose this job. He’d worked for years to elevate himself, to have money to live on, to establish himself enough to relieve his father’s debts and begin to crawl back into a gentleman’s society. A society in which he could be an equal with Christopher—and Charlotte.
He paced back and forth, trying to summon his mettle enough to confront the man on the other side of the door, when Moxham entered the corridor. Before his friend said anything, Alex whispered, “I thought Mr. Wilkinson would be desperate for the sum of money I offered him for the Alnwick Mine. How can these landowners not see this is the way of the future? Heaven knows I can’t get Christopher’s land, so I must secure this mine instead.”
“Hmm. Maybe ye should ask Mr. Wilkinson one more time,” Moxham said, twisting his hat in his hand.
Alex studied him, his friend’s face more worried than Alex had ever seen him. “Moxham, are you all right?”
“Um, I don’t want to trouble ye, with all ye have to worry ’bout.”
Alex glanced at the door and then back at his distraught friend. “No, please, tell me.”
“I just learned my Mags has gone missin’.”
Alex recalled a bit of an earlier conversation. “Your lady friend I haven’t yet had the pleasure to meet? The one who went to work at Alnwick Mine?”
“That’s ’er.” Moxham bit down on his lower lip. “I sent word to a friend that I wanted to see ’er the weekend past. He sent back sayin’ no one’s seen ’er for three days and no one will speak of ’er whereabouts neither.”
Alex’s breath felt heavy. He knew all too well how easy it was for someone to go missing in a mine or, worse, for no one to care when someone did.
“Do you think she’s . . . ?” Alex stopped before forming the word.
