Chapter Twenty-Nine
S haking, Verda came to her knees. This is not happening . She put her hands on the floor to pull herself up and her left one slipped on blood. The smell hit her first and she gagged. She would not cast up her accounts. She was no longer eight years old. She was no longer without resources. She was a woman grown. She possessed common sense. Yet the urge to scream smothered her.
Maura was not her mother. She was a young woman who’d been attacked. She may not even be—
Right . She needed to take a breath, but if she smelled the blood again, it might be all over for both of them. She swiped her hand over her skirts and carefully came to her feet. Her whole body quaked, but she made it to the windows and laid her face against the cold pane, her hot hands flat. She drew back and breathed in. Deeply.
With that inhale came clarity. She edged her way back to Maura and touched her face. It was cold, but nothing like her mother’s all those years ago. She took her hand. It was the same. Cold.
Verda used her own to warm her. “Maura? Can you hear me?” With little light, it was impossible to tell if the words had any effect. “Please, Mama.” She blinked. “ Maura . Do not die. I know I seem the most sensible woman ever, but I just couldn’t bear it if anything happened.”
Maura didn’t move so much as a pinkie finger.
Distress raced rising panic. “Maura, please .” Verda patted her hand. Rigorously. “ Please .” Tears blinded her. She would never be warm again. The light. She needed light. But there were no candles. No fire…
She’d fallen into her worst nightmare.
She ran for the window. Yanked on the heavy drapes. “I can’t get it,” she shrieked. “I can’t get it.”
Her sobs hiccupped. “Mama…”
Her words were broken. The latch was too hard… darkness closed in… she couldn’t breathe…
“Oh…” The word was long, whispered, and drawn out.
Verda froze. She was… hearing things. But no, the fingers she held moved. “Maura?”
“Help me up.”
“You mustn’t strain yourself. Do you know what happened?”
Maura pulled her hand from Verda’s and put it to her head. “No. A-Am I bleeding?”
“A little, I believe.”
Now that Maura was conscious, Verda could see her panic for what it was. Much of her pragmatic self was returning, her brain not so full of mush.
“Why is it so dark?” Maura asked.
With a grim smile the young woman likely couldn’t see, Verda indicated the windows, which she also couldn’t see. “The windows are huge, but it’s another murky day. So…” Her shoulder lifted. “No light.”
“I think if you help me up, I can walk now.”
“I’m relieved more than I can say to hear that. Unfortunately, we’re locked in. I heard a key turn in the latch. If I had a candle, I might be able to find something with which to break open the door.”
A short, companionable silence reigned over the attic. Shocking to Verda, considering her state of mind not ten minutes ago.
Maura broke the silence. “You’re good with the children,” she said, her tone thoughtful.
“Hmm. Not so much with Miss Docia,” she countered. “Or Master Julius. He’s sweet, though.”
“I wouldn’t worry much over Miss Docia. I don’t think she likes herself very much.”
The sentiment surprised Verda. She tilted her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Lady Chaston was quite active in the community when she was alive. She doted on Miss Eleanor and Miss Docia—”
“Miss Eleanor?”
“Miss Docia’s older sister.”
Verda frowned. “I didn’t realize Docia had a sister. How old is she? Is she away at school?”
“Oh. No, she died last year. She would have been… mmm, sixteen this year, I believe. The same age as Olive.”
“I had no notion,” Verda murmured.
“The girls always accompanied their mother to the village. She was always telling Miss Docia how pretty she was and how, if she married well, she would one day be this grand lady. She was always calling her ‘Lady Docia.’ But that was years ago. Lady Chaston died of a contagion while his lordship was away in London. Of course, it seems he’s always in London. Miss Docia was only five at the time. Truly? I always felt a little sorry for her. She really has no one left but her father, and as I said, he’s never home.”
It was sad. “Miss Eleanor contracted the contagion, then?”
“Oh, no. She fell and hit her head two years ago.” Maura put a hand to her own head and spoke so matter-of-factly that it took Verda a minute for the words to sink in.
She drew in a sharp gasp. “Are you telling me she died from a… a head injury ?”
“Yes, she—” Her abrupt stop showed she’d arrived at the same conclusion that hit Verda.
“I’m sensing a pattern here.”
“You think Miss Docia… But she’s only eleven .”
“I don’t know,” Verda said slowly, “if it’s Miss Docia, Olive, or the two of them working together.” A vision of the two rushing in from outside flitted through her. Verda had difficulty in believing two young women able to fell one large man, albeit an aging one at that. “But… we need out of here.”
But then recollections of her conversation with Docia cut Verda to her core. The bruise on her wrist. Had Docia hidden the actuality of how she’d sustained them?
Worse, and this was truly shattering, had Verda’s skepticism inhibited Docia’s candor of events? She swallowed hard. Her head ached with concern for a child who needed someone to listen and horrified she hadn’t given the situation more careful consideration. The guilt was debilitating—
“I think I had a candle when I came up.” Maura’s words jarred her back to their bleak surroundings.
“Right, then. It must be somewhere near here.” Verda went on her knees and squinted into the darkness, praying there weren’t spiders. Her fingers brushed a candleholder. She was close. “Found it.” The candle had rolled under a small table.
“Thank heavens.”
“Blast. There’s no way to light it.” Verda had actually perfected the art of striking flint against steel, as she’d never intended to be trapped in a cold, dark room again in her life. But here she was trapped in an attic . “There must be something here somewhere.” She came to her feet and worked her way toward the door. It was a tedious process with all the trunks, paintings stacked against the wall, chairs with broken legs, tables, a desk —“I’ve found an escritoire.” She located the latch that lowered the writing surface and, using her fingertips, felt four drawers, two on either side of open compartments stacked with papers.
Starting with the first drawer, Verda went through each one with methodical precision. “We’re in luck,” she called out. Top-right drawer, she found flint and steel. Now, she just needed tinder and hope she didn’t set the entire castle afire. Even more fortunate, she located a cracked basin and some old linen. She grabbed a stack of papers too then cleared a place near the windows.
Maura crawled her way nearby. “Is this safe?”
“Of course,” Verda lied, then guilt set in. “Mostly. One moment.” There must be something she could use as simple kindling. A couple of trunks offered promise, and she located one filled with old bedclothes. She grabbed one piece along and dropped it, still folded, into Maura’s lap.
“I-I don’t understand.”
“In the event a fire does grow out of our control, you must smother the fire with that. Or have it handy for me to nab from you.”
“All right.” Her voice shook, but she seemed a sensible young woman. She had five siblings, after all, so Verda kept faith.
With honed practice, she ripped pieces of the foolscap into strips and dropped them atop the loosely gathered piece of linen. With the flint firmly in one hand and the steel in the other, she angled it toward her makeshift bowl of kindling and struck. A spark caught the paper on her first try. “It worked,” she whispered. She dropped the flint and the piece of steel then leaned in and blew softly until it smoldered then flared to life. “Quick, hand me the candle.”
Maura handed it over.
“And then there was light,” she said with a satisfied grin. She glanced at Maura.
The nursemaid’s eyes were wide as saucers. “How did you do that?”
“Practice.” And luck. “Now.” Verda took the folded bed cloth and smothered the fire. She took the candle and, holding it up, looked about. “This place is a shambles.” She lowered it to the stack of papers but shifted it to the side and, leaning in, caught sight of a signature on the top page. She lifted the paper, studying it. It appeared to be some sort of Promissory Note. The signature showed a flourished, distinctive “P,” as were the “e,” the “n,” even the “d.” It was the last two letters that ended in a long, indistinguishable tail. “What year did the old earl expire?” she asked Maura, her eyes never leaving the paper.
“1810,” Maura answered promptly.
Verda lowered the sheaf and met her questioning gaze. “You sound most certain.”
Her gaze dropped to her hands and she fidgeted, then raised her eyes. “I told you I felt sorry for Miss Docia. She was five when her mother was taken from her.” Maura shrugged. “It’s nothing, really. I was five when the old earl was found on the moors. Our ages just sort of struck me as a connection.”
The air left Verda’s body in a deflated rush. “Of course,” she said softly, believing her. Maura was very kind.
“Throughout the years, I would see Lady Chaston with Miss Eleanor and Miss Docia on Sundays at church. Lady Chaston was the kindest woman. She made a point of regularly visiting the needy. Her daughters’ castoffs were always donated to raise funds for foundling homes.
“I remember Olive trying to cozy up to Miss Eleanor. They were the same age, you see. Miss Eleanor was much like her mother, too nice to give her the actual direct cut. Eventually, I believe Lady Chaston felt sorry for Olive and that’s how she secured the post as the young misses’ lady’s maid.”
The deluge of information overwhelmed Verda and had her pinching the bridge of her nose.
A frown creased the young woman’s forehead. “Did you find something?”
Verda quickly dropped her hand and stared at the paper again. “No. Nothing. This is dated 1811.” But the hair at her nape raised. She folded the paper and stuffed it in her pocket.
A single pound hit against the door, startling Verda. Her head flew up, but her body stilled. The latch rattled.
Dear heavens. The murderer returned . They were going to rot in this dust-filled, cobwebbed hovel. “Stay down,” she whispered.
*
The skeleton key was in the door and Sander’s hope sagged. It had been lodged in the keyhole for as long as he could remember. The attic was literally the only place no one had thought to search. The frozen air clung to the tower. There was a reason no one ever came here. Frustration hit him with a force he transferred to his fist. “Damn.” Still, he turned the key and pushed the latch just to be sure.
The first thing that hit him was the acrid stench of charred fabric—the second thing was the small shadow that danced on the ceiling. Every muscle was strung taut as a bow. “Verda?”
Her head raised and the candle’s flame gave her face a cadaverous appearance. “Oh, Sander, thank heavens. We’re here.”
We’re. “Thank God,” he breathed.
“Maura and I. Someone locked us in.”
Sander lifted his own candle. The path to the windows was narrow. He set the holder on an open escritoire and took the path, shoving furniture, trunks, and boxes out of the way with undiluted fury.
“Careful, Sander. Maura was knocked on the head, if you can believe it.”
He went down on one knee, lifted Verda’s chin, and kissed her full on the lips—hang any delicate constitution of the nursemaid. He pulled back, but Verda’s lips clung to his. He glanced at Maura. Blood matted her hair. “What happened?”
The nursemaid shook her head. Carefully, he noted.
“She can’t remember.” Verda squeezed the girl’s hand. “I took Julius’s bottle of milk to her, but she wasn’t there. I was convinced that she’d gone after Noah. I reached the stairs and I heard something from above. I came in and before I realized it, someone was closing the door and locking it.” She shivered.
“Thank God you had a candle,” he breathed. After that harrowing tale she’d relayed the night before—
“She didn’t,” Maura said in a rush of pride. “She used flint and steel. The sparks caught on the first try. Isn’t that right, miss?”
“Perhaps we can save that conversation for a later time,” Verda said.
“Oh, we definitely will.” Sander assisted Maura to her feet, then held out his hand to Verda. He’d never felt so warm and relieved at the same time. He took her candle and guided the women through the haphazard path. Near the door, he handed Verda the other candle from the escritoire. It didn’t take much urging from him for Verda and Maura to escape the biting cold of the attic.
After relocking the door, he pocketed the key for safer keeping.
“We need to retreat to the library,” Sander said.
“We must find Julius. He’s missing.” Verda’s frantic tone banded his chest. He reached for her hand and squeezed.
“No, he’s with Noah. Come, everyone is waiting.”
On the floor below, Maura stopped in front of the nursery’s door. “I-I have to retrieve the baby’s glass of milk.”
Sander nodded and she disappeared inside, leaving him with Verda. The effort it took to restrain himself from taking her in his arms was painful.
She glanced at the door, then to him. “Sander,” she whispered. “There’s something I—”
“I’m ready.” Maura stood in the arch and Sander had never heard her return.
He glanced at Verda, curiosity licking at him. “Of course, Maura. Shall we?” He led the way down to the ground floor and ushered Verda and the nursemaid inside.
Damien stood at the hearth, his lips in a compressed line, his eyes more alert than Sander had witnessed in years. Lucius stood at the windows, peering out, and Noah was pacing with his hands squeezing in and out of fists, darting looks at Docia, and her maid, Olive, who was holding Julius and sitting near the door.
“Shall I take the babe?” Maura asked Olive.
Olive smiled. “Oh, but he’s settled in so nicely.”
Maura held up the cylinder. “I have his milk, if you need it.”
Olive took the glass. “Oh, yes. Thank you.”
Maura followed Verda to the settee, but Verda didn’t sit. She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and offered it to Damien. “Is this familiar to you, Lord Pender?”
Snatching it from her fingers, he moved to the scarred table for light and quickly read. His face jerked up, blotched with fury. “Where did you get this?”
“The attic where someone locked me in.”
Sander strode to his brother and took it from him and also read it through. “I recognize this name. Tamera Townsend. She was our mother’s maid here some fifteen or twenty years ago.”
“Seventeen,” Damien bit out through clenched teeth.
“If I recall correctly, she left the castle under a shroud of…” He dropped his head and reread. “This is a promissory note.” The vague details trickled in. “She was with child…”
“She lived in the village until her death,” Maura said softly. “She was quite nice, really, if somewhat reclusive. Especially after Olive went to work at Chaston Manor as the Misses Eleanor and Docia’s maid.”
“Olive?” Sander’s own jaw was near to shattering. “I take it you fathered…” He faltered. “But what has that to do with—”
A gasp sounded from behind, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the unfolding scene before him.
Verda laid her hand on his arm. “Lord Pender, admittedly I’m overstepping here. However, I feel it incumbent to speak my mind.”
“It has not stopped you before, Miss Fairclough,” he said with sardonic disdain. “Don’t mind my delicate feelings, ma’am. Feel free to proceed.”
“Frankly, sir, your reputation—” She stopped and her gaze strayed to Lord Perlsea, Noah, and Docia, all watching her with an intensity that jolted Sander with a shock of lightning. “How old were you, sir?”
Sander waved the children to the other side of the room with a stern glance and turned back.
Damien’s expression tightened.
“We were sixteen and seventeen,” Sander growled out.
Verda’s hands flattened on the table he sat behind and she leaned forward. In a lowered voice, she did not hold back. “Your reputation leaves much to be desired, my lord, and while that is neither here nor there, you must ask yourself if that document you are holding could have anything to do with the fact that Maura and I were locked in a dark attic without heat or light. More importantly, sir, Olive is sixteen.”
The words sunk into Sander like the serrated edge of a dagger. Crestfallen, his chin hit his chest. “Dear God, Damien,” he breathed. He turned to Verda. “You believe Olive is Tamara Townsend’s illegitimate child?”
“I-I don’t know,” she admitted, then she shook her head before lifting her eyes to his. “There are… just little things that strike me. She has yours and”—her gaze flashed to Damien and back, cleared her throat—“Lord Pender’s dark hair and gray eyes.”
“Did Olive lock you in the attic?”
“Someone did.” Slowly, Verda straightened, as if coming out of a trance. Turning about and seeming to survey the curious faces watching her every move, her gaze stopped near the open door. Her body went rigid as a slab of marble. “Where are Olive and Miss Docia?”
Noah’s gaze flew to the empty chairs there. “She stole my Julius.” His voice sent ice through Sander’s veins as Noah dashed from the library.
Verda was the next to react, racing for the door on his heels.
Sander, with Damien at his side, rushed after them.
Noah and Docia gripped Olive’s dress like a lifeline. “We’ve got her, Father,” Noah said.
Sander strode to Olive. “I’ll take the child, my dear,” he said gently.
With a soul-breaking cry, she relinquished Julius to his possession. She turned a furious glare on Lord Pender. “You,” she screamed, throwing the glass cylinder at him. It struck his chest then hit the floor, shattering, filling the foyer with its sweet and subtle grassy aroma. “This is all your fault.” Her screech shook the candle-heavy chandelier over their heads.
A startled Julius released his own shrill cries.
Noah let go of Olive and came to Sander. “I’ll take him now, sir.”
Sander nodded, handing the baby off and took Olive’s arm in a firm grip. “Docia, please accompany Noah to the library and wait there.”
Without argument, the children vanished.
Verda and Lucius stood off to the side, eyes wide and horror-filled.
“You as well, Lucius. This is a matter for your Father and me. Perhaps we should take this conversation to the study,” Sander suggested. “Miss Fairclough?”
“I shall accompany you.” There would be no convincing her otherwise. And why should he? She would soon be mistress of his home and life.
With a sharp incline of his head, he glanced at his brother.
But Damien’s expression was difficult to discern. He spun on a booted heel and marched down the hall, leaving Sander to take charge of Olive and follow.
Damien didn’t hesitate in his inquisition after slamming the door behind the small ensemble. He turned on Olive. “Why did you kill Cracked?”
The question caught Sander by surprise. He let go of Olive and stood with his back against the door and his arms folded over his chest.
“He accused me of being a… a whore.” Tears streaked down Olive’s cheeks.
Upon closer examination, Sander could detect the faint resemblance to the Oshea line Verda had so cleverly discerned—primarily, it was her coloring, as she had observed. The dark hair, the gray eyes. It was the glittering disdain that hit him with stunning revelation.
“He thought I was my mother. He wouldn’t shut up about it. Kept saying it over and over, until I picked up the rock and shut him up.” Her chest heaved with harsh breaths.
The intensity of Damien’s gray eyes churned with molten steel. He stalked to Olive and with one hand, gripped her chin. “There have been too many accidents of late,” he said in a voice that matched his eyes. “What happened to Miss Eleanor, Olive? Did she truly trip down the stairs in Chaston House? Or did you push her?”
Verda’s gasp echoed against the silk-covered walls.
But Olive didn’t appear to hear. “All your other children live under your care. But not me. Why not me?” Her voice escalated with each uttered sentence. “It’s unfair.”
Because you are an illegitimate child of the great Lord Pender . The truth hurt Sander’s insides. His brother’s actions through the years had caught up with him. It was a tragic situation he wished more than anything from which he could extract everyone.
“And Miss Docia?” Verda said softly.
“She’s nothing but a manipulating little princess no one likes.”
“Did you mistreat her, Olive? Did you hit her? Mark her with bruises?”
“I hate her. I hate her. I hate her…” Her voice trailed off in a whimper.
“Calm down,” Damien barked without an ounce of sympathy. He looked at Sander. “What am I supposed to do with her? She’s too dangerous to set free.”
“You could marry her off,” Sander suggested, a facetious statement at best. “But she might dispose of the unsuspecting man.”
“Sander, please,” Verda interjected. “Such remarks do nothing to resolve the issue. What of one of your other properties, my lord?” she directed to Damien.
“An excellent point.” Damien couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Olive. Perhaps he was finally coming to terms with how his behavior affected those around him. “I’ll ship her to Perlsea Keep. Upton runs a tight household.” He glared at Olive.
Someone had to right the wayward path in which this conversation had veered. “Absolutely not. Need I remind you, this isn’t some bauble she’s lifted from an unsuspecting victim. She murdered a man and possibly a mistress she served.”
“Right.” Damien let out a long, shuddering sigh. “Then what do you propose, old wise one?”
Sander moved from the door and opened it. “Winfield,” he barked.
The stately man appeared instantaneously as Sander knew he would. “Tell Baldric to fetch Broyle.”
“Right away, sir.”
“The constable?” Olive’s voice was a squeal that nearly burst Sander’s eardrums.
Damien gathered his verve. “We’ve no option, my dear bastard child. You shall likely only be transported.” He seemed to age ten years past his current thirty-four and slammed his hand on the desk. “The alternative is being strung up by your scrawny, little neck.”
Sander straightened and narrowed his eyes on her. “You wrote the note indicating Noah had hidden with Julius?”
Olive lifted her pointed chin and jutted it out. “What of it?”
“So, you lured Maura, then Miss Fairclough to the attics and locked them in?”
Large tears pooled in violent, stormy eyes. Her lips remained stubbornly closed.
“What was the purpose behind the false Chaston’s note?” Verda asked her.
The girl seemed to deflate before his eyes. “He was walking out the door without a word.”
“A word to whom? You? His daughter?”
Her lips tightened and sent a shot of apprehension through Sander. Chaston and Olive? It wasn’t unheard of, but the thought sickened him.
“But why?” Verda whispered. “What purpose could you have for such antics?”
Sander took Verda’s hand and squeezed gently. Meeting her sudden gaze, he gave his head a single shake.
Her open mouth snapped shut.
He glanced at Damien. The thoughtful look on his face was on Olive. A second later when comprehension dawned, he passed a hand over his face. He met Sander’s eyes with a helplessness that took him back to their childhood days. Back when Sander had sheltered him from their father’s unholy wrath.
Sander released Vera’s hand and went to Olive. “Come, my dear. Let’s find you suitable accommodations for your wait.” The temptation to dole out his own sense of justice for locking the love of his life in the attic deserted him in a flood of pity.