Chapter 3 #2
Defeat never came easy. Never had. In all his twenty-eight years, Henry could count on one hand the number of times he’d given up—and this would not be one of them.
Wincing at the fiery pain burning a line all the way to his kneecap, he clutched the banister and hobbled up the first few steps of the grand stair in the front hall.
His father had left him in charge, and he would not fail. Not because of an injury. Not because of anything. If he couldn’t manage his responsibilities until his father’s return, what did that say about his ability to one day shoulder them permanently? To be the man his father believed he could be?
The man he needed to be.
“Henry!”
His sister descended in a flurry, her silk robe billowing ghostly white in the spare light of dawn.
The fear on her face vanished as she gaped at his bruised ankle.
“You are hurt. Here, lean on me.” She flung her arm around his shoulders.
“I shall settle you in the sitting room and send word for the doctor at once.”
He pulled away, taking care to keep his full weight on his uninjured foot. “I made it this far on my own, Sister. There is no need to pester Dr. Branch. It is Carver’s opinion my ankle is not broken.”
She popped her fists on her hips, a pout to her bow-like lips.
Golden curls framed her face, leastwise those not caught up in the full braid hanging down her back.
She was a summer sun, this younger sister of his.
Her eyes blue as freshly budded cornflowers, but her tone was an August storm.
“Mr. Carver is a groundskeeper! Not a physician.”
“Yet he knows animals and has plenty of experience with injuries, both in the field and around the estate. You forget he’s seen more sprains and broken bones than most. Do you not remember how he nursed the hounds back to health after their skirmish with that badger last spring?”
“You are not a hound, stubborn man.” With a toss of her head, she once again reached for his shoulder.
“And so you must at least allow me to see you to your room and get that foot propped up while I ring for tea. Furthermore, if the pain worsens or I find there is much swelling, I am calling Dr. Branch. Agreed?”
“I hardly think I have a choice, Sister dear, for you are every bit as stubborn as you claim I am.” He smirked, then stifled a sharp inhale as they climbed the stairs.
For all of Charity’s help, he would have done better on his own, yet he couldn’t refuse his younger sister.
He never had been able to. By the time they reached the first-floor landing, sweat dotted his brow.
Thank heaven his was the nearest chamber on the left.
As they moved towards the door, his ankle afire, his mind wandered back to the woods.
He’d underestimated that pixie—whoever she was.
The memory of her flashed vividly, the defiant gleam in her eye, the dark wild of her hair that escaped her hat, the lightness and speed of her feet as she’d flown like a bird in the breaking dawn.
She’d paused for the briefest of moments when he’d fallen, a flash of concern on her face just before she’d disappeared into the thicket.
He winced again, this time not just from the pain, but from the frustration of knowing she’d bested him.
His sister shoved open the door while glancing at him sideways. “I am assuming you did not catch the scoundrel.”
Hah. Which one?
“Not yet,” he said simply.
“Hmm.” Her brow bunched as she grabbed a pillow off his bed. “I thought I heard a gunshot.”
“You did. Carver saw a shadow move on the far side of the hedgerow, but when he investigated, there were no tracks.” He eased into the chair, allowing Charity to elevate his leg on a pillow.
“Neither did he spy anything to indicate someone had stood beneath your bedroom window. No footprints. No crushed grass.”
Charity folded her arms, a distinct jut to her jaw. “I saw someone, Henry. I did not imagine it. Furthermore—”
He shot up his hand, staving her off. “I believe you.” And he did.
No doubt she saw something, but a human?
The dark before dawn had a way of playing tricks on the eyes of a woman already skittish from previous scares.
“This will soon be over, Charity. I vow I shall find whoever it is that frightens you so.”
“I just hope you find him before someone really gets hurt.” She knelt at his feet, gently pushing up the ruined hem of his trouser leg and frowning at the angry red line on his skin. “This is bad enough. You should have thought to put on shoes.”
“You came to my door weeping and incoherent. Shoes were not of foremost importance at the time.”
She crossed to the washbasin and moistened a cloth. Returning to his side, she cleaned off the grass stains and smudges of dirt from both feet. A fresh wave of tears glistened in her eyes. “Oh, Henry,” she murmured. “What are we to do?”
We?
He plowed his fingers through his hair. His father had entrusted him with the household, with Charity’s care, with everything that mattered in his absence.
And now—game stolen, a trespasser haunting the grounds, his sister trembling in the night.
He was supposed to shield her from this.
Be the man who could stand firm against trouble just as his father would have were he here.
So he hadn’t written. Hadn’t summoned his father’s help. And wouldn’t. He’d cried wolf once before and vowed never to do so again.
But Charity wasn’t bound by that vow. She shouldn’t have to live in fear while he wrestled with doubt.
He shifted in the chair, bracing for resistance.
“This situation is not your responsibility, Sister. I cannot track down this harasser of yours if I am constantly worried about your well-being. That being said, I believe it is time you join Father in Italy. A holiday would be just the thing to put you in a better frame of mind, and I know Father would love to have your company.”
She sank back on her haunches, head shaking vehemently. “You know I cannot leave.”
“Yet it is safer for you to be far from this madness. I will find out who your tormentor is and put a stop to it while you are sampling Italian society and cuisine. Who knows? Perhaps you shall be swept off your feet by a dashing young gentleman.” He winked.
“And about time for such an event, I’d say. ”
She scowled, rebuffing his attempt at levity.
“The women at the parish depend upon me to help with the widows. Then there’s the Harvest Festival, and Clara and I still need to gather donations for the charity ball.
That silent auction won’t run itself, you know.
No. I cannot—will not—abandon the people of Bedford. ”
“I admire your devotion, I truly do. With each passing day, you become as gracious as Mother ever was, God rest her. But your safety is more important than gathering used garments or serving on a food line. There are others who can take on such obligations. Let them.”
“It’s more than that, Brother.” She twisted the cloth in her hands. “I have a place here, a role to play. I am doing something meaningful, something that makes a difference in people’s lives. There is nothing for me in Italy other than sheltering under Father’s wings.”
“I am not asking you to live there forever, only for as long as it takes me to find the fiend who plagues you.”
She strode to the washbasin, the thud of her slippers surprisingly loud on the rug. “I will not run away.”
“I will not risk your life.”
She whirled. “Henry—”
“Not another word on the matter. I will arrange passage for you and a chaperone today.”
“But—”
A sharp rap on the door cut her off. “Master Henry?”
“Come in, Carver.” Despite the throb in his ankle, Henry lowered his foot to the floor and straightened his spine. Appearing weak in front of the staff was an inexcusable blunder.
The groundskeeper entered, still garbed in his mud-splattered coat and a soiled kerchief around his neck.
He brought with him the musty scent of damp dirt, a leftover hint of gunpowder, and a folded strip of linen, damp from dew and darkened by the grime of his hands.
“I decided to take one more turn about the property and found this.”
Henry stood, keeping his weight on his unscathed foot. Carefully, he unfolded the material. A single pearl earbob rested against the cloth. He passed it on to Charity. “Does this look familiar?”
She gasped. “I’ve been missing this for days. Why, I thought I’d lost it for good.”
Cold unease settled like fog in his lungs as he faced Carver. “Where did you find it?”
“Near the hedgerow where I suggested we put out a mantrap.”
Henry bristled. “You know my thoughts on such a vulgar contraption.”
Carver held up his hand. “I do, sir. I merely mention it because of the location. I swear it wasn’t there when I first searched the area. It’s almost as if someone deliberately placed it in that spot so I’d find it on a second look, toying with me—toying with us.”
Wrapping her fingers into a fist around the little bundle, Charity shook the earbob in the air. “Why play such wicked tricks? Why try to scare me away?”
Henry stifled a growl, as disturbed as his sister. “Whoever we are dealing with is closer than we thought … close enough to enter your bedroom and pilfer a piece of your jewelry.”
Lifting his hat brim, Carver swiped his brow and then reset the old felt cap. “Someone on staff, sir?”
Henry hesitated, the implication stabbing as sharply as the pain in his ankle.
Most had been with the family for decades, making them more than mere employees.
It was no small thing, after all, to send their butler to Brighton to winter by the sea in effort to ease his rheumatism.
Mrs. Biggs, the cook, had nursed him through childhood fevers with her bone broths.
Jack, the stable hand, had taught him to ride.
Even Woodley, the footman and newest member of the staff, never murmured against his unending duties—or so he was told.
Mrs. Hamby, the housekeeper, would never allow such an impropriety under her expert eye.
He searched the groundskeeper’s eyes for any sign of doubt.
“I have already questioned the staff extensively about the recent unwelcome notes to my sister and the anonymous flowers that have been sent with such threatening prose. All claim innocence, and I am inclined to believe them. The servants of Bedford Manor are fiercely loyal.”
Carver nodded, though the lines on his brow remained troubled. “Aye, sir. Loyal they are, as far as I know.”
“Then who is it that torments me like this?” Charity cried.
Henry removed the earbob from his sister’s hand and eyed it with thoughts aswirl. The sound of distant thunder rumbled outside the manor. A storm was coming. He rolled the pearl between his fingers.
Then again, it appeared the storm was already here.
He turned away, closing his eyes. He would not call his father back from Italy, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t seek higher help.
Oh, God. He pressed his thumb into the pearl. If You are near, speak. If You are willing, guide. And if You are merciful—send help. I shall take it however You choose to send it.