Chapter 23 #2
For the rest of the ride, Henry filled her in on how well his sister had slept last night—unlike him—though he’d left too early to see how she fared this day.
No doubt she was even stronger and would be glad to see Juliet.
While Charity still had many questions and doubts, she bore her no real malice, for like him, she refused to believe Juliet guilty of such wicked intent.
Juliet let him talk, soaking in the comforting bass of his voice and the warmth of his presence beside her.
Sometime later, the carriage rolled to a stop.
Henry helped her out, ordering the driver to wait for them; then they both dove into the trees.
It was a slog through the greenery in her gown, the brush and bramble still heavy with yesterday’s rain.
Despite it all, she pressed onwards, Henry at her side, her breath quickening as they neared the property line.
She slowed her pace and narrowed her eyes, scanning the autumn foliage.
“There,” she whispered, then louder with a point of her finger. “Over there. Just beyond those alders.”
Henry’s brow wrinkled. “There is nothing but more overgrowth.”
“Exactly.” Quite unladylike, she hiked her skirts and plowed ahead. A faint rise of land loomed ahead, appearing as nothing more than a great mound of ivy—exactly what she’d been looking for.
She dropped when she reached it, crouching low and feeling about. Slivers of bark dug beneath her nails, and with a bit more rummaging, she pulled out a sturdy branch and began stabbing it into the soil. It sank with great mucking sounds, until finally it smacked against something hard. Rock hard.
The old gate.
“Here!” she cried.
Henry joined her, his trousers taking a beating as he dropped to his knees.
They both poked about, she working with her stick, he scooping up dirt like a dog.
Earth churned. Leaves and bits of vines flew into the air in a frenzy.
Her puffs of breath mingled with Henry’s in the crisp air, the effort of their labour glistening on his brow and warming her cheeks.
And on her next pitch of dirt, a piece of filthy cloth took flight.
Juliet gasped. “Henry, look.”
Henry glanced up just in time to see a dirty scrap of linen land atop a web of overgrowth near his knee.
In one quick swipe, he snatched it up and worked to untie several knots in the twine wrapped tightly around it.
Gold glimmered inside. He inhaled sharply as he pulled out a bracelet and raised it to eye level.
For several heartbeats, he stared, mind sluggish, unable to comprehend how he could possibly be fingering such a valuable piece of jewelry. This was no ordinary trinket. It was worth a small fortune. A family heirloom … only it did not belong to his family.
He crushed it in his fist, eyes closing, unwilling to look at the bauble any longer.
“What is it?” Juliet dropped next to him, her skirts snagging on the bramble.
“A bracelet.” He heaved a huge sigh, voice dropping. “Clara’s.”
“Clara’s?”
The sharp snip of her name set a cluster of rooks to flight, their harsh cries echoing through the cloudy afternoon as they wheeled skyward.
“Why is her bracelet buried out here?” Juliet leaned closer, holding back her thick hair with one hand as she studied the gold. “Could Clara be behind all that has happened?”
He shook his head. “Clara may be persistent, even overbearing at times, but she is not the sort to do something so underhanded.” He tucked the bracelet in his pocket and rose, brushing his hands together to remove the grime.
Juliet stood beside him, not even bothering to shake away the crushed leaves clinging to her hem. “We should at least question her. It is her bracelet, after all.”
“Agreed, yet I will do so on my own. You have been through enough these past days.” He turned to her then, offering his hand. “But let us go to the manor first. I really ought to see how Charity fares, and I suspect you would appreciate a warm bath.”
“More than you can know.”
He led her through the trees, back to the waiting carriage.
It wasn’t a far ride to the house, but long enough that Juliet’s head eventually lolled against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering closed and her breathing even.
His chest squeezed. No wonder she was exhausted.
Four days in gaol was enough to drain the vinegar from even the tartest of souls, and then to go tromping about in the woods? She was a plucky little sprite.
He shifted carefully, sliding one arm around her shoulders and tucking her closer. He might not have the answers to all the questions plaguing him, but of one thing he was sure … she belonged here in his embrace.
And he reveled in it all the way home.
The carriage rocked to a stop on the gravel drive, stirring Juliet. She jerked away from him, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I … I beg your pardon. I suppose I dozed off.”
“You surely did, but no apology required.”
He swung down and helped her to the drive, then escorted her to the front door and pushed it open. Warmth greeted them, along with the swishing skirts of Mrs. Hamby as she swung into the front hall.
Her dark little eyes widened. “Oh my. Miss Finch! Poor dear. Such a state. I shall have Molly draw a bath at once.” She fluttered around Juliet while gazing up at him. “There is something you must—”
“Whatever it is can wait.” He shrugged out of his coat. “I should first like to see my sister.”
Mrs. Hamby lifted her chin. “I should like to as well.”
He froze. “What do you mean? Is she not in her room?”
“No, sir. I called on her not an hour ago, but her bed was empty. I assumed that somehow I missed your arrival, and you’d escorted her somewhere.”
“Impossible. It has taken me all day to secure Miss Finch’s release.” He strode off, gut twisting, and took the stairs two at a time. Juliet’s skirts rustled behind him all the way to Charity’s room.
He pounded his fist against the door. “Charity? I am coming in.”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
The door banged against the wall as he stalked inside.
But as Mrs. Hamby had said, the room was vacant.
He wheeled about, nearly crashing into Juliet in the corridor. She stumbled. He righted her with a grasp on her arm.
And a deep voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Henry?”
He turned towards the stairs, where a broad-shouldered figure ascended.
Silver streaks winged back at his temples, but time had done little to soften the man’s commanding presence.
His travel-creased suit spoke of days on the road, and as he approached, a faint scent of basil and cinnamon hung about him.
His face was golden, kissed by a foreign sun, his gaze keen and assessing.
Vincent Russell, Esquire.
Henry immediately straightened his shoulders.
Of all the times for his father to return home.