Chapter Forty-five
“And apparently,” said Sylvie to Betsy as their carriage rattled along, “Madeline, the Dowager Countess, was a great friend of Lady Isabelle… Angus’s mother. Which explains why Louis and Angus were so close as children, though I still do not know what has driven such a wedge between them.”
“And what does the Dowager think happened?” asked Betsy. “Does she believe His Lordship’s father murdered Lady Isabelle in a mad, jealous rage?”
“She didn’t say so,” replied Sylvie thoughtfully. “But she was very much in favour of us visiting Mrs Sheers.”
As the hours passed by, the two young women chatted and plotted, imagining every possible scenario that might have led to the death of Isabelle Westland.
Yet, not once would Sylvie entertain the possibility that Charles Westland had murdered his wife, nor would she believe that her future may lay in exile, in Wales.
Angus trailed behind the carriage on horseback, and although his mount was a fine creature, he longed for the familiarity of his old friend, India.
He tried to focus his mind on the list of projects he had yet to start, but as they closed the distance towards this Mrs Sheers, his thoughts kept wandering back to Sylvie.
What if she was right? What if her unyielding optimism and tenacity uncovered a truth he had never dared to hope for? A new future where he was free to love without fear?
What if Louis’s motives were genuine? He didn’t doubt Louis’s ability to find such a person, if indeed they existed.
Between Louis and Valentine, no one in hiding was safe from detection, though in this, Louis seemed to have the upper hand.
Yet, that in itself cast a shadow of doubt as he knew Valentine had been searching for the very same person for years, if, in fact, it was to be believed that this Mrs Sheers was who Louis claimed her to be.
Each question threw up another until his head hurt, and he tried once more to concentrate on the drainage issue in Cheshire.
It was coming on dark by the time he secured lodgings at a small inn on the outskirts of the village. The place was unexpectedly pleasant, with welcoming fires, fresh, clean linens, and the food, although basic, was well prepared and full of flavour.
They shared their meal in a private parlour, Sylvie bright and talkative, Angus quiet and withdrawn.
Although Sylvie was bursting with notions of what they might find tomorrow and ideas of their future, she was sensitive to his mood.
She could only imagine what he must be feeling at the prospect of finding out his whole life had been shaped by a lie, and was determined to lift the heaviness that hung between them.
“So, I’m thinking of smugglers,” she said brightly.
Lost in thought, Angus looked up and blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“For my next story,” she explained, eyes sparkling in the candlelight.
“With your knowledge of tides and coastlines, you can advise me. What do you think? My dashing hero, perilously navigating the Channel… dodging the customs men, weaving his way in and out of danger… all so he can recoup the family fortune his foolish brother gambled away.”
“Sylvie, after tomorrow…”
Knowing exactly where he was leading, she breezed on, “And he must reclaim his fortune so he can win the hand of his one true love, whose father favours the dreadfully rich, yet dastardly, Lord Cardwell.”
He gave her a faint smile of understanding. “French brandy and textiles?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely,” she said. “Smuggled into Cornwall.”
“No, Kent,” he countered.
She grinned. “Kent it is.”
And so they finished their meal — Sylvie spinning light-hearted tales of her smuggler’s adventures, Angus offering quiet corrections — each carefully avoiding mention of what might await them come morning.
At last, Sylvie rose. “Well, I shall say goodnight,” she said softly, hoping with all her heart that he might stop her, take her into his arms, anything.
But he only stood and inclined his head. “Goodnight, Sylvie.”
Although disappointed, she thought better of pushing him and left quietly. There would be time enough for tenderness after tomorrow. Once the truth was known, all would be as it should be, and never again, she promised herself, would she have to sleep alone.
* * *
Mary Sheers took a steadying breath as she opened the door to her small cottage and dipped an uneasy curtsy.
She was a handsome woman of indeterminate age and had taken great care with her appearance in preparation for what she was about to face.
Her dark, silver-streaked hair was coiled neatly into a French pleat, and her black mourning dress, plain but finely cut, set off the modest string of pearls at her throat.
She had been restless ever since learning she would be receiving such visitors, and when the knock came at the strike of ten, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Your Lordship. Your Ladyship. Please come in. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing some tea.”
The beautiful young woman in front of her smiled — warm and disarming. “Mrs Sheers, how very kind. Tea would be most welcome, wouldn’t it, my lord? Though we would not wish to put you to any trouble.”
“Oh, no trouble at all, Your Ladyship,” replied Mary Sheers, feeling a little less troubled until she looked beyond her to the man standing behind her.
Tall, broad, and austerely handsome, Lord Westland filled the doorway as if it had been built too small. Dipping slightly to clear the lintel, he merely inclined his head briefly, his expression unreadable, as he followed his wife into the modest parlour.
Mary’s gaze swept the small room — the oak table crafted by the late Mr Sheers, the two upholstered chairs drawn neatly to the hearth, the crystal decanter glinting faintly on the sideboard — yet everything seemed to shrink beneath the weight of the man now standing among them.
The walls felt closer, the air thicker, as though the room itself dared not breathe.
The steady tick of the clock on the mantel grew hollow in her ears — slow, relentless — marking each second of silence like a heartbeat in the dark.
There was something about the man, not unkind, but watchful, deliberate, as though he could strip the truth from a person with nothing more than a glance.
“What a charming room, Mrs Sheers,” said Lady Sylvie brightly, glancing around. “Such an abundance of natural light… And what a lovely painting. Is it a scene from nearby? I can almost imagine taking a picnic there on a summer’s afternoon.”
“Umm, yes, my ladyship… not three miles from here.” Mary’s fingers tightened on her skirts. “I’ll… I’ll just go and fetch the tea. Please, please do sit down.”
As Mary Sheers hurried from the room, Angus shot Sylvie a reproachful glance.
“What?” she whispered sharply.
“Do we really need to prolong this with tea?”
“Yes, we do. It’s very kind of her, and will you please stop frightening the poor woman.”
“Frightening her?”
“You are glowering.”
“I am not glowering!”
“You most certainly are, and you can appear quite… formidable if one does not know what a sweet and gentle nature you have.”
As Sylvie perched on one of the chairs, his audible sigh was long suffering as he took up a position by the hearth, every inch the intimidating presence she accused him of being.
Mrs Sheers reappeared almost instantly, tea tray trembling in her hands. She poured with care, but the china rattled faintly against the saucers.
“Thank you,” said Angus, his voice low but courteous. “Very kind.”
Sylvie, giving him a quick, grateful smile, accepted her own cup and took a sip. “Mm, lovely, thank you.” Then, looking up, she asked. “So, Mrs Sheers, I assume you know why we requested to meet with you?”
The woman hesitated and swallowed. “Um, yes, my ladyship. I will gladly tell you all I know, as it was Peter’s dying wish.”
“Peter?” questioned Sylvie.
Mary’s gaze flicked uneasily between her two visitors. “Yes, my ladyship, my late husband. He passed three months ago… Peter, he was the groom, on the day of the tragedy.”
Sylvie instantly sensed Angus stiffen at her side, but before she could speak, his voice came, controlled and tight. “So, you were not there? You did not see what happened?”
“No, my lord. Peter rarely spoke of it, but he was adamant… her ladyship’s death was an accident. It tormented him that your father’s good name was dragged through the mud. His only regret was not putting it right sooner… but Lady McDonald…
The sharp clatter of porcelain as Angus firmly placed his cup and saucer on the mantle rang through the air like a funeral bell.
“I see,” he rasped, “so you were not there?”
“No… but Peter…”
“Then,” Angus cut across, “I thank you for your time, Mrs Sheers. Good day.” He turned on his heel and strode for the door, the air seeming to rush in behind him.
Both women, startled, stared at each other in silence before Sylvie had the presence of mind to stand. “Forgive my husband, Mrs Sheers. This is… difficult for him… but I thank you for your time.”
“No, wait… please, my lady,” Mary spluttered as she darted forward and fumbled inside a small wooden box on the side table. “I, I promised, Peter,” she said, reaching for Sylvie’s hand, placing an object in it.
Instantly looking down at the weight resting in her palm, Sylvie blinked in surprise. “What in heaven’s name?”
“Lady Augusta McDonald pressed it on my Peter,” Mary said quickly. “As a bribe… and a threat.”
Seeing Sylvie’s bemused expression, Mary hurried on. “A bribe… to keep his mouth shut or the threat of hanging for stealing such a thing. Said he could sell it after ten years, for his silence. But Peter never could. He meant to return it, only… well, the fear of prison…”
“But I do not understand?”
“Nor I, my lady. All’s I know is Lady McDonald was there that day, and she didn’t want anyone to know.”
“But, why?”
“I couldn’t say. But Peter swore it on his deathbed. He begged me to send it anonymously. But when your note came… I thought it was only right to face it. I’m prepared to answer for his mistake, whatever the consequence.”
Nodding silently as Mrs Sheers spoke, Sylvie suddenly looked up in horror. “Consequences? Mrs Sheers, is that what has had you so worried?”
“I made up my mind to do it my way. I’ve put my affairs in order,” she whispered. “I meant to see this done before… “
“Then I suggest you unorder them immediately. You have given me the greatest gift, and I don’t mean this obscenely large sapphire,” her words faltering as she once again stared down in bewilderment at the stunning pendant, set in diamonds. “Hope, Mrs Sheers. You have given me hope.”
“So, you’re not going to turn me in?”
“Certainly not… nor would my husband. You’ve done a brave and noble thing. And I shall not forget it.”