Chapter 11 #2
The room seemed to darken.
Charlotte’s mouth went dry.
Her heart thrashed frantically in her chest, and a strange buzzing filled her ears.
For a dizzying moment, she seriously considered dashing for the terraced doors and running for the hills—but it was far too late. What was he doing here? Had he found out she was here? Had he discovered what Anne had done? A million thoughts raced through her mind.
He was the brother of Mrs Wilberforce.
She resisted the urge to smack her forehead. Charlotte had thought she looked familiar, but was appalled to realise it was because the resemblance between them was so strong.
He greeted his sister and brother-in-law with reserved warmth and acknowledged the other guests with the same measured civility. He appeared well acquainted with everyone present. In contrast to the Captain’s easy manners, he was cool and precise.
Charlotte shrank back in her chair, hoping the shadows afforded her some concealment.
Then, as he acknowledged the two elderly spinsters, Lord Stanley looked straight at her with those intense, knowing eyes.
She swallowed hard.
He had found her.
Her face drained of colour; her hand instinctively rose to her throat, as though the gallows were already there.
He walked towards her as though he were a force of nature.
‘I believe we have not been introduced.’
A flood of relief rushed through her.
He was not here for her—he still did not recognise her.
Charlotte’s thoughts tumbled over one another. If he was not here for her, what was he doing here instead of investigating in London?
His eyes did not leave her face as he approached, and Charlotte instinctively rose; his scrutiny was unnerving.
Mrs Wilberforce came to her side and said warmly, ‘Ah yes, Henry, this is Miss Lucas, our new governess.’
He tilted his head slightly; a faint crease marred his brow.
‘The governess,’ he repeated, his expression turning instantly cool. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Lucas.’
Charlotte curtseyed, her movements stiff and mechanical. ‘How do you do, your roy—I mean, my lord.’ She swallowed, correcting herself just in time before royal haughtiness slipped out instead.
He quirked an eyebrow, as though he had already decided she was some sort of imbecile who did not know how to address him properly.
Any moment now, he will recognise me.
But the moment stretched—
And then... nothing.
He turned away as though she were of no consequence at all.
Her knees weakened, and she sank back into her seat, grateful for the support.
He moved on, smiling and shaking hands with acquaintances and friends.
Charlotte allowed herself to breathe.
The party proceeded into the dining room, where Charlotte found herself seated near the lower end of the table beside a polite but painfully dull gentleman—one of Mr Wilberforce’s acquaintances, Mr Smythe, a widower in his forties and a gentleman farmer.
His idea of conversation was to describe, in exacting detail, the cabbage yield of the previous year.
Charlotte began to suspect that vegetables possessed more personality than he did.
Her gaze kept flickering—surreptitiously—towards Lord Stanley.
Twice, their eyes met.
Both times, he looked away.
Charlotte exhaled a slow breath.
He has not recognised me. I am safe.
She repeated it silently, more to reassure herself than anything else.
After dinner, they withdrew once more to the drawing room. Charlotte tucked herself into a corner and resumed her sewing. It was, she decided, the safest possible occupation for a woman on the verge of nervous collapse.
The evening wore on, and most of the guests gradually took their leave, until only the family remained.
‘Any news from London? Any leads on the murderer?’ asked Mr Wilberforce.
Charlotte’s needle halted mid-air.
‘No, unfortunately not,’ Lord Stanley replied. ‘The trail has gone cold. The girl I was searching for has fled her home.’
‘Ah yes, you mentioned that in your letter,’ Mrs Wilberforce said. ‘What was her name again?’
‘Miss Charlotte Walker.’
Charlotte stabbed her finger with her needle.
‘Ouch!’ she gasped, drawing the attention of the entire room to her.
‘You should use a thimble, my dear,’ Miss Hill said very loudly, making Charlotte wince. Her cheeks burned.
Lord Stanley glanced curiously towards Charlotte.
Mrs Wilberforce gave a sympathetic smile and rummaged through her sewing basket, shifting aside skeins of wool and a small ring of household keys before finally locating the item she sought. ‘Here we are,’ she said, pressing it into Charlotte’s hand.
Charlotte accepted it with a silent nod of thanks.
‘Do you truly believe she murdered him?’ Mrs Wilberforce asked.
‘I cannot rule it out. She is the principal suspect. She attempted to accuse Matthew of trying to murder me—and then a woman dressed in a similar yellow gown fled from the very stables where he was found stabbed.’
‘How utterly ludicrous, accusing him like that!’ Mrs Wilberforce exclaimed. ‘She must not have known you were cousins. He spoke so highly of you, Henry. Poor Matthew... he was always so full of life.’
Charlotte nearly snorted. Full of lies, more like.
Mr Wilberforce added, ‘But he always managed to get himself into trouble with his romantic entanglements. Perhaps she was one of his jilted lovers?’
‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned... as they say,’ Mrs Wilberforce murmured, dabbing at her eyes as tears began to flow.
Lord Stanley reached out and placed a steadying hand upon her shoulder, his expression sombre.
‘I know, Minerva. We found her discarded gown—stained with blood. One of the maids came forward with it.’
‘So it must have been a lovers’ quarrel. Perhaps when her attempt to accuse him of attempting to murder you failed, she stabbed him in a fit of rage. What will you do now?’ Mr Wilberforce asked.
Charlotte’s fingers refused to move. Her entire body felt as though it had turned to stone. Every word they spoke tightened the noose further.
‘The Bow Street Runners are still searching for her. It is only a matter of time. But let us have no more talk of this. I have returned home after all these years, and, Minerva, I have a request to make of you.’
Mrs Wilberforce smiled faintly. ‘I am so glad you are back, Henry. Name it.’
‘I wish to host a house party to celebrate my return. It is, I believe, our tradition for a new Baron to do so. As I have no wife, I would ask you to act as my hostess. You will need to move into Alderley Park for it. May I rely on you?’
Mrs Wilberforce hesitated, her fingers twisting in her lap. ‘Hostess... I have not done so since our father passed...’
‘What about that house party Matthew held last year? Did you not host then?’ Lord Stanley asked.
‘Oh no, I refused to attend,’ Mrs Wilberforce replied, incensed. ‘The silly boy held a party when he had not even inherited the title. I advised against it, but he would not listen.’
‘Well, I hope you will not refuse now.’
‘But yes, of course, Henry... if that is your wish. However, I could not be parted from Tom—or my husband.’
‘Then by all means bring them with you. I would have it no other way.’
Charlotte’s stomach tightened at the thought.
If Tom was to go, then she—and Sarah—would certainly be expected to accompany them.
Lord Stanley had not recognised her... but what if he did once they were in closer proximity?
Her fingers tightened in the fabric of her gown. There was no avoiding it now. She would simply have to keep her distance—and keep her head down.
Dread coiled tightly in her chest.
Of all the houses in England, must she truly end up living in his?
Providence clearly possessed a most cruel sense of humour.
‘But how shall we manage at such short notice?’ Mrs Wilberforce asked. ‘The big house has been shut up for months. There are only the groundskeeper and Mrs Dent, the housekeeper, remaining there. Where shall we find the staff?’
So the “big house” was the Ice Baron’s lair.
Charlotte felt faintly foolish for not having realised it sooner.
‘You need not concern yourself with the staff, Minerva,’ Lord Stanley replied. ‘I have brought the necessary servants with me from my London residence, and they are already preparing Alderley Park. You may bring some of your own maids if you wish, though it will not be necessary.’
‘Well, that does make matters easier. Of course, I must bring Miss Lucas, the nursery maid, and I simply cannot be parted from my own maid, Lucy,’ Mrs Wilberforce declared.
Lord Stanley’s gaze flicked briefly towards Charlotte.
She instinctively shrank back beneath his cool scrutiny.
‘Of course. As you wish,’ he replied slowly.
‘Splendid, old chap,’ Mr Wilberforce said cheerfully. ‘It will be quite something to return there. I am keen to see the refurbishments.’ He smiled lovingly at his wife.
‘Yes—thank goodness it is all completed now. It was so good of Sir Oswald to help us in our time of need,’ Mrs Wilberforce said.
‘Sir Oswald—the architect?’ Lord Stanley asked.
‘Yes, that’s him. One of our father’s friends—you remember him, Henry.
In any case, Sir Oswald, along with Matthew, managed the entire refurbishment.
I am so glad they did, for I scarcely had a moment between our frequent trips to London for William’s work and caring for Tom.
He was so very delicate that year. And I could not bear returning there so soon after Father. ..’
Mr Wilberforce placed a tender hand over his wife’s. ‘It was a difficult year for all of us.’
‘And I am sorry I could not be here for you,’ Lord Stanley replied, with a degree of feeling that surprised Charlotte.
‘Well, you are here now.’ Mrs Wilberforce wiped away a tear, then, forcing a note of cheerfulness into her voice, continued, ‘The entire west wing—the family rooms, the study, the drawing room—has all been modernised. You will be most comfortable, Henry. No more draughts in the bedchambers, thank goodness. And we were fortunate the fire did not spread to the library—it would have been impossible to replace all those tomes.’
Charlotte frowned slightly. ‘What fire?’ she whispered to the spinsters.
Miss Underwood leaned closer and murmured quietly, ‘The late Baron died in the fire two years ago. They believe he fell asleep in his study reading and that a candle was knocked over by a draught from an open window.’
Charlotte’s eyes widened. ‘That is dreadful. I had thought he died of natural causes.’
Miss Underwood shook her head. ‘A terrible tragedy. Mrs Wilberforce and her family were living there at the time and escaped—but the Baron was not so fortunate. That is why they reside here now, in the dowager house. It lies scarcely a quarter of a mile from the big house.’
‘Do you think Master Tom is still affected by it?’ Charlotte asked softly. ‘It may explain some of his behaviour.’
Miss Underwood gave a small, sad smile and nodded.
The evening soon drew to a close, and the remaining guests took their leave.
Charlotte slipped away unnoticed, retreating to the safety of her room.
She had survived the evening—only just. Yet dread still coiled tightly in her stomach.
It was exactly as Anne and Sarah had predicted. Lord Stanley had named her the prime suspect. He had not recognised her tonight—but if the Bow Street Runners were searching for her, it was only a matter of time.
She must find the true killer and clear her name soon—or she truly would be sent to the gallows.
Then a far more terrifying thought occurred to her.
Now that the authorities knew her as ‘the girl seen fleeing the stables’, it stood to reason that the Odd Fellows—and the true killer, the Wolf—would be searching for her as well.
To silence the sole witness to the murder.
But now they had something far more dangerous than a description.
They had her name.
Charlotte Walker.
A sickening dread settled over her.
If her true identity were discovered, her life would be in genuine danger.
She swallowed hard. How on earth was she meant to escape this dreadful mess now?
Rubbing her temples wearily, she paced her room.
Then suddenly, it struck her.
The Wolf had mentioned attending a house party the previous year—and that three... what had he called them? Ah yes, Grand Fellows, had also been present. No doubt some sinister higher rank within their secret society.
Could that gathering have taken place at Alderley Park?
If the house party attended by those Grand Fellows was the very same gathering Matthew Stanley had hosted the previous year, then the Wolf himself might well have been amongst the guests.
If Charlotte could discover who had attended, she might be one step closer to identifying the true killer—and perhaps even uncovering the masterminds behind the Odd Fellows themselves.
Yet it was equally possible the Wolf had attended any number of house parties, so she resisted leaping to conclusions. She needed answers—but how was she meant to find them?
Perhaps Mrs Dent, the housekeeper, might know something.