Chapter 12
Charlotte and Sarah devised a plan—simple and sensible. When they moved to the big house, she would remain as inconspicuous as possible and quietly make enquiries regarding last year’s house party, whilst Sarah did the same below stairs.
If they managed to uncover the true killer and possibly identify the Grand Fellows, Charlotte would then confess everything to Lord Stanley and demand he clear her name—and offer her some sort of protection from the secret society.
At least then she might cease looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life, fearing the gallows, or worse still, that the Odd Fellows might find her first and finish the job.
At least, that was the theory.
The difficulty lay in making enquiries without attracting notice.
Invisible governesses, she reasoned, did not invite gossip or scandal.
They blended into the wallpaper and caused no trouble whatsoever.
If she poked around asking questions, no matter how quietly, it would draw attention to herself.
Yet it was a risk she must take. She had no choice.
What intrigued them both, however, was Lord Stanley’s sudden desire to host a gathering of his own. Was it merely coincidence—or had her letter prompted it? Was he attempting to lure out the Odd Fellows himself?
They concluded it was possible, but Charlotte could not afford to rely upon mere possibility. She needed certainty. And for now, at least, she was certain of one thing only:
They could trust no one.
Lord Stanley visited again to assist with the arrangements, and every corridor echoed with the thud of trunks and the barked orders of Mrs Wilberforce, who was determined to orchestrate the move to Alderley Park with military precision. The poor gardener looked ready to collapse over his shears.
‘See that the rose bushes are properly pruned! And keep an eye on the carnations—they’re sensitive to frost! And ensure all my herbs are carefully tended in the hothouse,’ she commanded, as though a few months’ absence might plunge the estate into ruin.
The gardener nodded miserably, spade in hand.
The following morning, they set off. The carriages creaked and rattled along the country lane on the short journey to Alderley Park. The sky was a washed-out silver, and the air held the crisp promise of early autumn. Charlotte drew her pelisse closer about her shoulders against the chill.
She sat with Sarah and Tom, who was unusually subdued.
His eyelids drooped, his curls stuck out at odd angles, and faint shadows ringed his eyes. Sarah had spent half the previous evening scrubbing mud from his clothes after some unknown escapade.
‘Where are we going?’ he mumbled, rubbing sleep from his face.
‘To stay with your uncle at Alderley Park for a few weeks, Master Tom,’ Charlotte replied cheerfully.
His voice was soft, but it trembled. ‘I don’t want to go there.’
Charlotte studied him—the way his small hands fidgeted, the flicker of unease in his gaze. He looked as though he remembered something he wished to forget.
‘You’ll see—it won’t be so bad,’ she said gently, placing an arm around him.
To her surprise, he did not resist. He leaned against her shoulder—a small, silent surrender.
As the carriage rounded the final bend, the landscape unfurled into endless green. Rolling meadows stretched towards the horizon, dotted with sheep and silver birch. Charlotte longed to step out, to feel the wind on her face, to breathe something untroubled for once.
Then her gaze lifted—and she caught her breath.
Before them loomed a vast, black-stoned mansion with pointed turrets and tall, narrow windows that glittered like a thousand cold eyes. It rose from the earth like something half dream, half nightmare—a Gothic fortress against the pale sky.
‘Good heavens,’ Charlotte murmured. ‘It looks as though it eats governesses for breakfast.’
Even Sarah gave a small, nervous shiver.
But what startled Charlotte most was the sight awaiting them in the courtyard.
Lined along the carriageway stood a regiment of footmen in immaculate black-and-white livery, perfectly still, forming a living archway. At their head stood the butler, waiting to receive them.
Tom’s fatigue vanished at once. ‘Look, Miss Lucas! So many people!’
As the carriage halted, the butler, a tall man in formal attire, stepped forward to open the door. He was broad-shouldered, with sharp, angular features. Yet his expression was kind.
‘Welcome, ma'am,’ he said, his London accent sounding slightly incongruent with the surroundings.
He offered his hand. Charlotte descended. He lifted Tom next, swinging him lightly through the air.
‘What’s your name?’ Tom asked, intrigued.
‘Holden, Master Tom.’
‘Hol...den?’ Tom repeated, testing the syllables like a new toy.
Lord Stanley appeared upon the steps above, his figure a striking silhouette against the dark stone.
‘Ah, I see you have met my new butler,’ he said, taking Tom into his arms with effortless ease.
Without another glance, he turned towards the house. Upon noticing Tom’s apprehension at the sight of the mansion, he added, ‘How would you like to see the famous dagger gifted to me by the Ottoman Sultan?’
Tom’s fear vanished, replaced at once by boyish enthusiasm as he demanded to see it immediately.
‘Come to my study—I keep it in a case upon the mantelpiece, under lock and key. It is very valuable, you know.’
Charlotte and Sarah hesitated, unsure whether to follow, until he turned back.
‘Miss Lucas, Mrs Dent will show you to your rooms in the school wing.’
Then, to a nearby footman, ‘See that their luggage is taken up.’
Charlotte noted the housekeeper at once. Her grey hair was scraped into a severe bun, her posture ramrod straight.
When she spoke, her voice was as sharp as the morning air.
Mrs Dent appeared displeased—whether by the upheaval or by being required to assist, Charlotte could not tell.
‘How do you do?’ Charlotte ventured politely, endeavouring to make herself as agreeable as possible.
The woman’s lips thinned.
She did not return the greeting.
Instead, she looked Charlotte up and down with cool appraisal before turning on her heel. Extracting information from this woman was going to be harder than she had anticipated. Her shoulders sagged slightly.
‘Follow me,’ came Mrs Dent’s clipped voice.
Charlotte and Sarah hurried after her, struggling to match her brisk pace.
The efficiency of the household unsettled her. There was order here—too much of it.
The corridors of Alderley Park seemed endless—an elegant labyrinth of marble floors, gilt-framed portraits, and staircases twisting in disorienting directions. By the time they reached the nursery floor, she had entirely lost her bearings.
‘Here you are, Miss Lucas,’ Mrs Dent said shortly. ‘Send for a footman if you require anything.’
Charlotte seized the opportunity, though it might make her appear something of a gossip.
‘This seems a very comfortable room. I am surprised Mrs Wilberforce did not move back here once the refurbishments were completed.’
Mrs Dent pressed her lips together, her disapproval unmistakable.
‘Mrs Wilberforce is where she ought to be—at the dowager house. The late Mr Matthew Stanley was to have taken up residence here as the next Baron and had already moved in. It would not have been appropriate.’
‘Oh, I see. It must have been... difficult for him, when the missing heir returned.’
Mrs Dent’s mouth tightened, but she offered no reply.
‘I understand he held a house party last year. Is it not something of a tradition for new barons?’ Charlotte said lightly, as though the matter held little consequence.
‘An embarrassment,’ Mrs Dent said sharply. ‘He celebrated too soon—with that house party. He was advised against it, but young men are headstrong.’
‘I wonder why they all attended when he was not officially the Baron?’
‘The late Baron held the same parties each year—the same people attended—his friends and neighbours. I suppose it became habitual. They would often take turns hosting such gatherings across their various estates.’
Charlotte tilted her head. ‘Then Mr Stanley must have attended other house parties last year...’
Mrs Dent gave a curt shrug. ‘I am sure he wished to, but he was far too preoccupied with estate repairs and improvements,’ she replied definitively. ‘He simply did not have the time.’
And with that, she swept out.
Charlotte let out a quiet breath. Despite Mrs Dent’s obvious reluctance to be gregarious, at least her words confirmed one thing for certain.
If Matthew Stanley had attended only one house party—his own—then it must have been the one the Wolf spoke of: the gathering where three Grand Fellows had been present.
And if she could discover who had attended, she would be one step closer to uncovering the true killer.
The thought sent a flicker of renewed hope through her.
She remained where she was, her mind racing, then a disturbing thought struck her.
If the same guests attended year after year, did that mean the late Baron himself had been a member of the Odd Fellows?
The notion unsettled her. The more she considered it, the more it seemed to fit.
Perhaps Matthew Stanley had been introduced to the society through his uncle.
Or perhaps it was all coincidence—and the late Baron had been entirely oblivious, unaware that at least four of his neighbours and acquaintances belonged to a nefarious society.
She would attempt to gather more information from Mrs Dent later. For now, she turned her attention to settling into her new accommodations.
Servants followed with the trunks. The rooms were surprisingly comfortable—bright, freshly whitewashed, and far warmer than the draughty dowager house they had left behind.
Charlotte’s room was spacious, with a larger bed and even an armchair beside a roaring fire that lent the space a cosy air.
A neat writing desk stood beneath the window; a wardrobe gleamed with new brass fittings.
Sarah and Charlotte set to unpacking at once.
‘This looks newer than the rest of the house,’ Sarah observed.
‘I think this section was rebuilt after the fire,’ Charlotte replied, running her fingers over the smooth plaster. The faint scent of fresh paint lingered—strangely comforting.
‘It is odd,’ she added softly. ‘From the outside, the house looks so forbidding—but here, it almost feels like home.’