Chapter 13
That evening proved long. Tom, intimidated by the grandeur of his surroundings, refused to sleep.
He begged for stories, demanded water, and flinched each time the wind howled through the chimney.
Charlotte felt a pang of sympathy for the boy; though he had been young at the time, she was sure he still recalled the fire and the upheaval that followed.
At last, Charlotte lay awkwardly along the edge of his bed, humming softly until his breathing slowed.
She stayed there until dawn, her back aching and her mind restless.
For some reason, her thoughts kept wandering to the master of this house.
Had he arranged the comforts of their rooms, or was it Mrs Wilberforce?
It seemed unlikely to have been Mrs Wilberforce, as she herself had said she had not visited the place since the refurbishments.
He seemed so severe in manner, yet when Charlotte had seen him interact with Tom earlier, he had looked like a different man—warmer, softer, and oddly more human.
Charlotte tutted to herself and turned over in the bed.
If she was to survive this house—and its unnerving master—she needed focus. Finding the real killer and caring for Tom were her purpose. Everything else, including the Icy Baron, must remain a distant concern.
She managed to slip out of the bed without waking Tom and sought refuge in her own chamber, stretching the stiffness from her limbs. She repeated her purpose over and over until she finally fell into a fitful sleep, and struggled to open her eyes the next morning.
Lucy brought in the breakfast tray for them, but this time the ladies were surprised to find a far more lavish spread: warm toast with melting butter, eggs, rashers, and more. They ate with relish whilst Lucy bustled about tidying.
‘The servants’ quarters are so much nicer here, Miss Lucas,’ Lucy said excitedly. ‘The cook lets us have more treats too.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ Charlotte said between mouthfuls as she read through Lucy’s last writing exercise and corrected the spelling mistakes. She was a fast learner, and Charlotte was pleased with her progress.
‘I hope Lord Stanley allows me to stay here permanently. It is so much better than the dowager house,’ Lucy continued.
‘But what about Mrs Wilberforce? She is quite attached to you,’ Charlotte remarked.
‘Oh, I am sure Mrs Wilberforce will wish to remain here too. After all, it is far more comfortable than the draughty, damp dowager house. I am sure her brother will not mind.’
‘I wondered why Mrs Wilberforce lives on her brother’s estate at all, instead of at her husband’s home?’ Sarah asked.
‘Oh, that is because Mr Wilberforce does not have two farthings to rub together. He spent his entire family fortune on his work.’
‘What work?’ Charlotte asked, intrigued.
Lucy shifted the coal bucket in her hands.
‘His family fortune was built on the slave trade...’
Charlotte looked up sharply.
‘...and when he travelled and witnessed the atrocities committed by slave masters and traders, he was appalled.’
‘How awful,’ Charlotte murmured.
‘He returned to England a changed man, and since then has worked tirelessly to abolish slavery.’
Lucy lowered her voice slightly.
‘He made quite the impression on the late Baron—so much so that he offered him his home when he had nowhere else to go.’
‘I see,’ Charlotte replied, with newfound respect for Mr Wilberforce—and the late Baron. Perhaps he was not an Odd Fellow after all.
‘He spent a great deal of time with the late Baron’s daughter—now his wife, Mrs Wilberforce, of course. They fell in love here, and the late Baron was glad to fund his work and allow them to remain.’
Sarah clasped her hands together. ‘How romantic.’
‘Isn’t it just,’ Lucy said sweetly.
‘But who funds him now?’ Charlotte asked.
‘Why, Lord Stanley does, of course,’ she replied, adding more coal to the fire.
Sarah and Charlotte exchanged glances.
Of course—this must be the link between Mr Wilberforce and Lord Stanley: the abolition campaign. The Odd Fellows wanted to stop him from succeeding. But why? How did it threaten their operation?
Lucy straightened, adjusting her apron. ‘Anyway, let me know if you need anything else. I will try to sneak in extra treats from the cook—the biscuits are delicious.’
Sarah and Charlotte were grateful for the extra care, and thrilled to have Lucy with them.
After a hearty breakfast, Charlotte dressed hastily and entered the schoolroom, where Sarah helped Tom prepare for the day, though he still looked weary.
‘Good morning, Master Tom,’ she greeted, stretching the remaining stiffness from her limbs. ‘How are you today?’
No response.
He sat cross-legged on the carpet, rolling marbles with solemn concentration.
‘Perhaps,’ she said lightly, ‘you might do me a favour. I keep getting lost in this great big mansion. Would you mind showing me around so I can find my way?’
At that, his head lifted. Suspicion clouded his eyes—then curiosity won. He nodded.
Hmm, anything to avoid actual schoolwork, Charlotte mused, smiling at his sudden enthusiasm.
Their tour became an adventure. Charlotte tried to instil a few lessons whilst they wandered from room to room; she was not going to let him escape learning entirely. Pleased that this approach was working, she continued asking him to count the number of stairs or name the monarchs.
Tom led her through the family wing and guest chambers, then down a grand staircase that curved like a ribbon of polished mahogany. He pointed helpfully.
‘That’s where they eat.’
‘That’s where they keep lots of books.’
‘The library!’ Charlotte exclaimed. ‘May we?’
Tom nodded and pushed open the enormous double doors.
Sunlight poured through the tall windows, striking rows upon rows of shelves that climbed to the ceiling. The scent of leather-bound books and polish filled the air—old knowledge and forgotten secrets. Charlotte marvelled.
She wandered between the shelves, her fingertips brushing the spines, momentarily lost in the quiet splendour of it all.
When she turned back—Tom was gone.
‘Tom?’ she called, weaving between aisles. ‘Come out at once!’
Silence.
She reached the door and gave the handle a sharp tug.
It was locked.
A flicker of irritation rose within her.
‘You little—’
Rattling the handle achieved nothing. The traitorous imp had trapped her inside.
There was nothing for it.
She began hammering on the door, calling for help. The echoes mocked her. Half an hour passed—or perhaps three; humiliation had no sense of time.
Finally, the lock clicked.
The door swung open to reveal Lord Stanley leaning against the frame, towering over her, arms folded, eyes alight with unmistakable amusement. Charlotte caught her breath at his closeness and stepped back. At this, he looked at her curiously.
‘What,’ he asked lazily, ‘are you doing here, Miss Lucas?’
Charlotte flushed, mortified. Her hair had half escaped its pins, her cheeks were flushed, and she had the sinking feeling she looked precisely like a madwoman.
‘I... I was in the middle of teaching Tom,’ she managed.
He raised a brow. ‘What sort of lesson involves hammering on library doors?’
‘Ah—yes—well,’ she stammered, ‘we were learning about... architecture.’
His lips twitched.
‘Fascinating methodology. I look forward to seeing his progress.’
He stepped aside to let her pass. She dipped a hasty curtsey, eager to flee.
But as she brushed past him, she felt the weight of his gaze linger—unsettlingly close, almost tangible.
‘Miss Lucas,’ he said softly, ‘have we met before?’
Her stomach lurched. She kept her eyes fixed upon the banister.
‘No, my lord.’
‘Strange,’ he murmured. ‘You seem... oddly familiar.’
Charlotte smiled awkwardly. ‘I do not recall meeting you, my lord.’
With that, she rushed up the stairs and nearly tripped. Behind her, his low chuckle followed.
She did not stop until she reached her bed chamber, where she flung herself onto the bed and groaned into the pillow.
‘Brilliant, Charlotte. Simply brilliant. Now he thinks you are a mad governess.’
The next few days brought a surprising flurry of life to the mansion.
Lord Stanley’s return had stirred society like a hornet’s nest. Guests arrived in carriages to pay their respects to the new Baron, letters came and went, and Mrs Dent bustled through the corridors looking thoroughly exasperated.
Charlotte encountered Lord Stanley only when escorting Tom to luncheon with his family.
He appeared to have forgotten the library incident and remained aloof, distant, and dismissive of her, which suited her just fine. Thankfully, the affair had stirred no further memory in him, and she was deeply grateful for it.
However, it had also spurred Charlotte on in her mission. Yet despite her best efforts, she could not persuade Mrs Dent to part with any useful information.
She was therefore surprised one morning to find Mrs Dent appearing in the nursery doorway, seemingly more amiable than her usual severe self.
‘You are to present yourself for the evening dinners once the house party begins, Miss Lucas—Master’s orders. The gown you wore last time will not do. Do you have others?’
Charlotte glanced down at herself. ‘Only my usual gowns.’
Mrs Dent tutted. ‘Just as I feared. Very well, I shall have a few made. You may be required to attend every evening once the house party begins.’
‘The master’s orders? Are you certain?’ Charlotte asked, for she was quite sure he scarcely acknowledged her existence.
Mrs Dent tutted again. ‘Precisely what I said. He was most particular on the matter.’
Charlotte was nonplussed. Surely Mrs Dent must be mistaken; perhaps Mrs Wilberforce had persuaded him to include her.
‘When will they arrive?’ she asked.
Mrs Dent surprised her with a civil answer.
‘I have no idea, miss, but as he has not been home in over seven years, I expect it to be a large affair.’
‘Seven years! When he saw his sister, it did not seem as though they had been so long apart,’ Charlotte ventured. ‘There appears a great deal of affection between them.’
‘They met in London recently. It is not his sister that is the difficulty,’ Mrs Dent said, lowering her voice. ‘I believe he dislikes this place—it was his childhood home. His father disowned him, you know, after he became a Saracen.’
Charlotte’s eyes widened at the slur.
‘You mean—he is Muslim,’ she corrected.
Mrs Dent gave a faintly disapproving sniff.
‘He inherited everything after the late Baron’s death. One might suppose society would cut him off for such... unconventional beliefs, but money smooths all offences. Goodness knows how he made his fortune abroad—ill-gotten means, I should think.’
Charlotte absorbed this, astonished.
‘How hypocritical of society—especially if his fortune was indeed acquired by questionable means,’ she muttered. Anne had claimed he dealt in antiquities, but Mrs Dent seemed to suggest otherwise.
Mrs Dent, now inspecting the wardrobe, appeared not to notice her rumination.
‘He has since involved himself in Mr Wilberforce’s abolition campaign and is even building schools for the tenants’ children. And now everyone flocks to him.’
‘Schools?’ Charlotte asked, puzzled. This did not accord with Lord Stanley’s indifferent manner.
‘To win favour, I expect,’ Mrs Dent said with a sigh. ‘This crepe gown is the only tolerable one you possess—it will have to suffice for this evening. I shall send the seamstress to you later—for the new gowns.’
And with that, she marched out, leaving Charlotte to dress.
That evening, the family assembled in the drawing room after dinner. Far grander than the dowager house, the chamber boasted glittering chandeliers, dark oak panelling, and richly upholstered furnishings.
Polite conversation soon followed, and Charlotte’s valiant attempt to remain unnoticed failed once the family insisted upon including her.
‘How are you, my dear? Very quiet today,’ Mr Wilberforce enquired.
Charlotte’s smile was tight. ‘I fear I have nothing interesting to say, sir.’
Before she could edge away, a voice cut through the air—low, amused, unmistakable.
‘I am sure that is not true, Miss Lucas.’
She stiffened. Turning slowly, she found Lord Stanley behind her, the faintest glint of mockery in his eyes.
‘My lord,’ she murmured, curtseying.
‘How are the lessons going with Tom? Does he still give you trouble?’ Mr Wilberforce continued.
She might have answered truthfully, were it not for fear of dismissal. Instead, she replied sweetly, ‘Not at all, sir. He is a delight.’
Lord Stanley’s gaze met hers, that infernal glint deepening.
‘Is that so? I was under the impression he had you quite at his mercy.’
‘Do not frighten off my governess, Henry—we wish her to stay!’ called Mrs Wilberforce, smiling fondly at Charlotte. ‘She has lasted these past few weeks, which is more than I can say for the others.’
‘I have a suspicion,’ Lord Stanley said, his voice smooth as velvet, ‘that not much frightens Miss Lucas.’
Was that admiration—or merely more mockery?
Charlotte forced her expression into serenity. She would not let Lord Stanley intimidate her.
He noticed, and to her surprise looked faintly impressed before offering a gallant bow and stepping away.
Mrs Wilberforce clapped her hands.
‘This reminds me—whom shall we invite to the house party?’
‘Use the guest list from last year,’ Lord Stanley said, his tone indolent, though his gaze remained fixed upon Charlotte. ‘I have already spoken with Mrs Dent; she has provided me with the names. It is in the study.’
Hope and excitement surged through Charlotte together.
There was a list.
The very one that might include the Wolf—and perhaps the three “Grand” Odd Fellows.
She lowered her gaze to conceal the sudden light in her eyes.
Lord Stanley was inviting them here. He must be trying to draw them out—why else would he insist upon the same guest list?
But what if they declined the invitations? Then the house party would be for nothing.
She itched to get into the study and examine the names for herself.
Even if they did not attend, she would at least have their identities.
Perhaps another tour of the house with Tom might serve her purpose.
.. though it would very likely mean crossing paths with the Ice Baron again—and enduring his condescending, barbed remarks upon her supposed incompetence.
She pinched the bridge of her nose.