Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
It was nearly four days before Dr. Calthrop pronounced Charlotte fit enough to walk into the village.
The morning after he finally did, she was up at dawn, freshly bathed, perfumed, and dressed in her smartest walking gown, a new pair of kid gloves buttoned at her wrists, and a fetching small-brimmed straw hat with cornflower blue ribbons perched atop her upswept hair.
Lucy was still in bed, as was her habit. Which was all to the good. The last thing Charlotte wanted to deal with on this errand was the unreliable nerves of her school friend.
And they’d been quite unreliable of late.
Indeed, as Lucy had kept Charlotte company over the last several days—sitting with her in her room, walking with her in the garden, and playing endless hands of cards—she’d seemed jumpier than ever before. Every time there was a knock at the door, she’d nearly jumped straight out of her skin.
“You’re as skittish as a cat,” Charlotte had scolded her yesterday.
Lucy had guiltily averted her eyes. “I do sometimes overreact when people come to call.”
Charlotte had sighed, knowing full well what it was that had her friend in such a state. “You’re surely not expecting Lord Eversleigh to come to Sowerby Hall, are you?”
“Lord Eversleigh?” Lucy had seemed genuinely surprised. “Er…no.”
“I’m aware he makes you nervous,” Charlotte had said. “But you needn’t be. I’m quite certain he’d never call here.”
Which is exactly why Charlotte must go to him.
Buttoning the final button on her right glove, she made her way down to the kitchen.
“I still don’t like it,” Mrs. Goodenough said as Charlotte packed a wicker basket. “In my day, a girl who suffered a fall like yours would still be abed.”
“But these are modern times, Mrs. Goodenough.” Charlotte selected a jar of blackberry jam from the pantry shelf. “And I’m a modern girl.”
The housekeeper sniffed. “You’re something, Miss Beresford, I will admit to that. But modern ain’t it.”
Ignoring the criticism, Charlotte discreetly packed another few items in her basket.
Sun shone through the clean glass windows at her back, sparkling over the equally clean kitchen.
Bleak as Sowerby Hall was, it was vastly superior to Moorcross Manor in terms of tidiness.
More superior still when it came to the offerings in the pantry.
The shelves were lined with all manner of boxes, tins, and jars.
Charlotte doubted her modest selections would be missed.
Mrs. Goodenough remained at her shoulder as she exited the pantry. There were several loaves of freshly baked bread laid out on the counter. Freshly churned butter, too.
“You think me foolish, I know,” Charlotte said as she went to them.
The housekeeper followed. “Foolhardy, more like. After what I told you about Moorcross Manor—”
Charlotte’s gloved hand stilled on one of the loaves. “I never mentioned going to Moorcross Manor.”
“You pass through the crossroads to get to the village, don’t you? That’s close enough to my mind.”
“Yes, I see.” Charlotte exhaled a private breath of relief. For a moment, she’d feared that she had given her intentions away.
Of course she planned to visit Moorcross Manor. How could she not after hearing the story of what Magnus had done? Any lady of reasonable curiosity would require answers. And Charlotte counted herself more curious than most.
Was it true? Had he been responsible for three people’s deaths?
The possibility had been plaguing Charlotte ever since she’d first heard the tale. That Magnus might be a bad man, in truth. An evil man, capable of untold acts of violence against young ladies, young gentlemen, even their fathers.
It was so much at odds with Charlotte’s own experience of him.
But perhaps that was all owing to her head injury? Perhaps she’d misunderstood things? Was even now misremembering them?
She couldn’t rule it out.
“I suppose a rational person might feel the urge to stop at the manor to hear Lord Eversleigh’s side of the story,” she said as she packed up some bread and butter.
Mrs. Goodenough’s face tightened with outrage. “Side? What side? There’s only one version of the story and that’s the truth, which I told you.”
“Has he ever attempted to defend himself?” Charlotte wondered.
“There’s no defense for what he done.” The housekeeper folded her dish cloth with a harsh snap of her hands. “So you’d best not go looking for one. If you’ve any idea of stopping at the Manor—”
“I haven’t.” Charlotte closed her basket. There was nothing to gain by arguing with the woman. “I’m only passing through the crossroads.”
Mrs. Goodenough responded with a doubtful harrumph.
“Dr. Calthrop did say I was fit to resume my normal activities,” Charlotte reminded her. “So long as I refrain from riding horses, climbing walls, or anything else that might induce another fall.”
“Walking might induce one,” Mrs. Goodenough said.
“Should think that was obvious, miss. Last thing Miss Champion needs is for you to disappear again. She was in a right state the last time. Had me and Frog racing around the village like a pair of headless chickens. First to the market, then to the butcher’s, then to the post office, and back again.
And poor Frog with his legs and me with the house to look after. ”
Charlotte felt a distinct pang of conscience to have put them to so much trouble. She touched the housekeeper’s sleeve with a conciliatory hand. “I am sorry for that.”
Mrs. Goodenough gave a mollified snuffle. “Well. Not like you did it on purpose now, did you?”
“No, indeed.” Charlotte gave Mrs. Goodenough a final pat. “This time will be different,” she promised. “You and Mr. Frog may rest assured.”
“I trust it will be, miss. You can’t be courting scandal at your age. Not anymore than you already have done.”
“I’ve no intention of doing so.” Sliding the handle of her basket over her arm, Charlotte crossed to the door. “I’ll be back before Miss Champion wakes up.”
“And if you’re not? What time shall I tell her—”
“Two at the latest.”
“Two!”
Charlotte exited the kitchen with a spring in her step.
She was well enough to walk to the crossroads, that much was the truth.
Though even five days later she still had a vague ache in her head.
And she still couldn’t remember everything about her past—or about herself.
There were several bits that were shrouded in fog.
Dr. Calthrop had said it was normal after a concussion. The brain’s way of protecting itself.
“It will all come right with time and patience,” he’d said.
Charlotte was confident it would. She’d never had poor health before. And she was possessed of strong spirits and an optimistic outlook.
She was also quite determined to visit her dog, and to question Magnus.
Just who was Arabella Farr to him really? What had Magnus done to make her brother come to Moorcross Manor to call him to account? And exactly how had both Miss Farr and her brother been killed during the ensuing altercation?
One of them shot, Mrs. Goodenough had said, and the other dead from sepsis. Bullet wounds, Charlotte suspected, if it had indeed been some manner of duel.
And Magnus was fond of a pistol.
Charlotte walked on, her bright mood gradually dimming as she went, consumed as she was by her endless stream of questions.
About Magnus, about the Farrs, and about that parting kiss that Magnus had given her too—an incident that needled at Charlotte’s mind as persistently as any thoughts of past murders and mayhem.
A left turn at the crossroads brought her to the road that led to Magnus’s estate. This time she paid attention as she went, noticing the emptiness, the desolation, the way the Manor seemed to have been cut off from all existence.
The unsettling quiet didn’t help to put her at her ease. There were no near neighbors in these parts. No sound of man or beast to break the silence.
Lucy had compared Moorcross Manor to Hades. Charlotte didn’t know about that, but it was definitely a world apart, if not exactly an otherworld.
“Everything is perfectly explainable, I’m sure,” Charlotte said as she approached.
“Nothing a candid conversation won’t solve.
As for the atmosphere…” She squinted up at the strangely empty sky.
“I don’t wonder there isn’t any birdsong.
Nothing on the estate has been tended, and everything is dead or dying.
The birds have understandably gone elsewhere to eat. ”
It was all eminently logical, really.
Which didn’t prevent a quiver of trepidation from going through her as she entered the grounds. An image of Miss Farr sprang into her mind. A faceless young lady in an elegant gown, shot dead right here at the manor. Perhaps with the very same pistol that Magnus had pointed at Charlotte.
Another tremor went through her.
“Pull yourself together, Charlotte,” she muttered to herself. “This isn’t some gruesome penny dreadful. You’re simply paying a call on the gentleman who saved your life. What harm can it do? You’ve already seen him at his worst. And he’s certainly seen you at yours. There’s nothing left to fear.”
Stiffening her spine, she headed away from the gravel drive.
There was no point in attempting entry at the front of the house.
It was far more sensible to go to the back door.
A roundabout walk through a stand of trees, a crouch under a fence-rail, and a duck through the cracks of a prickly hedge and Charlotte was in the yard outside of the kitchens.
She fully expected to hear the muted sound of spades striking dirt and stone just as she’d heard on her final day in residence.
And there was noise, to be sure. Today, however, it was emanating not from the garden but from inside the manor itself.
A great clamor of hammers and of boards splintering and cracking, as though the very walls were being pulled from the house’s frame.
Good gracious. Was he still hunting for whatever it was his father had hidden from him?