Chapter 3
Three
Lightning flashed outside Agnes’s window, and the deep roll of thunder rattled the glass panes. The frenzied activity outside made the desolate stillness inside more discomforting, more oppressive.
Her footsteps had echoed in the empty passages, mingling with the sounds of the groaning manor and her own shaky breaths. The guests had left quickly enough for what manners dictated but too slow for Agnes’s unraveling nerves.
Only a few close friends remained in the guest chambers of Skelton Manor—Louisa in one, Nora and her husband in another. They had stayed when the quiet for which Agnes desperately yearned mutated into a less peaceful, more consuming silence.
Some Yorkshire friends of Richard and Edith had also stayed behind, now asleep in the west wing. Agnes had dutifully offered them refuge when the threatening storm clouds had rolled in with an uncanny speed.
She was used to sleeping without another person in her bed, but now she missed Bram’s presence.
He had remained in York with the housekeeper, who was likely spoiling him with an overabundance of kitchen scraps.
Without his purrs or the jingle of his bell, a lifelessness inhabited her room, a stark reminder of the life that was laid to rest today.
The thick coverlet that should have been a comfort on this October night with the fire dwindling in the hearth was constricting. She ripped it off and gasped for breath, sitting up in bed as if she were rising from the grave.
There were teas in the kitchen, blends she had brought from York. They would calm her. She found her wrapper and made her way down the stairs by candlelight.
As she passed the open door of the parlor, the candle almost slipped from her grasp.
A figure sat stiffly by the fire, only a shadow in front of the blazing hearth.
The outline of errant curls and the profile of a strong nose made easy work of recognizing Edith’s dearest friend Ida, a phantom reminder of Agnes’s former life.
Edith and Ida had lived together in a cozy terrace home in Holgate on the outskirts of York for many years.
Edith brought Agnes to live with them under her protection at the age of fourteen.
But since Edith’s passing and Agnes’s marriage to Richard six years ago, they had only exchanged courtesy letters from time to time.
Their link had always been Edith, and it had been severed at her death.
“Ida,” Agnes said, not wanting to startle her as she approached. No movement, not even a twitch from the old woman.
Agnes stepped forward. “Are you having trouble sleeping?” Still the woman did not respond. Dread clamped onto the back of Agnes’s neck, and a cold chill washed over her despite the fire.
“Ida?” she said louder, needing to know the woman was still of this world. Was Richard’s death just the first? It had always been said that tragedy came in threes. She approached the old woman and laid her hand on Ida’s rigid forearm. Warm. It was still warm.
Ida’s body was stiff, not touching the back of the chair, and her hands clenched the upholstered arms. Her wide eyes flickered around the room, and a look of pain distorted her face.
Agnes wanted to walk away, find the tea that she had come down for, and retreat back to her room, a room that felt too empty.
But Agnes couldn’t leave her old friend alone like this. She sat in the adjacent chair, staring into the fire, waiting for Ida to awaken from her trance.
“Agnes?” The woman’s eyes had softened and were focused on Agnes now.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Agnes admitted. There was a hope of reconnecting to her past life, the one where Edith had been there to protect her, to guide her. Ida, too, although it was Edith who had treated Agnes as her own, training her in the study of herbalism.
“Of course you couldn’t, sweet babe.” The affectionate nickname sparked optimism of rekindling the friendship, a friendship whose loss Agnes hadn’t realized had affected her until now.
“How do you do it? When you lose someone so dear to you, how do you move on?”
“In my age, I lose many that are dear to me. Edith was one of many, although, as you know, she was the most beloved. Saying goodbye to friends never gets easier. But it does slow you down a little less each time. You learn how to continue in their absence, even when it feels as if pieces of your soul are buried alongside them.”
“I feel like I’m just getting over Edith.”
“It’s not about getting over someone. I would be a mad woman to think I could ever be over someone like Edith. But eventually the appreciation of having had them in your life grows stronger than the grief.”
They sat in silence. Agnes remained motionless while the tears collected in her eyes. Ida turned back to her. “You know, I still talk to her. Her presence is still in the house. Maybe you’ll still feel Richard in your life too.”
“Maybe.” Richard had not engaged with the other realm like his sister had, much to Edith’s annoyance. He preferred to focus his attention on the world he could see, rather than that disguised behind the veil.
The silence returned. Minutes passed by with both women lost in thought. Ida let out periodic hrmphs, evidently working through the puzzles that troubled her mind. The scratching at the back of Agnes’s throat returned. She remembered why she had come down in the first place.
“Would you like some tea?”
“Only if it’s lemon balm and lavender.” It was Edith’s recipe. While Agnes experimented with a variety of blends, especially as her own herbalism skills surpassed Edith’s, this particular tea always tasted of home.
She could remember the first time she’d learned to make it, slowly copying the few words she was able to spell into her journal with a slow, unsteady grip. She’d brought the recipe with her when she had moved into the Bootham house as Richard’s wife.
“Of course.” Agnes stood from her chair. Icy fingers gripped her wrist, freezing her in place. Ida’s eyes jerked around as they had before, but just for a moment before they stilled and refocused on Agnes’s face.
“You can’t trust him.” Ida’s voice was urgent but still a whisper.
“Who?” Agnes looked around the room, expecting to see an unannounced guest.
Ida’s brow furrowed as she attempted to clear away the fog and recall the vision she had just seen. “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Might as well trust none of them. That’s what I do.”
Ida resettled herself back in the chair, facing the fire. “Are you getting that tea now?”
Harry pulled out his pocket watch for the fifth time in . . . ten minutes. The minute hand seemed to drag along more slowly than the last time he checked. At noon, he would leave his office to board the train to York and disclose the contents of the late Lord Skelton’s will to the widow.
Attempting to focus on his work was pointless when he could still hear the sound of her slow breaths in his ear.
Before long, he was leaning back in his chair, inhaling and exhaling, just as she had taught him at the funeral, matching her haunting rhythm.
He closed his eyes, remembering every detail of her face, especially the way she rounded her lips when she blew out each breath.
How ridiculously he had behaved. When Lady Skelton had found him in the crowd, it felt as if all the air had been suctioned from his chest. Breathing was meant to be a natural process, something that required no direct thought.
It wasn't until Lady Skelton had held his gaze, synchronizing their breaths, that he could stop overthinking long enough for his body to take over and do what it was meant to do.
It helped that the blood in his brain had flowed straight down below while he stared into those deep, soulful eyes.
He was a cad of the worst kind. Lady Skelton had been a widow for less than a week. And not just a widow, but the dowager of the estate he served. Before that, she had been the wife of a man who trusted Harry in managing his affairs while he walked this earth and once he was laid in the grave.
It had pleased Harry to learn that the former Lord Skelton had spoken highly of him, but he was even more pleased to find out that the man had sung his praises to Lady Skelton.
That had been the reason he was smiling at the funeral.
He hadn’t even bothered returning to the gallery, knowing he’d be unable to maintain the morose expression the situation called for.
Was it too much to hope that Lady Skelton now held him in the same positive regard as her late husband?
Her opinion of him shouldn’t matter, as she was not his employer.
Yet the stars last night and the sun this morning seemed to shine brighter than ever before, casting his world in a glorious splendor.
After checking that his office door was closed, Harry pulled a red leather-bound journal from his bag.
The journal held his personal notes about his employers—things that didn’t belong in financial records or official correspondence.
They were the mental ramblings that painted a portrait of each of his clients.
His records allowed him to form a personal connection in his work that made him one of the most recommended accountants in London.
The longest entry, written on a page marked in his memory and by the broken spine, had always been hers. It made no sense. Until last week, he hadn’t even spoken to her. He was embarrassed, ashamed by his obsession. There was no way to stop. He couldn’t help himself.
Over the years, as he gleaned information about Lady Skelton through Lord Skelton’s stories, he wrote it down as soon as the meeting was concluded. It was highly inappropriate. She was the wife of one of his employers, a married woman. Now that she was widowed—no. It was still highly inappropriate.
But even so, he wrote. Mole over the right side of her lip. Recalling every detail of her face, and sheepishly, her body, Harry filled the pages with the image he had carefully enfolded in his memory.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Realizing that his recollections of Lady Skelton had left him in no state to stand up, he called from his seat, “Come in.”
Charles Brus, the newly inherited Lord Skelton, invaded his office.
Thick waves of chestnut hair framed his overlarge smile, which was only overshadowed by his gaudy clothing.
A thin black armband was haphazardly wrapped above his elbow, and it seemed he had taken more care with his cravat.
It was tied with so much flourish, Harry expected it to still be holding the crumbs of the man’s luncheon. This man was a dandy.
“Mr. Evans. Just who I needed to see.” The heels of Skelton’s fashionable lace-up boots clacked on the floor as he approached Harry.
“I expect that is why you came to my office, then.”
“Cousin Richard said you were always putting a smile on his face. He didn’t tell me the extent of your humor.” Skelton sat himself in the chair opposite Harry’s desk without invitation.
“I’m here to learn the details of my inheritance. Tell me more about how I am to continue my dear cousin’s legacy.”
“Well now that you’re seated, let us review the will.”
Skelton leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “Go on.” The man waved Harry on as one might announce the next performer at the circus, clearly eager to hear the details of his newly acquired fortunes.
Skelton had offered for Harry to continue as the accountant of the estate since he had no loyalty to his former accountant.
It was no wonder, as the professional hadn’t seemed to offer any practical advice.
Skelton’s accounts were almost dry, draining steadily as expenses eclipsed the earnings of the business investments his father, Richard Brus’s cousin, had made before he passed.
The new Lord Skelton needed this inheritance to stay above water.
“I have reviewed the will. You will be coming into a great deal of money, as I’m sure you expect. Your cousin amended it after his marriage to Lady Skelton, but I must say, her inheritance is rather meager for a man of his wealth. Did he speak with you on the matter?”
Five years ago, when Harry had first been named executor of the will and accepted the papers into his safekeeping, he had tried to bring up his concerns.
But Lord Skelton had told him not to worry, as he was certain of his choices and wouldn’t change his mind.
He had not allowed Harry to get a word in, explaining that he had given Lady Skelton everything she requested.
It wasn’t Harry’s job to pester his employer or give advice that wasn’t wanted.
“We spoke of everything. You can see I am a witness to the will.” The young Skelton’s tone was clearly meant to be reassuring, yet Harry wondered if the baron doubted his competence.
It had taken Harry by surprise to be chosen as the executor of the will, when a solicitor would have been the more common choice.
“Then you know a majority of the Skelton inheritance has been left to you. However, I am concerned over Lady Skelton’s well-being, as she has no children. I don’t believe she has any other family?”
From what Harry had written in his journal, Lady Skelton had been a ward of her husband’s older sister, a woman as mysterious as the widow herself. The late baron had never mentioned any other relations.
Skelton scoffed. “I am her family, Mr. Evans. What kind of man do you take me for to think I would not provide for my dear cousin’s widow? Have you not heard of my reputation?”
Harry had. People adored the man. “Well then, I assume Lady Skelton will choose to move into the dower house. I know it is unusual for her to inherit the steward’s cottage as well, but you will have plenty of land and funds to build a new one, if necessary.”
“Mr. Evans.” Charles paused to offer Harry a grin. “I can assure you that you have no need to worry about Lady Skelton. In fact, let’s make an appointment to visit her this week. I am available on Wednesday.”
“Actually—” Harry silenced himself.
There was a small part of him—well, a rather large part, if he were being honest—that wanted to see her alone. But also, this was a delicate situation. He trusted himself to deliver the news in a delicate manner. He had less trust in Skelton.
“I am available for Wednesday as well.”