Chapter 16
Alaric’s sleep was restless that night.
It was not, however, on account of dark thoughts that had once plagued him. It was not guilt that brought the sleepless night, nor feelings of wrongdoing and confusion. A restless sleep it might have been, but it was not one that he regretted having.
His dreams, or lack thereof, were on account of Miss Kavanagh.
Finding her in the library was a surprise, but it was a welcome one.
The moment was brief, but its effect was felt long after she left him.
He knew now that their walk home together that afternoon was like a shackle removed, in how it freed them both, and he was finally willing to admit that he ought to explore these feelings rather than run from them.
So when the pale sun broke through his room, he did not groan and turn away as if to hope that sleep might finally find him. Rather, he rose with it, more lively than he should have been, and looking forward to the day that might come.
That was until he made his way to the breakfast room …
Verity was there already, as was Crispin. They sat at the head of the table, their faces close together, their whispers soft but fierce. They were arguing, it seemed, and it looked as if Verity was losing.
However, as soon as Alaric appeared in the doorway, they stopped their whispers, lurched back, and neither could look at Alaric; both were prepared to act as if all they had been doing was eating.
“Good morning …” Alaric frowned as he looked between them. “I hope I am not interrupting.”
“Interrupting?” Verity laughed dismissively. “What could you possibly be interrupting?”
Crispin did not once look at Alaric. It was done purposefully, and his cousin’s face was stone as he focused on his food. Verity glanced at Crispin as if to check that he would not say anything.
“How about you tell me?” Alaric ventured.
Verity exhaled sharply. “We were merely discussing the memorial, Alaric. Nothing to cause concern, I assure you.” She offered a forced smile and then looked at her plate as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.
Oh, they are lying to me … but whatever could it be about?
He focused his attention on Crispin.
After Alaric had run into Miss Kavanagh last evening, he had thought little of his cousin, which he realized now was not ideal. In fact, ordinarily, his cousin would have been at the center of his thoughts.
Alaric could not say for certain, and he had no evidence yet to prove his suspicions, but it appeared now that his wife and his cousin had been involved somehow. More than friends. More than family. Crispin clearly cared for Alaric’s deceased wife … beyond what was normal.
Is that why he has acted so strangely since her death? Why he has been so … lost and empty since her passing?
Alaric had never considered the obvious before, but now that it screamed in his face, it was hard to ignore.
“How goes the memorial?” Alaric continued to watch his cousin as he walked to the table and made for his seat. “Anything I need to know of?”
“We have it under control,” Verity assured him.
“Crispin?” Alaric pressed as he sat down.
Crispin looked up, saw Alaric’s stare trained on him, and looked down. “As Verity has said … it is under control.”
“I am sure it is.”
The silence that filled the breakfast room was tense, the type that felt ready to shatter at the smallest instance. Alaric continued to look between his sister and his cousin. Did Verity know of the supposed relationship? Was she keeping this secret from him?
And more importantly, how could Alaric learn the truth?
Breakfast stretched on for several minutes, only broken when Crispin finally pushed back his plate and stood. He said nothing as he hurried from the breakfast room, moving quickly, as if fleeing.
As he left, however, Alaric heard a commotion coming from the entrance hall. Hushed voices, but spoken loudly as if the speaker had forgotten how to whisper.
“What on earth …” Alaric stood and made his way to the voices.
He arrived in the foyer to find Mr. Carrow speaking to a commoner whom Alaric did not recognize.
The man was well into his sixties, bent of back, dressed in veritable rags, while his gray hair hung down to his waist. Crispin was there, too, watching from the corner of the room, and his face was as pale as milk.
“Mr. Carrow, what is the meaning of this?” Alaric demanded and strode toward the butler.
“Ah, My Lord, I am so sorry to disturb you.” Mr. Carrow bowed deeply. “Please, do not be alarmed, for this is nothing to concern yourself with.”
“It appears as if it is.”
“It is Lord Crispin to whom the matter pertains.” Mr. Carrow looked at Crispin, who still stood back with an expression of fear in his eyes. “I assure you … there is no need to worry.”
“Who is this man?” Alaric asked of the stranger. “I will decide who this matter concerns.”
The man bowed deeply. “I am so sorry to interrupt like this, My Lord. My name is Simon Creasly, and I fish on the waters of the lake by this estate. Been doing it my whole life, as has my father before me.” He bowed again.
“And your reason for being here?”
Simon Creasly hesitated, looking to Mr. Carrow as if for permission.
“I did not know if this was something that needed bringing to light, My Lord. At first, anyway, it seemed a matter that could be ignored. But then …” He swallowed.
“Well, my wife convinced me that it needed to be told, is all. She always worries, she does, the type who will pitch a fit if even the smallest –”
“Please, speak clearly,” Alaric said sharply.
“Yes, sorry, My Lord.” Simon Creasly straightened. “I was out fishing last evening, taking advantage of the cleared weather. Always a good time to fish, you see. The rain and the wind whip off the tide, and more often than not it sees me bring in the sort of catch that –”
“Clearly, Mr. Creasly,” Alaric cut him off.
“Right.” Simon Creasly grimaced; he fidgeted nervously with his hands as he spoke, and his white eyes looked every which way.
“I went out a little more westward than usual – I often avoid the area, truth be told, on account of the rocks. Makes for dangerous sailing, not worth the effort. But it’s a good thing I did, as I found wreckage, My Lord.
An old jolly boat, by the looks of things.
Been there for years, based on the state of it. ”
“And the reason that this is being brought to my attention?”
“It belongs to you, is why,” Simon Creasly said. “I seen the crest on its side, so I knew it did.”
Alaric blinked. “It … it does?”
That was a surprise. While Alaric did indeed own a small host of sailing vessels, as well as rowboats, they were hardly ever used.
In fact, the only person he knew who used to take the boats out was Crispin, but that was years ago, and Alaric could not remember the last time his cousin had shown an interest.
Alaric looked at his cousin, who now stared down at his feet as if wishing the floor might open and swallow him whole.
“But that’s not all, My Lord,” Simon Creasly continued. “It was what was in the boat that had my wife insisting I come and see you.”
“What was in the boat?” Alaric tore his eyes from his cousin and looked at the fisherman. “What … what was in the boat?”
Simon Creasly winced. “Like I said, the boat looked to be well worn. Years of being out and exposed to the elements. I found crabs, the remains of gulls, as well as …” He swallowed.
“I cannot be sure, My Lord. Likely, it was some stray dog or whatnot. But I think … I believe, is my meaning, that there were bones.”
Alaric’s face dropped. “Bones … what sort of bones?”
“Like I said, I cannot be sure, but they might be human, My Lord. How that came to be, I cannot say. But my wife, well, she insisted I bring it to your attention.”
Again, Alaric looked toward his cousin, but Crispin was suddenly gone.
A strange feeling sat in Alaric’s stomach. He could not describe it. He did not know what it meant. But he knew that the feeling would likely grow a lot worse before it got better.
“Show me,” Alaric said. “Now.”
He rode out from the estate minutes later, with Simon Creasly sitting on the back of his horse as the old fisherman had walked from his cabin.
The fisherman directed Alaric to the lake’s edge, at which point he had Alaric ride its shore to the west and then to the north.
“I thought it best that I bring it into shore,” Simon Creasly explained, shouting in Alaric’s ear. “Didn’t feel right leaving it out there.”
It took fifteen minutes of hard riding until Alaric came upon the wrecked boat. As the fisherman had explained, it was pulled onto the shore and left exactly how it was found.
One look at the wooden frame was enough to tell Alaric that the boat had long since been abandoned. Covered in barnacles, the paint had peeled off, so the wood beneath was exposed and raw. The sail was nowhere to be seen, while the mast was cracked right at the center.
Alaric pulled his horse up some twenty feet away.
Then, with shaky legs, he approached the vessel as a sense of impending doom steadily built in his gut. He did not recognize the boat as his own because Alaric was never one for sailing. But he saw a faint outline of his family’s crest on the side, so there could be no doubt.
The wind howled and blew his hair across his face as he reached the vessel. And when he peered inside … good God.
Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.
As Simon Creasly had explained, the hull was filled with the remnants of dead crabs, fish, and birds.
But what drew his eyes were the garments of cloth, worn, withered, and starched from the sun.
He eyed that cloth … he recognized it immediately …
and his stomach plunged so quick and so deep that he thought he might be sick.
It was a gown, one he knew well, because it had belonged to his wife.
“Aisling …” Her name left his lips in a whisper, caught by the wind swirling overhead as if mocking him. “How …”