“Let’s wait. All the remaining jewels belonged to Roland’s mother and, therefore, are part of the estate. I don’t want anyone to accuse me of stealing.” Charlotte made her way to her writing desk positioned between the chamber’s two windows and motioned to another pile of gowns atop the bed. “I’ve set aside what I needed, so please, take whichever of the remaining gowns you’d like, and we can alter them to fit you after we arrive. The wind is brutal and damp on the moors, and the house is drafty, so I’d select warm ones.”
Charlotte set about writing her letter to Silas while Sutcliffe continued to pack. With each passing second, her nerves, not to mention a strange sense of nervous excitement, were building. She, Henry, and Sutcliffe were embarking on a new life—they were taking a daring step into an unknown future.
She looked around the shadowed room that had been her only domain for the prior three years, fixing it in her memory. Heavy drapes of mauve velvet hung at the windows. Hothouse flowers, now faded, had been elegantly arranged in a cut-glass vase on an ornate polished table in the room’s center. The chaise lounge where she’d spent her afternoons reading was now covered in the gowns. She’d never been happy at Wolden House, but she’d been safe and she’d wanted for nothing. Roland might not have been an affectionate or even a loyal husband, but he had provided a measure of security most women would consider the ultimate prize.
Now she had to set her sights on the future, and preparation was key. In addition to packing, her most pressing need was to learn how to care for Henry. She’d never bathed or even fed her own son, and it would likely take weeks to find and install an adequate staff at Hollythorne House. That was time she did not have.
She pivoted at the desk toward Sutcliffe. “Please find the nursemaid. We are going to need her to show us how to care for Henry, and quickly.”
Sutcliffe nodded, and as the sound of the maid’s boots retreated down the hall, Charlotte turned her gaze once more toward her son. He’d fallen asleep in the low wooden cradle, and his tiny chest rose and fell with each breath. At the sight, feelings of inadequacy bombarded her. What made her think she was capable of such an undertaking? The list of why she would fail as a caretaker seemed to grow with each passing second.
But she had to take thoughts for what they were—mere feelings. Not truth. She could not be afraid. There was no time for such emotions, and for Henry’s sake, she would fight for the life she’d dreamed of—for them both.
Chapter 6
As Anthony approached the Watchman’s office later that evening, steady rain tapped down, emphasizing the scents of filth and the acrid smoke from the nearby warehouses. Next to him, Timmons whistled under his breath as they traversed the well-worn, familiar path, his countenance vastly improved from his earlier melancholy musings. It was one thing to arrive for duty at the appointed time each evening, when many of the other watchmen were receiving their assignments as well. It was another thing to be personally summoned by William Walstead for a particular assignment. Not only did these exclusive missions pay well, but they were a feather in the cap of any watchman who successfully undertook them.
They turned onto Hustall Street, a smaller dirt road, and spied the office. No shingle hung outside of the unassuming stone building, yet this office was a constant hub of activity for watchmen and patrons alike. The thick scent of tobacco smoke beset them as they stepped through the door’s low threshold. The drab, dimly lit space befit the neighborhood, with darkly paneled walls, heavily beamed low ceilings, and dust and dirt gathered in the corners of the roughly hewn planked floor. A smoking fire in the hearth on the chamber’s far wall and a lantern atop the attendant’s desk provided the only light sources. Anthony nodded a welcome to a few fellow watchmen before he stepped to the high desk, where Philip Dunston, Mr. Walstead’s clerk, was writing in a ledger.
Anthony leaned with his forearm on top of the desk. “Mr. Walstead sent for us.”
Dunston did not cease writing for several seconds, then he paused and peered over his spectacles. “He did, and you’re late. But you’re fortunate. He’s engaged at the moment.”
Anthony lifted his gaze to the closed door behind the desk. It was always a good idea to be on good terms with Dunston. As Mr. Walstead’s right-hand man, he was privy to details that most were not. What was more, he could usually be coaxed for information.
“Any word on the assignment?” asked Timmons.
The notoriously stony clerk paused and lowered his quill.
“Oh, come on,” Timmons baited. “Surely ye know why we’re ’ere this time. Problems at t’ inn again? Or at t’ docks?”
Dunston cut his eyes toward Mr. Walstead’s office door, leaned forward, then lowered his voice. “I know nothin’ for certain. You know Mr. Walstead tells me only bits ’n’ pieces, but I got eyes, ain’t I? Mr. Silas Prior, the man himself, barged in ’ere, not even an ’our ago, demandin’ to speak with Mr. Walstead.”
Timmons and Anthony exchanged glances. Everyone in Leeds knew Silas Prior—the owner of two mills and a shipping company, a landlord, and employer of thousands.
“What’d ’e want?” inquired Timmons.
Dunston shrugged his scrawny shoulders. “One can only guess, but you’ve ’eard his brother died, ’aven’t ye? Dropped dead right in ’is own study, so t’ story goes.”
Anthony nodded. Yes, he’d heard. “I thought Smith and Jenkins were guarding that house tonight.”
“No, no. This is another matter entirely. This is—”
The creak of the door behind the clerk silenced Dunston, and Anthony and Timmons both straightened as two watchmen exited the office. Mr. Walstead then took notice of Anthony and Timmons and motioned for them to follow him.
When Anthony entered the office, Mr. Walstead was already standing next to the window behind his desk. He was a short man, much shorter than either Anthony or Timmons, but what he lacked in height he made up for in clever intuition. His tailored worsted-wool black tailcoat and buckled, polished shoes hardly suited the humble environment, but it was that very contradiction that Mr. Walstead thrived on. His story was as famous and fantastic as his exploits.
He motioned to the chairs opposite his cluttered desk. “Sit.”
They did as bid without comment.
“You’re from up by Blight Moor, aren’t you, Welbourne?” He stepped to the sideboard and lifted a decanter of brandy.
Anthony stiffened at the preciseness—and suddenness—of the personal inquiry. “Yes, sir. I am.”
“Next to the village of Lamby, correct?”
Anthony had not heard the name spoken out loud in years. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you still have family there?” Walstead’s questions tumbled forth. “Acquaintances? Friends?”
“No, no family anymore. No acquaintances to speak of. I’ve been back but once since the war, and only for a day.”
Mr. Walstead picked up a glass and poured a drink. “Ever heard of a place called Hollythorne House?”
The name, the precipitous mention of it, struck like a punch in the jaw, and a closed door deep in his memory flew open.