The Whispers on the Moors Collection, page 34
Not even a year ago, when William did manage to spend time in Eastmore Hall, the house was never still. Servants were busy at all hours. Guests at all times. The gatherings within Eastmore’s walls had been legendary. But as his funds dwindled, so did his comrades. And as the friends’ departures left empty spaces in his routines, condemning silence moved in. One by one his friends had left him, and now he was alone in a massive estate, with most of the rooms under dusty white sheets, a skeleton crew, and barely enough funds to keep fires going in a few rooms.
He could handle the loneliness during the day. When the weather was fine and he could escape out of doors, where isolation was by choice, he could imagine that everything was as it had been. Time flew past when he was working with his horses. With his steward dismissed, he found that he actually enjoyed calling on his tenants—especially when the tenant was Miss Creighton.
At night, all was different.
How desperately he wanted to be able to place blame on someone other than himself. To pretend that his poor decisions had been the result of an external force. But how could he deny his folly? He’d been a slave to the gaming tables and the pursuit of adventure.
If only she would have stayed.
He tossed the dark purplish wine against the back of his throat, ignoring the burning as it slid down.
Normally he would force his mind to think of anything else. Horses. Racing. Cards. But with the dull physical pain and his overwhelming loneliness, he would allow his mind to go there.
Just this once.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the tufted chair. So much of the last eight years had been lived in a foggy haze of drink. She was the one aspect he could recall with pinpoint precision, as if he had seen her the previous night instead of the eight years it had actually been. How vividly he recalled the brilliant luster of her mahogany hair. The sway of her hips when she walked. The tinkling of her carefree laugh. The brush of her breath as she would lean in dangerously close to whisper in his ear.
Isabelle.
He had loved her to the point of obsession. And she had led him to believe that her affection matched his. She had been as foolish as he, her interests as worldly, her vanity as broad. Her impulsive lust for life was intoxicating. She’d swept him along in her whirlwind, captivating him and entrancing him. He would have given her the world had she but asked. But Isabelle was of a wild, untamed nature, carefree and restless. He should have heeded the warning.
His memory lingered on the day he proposed. Isabelle accepted, and his future seemed bright and boundless. But a few days later he received a letter from her, communicating her regret and stating that her heart belonged to another. She departed Darbury before he could confront her. He had not seen nor heard from her since.
William had demanded answers from her former guardian, her uncle and the local vicar, Thomas Hammond, but the old man would give no information, only repeat her request for privacy.
William had searched for her for months. She had wanted to disappear, and she succeeded. William never knew what became of her, and that fact drove him to the point of madness. Time had dulled the searing ache, but the dawdling presence of her betrayal still stung. He had given her his heart, and she had taken it. And to this day, a hole marked the empty space where it should be. She was out there, living her life. Somewhere. And his inability to accept that fact, coupled with his tendency toward impulsive behavior, had spiraled him downward.
He rubbed his hand down his face, wincing not at the pain from his still-swollen lip and jaw, but from the twinge of emotion knotted in his chest. He deserved what he was getting. How could he deny it? He had a choice to make when she left, and instead of choosing to put his life back together and fight, he chose to bury himself in mindless, destructive pursuits. He had become a virtual prisoner in the halls that gave him the wealth to live the destructive life he had chosen.
Why his thoughts should turn to Miss Creighton, he did not know. Was it her mannerism that reminded him of another?
Or was it true admiration of a person who had embraced family responsibility?
Or was it purely loneliness?
He indulged in one long swig of claret, dampening the effects of painful memories and the bitter cold.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow he would once again pull himself right and focus on the task at hand—he’d keep his promise to his brother and visit his sister-in law. He’d find another broodmare for his stallion and take the necessary steps to set his life right. But tonight he would let the claret ease the pain, just as it had so many times before.
Tomorrow . . . he watched as the last tiny flame in the fireplace flickered and then went out, leaving only glowing embers.
He’d nearly fallen asleep, half frozen in his chair, when a rap sounded on a distant door.
William bolted out of his chair and looked to the pistol on a nearby table.
Rafertee.
But before he had time to react, footsteps echoed as they crossed the stone floor of the vestibule. He recognized the shuffle. It was Cecil, his butler. William relaxed when he heard the voice of his neighbor, Jonathan Riley.
Riley was the one friend who would still visit even though he knew the extent of William’s downfall. William quickly stoked the fire to breathe life back into it, sending sparks flying, but he wasn’t fast enough.
The door to the library opened and Cecil stepped inside. “Mr. Riley, sir.”
Before William could welcome him, Riley strode in as confidently and intently as if he were the master of Eastmore himself. “Egad, man, what are you doing in the dark?”
William knelt next to the fire and used its dying embers to light a candle, and then used that to light yet another.
William forced his voice to be as normal as possible. “Caught me sleeping, mate.”
William turned, but his effort to hide his face was in vain.
“Sleeping, my eye.” Riley whistled low. “They did a number on you, didn’t they?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was in town at Griffin’s End.” Riley sought out and opened the decanter of claret and poured himself a goblet. “Talked to Miller, who said there was a rowdy bunch in the other night, bragging about drawing a man’s cork on the moors. Said they’d been in a couple nights prior, and he figured out they must be talking about you. So I had to come out and see for myself. Sure enough, here you are. What happened?”
William gave up stoking the fire and sank back in his chair. No need for pretense with a friend as old as Riley. “I was at Griffin’s End, trying to convince old Peter Symes to sell me his thoroughbred mare. I saw the men there. Should have gotten a room for the night, but like a fool I thought it would be a good idea to return to Eastmore Hall. They waylaid me.”
“I can see that.” Riley tilted his head and squinted, struggling to see in the dark. “How bad is it?”
“Split lip. Swollen eye. Gash on the forehead. Bruised ribs. Could have been worse.”
“I’ll say.” Riley pointed a finger at William. “They could have done permanent damage to that dandy profile of yours, and then where would you be?”
William huffed.
Riley’s energy filled the space. He whipped his head around. “Why is it so blasted cold in here? I know you’re dished, but this borders on the ridiculous.” He tossed a log on the fire, and the glowing embers popped and hissed in protest. He added some kindling and was rewarded with a small flame that licked at the log’s edge. “There, that’s more like it.”
If there was one thing William knew about Riley, it was that the man hated silence as much as he did. Riley would fill hushed moments with chatter, whether the conversation proved worthwhile or not.
Riley adjusted the remaining wood in the pile. “I didn’t just come here to check on your wounds. I have a few matters I need to discuss with you.”
“Of course you do.”
“I am starting a new business venture.”
“You are, are you? Shocking.” William pinched the bridge of his nose. When wasn’t Riley investigating this or that, looking for a way to further line his pocketbook? “And what, pray tell, are you exploring this time?”
Riley rubbed his hands together as if enjoying the banter. “Textiles.”
William snorted. Textiles. With an abundance of sheep in the area, textiles and weaving had long been a way of life in Darbury and the surrounding villages. It was only a matter of time before Riley set his sights to finding a way to exploit it. “And what do you know of textiles?”
Riley shrugged, his ever-present crooked grin flashing in the shadows. “At present, very little, save for the fact that with all the wool available right here, it would be a lucrative venture. If done properly, that is to say.”
“Is that so?” William tapped his thumb on the arm of the chair. He had the distinct suspicion that Riley was leading him down a path of sorts, and William, with sore ribs and throbbing temples, was in no mood for games. “And how exactly would one go about doing it properly?”
“That is where my new colleague, Jeremiah Carlton, comes in.” Riley’s easy smile slid across his broad, square face.
William leaned his head back. “What happened to your colleague in timber—that chap from Devonshire?”
“Bloody dull fellow. I never could trust a man with a French name. Back to what I was saying. Carlton has experience in power looms. Seems he tried to open a factory up around Manchester, but rioters burned it to the ground in the dead of night. Rogues.” Riley shifted his weight and licked his lips. “I have made the decision to align myself with Carlton financially in this venture, but we are lacking a major component.”
William propped his boots up on an ottoman and stared at the square toes. Ah, so this was it. He asked the question, already knowing the answer. “And what does this have to do with me?”
Riley smirked. “You own something we need.”
This wasn’t the first time that Riley had approached him about land, and one plot of land in particular: the spot of land that Rosemere was on.
“I’m not selling you Rosemere, Riley.”
Riley looked hurt. “You haven’t even heard my plan.”
“Don’t need to. That land is leased.”
Riley pushed an ottoman out of the way with his foot and sat down on the chair facing William’s. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We go back a long time. This property means a great deal to you. To your father. I don’t mean to pry, but clearly you are in a situation. I’m not here to judge. I’m here as your friend. And I am offering you money that you clearly need. And you’d be doing me a tremendous favor. I will pay you more than what the house and land are worth. Let me deal with the legality. I’ll even cut you in on the profits. At least think about it.”
William jumped up from his chair, having momentarily forgotten about the ache in his ribs until the sudden movement gave him a jolting reminder. He recognized the truth in what Riley said. But if he lost his land, what did he have left to fight for? “I don’t need to think about it. I’ll not sell it.”
“You are a stubborn fool. Always have been.” Riley slumped back in his chair.
“I have tenants at Rosemere. I can’t evict them.”
“Why not? I’ll pay more.”
He stared at Riley, trying to ascertain if he was in jest. People live there. Work there. And have for decades. He couldn’t evict them without notice. Without explanation. Was his friend really that self-serving?
Riley did not relent. “Not all your land is leased. What about Latham Hill?”
William adjusted his forearm on the chair’s arm. Latham Hill was a small plot of land adjacent to the Rosemere property. The rocky soil, unfarmable, was used for grazing. But the land did possess one enticing attribute—access to River Thaughley. But if William’s plan was to be successful, he would require every inch of land, every corner. For horseflesh. Not textiles.
Riley stood, crossed the room, and propped his elbow on the stone mantel. “The way I figure it, I have money to invest, but no land. You have . . . er, limited access to money, but you are sitting on land waiting for commerce. Am I right?”
William shifted uncomfortably at the directness of the question.
“I appreciate that you don’t want to sell Latham Hill. But let it to me until we can establish something more permanent. Partner with us. Carlton will bring the knowledge, I will provide funds, you bring the land, and we will go from there. We shall build the mill, and if it should fail, what harm is done? We will dismantle and your land will be yours, hardly worse for the use. If it should be successful, then we will need to find a bigger location. At which time your land will still be yours.”
William glanced up at the portrait of his father above the mantel with his focused eyes and the determined set of his mouth. His father would never approve.
But then again, when had his father ever approved of anything he had done?
William snorted. “I suppose the more pertinent question would be, what do I have to gain?”
A wild, eager light shone from Riley’s black eyes, and he shifted his weight, as if the excitement of what he was about to say had begun flowing through his veins. “We shall become equal partners—you, Carlton, and me. If it fails, what have you to lose? Your land reverts back to you. If it succeeds, then, well, you will be plump in the pocket.” He stared down at the fire, his tone shifting. “We’ve known each other a long time, you and I. It pains me to see you like this, it really does. I would not bring this to you unless I thought it had a chance to succeed.”
William studied his longtime friend, his face showing what was likely genuine concern. He wanted to believe Riley. But Riley had proved to be as reckless and wild as he himself had been. Would this really be successful, or would this be yet another example of his misguided ventures?
“I would need to think about it.”
“Well, we don’t have long. Carlton’s visiting Ambledale Court at week’s end. Will you at least meet him?”
William shrugged. “I suppose there is no harm in that.”
“Good. Ride out on Saturday. He’ll be there.” Riley rubbed his hands together and rocked on his heels. “Trust me, Sterling. You’ll not regret this.”
FIRE!”
The urgency in the word sliced the murky space between dream and consciousness.
Patience bolted upright in bed, heart pounding, pulse racing.
Was she awake? Dreaming?
With her next breath, her nose burned and tears stung her eyes.
Smoke!
Through her bedchamber window, eerie shapes of amber and black cast shadows against the painted walls. She ran to the pane and yanked aside the thick curtains. Holding her sleeve up to her mouth, she squinted, struggling to see through the smoke’s misty vapors. A crash echoed from the stable. A panicked cry followed.
Charlie! Charlie sleeps in the stable!
Plumes of fire reached into the night sky from the stable. Thick, black smoke curled even higher, lapping nearby trees and blocking the moon. Figures dashed around the glowing stable. A shout. Someone threw a bucket of water. A small body was mounting a horse.
She reached for her robe and stuffed her stocking feet into slippers. Her legs, tangled in her linen nightdress, fought to obey her mind’s order for urgency. Stumbling in the dark and struggling to maintain balance, Patience stuffed her arms through the robe’s sleeve, then the other, and grabbed the doorknob. She had to get downstairs.
Patience ran down the hall, pausing only to fling open her mother’s bedchamber door.
“Mother!” she shouted, squinting to adjust to the darkness. In the white moonlight she spotted her mother’s form beneath a mound of blankets. Patience ran to her, grabbed her shoulder, and shook it. “Mother, there’s a fire in the stable!”
Her mother stirred, mumbled, but did not sit up.
“Mother!” Patience pulled on her mother’s arm until she finally turned. “A fire! Do you not smell the smoke?”
Patience did not wait for her mother’s response. She ran back to the corridor. She needed to get down there. Down to the stable.
Down to Charlie.
The fastest way to the stables was through the kitchen entrance and through the courtyard. She flew through the west wing, down a main staircase, and through a wide corridor to the kitchen. All was dark save for the eerie glow seeping through the paned windows. Patience ran out the back door and into the night. The combination of frosty air and choking smoke stole the breath from her lungs. The fire’s strength was even more impressive, more intimidating at ground level than from the height of her room. Almost instantly she spied George’s silhouette, his bulky frame, struggling to lead a spooked horse away from the fire.
She squinted to guard her eyes from the brightness of the blaze and grabbed George’s shoulder. “Where’s Charlie?”
The fire’s erratic light reflected from the sweat on his brow. “Sent him to Eastmore for the water wagon,” he managed between coughs. “Probably frozen through after this winter. Cow’s inside. Take this one.”
He shoved the lead rope into her hand and ran back inside the stable. The carriage horse at the end of the rope yanked and pulled, and Patience threw all of her weight into coercing the frightened animal away from the burning stable. Finally, the horse complied, and she trotted alongside him to the pasture gate and released the animal. But when she turned, a child-sized silhouette, dressed in a gauzy gown, was running toward the fire.
Patience darted to the child and grabbed her arm, nearly knocking the girl from her feet.
The fire’s light shone on the tears on the cheeks of young Emma Simmons.
“What are you doing?” Patience shouted, determined to be heard above the roar of the fire. “Do you not see how dangerous this is?”
Sobs racked the child’s body. “Delilah!” she screamed, gasping for breath and fighting to free herself. “Delilah!”
The goat!
Patience gripped Emma’s arm and struggled to hold the child, who seemed to be made stronger by fear. “Stop! Emma, stop! I will not allow you to go any closer!”
