Anthony shrugged and hung the towel on the washbasin. “None of us can do this job forever.”
And it was true. It was taxing, physical employment. Whereas the excitement and distraction were more than enough for him now, it was not sustainable. So for the time being he would work hard, earn money, and when he was ready, return to Blight Moor and face the past he had tried so hard to escape from. “What do you think the man meant? ‘Rodden remembers’?”
“Who?”
“The men we encountered leaving the pub this morning.”
Timmons scoffed. “A daft drunkard, no less. Spewin’ nonsense.”
Anthony recalled the intensity in the man’s harsh eyes. “He seemed pretty lucid to me.”
“I wouldn’t give it ’nother thought. Naught but a vagabond with a grudge. Mr. Walstead ’as interrupted many a plot.”
Unable to let it go, Anthony turned. “You were on the transport to Swendel Bay, weren’t you?”
“Not t’ Swendel Bay transport but Raunten Bay. A similar job. A week apart.”
“Odd that someone would bring that up. That was hundreds of miles from here, wasn’t it?”
“Ye think too much.” Timmons grinned. “Come on. This job will go t’ those who show up first. Smith’ll beat us to it if we don’t ’urry.”
Anthony shrugged and reached once again for his coat and armband. It was a fine line Mr. Walstead walked between the law and criminals. After all, there were two sides to every single case—and always someone who did not want to be caught.
Chapter 5
Charlotte lifted Henry into her arms and adjusted his white linen gown around him, marveling at his rosy cheeks and toothless grin. She nestled her cheek against the top of his soft cottony hair and breathed the sweet scent of him. Despite the turmoil churning on the floor below, she could not resist a smile at the sight of the baby’s white-blond curls and bright blue eyes.
He reached up with his chubby fist and grabbed at her lock of hair that had escaped the pins. She laughed as she gently unwound it from his fingers and caught a glimpse of her reflection in her bedchamber’s gilded mirror and paused.
She was holding Henry.
It was such a simple thing for a mother to hold her child.
And it was all she’d wanted since the day he was born.
Roland, not to mention Silas, had both believed that indulging Henry with too much affection would weaken his fortitude and that emotional attachments would set him up for failure. As it was, Roland had permitted her to visit Henry in his nursery for but half an hour each evening, and even then a nosy nursemaid or servant girl watched and reported her every interaction.
She had argued with Roland about this arrangement. She’d cried. She’d pleaded.
But he would not be swayed.
Now, things were shifting quickly.
Roland was dead, and a strange current of precarious trepidation surged through Wolden House. The servants whispered and stared. Strangers flowed in and out of the corridors, assessing the situation, murmuring. Watching. Rumors were spreading, and Mr. Sires’s counsel was sound. She needed to flee Wolden House as soon as possible.
The moment she’d finished speaking with Mr. Sires, she made her way to Henry’s nursery, took him in her arms, and instructed that all his things be moved to her chamber. Now she refused to let him out of her sight for a single moment until they were safe in Hollythorne House. Silas Prior was used to getting his own way, and there was no telling what he would resort to in order to achieve that. The most impactful gift she could give her son was the space and freedom to develop his own character away from the cruel and demanding Prior expectations.
Once Henry was safely in her chamber and under her care, Charlotte instructed her lady’s maid, Sutcliffe, to take her jewels into town to sell what she could. Charlotte no longer needed—nor wanted—the pearls Roland had given her upon their marriage, nor the rubies he’d gifted her shortly thereafter, nor any other trinkets she’d amassed. She’d need money far more than the baubles—or the memories.
She turned her attention to packing and began sorting her garments by those suitable for the harsh winter on Blight Moor—wool gowns and pelisses, sturdy walking boots, gloves, and hooded cloaks. Stays and flannel chemises. Blankets and gowns for Henry. With each new task her stomach trembled, and her head throbbed. But she could not pause in her actions—she could give no life to her doubts. Time was of the essence, and every second mattered.
When Sutcliffe returned two hours later, she entered the chamber in a ruffle of obsidian wool. Her cheeks were still pink with the afternoon’s chill, and damp strands of blonde hair clung to her face as she pulled at the satin ribbon at her neck to release her cloak from her shoulders.
“Oh, thank goodness you’ve returned!” Charlotte returned Henry to the cradle. “Did you have success?”
Sutcliffe pulled a small pouch of the remaining jewels from her cape and produced banknotes, her pewter eyes wide and bright. “The first buyer I went to was unwilling to purchase without knowing the origin, but the second was not nearly as scrupulous. I sold only for what I believed a fair price, as you instructed. They did not buy the pearls or the amethyst, but we can try to sell them again later, if you’d like.”
Charlotte accepted the banknotes and flipped through them, ignoring the prick of disappointment that all the pieces had not sold.
Sutcliffe hurried to the window and pulled the curtain away from the pane. “Did you see that there are guards outside?”
Charlotte packed the money carefully in her reticule and joined Sutcliffe at the window. Sure enough, two men bearing bright blue armbands over their rough caped greatcoats patrolled at the main entrance.
Sutcliffe clicked her tongue and lifted her straw poke bonnet from her head. “It’s a disgusting display of power, if you ask me. I do wish I could be there to see Mr. Prior’s reaction when he learns you’re leaving Leeds. He’ll be furious.”
“He’ll be furious when he realizes Henry is gone.” Charlotte turned away from the window. “As much as I would like never to see Silas Prior again, he’ll be a permanent fixture in Henry’s future. It cannot be helped, and I do not wish to provoke him more than I already am. I’ll leave him a letter that explains all, although I daresay one of the servants has already informed him that we are packing.”
Sutcliffe lifted the bombazine sleeve of one of the discarded gowns. “You’re handling this much better than I would.”
“Do I have any other choice?”
The question rang in the otherwise silent chamber before Sutcliffe drew a deep breath and propped her hands on her hips. She glanced around at the valises on the floor, then motioned to the gowns piled on the chaise lounge. “Are those the gowns you intend to take?”
Charlotte nodded as she looked back at the small collection of valises and satchels—the remnants of an entire way of life. It was a small gathering, given the number of possessions she’d acquired since her marriage. But what good would elegant gowns and dainty slippers do her in the solitude and brashness of the moors?
Sutcliffe walked over to Charlotte’s jewelry case and returned the pieces she was unable to sell. “Shall I go collect the rest of the jewelry from the strongbox?”