The Gentleman's Quest

by Camille Elliot

  "There are very few trees that the treasure could be buried beneath," Felicity said as she turned to continue down the forest path. "And the trees we are digging today are all of them."

  In truth, last night Christopher had been bored of Felicity's prosing on about the maps she had uncovered. He had instead been thinking of what Honoria and her mother would do once the treasure was found.

  If she were no longer poor, she had no need to accept marriage from any man. That would put Mr. Criddle from her mind, but would she waltz out of Christopher's life, also?

  He had hoped that inviting her and her mother to stay at Heathcliffe Manor while they searched for the treasure would enable him to properly court her. His last proposal had been impulsive, and because he had never been particularly eloquent in his speech, a colossal blunder.

  He did not know how to tell her how he felt.

  It had also been impossible to be alone with her. His sister had attached herself to Honoria like a leech, and at other times, they were chaperoned by his mother, or hers, or her Aunt Elizabeth, who had also been invited to Heathcliffe.

  The sounds of shovels warring with the cold earth reached them as they walked toward the light filtering through the trees ahead of them. They soon entered the clearing, where the feeble sunlight tried to warm the brittle grass.

  There had been a small mound in the clearing topped by three trees younger than the ones around them, but the servants—a combination of gardeners and grooms, with a few footmen who had volunteered to help—had made quick work of chopping the trees and were now digging around the roots.

  Christopher, Honoria, and Felicity stood at a short distance, watching the men, but it was work that was difficult for the servants and boring for his sister.

  "There is no place to sit," Felicity complained. "Christopher, put your cloak over that tree trunk." She indicated one of the trees that had been cut and lay on the ground.

  "I have no interest in freezing to death for the comfort of your bum."

  Honoria giggled.

  "Christopher, you are so vulgar," Felicity said.

  "You should have worn a cloak and not a spencer," he pointed out mercilessly, "as I suggested to you when we started out."

  Felicity glared at him, but he had endured her glares for years, and it did not move him. "Fine," she huffed. She turned and stalked back toward the house. "I will bring back blankets for all of us. You had better not find the treasure while I'm gone!" She disappeared into the trees.

  He was alone with Honoria. Well, alone with the servants several yards away. "Would you like to sit?" he asked.

  She gathered her cloak around her and settled on the tree trunk. He sat next to her, closer than he ought to as a gentleman.

  She smelled like roses. And pine trees.

  She rubbed her shoulder, and he took advantage, touching her gently. "Does it ache?"

  "It's still stiff and tender, but I am regaining use of it again."

  A comfortable silence fell. He opened his mouth to say something romantic. Or heartfelt. Or …

  "Sir!" The head gardener waved frantically from the top of the mound.

  "Have they found something?" Honoria leapt to her feet and climbed the mound.

  Christopher followed. Despite being thwarted in … whatever he had been about to say to her, he couldn't stop the galloping excitement in his chest as he peered into the hole.

  He saw the lid of a small iron chest, nearly obscured with rust, the size of his mother's jewellery box. The men energetically dug around it so that they could lift it from the hole and hand it to Honoria.

  Her gloves slid over the dirt of the cover. "It is rusted shut."

  "We'll take it to the house."

  Christopher thanked the men, and they all headed back toward Heathcliffe Manor. On the way, they met with Felicity, who dropped her blankets and shrieked that they had found it without her.

  When she drew breath in the midst of her complaints, Christopher pointed out, "We didn't open it without you."

  "Which is the only light in the midst of my suffering," Felicity said loftily. She made Christopher carry the blankets back to the house for her.

  He left them in the drawing room and went to collect tools from the carpenter's work-shed. By the time he returned, the rest of the family had gathered. Even his father lounged on a chair near the fireplace while the women circled the table, where the box had been laid upon a cloth.

  "I am certain it is a skull," Honoria's Aunt Elizabeth declared. "From that privateer ancestor."

  Lady Merritt gave a delicate shudder. "Elizabeth, you are quite gothic."

  "Aunt Dunbar wouldn't have expended such energy for merely a skull," Honoria pointed out.

  "Gracious, let us simply open it," Lady Heathcliffe said.

  Christopher had to break the hinges and force the lid open. He worked carefully, lest he damage the contents. Finally, he pried the lid loose, and it tumbled to the table.

  Jewels. They glittered in the light from the window, even after so many years. They were set in gold jewellery. Honoria lifted them from the box, where they had nestled in rotting velvet—a necklace of sapphires and diamonds, another of rubies, a pendant with an emerald the size of a man's thumb, a richly encrusted diamond diadem. A score of bracelets, but only one ring—a simple gold circlet with three diamonds.

  He had been expecting Felicity's gasp, but his mother's startled reaction surprised him. And then he realized he recognized those stones set in gold.

  Honoria put her hand to her mouth. "This isn't a Dunbar treasure."

  "What do you mean?" her mother asked.

  Honoria lifted the sapphire necklace, the diadem, the emerald pendant. "I've seen these in the portraits in the gallery. Here, in Heathcliffe."

  Christopher remembered a stormy night in the nursery when he, Honoria, and Stephen had listened to his uncle telling them scandalous stories about the Creager family.

  "It's the missing Creager family jewels," Christopher said.

  Honoria followed her mother upstairs to their bedrooms. The day had been full of excitement and disappointment. But mostly disappointment.

  "After all that, and the treasure does not belong to us." Her mother sighed.

  "When we learnt the map was of Heathcliffe, I should have thought about the missing Creager family jewels," Honoria said.

  "How did you hear about them?"

  "When I was eight, Christopher's disreputable uncle told us a scandalous story about the third and fourth Viscounts Heathcliffe. The third was poisoned, and the family suspected his younger brother, who became the fourth. But then the new viscount discovered that the Creager family jewellery was missing."

  "The third viscount hid them from his brother?"

  In her mother's bedroom, Honoria plunked down onto the bed. Her mother sat next to her.

  "We know now that he did," Honoria said. "He must have suspected his brother of trying to kill him, even before he was poisoned. He gave the box with the hidden map—and the brooch—to his only daughter, who married her neighbour, Lord Merritt. He might have hoped she'd find the map, but she did not."

  "So the flower symbol on Stephen's box must be an old Creager family symbol. And all these years we thought it was a Dunbar heirloom."

  "It's why Lady Heathcliffe sent Christopher looking in the library for the old family Bible this afternoon."

  "I remember something now," her mother said. "Your aunt—the homicidal one—once mentioned she was descended from the fourth Viscount Heathcliffe. I thought she must be mistaken, since he died without issue."

  "Perhaps he had an illegitimate child?" Honoria said. "It would certainly explain why Aunt Dunbar felt the treasure belonged to her. It should have gone to the fourth viscount, even if he did poison his older brother to get the title."

  The two women were silent for several minutes. Finally, Honoria said, "We should leave Heathcliffe soon."

  "Must we?" Her mother looked at her. "I thought … perhaps … Chr
istopher …"

  Honoria cut off her train of thought. "No, Mother."

  "But you—"

  "He has never felt anything for me but friendship." Or pity. "Mr. Criddle is not a bad man. We would be comfortable."

  "I know what you're doing," her mother said in a low voice. "I know what you are afraid of."

  Honoria did not answer her. They had never spoken of it before, not while her father was alive, and certainly not after he had died. It had seemed too intimate a topic, too close to her mother's tender heart, to sully with stark words spoken out loud.

  "If given another chance, I would make the same choices," her mother said. "To love and to suffer."

  It was not only what had happened to her in her uncle's house, the insults and threats, the physical cruelty he inflicted upon her mother that in turn dealt a deeper emotional hurt in Honoria's heart. Honoria had made her decisions about marriage long before, when she had first been falling in love with Christopher, when she had seen her mother's pain. "I cannot," Honoria whispered.

  "You can." Her mother reached over to squeeze her hand. "God gives us strength."

  Could she believe that? Could she walk into suffering, trusting in God?

  "You are strong in so many other ways," her mother said. "But in your feelings and in matters of the heart, you have always been tentative."

  It was because her feelings for Christopher had always been so delicate, vulnerable, uncomfortable. So unlike the other areas of her life, where she felt competent. So she had protected her feelings like she would protect a dainty porcelain figurine.

  "If you had a fence you couldn't jump, you would try again and again until you conquered it," her mother said. "Why would you not be the same way in this?"

  "He is not a fence," Honoria said weakly. "And I … I have not jumped fences in many years."

  "Yes. The past few years have been difficult." Her mother sighed. "But we cannot allow the next few years to be the same."

  "Mr. Criddle—"

  "Oh, hang Mr. Criddle!"

  Honoria's mouth dropped open as she stared at her usually gentle parent.

  "My dear girl." Her mother took her face between her soft hands. "When I married your father, I refused to balk, so I jumped the fence."

  She understood, suddenly, where her neck-or-nothing riding ability had come from.

  "Trust your horse to carry you over any obstacle," her mother said quietly, "no matter how unexpectedly things may turn out."

  It seemed Honoria hadn't been alone with Christopher since she and her mother came to stay at Heathcliffe, so when he whispered a suggestion that they walk to the old well, she snuck out of the house with him, feeling as if they were children again.

  They were about to enter the tree line when she saw in the distance a lone rider on Merritton land. Aubrey.

  "Do you think Aunt Dunbar will cause mischief again, in revenge?" Honoria asked quietly as they passed into the darkness of the forest.

  "If she does, I will personally put her on a ship to America," Christopher said firmly.

  Mrs. Dunbar's fate had been handled privately by the family to hush up any scandal. She had been banished to a small cottage in the north country owned by Aunt Elizabeth, which gave the elderly woman no small measure of satisfaction that Mrs. Dunbar was forced to live in a small, pokey house that no one else in the family wanted.

  They passed the clearing, now void of the saplings and darkly carpeted by freshly dug earth, and in a few minutes had reached the old well. Honoria sat on the edge, looking up at the circle of sky above.

  It was wonderful to be at Heathcliffe, and with Christopher. They spent hours talking, arguing, laughing. She felt like the old Honoria again.

  He had not repeated his offer of marriage.

  To love him and have her heart broken … Her mother had jumped the fence and had not regretted it. Could Honoria do the same? She was not the same girl.

  But perhaps she was stronger.

  He sat on the edge of the well wall next to her. "I am indebted to your Aunt Dunbar, in a sense," Christopher said, "because she made me realize that I love you."

  Her heart stopped beating. All sound in the forest stopped on an indrawn breath. She closed her eyes.

  "I have waited three weeks, Honoria, because your previous objection was that it had only been a few days," he said. "But I have been falling in love with you since we were children. It was suspended while we were apart and I was blaming myself for Stephen's death, but I could not stop what had started in me years before."

  He reached into his pocket, and there was a glint of gold, a flash of diamond. It was the only ring found in the jewel casket, the gold circlet with three diamonds. "Marry me, Honoria."

  She bit her lip. "You must be certain that you do not wish to marry me because you pity me and my situation."

  "Dash it all, Honoria, I will give you all those jewels so you have no need to accept me or any man. You can leave here and set up your own establishment with your mother," he said. "But I hope you will not."

  "You cannot give me your family's jewellery," she protested.

  "You are worth more than those tawdry things. Because of you, I can forgive myself. I can even believe in God again, because I see how He watched over us. Oh, Honoria, when we feared you would die, I thought a part of me would die with you."

  "I am too stubborn to die."

  His hand tilted her face toward him, and he kissed her. She felt his smile against her lips. "Are you too stubborn to marry me?" he asked.

  "Only if you are certain," she said, "because Christopher, I have loved you for so long …"

  His mouth was on hers, and his kiss was hard and joyful and wonderful, and he did not pull his lips away as he slid the ring onto her finger.

  Did you enjoy this book? We hope so!

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  Dear Reader,

  * * *

  I have always loved treasure hunts, and I hope you enjoyed Honoria and Christopher's adventure as much as I enjoyed writing it. It all started with the idea of an antique wooden puzzle box.

  * * *

  Chinese mathematicians were studying geometric principles as early as the third century B.C., although Chinese puzzles did not become popular in Europe until the early 1800s. While a Japanese puzzle box is first recorded at the turn of the 19th century, it is possible that the Chinese invented this far earlier due to their mathematical applications and advancements, but it was simply not recorded in books or scrolls because a "trick box" was thought to be unimportant academically.

  * * *

  The fictional puzzle box in my story is an old box from the early 1700s that was brought by merchant ships returning from China with a cargo of silks popular with the wealthier members of English society. I wondered what would happen if a treasure map were hidden inside a puzzle box that had only been a child's toy for generations.

  * * *

  It just goes to show, not everything is as it seems!

  * * *

  Camy

  The Trail Boss’s Bride Sample

  If you’re a fan of historical stories, you may also like The Trail Boss’s Bride by Erica Vetsch.

  From New York Times bestselling author Erica Vetsch comes a stirring western romance!

  * * *

  Steve Ketchum loves being a trail boss, almost as much as he hates river crossings. But it's part of the job. As is moving an abandoned wagon out of the ford. But when he goes to haul it away, he's stunned to see what's inside.

  Kitty Fareholm's good-for-nothing husband picked a lousy time to die. How could he leave her stranded, birthing a baby in the middle of nowhere? She'd prayed for help to come, but
did God honestly think a trail-worn cowboy was what she needed? What's more, Steve's trail crew is dead-set against having a woman join their camp. He promises the men he'll leave her at the nearest town...but Kitty just might have other plans.

  * * *

  Here’s a short sample…

  * * *

  Steve Ketchum had heard it said that there were only two things on God's green earth that cowboys were afraid of: being left afoot and a decent woman, and he believed it. But for himself he added a third.

  River crossings.

  Steve could still see his best friend struggling in the muddy current, feel Deuce's hand slip from his fingers. He could just make out his friend's body as it was buffeted by waves and pounded into rocks, pulled downstream. They'd never found his body.

  Two years later, Steve felt sick whenever he knew a crossing was coming.

  Lifting his reins, Steve nudged his mount into a lope, headed toward the front of the herd. The noonday sun beat down on him like a blast furnace. The Prairie Dog Fork of the Red River lay six miles ahead. Tonight they'd water the herd there and prepare to cross first thing in the morning. Every crossing loomed large on his horizon, but this one more than usual, since his kid brother was part of the twelve-man crew.

  Wayne Hayes, who had scout duties for the day, galloped in from the north. He pulled his buckskin up a few yards from Steve, the animal shaking his head and snorting. "Boss, trouble at the crossing." Wayne stroked his moustache, an impressive biscuit-brush he took special care of.

  "What?" Please, don't let the river be in flood.