In the Shadow of Croft Towers
Page 1
ACCLAIM FOR ABIGAIL WILSON
“Abigail Wilson’s In the Shadow of Croft Towers is the kind of novel I love to recommend. Well written, thoroughly engrossing, and perfectly inspiring. I honestly couldn’t flip the pages fast enough.”
—SHELLEY SHEPARD GRAY, NEW YORK TIMES AND USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR
“Mysterious and wonderfully atmospheric, Abigail Wilson’s debut novel is full of danger, intrigue, and secrets. Highly recommended!”
—SARAH LADD, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF THE WEAVER’S DAUGHTER, ON IN THE SHADOW OF CROFT TOWERS
“What a deliciously satisfying debut from Abigail Wilson! In the Shadow of Croft Towers is everything I love in a novel: a classic gothic feel from very well-written first person storytelling, a regency setting, a mysterious hero . . . and secrets abounding! In the Shadow of Croft Towers is now counted as one of my very favorite books, and I can’t wait for more from this new author!”
—DAWN CRANDALL, AWARD WINNING AUTHOR OF THE EVERSTONE CHRONICLES SERIES
“Mysterious . . . Melodic . . . Thrilling and original . . . Abigail Wilson has crafted a debut that shines. Artfully weaving shades of Gothic romance in a portrait of Regency England, Wilson brings a fresh voice—and a bit of danger!—to the mist and hollows of a traditional English moor. With a main character both engaging and energetic, and a quick-out-of-the-gate plot that keeps you guessing, one thing is certain—if Jane Austen ever met Jane Eyre, it would be at Croft Towers!”
—KRISTY CAMBRON, AUTHOR OF CASTLE ON THE RISE AND THE BESTSELLING DEBUT, THE BUTTERFLY AND THE VIOLIN, ON IN THE SHADOW OF CROFT TOWERS
“Part mystery and part romance, Abigail Wilson’s debut is an atmospheric period novel that will keep readers guessing to the very end.”
—AMANDA FLOWER, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF DEATH AND DAISIES, ON IN THE SHADOW OF CROFT TOWERS
“A sensory delight. With a keen eye for historical detail, Abigail Wilson spins a beautiful tale of intrigue, espionage, and romance set amidst a world that will put readers yearning for Thornfield Hall or Northanger Abbey completely at home. Blending the unputdownable Regency flair of Georgette Heyer with the intricate plotting of Julie Klassen, Wilson not only places herself competently amidst beloved authors but carves out a unique place of her own.”
—RACHEL MCMILLAN, AUTHOR OF THE VAN BUREN AND DELUCA MYSTERIES, ON IN THE SHADOW OF CROFT TOWERS
“In the Shadow of Croft Towers is beautifully written, suspenseful, and satisfyingly romantic. Abigail Wilson paints a beautiful picture of pastoral Regency England. This book will keep you riveted to the end, and you’ll be rooting for the feisty heroine to get her happily ever after.”
—JENNIFER BECKSTRAND, AUTHOR OF HOME ON HUCKLEBERRY HILL
In the Shadow of Croft Towers
© 2019 by Abigail Wilson
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please email SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Epub Edition November 2018 9780785223672
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Wilson, Abigail, author.
Title: In the shadow of Croft Towers / Abigail Wilson.
Description: Nashville, Tennessee : Thomas Nelson, [2019]
Identifiers: LCCN 2018035356| ISBN 9780785223665 (trade paper) | ISBN 9780785223672 (e-book) | ISBN 9780785224105 (audio download)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Regency fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3623.I57778 I58 2019 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018035356
Printed in the United States of America
1920212223MG54321
For my husband, Travis
My hero, my rock, my best friend
Without your unwavering love and support, chasing
my dreams would not have been possible
CONTENTS
Acclaim for Abigail Wilson
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
About the Author
1
1813
THE ENGLISH COUNTRYSIDE
I often wonder what my life would have been like if I had never learned the truth. I wouldn’t have set off as I did for Croft Towers. I never would have met him.
It’s strange what I remember about the day I left London. The mail coach was late; the weather wretched. The clock had struck midnight long before two strangers and I ducked beneath the postmaster’s outstretched umbrella to board the Royal Mail and rumble across the North Downs.
That difficult journey east marked the beginning of an unseasonably cold autumn. Frigid rain pelted the coach windows. The undercarriage squealed beneath the seats as a metallic scent wound its way between the drafty boards. I gripped the windowsill, wondering if the coachman intended to hit every bump in the road.
“Far to go, miss?”
The woman’s voice startled me. Dressed head to toe in red satin, she’d endured the last few darkened hours with a handful of smelling salts and a tongue hot for complaints, but she hadn’t spoken to me until now. Not until the first hint of rain-soaked daylight peeked over the horizon.
I lowered my gaze and fiddled with my bonnet ribbons. “Yes, ma’am . . . Well, not too much farther, I hope.”
The woman expelled a huff, her lower jaw jiggling. “Dreadful weather. I begged my Martin not to compel me to go today.” She motioned to the window. “But he would have it his way.”
I forced a tepid smile but found it difficult to respond. Leaving Winterridge Seminary for the last time had been harder than I’d expected.
“’Pon my word, if this rain continues we’ll have no choice but to overnight on the road.”
I gripped my reticule to my chest. With the tea I purchased in Canterbury and the outrageous price of the ticket, I’d not enough money left to overnight anywhere. Why hadn’t I thought of such a possibility?
The woman leaned forward, her rose scent wafting around me like a foggy curtain. “You poor dear. All on your own, eh?” She looked at me as if she thought I’d run away from home. “Don’t you worry your pretty head. My brother and I have never been ones to shirk our duty to charity.”
I cringed.
“Worse comes
to worst, you can always share a bedchamber with my maid.”
The wiry woman seated beside her popped out of the shadows, turning her gaze on me as if I were a rabid dog.
But my self-appointed benefactor took no notice. “Yes, yes. Thompkins won’t mind at all. Will you, Thompkins?”
Embarrassed, I turned to the window and bit my lip. My situation wasn’t as desperate as all that. At least I hoped it wasn’t. Of course, I had to admit, the gray morning had taken on a mustard-yellow glow. It was like looking through the bottom of a dirty glass. I took a deep breath. “Thank you for the kind offer, but hopefully it won’t be necessary. I’m to get off at Plattsdale.”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “Plattsdale? Have you family there?”
A tiny ping hit my heart, and I swallowed hard. “No, not family.”
She tapped her leg with the end of her fan, then leaned forward as if she intended to share a secret. Her eyes told me otherwise. “My curiosity is piqued, my dear, piqued. Why would someone such as yourself travel there?”
I pressed my fingernails into the palm of my hand. Whatever business I had in Plattsdale was my own affair. One I certainly didn’t wish to share with a nosy traveler on the common stage. But it was hardly a secret, and one I would have to grow accustomed to discussing. I forced my shoulders to relax. “I’ve taken the position of lady’s companion to a Mrs. Chalcroft at Croft Towers.”
The woman sucked in a quick breath. “Mrs. Chalcroft, is it?” She paused, then pressed her fingers to her mouth. “Faith, but I wish you well, my dear . . . I wish you well.”
I didn’t like the glint in the woman’s eyes, as if she knew something she didn’t intend to share. I waited a moment, hoping she might say more. But she had tired of me and now whispered into her maid’s ear.
A rain-filled hush settled over the carriage. The gloomy sky dipped into the fog and the towering roadside oaks. As the tree branches sought to snuff out the morning light, the coach emerged from a thicket, wheels splashing through the sludge covering the road.
Amid the gusty rain a cry rang out. I bolted up straight, gripping the seat’s edge. The horses lurched to a crawl. The hinges squealed in response. I scanned the windows, searching for the reason we’d slowed, when a gunshot cracked like lightning and echoed off the side of the coach. Gasping, I met the other travelers’ frightened gazes.
What on earth? A heaviness hit my stomach. Every muscle told me to duck, but I couldn’t help myself—I had to look.
The maid screamed, “Get down! Are you daft, miss?”
I motioned her back as I peeked out the window, pressing my forehead against the icy glass. The guard’s horn sounded from the rear of the carriage.
“D-do you see anything?” The maid’s voice had turned shrill.
I squinted, trying for a better view. “No . . . wait. There are riders approaching. Their faces are covered.” I flung myself against the seat. “Th-they all have pistols.”
I should have thought before blurting out such a thing. In a flash of lace and ribbons, the nosy woman across from me all but swooned into her maid’s lap, crushing the ostrich feathers in her hat.
The maid’s lips stretched thin until they disappeared completely. “Now you done it, miss.”
“I-I . . .” What could I say? I tempered my voice to sound nonchalant, even while my pulse pounded in my ears. “I hate to tell you, but I think we are being robbed.”
The mail carriage surged forward before swaying to an agonizing stop, each of us frozen to our seats. For a breathless second all seemed quiet, but the unconscious woman must have recovered because she shot back up and shouted, “Not my jewels! Thompkins, hide them. Quickly.” She wriggled a large emerald ring from her finger, and Thompkins slipped it down the front of her dress. I did the same with my bracelet seconds before the woman slumped back onto her maid’s lap.
The coach door flew open with an awful squeak, the wind spraying us with mist.
A man appeared on the step, his face covered by a rag. “Get out.” He grabbed my wrist. “All of you.”
My chest tightened. I wasn’t sure my legs would hold me up, but somehow I stood. I knew very well I didn’t have any money, but the sound of the earlier shot echoed in my mind. Anything could happen. The robber was tall, his hair dark. I met his eyes as he yanked me down the steps—cold, deep gray with a hint of blue.
The icy rain slid down my shoulders as I edged beneath a nearby tree. The men shouted to one another over the rush of rain. “Be quick about it! Leave nothing untouched.”
Their boots splashed in the mud as they circled the coach. “Search everything. And get that deuced lady out of the coach. I don’t care if she’s conscious or not.”
The plump woman all but jerked back up, cowering behind her maid, then batted at the air like a wild animal. “You—you ruffians! If you think I have any intention of stepping out into the pouring—oh!”
The horses reared up at the front of the coach, their panicked neighs adding texture to the wind as it whipped through the trees.
One of the robbers raced to the front of the coach and grasped the reins. “Whoa! Easy, fellas.” He was jerked forward and the entire equipage jolted a pace.
A man leaned out from the interior. “Blast you, Calvin! Keep ’em still.”
The robber who wrenched me from the coach brought over the driver and the Royal Mail guard, their hands tied. He directed the barrel of his pistol at the five of us, trapping us beneath the tree.
Relentless and brutal, the downpour filled my ears as I glanced around, the hopelessness of our situation seeping further into my soul with every cold drop. There would be no means of escape. We were utterly and completely at the highwaymen’s mercy. My traveling companions had come to the same conclusion, and a faint whimpering took flight on the wind.
What must have been minutes felt like hours as the robbers scurried in and out of the coach, their greatcoats flinging raindrops at will, their shouts growing louder and more irritated. I didn’t dare move, but carefully I glanced up to catch the penetrating glare of my captor. He tilted his chin, and by the look in his eyes, I wondered if he hid a smile beneath that rag.
How long had the wretch been staring at me? Considering the way my wet frock clung to my legs, outlining my knobby knees, I wondered if he had been looking at . . . all of me. I jerked my attention to the ground, warmth flooding my cheeks.
One of the men called out across the clamber of thunder, “The devil’s in it, I’m afraid. Nothing’s in the coach. Beginning to wonder if this was all a hum. Get on with checking the passengers. Deuced nuisance if I’m not home for my dinner.”
The robber who’d pulled me from the coach redirected his pistol at me with a kind of lazy satisfaction. “Well? Shall we get on with this?” His voice sounded cultured with a slight musical quality to it. Educated, no doubt.
I raised my eyebrows and took a step backward. “I-I haven’t any money.”
He glanced once more at my dress and his voice held a hint of a laugh. “I’m well aware of that. My friends have already emptied your reticule.” He lowered the pistol and stepped close, his face a few inches from my ear. “Have you a pocket?”
A prickle made its way down my spine. My frock did have a pocket, as well as something in it. A letter from Mrs. Smith to Mrs. Chalcroft. I stiffened. “Yes, but it holds nothing you would be interested in.”
He lowered his voice. “Allow me to be the judge of that.”
My shoulders shook, partly from the cold, but more from a surge of panic that pinned my arms to my sides.
The man shoved the pistol into his jacket. “Don’t toy with me, miss. I haven’t the patience or the time. Hand it over or I shall be forced to look myself.”
A screech jarred me from his piercing glare. My riding companion tried to jerk away from the man clenching her arm, but it was no use. The robbers would have their bidding. My heartbeat echoed the fear in her voice. I watched in stunned silence as the woman thrust her hands i
nto the folds of her skirt and passed her jeweled necklace to the man.
A wrinkle formed across my captor’s forehead, raindrops pooling in a line. After observing the spectacle for a moment, he turned his icy blue eyes back on me. “Well?”
I thought I might be sick. I reached to tuck a wet hair behind my ear, but his iron fingers wrapped my wrist in a flash. “I’m tired of waiting.”
He spun me around, jamming me against him, his head just over my shoulder. He smelled of nature, like the boys in town who’d spent the day playing in the fields. His voice came out in a whisper. “I’d rather you empty your own pocket.”
“I—”
His hand pressed against my mouth. “Now.”
I nodded, my arm aching from his grip. I squeezed my eyes shut for a split second. Keep your wits about you, Sybil. The man with the steel fingers was serious—deadly serious.
I wriggled my free hand through the slit of my damp gown, grasping the letter from Mrs. Smith and holding it out, satisfied the man would be disappointed. But he didn’t release me.
“Is this all?”
I nodded again and noticed a small triangular-shaped scar on his wrist just inside the cuff of his sleeve. Strange. The mark had an almost uniform quality to it.
He shoved me back and ripped open the letter. A few seconds later he met my gaze over the limp paper, his eyes softening. Just when I thought he was going to address me, he called out to his friends over his shoulder. “I daresay it’s time to move on.”
He refolded the note and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Thank you, ladies, for a most invigorating time; however, I’m afraid we must bid you all good day.” He bowed, then walked away and mounted what was more of a beast than a horse.
He motioned ahead to his friends before guiding his mount back by the group of us shivering beneath the tree. “I, uh, do apologize for any inconvenience we may have caused.”
I probably imagined it, but he seemed to direct the statement to me. Heat flashed through my body. My mouth popped open, all kinds of horrid words tangled in a ball on my tongue, but none came out. Was he still smiling beneath that rag?