Julian’s feet were sore by the time he summited the hill that the manor was built upon.
The sun was working its way under the horizon, but it was near invisible beneath the heavy sheets of gray clouds. The sky was darkening with astonishing quickness, and the wind had started whipping up all around. Trees waved their naked branches back and forth, and Julian was glad to be arriving at his destination.
He went first to the carriage houses, set a bit back from the manor. The round-faced Mr. Marton was nowhere to be seen, and so Julian walked around the rear to find the Mr. Chase that Oliver had spoken of.
He found him alright, for Mr. Chase was not hard to find. He sat slouched in the driving seat of his carriage, the wind nipping at his ears. Snores came loudly from his snout, and Julian was forced to kick the carriage rather hard in order to stir him at all.
“Who’s there?” Mr. Chase lashed out, rubbing his eyes. “I ain’t got nowheres to be ‘till later I’m alright now,” he rambled.
“Mr. Chase,” Julian spat. “I have business with you, if you can sober yourself.”
“You the one little Oly was going on about, eh?” Mr. Chase squinted out through his dreary eyes.
“That’d be me, sir, yes,” Julian was refusing to allow this lowlife to ruin his afternoon. Everything would go according to plan.
“Where to then?” Mr. Chase yawned.
“London.”
“London,” Mr. Chase gawked. “Costs a pretty penny to get there, haven’t done that run in years.”
“You’ll be paid well,” Julian replied, jingling the bag of coins that he had promised to Oliver. “Just be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”
“I can do that,” Mr. Chase sat up straight, rolling his neck around. “Yes sir, you came to the right man.”
“Very good,” Julian cheered. “About an hour or two, be ready out front in the manor drive.”
“Yes sir,” Mr. Chase slurred.
Bloody drunkard, Julian thought, walking away. Good thing it’s the horses that do the work.
Julian finally came to the manor steps, reaching out for the door chime with complete confidence and composure. He patted the pistol and waited.
* * *
Neil was daydreaming of Mary-Anne at his desk. He pushed his pencils together idly, remembering the warmth of her in his arms, and wishing for nightfall to come again.
He would show her more of the house tonight, he had decided, and on and on until there was nothing left to show. Then they would do something else. Neil didn’t know what, but he knew it would be enjoyable to sort it all out.
A knock came, and he looked up from him non-existent work. Thomas stuck his head in, and Neil frowned to see him.
“Whatever is it Thomas, that you have need to disturb me?” Neil challenged. Ever since the shore, he had been fairly cold to Thomas. At first, he had felt poorly about it, but he quickly fell into a firm resolution that he was right, and Thomas was wrong.
“Beg pardon, Your Grace,” Thomas answered. “But Mr. Bastable is here to see you, unannounced, I am afraid.”
“Mr. Bastable?” Neil hunched his eyebrows. “What the devil is he doing here?”
“I do not know, Your Grace,” Thomas said. “But he is here nonetheless.”
“Well, he is here for a reason,” Neil said, adjusting his sleeves. “I shall discover what it is. Send him in, bring us some brandy, perhaps a biscuit or two.”
“Very well, Your Grace,” Thomas bowed his head and left.
Neil took a moment to straighten the filings on his desk. They were mainly blank papers, but some were of a level of importance. He shuffled them into a neat stack and spun his pencils into a line.
“Good enough,” he mumbled, and the door swung open again.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Bastable gave an earnest bow but moved his legs awkwardly as if he did not want to disturb his mid-section with any sudden movement.
“Mr. Bastable,” Neil sighed. “What finds you here? Please, have a seat, but I must caution you now that I cannot be attended for too long. I have matters to see to,” Neil shot a side look at Thomas while he delivered the final sentence, challenging him. “Brandy and biscuits, Thomas.”
“Yes, of course, Your Grace.”
“Now,” Neil turned back to his surprise guest. “Why ever are you here?”
“Your Grace,” Mr. Bastable began. “I do not mean to inconvenience you with my visit. Allow me to begin by saying, I shall not be staying long. It is not my intention to impose.”
“Go on,” Neil said, satisfied that this visit would not consume his entire evening with false pleasantries.
“It is a glad turn of events I have found myself in,” Mr. Bastable continued. “Since the last time we met, I have come into considerable wealth.”
“Have you?” Neil indulged the strange merchant. He did not care for him, but he found himself listening, so he made a point to listen politely.
“My entire operation has been purchased, from the London distribution to the rural suppliers.”
“Purchased, you say? How will this affect me?”
“I understand this may come as a shock,” Mr. Bastable inclined his head. “But you should understand that your operation will remain unaffected. The entire enterprise has been purchased by Seton and Seton shipping, are you familiar with them?”
“I am,” Neil picked up one of his pencils and started spinning it in his fingers. “They are very successful.”
“Indeed. They will step in where I once was, assuming control over the whole chain of production and distribution. I am confident when I say, the two of them are more than capable businessmen.”
“And what of yourself?”
“Well, I have achieved the dream, haven’t I?” Mr. Bastable smiled widely, resting his hands on his padded stomach. “I have built and sold my business at a mighty profit. I have a ship and a mind for enterprise in the African colonies. The icing on the cake, if you will, is that I have even found myself a wife!”
“Well, your life seems finely sorted,” Neil replied. “Was that the reason for your visit? To inform me of the sale?”
“It was, Your Grace, it was, and to thank you.”
“To thank me?”
“Yes, you see Your Grace, if you had not placed your trust in me, some three months ago now, I would not have been able to build such a business. It is largely to you that I owe my success.”
“Then I am glad for you,” Neil answered unconvincingly. “And wish you well in Africa. I have heard the land is full of riches.”
“Full of riches indeed,” Mr. Bastable reinforced.
“Where the devil is Thomas with our brandy?” Neil wondered aloud, his mind drifting away from Mr. Bastable’s imposing frame. A good drink was just what he needed at the moment, for Mr. Bastable’s announced visit irritated him. It was not the proper thing to behave, as a gentleman merchant.
* * *
Thomas had been on his way to the kitchens when he was confronted by calamity.
Theft.
It was clear as day, and Thomas could not believe the thief’s audacity.
The Duke’s spyglass was missing, the one he had brought back from Spain and cherished for years. Beyond its sentimental value, the object was worth a small fortune. Thomas had regularly heard the Duke boast that it was worth a frigate, and he believed him.
Everything else in the room was just as it should be, save the display case, from which the spyglass had been neatly removed. The lid had even been brought back down, indicating that the thief had been in no rush.
Thomas was horrified. This violation of the manor stabbed against everything he stood for. It was a direct assault on the integrity that he had built here over the years, and Thomas was reeling from it.
The only person who did not regularly reside here was Mr. Bastable, but Thomas had been with him the entire time he set foot in the house. At least, until he was sat in the Duke’s office.
He thought of Oliver but
decided quickly that the boy would never attempt something so rash. He had family here, loads of them, and they would all be answerable to his debt.
That left one plausible alternative in Thomas’ mind. Betrayal. Emily, or Mary-Anne, or whomever she was. She was a manipulator, a thief, and she had almost gotten away with it. No doubt she planned to leave that night, Thomas reasoned, as soon as all were asleep. She would slip out into that wilderness the way she slipped in, under cover of a storm. Except this time, she would be a great deal richer.
Thomas would not have it. He would not allow the Duke to fall victim to this trickster. He had to stop her, but first, he needed proof.
He needed the spyglass.
Thomas manoeuvred the servant hallways expertly, rushing through the door to their common area.
There she was, sitting at the table. Mary-Anne was mending some garment with a needle and thread.
“Making a garment for the storm?” Thomas accused, walking briskly past her. She followed him, silently protesting as he thrust open the door to her room. “I told you, didn’t I? I said that I was on to you!”
With that, Thomas began to search the room. He checked beneath and above the beds, in the folded stacks of linens, and finally pulled the spyglass out from beneath her pillow.
“Aha!” he exclaimed. “You’ve done it now, woman, I’ll tell you,” and he grabbed hold of her upper arm.
She struggled and smacked him, but he was much stronger than her, and he commenced to lead her down the hallway towards the Duke’s office.
“How many times have you gotten away with this little scheme, I wonder?” Thomas carried on while escorting her through the empty house. “Plenty, I’d reckon, well no longer. We’ll have you in irons, to be sure of it. Do you know how much this is worth?”
Thomas was so fierce in the defense of the Duke and of the estate that he found himself becoming rather cruel. The realization shocked him, for most of his life he never had a bad bone in his body. He ceased his verbal berating of Mary-Anne and lead her the rest of the way in cold silence, thinking about how he would broach this subject to the Duke.
It would be an unpleasant conversation, and he would be forced to console the Duke after. As long as he doesn’t drink himself into the dark, Thomas thought, rounding the final corner.
Chapter 34
Julian had played his hand well. Now he waited for the impending confrontation with Mary-Anne. He had seen Oliver through the balcony window, and the boy had given him a nod and a wave, indicating the plan was proceeding accordingly. Any minute now, he thought. Out loud, he continued to go on about how marvelous he thought Africa will be.
A knock came to the door, and Thomas stuck his head through. He looked worked up, disheveled. Julian jumped for joy within. It is happening!
“Would you excuse us a moment, sir?” Thomas asked him. Julian was surprised but stood up all the same.
“I shall take a cigar on the balcony,” he offered.
“Yes, fine,” the Duke snapped. “Thomas, what is this?”
Julian let himself out the back and down the few stairs to the marble balcony. There he lit up the stub of a cigar which he had tucked within his sashes and puffed on it twice before tossing it into the wet grass beyond the railing.
“Hey,” Oliver whispered.
Julian spun around, his heart leaping for a moment, then smiled to see the boy.
“It is done then?” he asked.
“Mr. Thomas is taking her to him right now,” Oliver answered. “It’s done.”
“You have done well, lad,” Julian replied. “Exceedingly well.”
“About my sum, sir,” Oliver insisted. “I’ve done my part.”
“So, you have, lad,” Julian waddled up to him, reaching deep within his sashes. His fingers fumbled around the coin purse, giving off the sound of shifting currency.
“Quick about it,” Oliver pressed, clearly very anxious about the exchange. A lot of money was on the line.
“Right,” Julian snapped, pulling forth the silvered pistol. He pointed it at Oliver, finger on the trigger and thumb on the hammer.
“You—” Oliver was stunned, defeated, dumb, and terrified. The barrel of the pistol seemed like an endless pit, eternal blackness.
“Honestly lad,” Julian chuckled. “You should have seen this coming,” and he smacked Oliver hard in the head with the pistol’s brass butt.
The boy collapsed, unconscious, and Julian laughed to himself. He glanced around, and, seeing nobody, kicked Oliver’s slumbering body into the shrubs beside the balcony.
“Have a good nap there, lad, wake up with some sense,” Julian could not help but crack himself up. Today was a good day. Everything was going according to plan.
Julian crept up the stairs to the base of the office door, listening. He heard a great deal of shouting from the Duke, then an angry door slamming. It was time to make his move.
* * *
“Thievery? Thomas, come now, you have gone too far, unhand her now,” Neil protested his valet, gesturing wildly at him to release Mary-Anne’s arm.
“No! Your Grace! I have proof!”
“You have been on a witch hunt, sir, ever since she arrived, just looking for an excuse. I would not be surprised to find you have gone and found your own!”
“Your Grace, I beg you, look!” Thomas held out his hand. In his outstretched palm, he held the spyglass, and the room fell silent.
“Where did you find that?” Neil asked eventually, cocking his head between Mary-Anne and the spyglass. “Mary-Anne?” Tears were budding in Mary-Anne’s eyes as she shook her head.
“It was under her pillow, Your Grace, taken just this afternoon.”
“Can this be true?” Neil blinked wildly at Mary-Anne, who was silently sobbing in Thomas’ grasp. “Will you not dare a response?”
The three of them stood there in further silence, the storm gathering over the manor, wind growing in strength against the trees outside.
“Have you nothing to say?” Neil became angry, his silent rage finally boiling over. He tossed a pencil and scrap of paper across the room towards her. “Do you have any defense?” There were tears now in Neil’s eyes. “Have you betrayed me?”
Mary-Anne shook her head and cried, reaching for the pencil and paper. With her shaking hand, she tried to defend herself, scribbling It’s not true. Her tears fell onto the paper, blotching some of the letters.
“Hardly convincing evidence,” Thomas sneered.
“I cannot believe this deception,” Neil whispered, stumbling backward. It was as if his entire rebirth had been a lie, a falsehood. This new energy he had found was not new love, it was a witch’s spell. He was not blessed but cursed.
Neil had used all the words there were at his disposal. It was as if his vocabulary had been swept away in a torrential flash flood.
Without looking again to Thomas or to Mary-Anne, he trudged his feet to a side entrance, giving the pair a wide berth. With a final cry of frustration, a guttural noise from the soul, he escaped into the network of servant hallways, slamming shut the door behind him.
* * *
“Let’s get you in a coach to London,” Thomas said to Mary-Anne, pulling her towards the doorway. “I’ll have to raise Mr. Marton, or even Mr. Chase will do if he is not at the bottom of a bottle.”
Although Mary-Anne fought at first, she did not resist as Thomas pushed her forward. Her spirit was again broken, cloven in two. Was this the valet’s revenge upon her? No, she decided. Thomas cared deeply for the Duke, but he was not an evil man. He would not set up such a scheme to undo her.
Mary-Anne had been ready to leave. If Oliver had not stopped her the one night, she would have already been on her way into the world. It seemed that fate had other things in store for her than a peaceful life on an estate.
Mary-Anne knew she had not stolen the spyglass, but to her, that seemed of little consequence. What could she do? She could have protested, written notes, try to explain that she h
ad been framed?
What good would it have done? The damage had been done. The seed of distrust was planted and watered. There was no hope now of a life here, as a mistress or otherwise. She would be shanghaied to London as a thief, and likely spend time in prison. It seemed as if she had been so dreadfully close to happiness, and that, God could not allow.
He never had. Every time she came closer to pulling herself up, all the way up, out of the muck, God came along and threw her down with gusto.
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