by Kate Rolin
“Damon! You’re white as a ghost! We must get you home at once,” she cried as she moved beside him, touching his forehead to check for fever.
He grabbed her hand and pushed it away—gently, he hoped. “’Tis nothing, Argel,” he grumbled. “Here, sit.” He drew her up beside him and held her there. She rested her head on his shoulder as they rode along in silence. The further away they went from the church, the further the problem embedded itself in his mind. He was unsure of what he should do, but his guilt would not rest.
Think of something else. “Did you say Miss Hughes wrote that she would remain in London for another week?”
“Yes.” Argel smiled up at him. “Her brief letter stated that she saw opportunity to assist Titus and be a help to him—she’s very good with numbers, you know—and she has decided to stay on for the week. She wrote that if we need Mrs. Bowers, she can manage on her own. I suspect she is both wanting to give us more time alone, and also to spend more time with Titus. Why, I received her letter just last night. She must have written it not long after we left!”
“Well…” Damon paused, his mind working out a solution for his own problem. “Tell her Mrs. Bowers and Jackson may as well stay put at this point; we shan’t need them.”
Argel sat up straight in surprise. “Whatever do you mean, Damon?”
Damon worked to keep his voice even. “Tomorrow, we will travel to Swindon just as I promised, and you may claim your inheritance. Put it wherever you like, do whatever you like—’tis yours.” There. The matter was long past due to be settled. Surely that would ease his irksome conscience.
“Oh, Damon,” his wife beamed as she placed a kiss on his cheek, “how wonderful! That means so much to me. You have no idea. You know, most men would take it as their own, though they would have every right. Legally, it is yours now. But,” she kissed him again, “you are not most men.”
Damon thought he would scream at the memory that suddenly surfaced—Argel thinking he meant to confiscate her inheritance for his own use. It was as if his conscience now surged forth with a vengeance, slicing through his veins with a knife.
“And, tell me, are we planning to stay the week there?” Her voice cut into his thoughts.
“Something like that,” was his only reply as he settled her back against him. As much as it would hurt, as much as it would kill him, he realized now what he must do to be rid of the consuming guilt.
But those reasons were precisely why he couldn’t. The guilt would have to stay.
And he loathed himself for it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Argel gazed out the window as they made their way to the bank in Swindon that morning, but her mind was focused on trying to discern what could possibly be wrong with her husband.
She had first feared he was sick when they left the church yesterday, but upon returning home, he quickly seemed to have recovered. Indeed, he’d been nothing but attentive and loving ever since. Yet, something felt…off.
She sensed a heightening in his emotions, in everything he said or did. It was almost a desperation, as if he knew they hadn’t much time left.
Which was absurd. They were married for goodness’ sake.
But still…the suspicion that something was wrong wouldn’t dissipate. She wished he would share what was on his heart with her. She had given him hers—it was only fair.
As they crossed a wooden bridge, an old, familiar feeling began creeping into Argel’s heart at that moment, and she stilled. She recognized it as discontentment. Surely…surely it wasn’t one of foreboding—not again.
She shook her head. Foolish Argel. What could she possibly feel a foreboding about? What ill could befall her now that she was happily married and away from Beddgelert? Away from her lie of a life?
Besides, the last time she’d felt this way, fate had brought her Damon—despite what she had also learned about her uncle in the process. Perhaps this feeling had nothing to do with any impending ill. Yes, that was it. It was all just…happenstance.
Just then, they arrived at the bank, and Damon assisted Argel down, proffering his arm. “Ready to finally claim your independence?” He smiled, but she noticed it did not quite reach his eyes. There was no crinkling in the corners.
“Inheritance, Damon,” she laughed, attempting to lighten the mood. “My inheritance. I no longer view it as my independence because I no longer am confined.” She gave him a bright smile, but it quickly faltered upon noticing a hint of anguish flash in his eyes.
Before Argel had a chance to ask him about it, he sharply turned, leading her up the bank’s large stone steps. His silence seemed to be some sort of warning to her, advising she not ask any questions.
Even the bank itself seemed to frown down upon them: from the coldness of the gray stone walls, to the staircases descending on either side of the entrance down to the road below, reminding Argel of a mouth with the corners drawn down.
Suddenly, she felt a warning of a different kind when the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Why, she hadn’t felt that sensation since…leaving London.
Quickly, her eyes darted about, but she noticed nothing of concern. Just what, exactly, was going on? And why did she feel so certain that something bad was about to happen?
Happenstance, she thought again to herself.
Pure, simple happenstance.
Chapter Twelve
Argel and Damon entered the Swindon bank together, his hand at her back gently guiding her along. Though it was of modest size, as soon as she stepped inside, she felt herself shrink—that or the room truly expanded before her very eyes. What felt like fifty pairs of eyes turned in unison upon them, seeing who dare trespass upon their property and her stomach knotted. Countless windows on either side, nearly two-stories tall, scowled down upon them in disapproval. The center aisle stretched out before them as the bordering teller counters rose up in height.
In actuality, the room contained approximately five persons. Two were at the far end discussing a matter between themselves and the other three were at their teller stations, minding their own work, when Argel and Damon walked in. Nothing stretched or expanded other than Argel’s own anxiety over Damon and forebodings and the feeling of being watched that she had felt outside. She started to turn to Damon to tell him it didn’t matter, she didn’t need the money. For some inexplicable reason, she just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.
To her dismay, Damon stepped forward and she had no choice but to follow. Their steps echoed loudly on the marble floors, bouncing off the ceiling and walls. He came to a stop at the first teller on their right.
“May I help you?” The plump graying man peered at him through rounded spectacles.
“Yes, I am Mr. Damon Westmoreland. I have brought my wife, Mrs. Mary Phillips Westmoreland, with me. She has an account waiting here for her and is now eligible to claim it. I have the legal document with me as proof.”
“M-Mary Phillips, you say?” The man took off his spectacles slowly as he spoke the words. The skepticism dripping from each syllable was impossible to ignore.
“Yes. The Mary Phillips. Surely you’ve seen the papers, read the news. If you haven’t, I've brought several with me.” Damon slapped one confidently on the man’s desk.
The man’s round head bobbed from Damon down to the paper and then up to Argel. “Yes. Very well. Excuse me one moment.” He disappeared from the window as he stepped down from the platform. Argel heard brisk footsteps make their way to the back of the room. They stopped and a door immediately opened and closed. Not ten seconds later, it reopened, and this time two sets of footsteps could be heard making their way back to the front.
Argel looked up to see the short teller briskly making his way up the center aisle with a man of opposite stature in tow. Both were dressed in crisp black, both intimidating to Argel.
“Mr. Westmoreland, Mrs. Westmoreland, please allow me to introduce you to Mr. Howell, the bank manager.”
/> “So you are the missing Phillips girl?” The tall, slender man cut right to the point. He peered down his long nose at Argel, tying her tongue.
“Yes, as I said,” Damon cut in to save her. “I have all of the legal documents, as well as additional proof should you require it.”
“The trust papers?” The man now looked at Damon for the first time.
“Yes, right here.” Her husband handed over the requested document.
Mr. Howell took it and said nothing. After a quick perusal, he clasped his hands behind his back and bent closer to peer at Argel. His eyes narrowed as he studied her.
Argel met his unnerving gaze and swallowed. She felt that she was once again a young girl hiding away in Beddgelert and she hated it. Something deep down told her that nothing good would come of this. She should leave the money be.
She was just about to tell Damon just that, when Mr. Howell snapped upright and turned on his heels. “Very well, come with me!” He ordered with sharp words as he walked away, the short teller swiftly following after him.
Argel and Damon caught up with them quickly. They walked past the long mahogany rows of teller windows, through a different back door, up a narrow flight of stairs, before finally coming to a stop outside a door with the words Vice-President painted on the front in gold.
Mr. Howell knocked twice before entering. He swiftly shut the door behind him as Argel and Damon waited in the narrow corridor with their teller. No one spoke a word as they were all obviously trying to make out the muted conversation that could be faintly heard coming from the other side of the door. In an instant, the door shot open and Mr. Howell stood there, looking every bit a distinguished butler as much as a bank manager. “You may enter.”
Later that evening, Argel sat alone in their hotel room waiting for Damon to return. He had left nearly a half-hour ago to meet briefly with an associate of his who lived nearby. He’d wanted her to come along so he could introduce her, and likely he felt bad about leaving her alone, but she’d repeatedly assured him that she wanted to rest—the entire morning’s events had worn her nerves thin. Since it hadn’t taken her long to ready for supper, she decided to sit and write to Wynny to help pass the time.
She wrote of their plans and that Mrs. Bowers and Jackson could stay as long as Wynny remained in London.
Casually, she asked after Titus, knowing Wynny would be more than happy to respond with news of the man. Though neither said anything outright, Argel sensed there was a mutual admiration between the two of them.
Argel ended the letter with a brief recounting of her experience at the bank that morning. The expression of shock had grown with each new face they were introduced to upon announcing she was the missing daughter of the late Viscount Rainsford—all the way up to the president of the bank himself. It was almost comical, really. Young or old, their eyes would nearly bulge out of their heads as they stammered around for words.
They had studied the newspapers Damon supplied that told of Argel’s return—those articles still a mystery to her—but when he supplied the original trust document given by her uncle, it was all the proof they required.
And now, the inheritance was hers. Well, technically her husband’s, really. But he’d been very adamant he wanted nothing to do with it. She was just grateful the horrid experience was over with—though she still could not single out why it had bothered her so.
And, now, Wynny, she wrote, what should I do with it? I’ve decided to leave it here at the bank in Swindon for the time being as I’ve no direction for it. For so long, I viewed it as my freedom, but now that my circumstances are changed—and I am most happy, Wynny, truly—I find myself unsure of what to use it for. Something for good—but what?
Argel’s stomach rumbled then, interrupting her thoughts. Setting down her pen, she hoped Damon would return soon so they could go down to supper. Perhaps his meeting would be shorter than the hour he had anticipated. The weather was so nice, perhaps he would even agree to a walk in the nearby park afterwards. A stroll with her husband would be so lovely. She would never tire of the feeling of her arm in his—so strong and sure.
Not a day went by with any regret since admitting her love to him. Despite their rather unorthodox beginning, her feelings only continued to deepen. He was kind and loving, his promise of constancy proving true. Despite knowing what she had shared regarding her parents’ deaths in the beginning, he never wavered from her, never passed judgment. He provided her a freeing stability she had never known—which was even more powerful given what she’d learned of her uncle.
No matter what kind of choice it had been, he proven to be the best one she had ever made. She would never regret marrying him. Never regret the way his narrowed eyes crinkled in the corners as he smiled down at her. Never regret the way she had to tip her head far back to look up at him, or the way her skin tingled at his touch…
A knock at the door made her jump.
Damon was back early.
Her stomach rumbled in thanks as she went to open it. She had locked it after he left, just as he’d instructed—he always worried about her. He must have forgotten his own key.
Quickly, she pinched her cheeks and gave her hair one last check in the small round mirror before opening the door. “At last! I’m famished!”
Her smile stilled as her mind worked to catch up with the familiar man her eyes were beholding. Not Damon, but…
“Benson! What in the world are you doing here?” She flung herself to hug the man who, though younger, had always been just as much an uncle to her as her own. And much less criminal to boot.
“Argel, ’tis good to see you my dear. I’m passing through w’ an early group of drovers. Saw that husband o’ yours on the street earlier and decided to come by and say hello.” He smiled, his kind eye twinkling.
“The drovers,” Argel repeated quietly. She didn’t realize they came this far south. “Is…is my uncle with you?”
Benson nodded solemnly, “Wishes to see you mighty bad, he does. Dinna think that new husband o’ yours would allow it.”
“He wouldn’t mind at all if it was what I wanted,” Argel said confidently. But was it what she wanted? “Here,” she said, her guilt taking over, “why don’t I go see him now? Just quickly, mind you. Is he close?”
When the man nodded yes, Argel took a deep breath. “Very well, let me grab my things and we can go—just to say a quick hello is all.”
Benson waited as she turned to gather her things. Her heart raced as she retrieved her reticule and ivory shaw. She threw a quick glance to the clock on the burgundy papered wall. Damon wouldn’t be expected to return for another twenty minutes or so if his hour estimation was correct. That would give her plenty of time for a brief visit, to exchange a few words—for that was all she felt she could manage at seeing her uncle for the first time since learning the truth.
But, just in case he arrived back early…
Quickly, Argel scratched a brief note on a piece of paper and left it on the table next to where she had been working on Wynny’s letter. Turning to Benson, she stood tall and said, “Alright, I’m ready.”
“Follow me, Argel. We had best be quick.”
Argel moved after him out into the hall before turning to lock the door. Dropping the key into her reticule, she took the man’s arm and followed him to the stairs. “So tell me, Benson,” she grinned at her old friend, “how is Davies’s new pig?”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Damon’s meeting with his associate from the coal mining company did nothing to ease or distract his guilty conscience regarding Argel. During the meeting, the rotund man had droned on and on about his own beloved and faithful wife, until Damon had nearly reached across the table and ripped the uncharacteristically large brown mustache right off the man’s face.
It hadn’t been the fact that the man was happily married that annoyed Damon, but, rather, something he’d said while relaying his wife’s many fine qualities.
&nb
sp; “When I wanted what was best for her and not for myself—that was when I knew I truly loved her.”
Damon had thought he might retch at the endearing look the two had shared as said wife had brought in some tea—much as he still felt now making his way up the stairs to his hotel room.
Hopefully, Argel would forgive him for being late. She must be starved for supper. It was late enough that the sun had already disappeared. And hopefully, seeing her would distract his mind enough that he could eat.
Tamping down his guilt—and bile—he reached for the doorknob to find it didn’t budge.
Good girl. She’d kept it locked, just as he had asked—he’d simply forgot. Fishing the spare key from his pocket, Damon opened the door to find the room completely empty.
“Argel?” he called out, though he was clearly alone. His eyes scanned the room quickly, his senses prickling with heightened awareness. Nothing seemed out of place—no chair disturbed or window opened.
He took a deep breath. Perhaps she had tired of waiting for him and had gone on down to supper alone. Yes, that had to be it. He would find her in the restaurant.
Damon turned to head for the door, when his eye caught a folded piece of paper on the small table. Walking towards it, he could clearly make out his name scribbled on the outside. He snatched it up and quickly scanned the contents.
Gone with Benson to see my uncle. Back soon. Love, Argel.
The script appeared to have been written in haste—was all well? Gone with Benson? Who was that? And where? Was her uncle truly here? Or had she done as he’d secretly feared she would and left him—returned to Beddgelert?
He took a shaky breath and rubbed his jaw as he stared at the words, trying to make sense of them. Clues—there must be more clues here.
Love. If she had truly left him, she wouldn’t have bothered to give him her love. And she stated that she would return, so that meant they were still here locally. He sighed in relief and let out a shaky laugh. His guilt was driving him mad!
