The House at the End of the Moor

by Michelle Griep

  A low chuckle rumbles in his throat. “I wonder if your husband appreciated what a rare woman you are.”

  I straighten and absently run my palms along the black silk of my gown. Hosts of epithets bombard my mind. Liar. Deceiver. Fraud. Guilt sprouts a fine sheen across my forehead. It is wicked to allow this man to believe I am a widow, but so be it. It is the role I must play.

  I motion towards the dog. “Come, Malcolm. Let us leave the gentleman to finish his work in peace.”

  Malcolm lifts his head, looking from me to the man, but does not rise.

  “No need. I am done,” the man mumbles as he dries off his face, then tosses down the towel and turns to me with a smile.

  All the blood drains to my feet. No, it cannot be. It cannot possibly be! Now I know why those hazel eyes are so familiar. Clean shaven, the man’s square jaw is unmistakable, as is the cleft in his chin. And so is the dimple on the right side of his mouth. His dark hair is combed back, framing a face that is altogether too memorable. Too startlingly handsome. Though the name escapes me, I know this man.

  He was there the night I fled from society.

  I grab hold of the back of the sofa to keep from falling.

  “Mrs. Dosett?” He hobbles towards me. “Shall I call for your maid? You look rather ill.”

  “No need. I am fine.” I inhale deep and long through my nostrils. Thus fortified, I straighten and arrange my mouth into the semblance of a smile—a pleasant one, hopefully. “Rather it is I who should be inquiring about you, though you appear to be well mended. How’s the ankle?”

  “Stiff. Sore. But serviceable, as long as I don’t put my full weight on it.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” More pleased than he can know. While another day or two of rest would no doubt benefit him, he cannot stay. Surely he will piece together who I am as aptly as I’ve finally identified him, yet why has he not already? Has the isolation of the past nine months rendered me as drably indistinct as the rugged moorland?

  I turn from his watchful gaze and backtrack towards the door. Pausing at the threshold, I refuse to look him full in the face, but rather cut him a sideways glance. “Would you like a cup of tea before you leave this morning?”

  His brows raise. “How did you know I’d be leaving today?”

  Ah, good. At least we are agreed. I flutter my fingers in the air. “Clearly you are in a far better state than when you arrived, and I assume you have somewhere else to be other than in my sitting room.”

  “Indeed.” He reaches for his coat. “And yes, I’ll take that cup of tea, thank you.”

  I scurry down the passageway. Malcolm’s paws tip-tap behind me. One cup of tea—just one—and the man must go. I fumble with the key at my neck, the chain snagging a piece of hair as I yank it off. Pain stings the nape of my neck, but it is a small inconvenience compared to what will happen if the man recognizes me.

  Fanning my face with one hand, I unlock the cupboard door with the other. Light pours into the small enclosure, dazzling the ruby necklace into brilliant red sparkles and painting vivid the scarlet silk of the gown—and that’s when the fuzziness finally clears. Without the fancy dress and painted face, no wonder the man didn’t know me. Who would expect the famed Daisy Lee to be shut away in widow’s weeds in a far-off corner of England?

  The tension in my shoulders eases—then instantly knots back up when a line of fur on Malcolm’s back stands erect. A growl vibrates low and throaty.

  “What is it, boy?” I whisper.

  The dog takes off towards the kitchen, where a man’s harsh command barks.

  “Move aside! Now!”

  Clenching my jaw, I give the door a shove and follow in Malcolm’s wake. As familiar as I am with the man in my sitting room, I also know the bass voice accosting the solitude of Morden Hall. Constable Barrow. The nerve of the man, sneaking in the back door!

  I storm into the kitchen, where the constable’s arm wraps around Nora’s neck in a choke hold. He uses her as a shield against the snapping of Malcolm’s jaws. His black eyes burn into mine. “Call off your dog, or it’ll be the worse for your maid.”

  Nora’s face pales to parchment. Her fingers desperately claw at the constable’s thick arm.

  I have no choice. “Malcolm! Leave it!”

  Malcolm continues to bristle, but he circles back to my side. I grab his collar—for now, anyway. “What is the meaning of this? Unhand my maid at once!”

  “She needed a bit of discipline, Mrs. Dosett.” A wicked grin slashes across his face, yet he releases his hold and shoves her aside. “She doesn’t know her place.”

  “Nor do you know yours, sir. This is my home, and you have not been invited inside. I thank you to leave at once.” I point towards the open door.

  Nora gasps and splutters as she works her way to stand behind Malcolm and me.

  The constable doesn’t budge. “Hospitality is a trait of the godly. I’d say you’re a bit lacking. Now, step aside.”

  I lift my chin, defiance emboldening me. “I will not. Either you leave or I will release my dog.”

  Sensing my threat, Malcolm strains against my hold.

  In one swift movement, the constable pulls a gun and cocks the hammer, aiming the barrel at the dog’s head. The gleam in his dark eyes negates any doubt he’s hesitant to use it. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

  Nora whimpers at my back. It is a pitiful sound and completely unfair that fear alone gives her somewhat of a voice. Slowly, I step aside, pulling Malcolm with me, for I am out of options. The stranger in the sitting room will have to fend for himself.

  “Good choice.” Constable Barrow plows past me and stomps down the corridor. I follow, never once loosening my grip on Malcolm’s collar. He growls the whole way.

  The officer must’ve noticed the drawn drapes in the sitting room, for that is the room he stalks towards, a lion on the hunt. My heart pounds loud and sickening in my chest. How to explain the stranger? Is he the man the constable seeks? And if he is, how do I escape a terrible indictment? Harbouring a criminal is surely a felony of the worst sort.

  Oh God, please, let this all be a mistake.

  Constable Barrow swings through the sitting room door. Sucking in a deep breath, I charge after him.

  The room is empty.

  Taking care to ease the fabric over the wound on his arm, Oliver wriggled his hand through the sleeve of the coat, then guided on the rest of it. Thank God for dutiful housewives and washing lines to air the laundry, or he’d not have made it this far. It felt good to be fully clothed again, even if the garment stretched too tight across the shoulders and threadbare patches thinned at the elbows. Hopefully the owner wasn’t missing the thing too much, but it would be well worth the man’s temporary discomfort. Oliver would return it to the fellow along with two new sack coats sporting a guinea in each pocket.

  But even so, he bowed his head. Forgive me, Lord, for resorting to thievery. May it not be necessary to—

  His head jerked up. His muscles clenched. Voices, muffled yet clearly angry, crept in from the corridor. A woman’s—Mrs. Dosett’s—and a man’s. Bass. Harsh. Demanding. And far too familiar.

  Barrow. Hang the cursed cully! Would he never give up?

  Oliver snatched the straight razor from off the table and shoved it into his pocket, his lips twisting. Oh, how soon a sin once confessed could be repeated.

  God, have mercy.

  Wheeling about, he hobble-ran to the door, where the toe of his boot hit the uneven threshold, knocking him off balance. He stumbled into the corridor, barely catching himself. Instant pain stabbed his ankle, rising hot and sickening clear up to his gut. Sweet blessed heavens! How was he to outrun a constable on a gimpy leg? The ugly truth punched him hard.

  He couldn’t. Blast!

  But what to do? Think! Think!

  He jammed his hand into his pocket and fingered the folded razor. Flight was out of the question, but fight? Pivoting, he limp-sprinted down the passageway, disca
rding that idea as well. A blade was no match for a pistol.

  Grinding his teeth, he hobbled on. There was nothing for it, then. As much as he hated to take the coward’s way out, hiding was his only option. But where?

  The constable roared. Bootsteps thudded closer. Time was running out.

  The corridor opened into a small hall of sorts, where two other passageways connected, and a stair led upward. His gaze traveled the length of it. He’d never make it out of sight if he tried to shamble-step his way up those steps—but no need, perhaps. Below the stairs, a door gaped slightly open, leading into what was hopefully a cupboard large enough to house him. He could hide there for now, then when the footsteps passed, make a limp-gaited escape out the back door and hole up in the stable. Barrow had already searched there. He’d be a fool to do so again… And thus the fool would be fooled, God willing.

  Are You?

  Boots pounded. Skirts swished. Oliver dashed into the cramped space—then stifled a roar of his own. Rage boiled from head to toe as he yanked the door closed and turned the latch, shutting him in with a scandalously low-cut scarlet gown…

  And the ruby jewels he’d been convicted for stealing.

  Chapter Eleven

  My gaze darts from corner to corner in the sitting room, faster than Constable Barrow’s long legs can carry him to the shadowy nooks. No man-sized shape billows out from the draperies. No leg or arm appears as the constable lifts the ruffle at the bottom of the sofa with the tip of his gun. Nothing scurries from hiding, either, when he rudely shoves my chair aside. How had the stranger vanished so quickly and thoroughly on his twisted ankle?

  For now, I push away the question and pop my fists against my hips. “I don’t know who or what you expected to find, sir, but as you can see, there is nothing here to interest you.”

  A gravelly chuckle accosts the quiet room. “You cannot begin to know what interests me, Mrs. Dosett.”

  He tucks away his gun and grasps the edges of the thick curtains, yanking them open. The brass rings screech in protest. Then he moves to the other set of windows and does the same. “Why are these closed?”

  The growl of his question is more of an accusation than a query.

  I clutch Malcolm’s collar tighter. I can’t very well admit my intent was to shut out the likes of him—but neither can I lie. So… what to say?

  “Not that it signifies,” I drawl, stalling for time, for words, for truth—and thankfully, brilliantly, an idea comes to mind. “But oft-times I suffer from a headache. Light intensifies the pain.” It’s true. I do battle such agonies from time to time and frequently have Nora draw the drapes for just such a reason.

  “Oh?” He turns to me, his bushy brows climbing up his forehead. “Have you a headache now?”

  I scowl. Indeed. The man is a headache. “Yes.”

  He smirks, but it quickly twists into a glower as his dark gaze lands on the washbasin. He crosses to it in two strides. “What is this?”

  Little needle pricks run down my spine. The bowl is exactly as the stranger left it, the towel balled up at its side. Holding my breath, I scour the tabletop with a sharp gaze. The razor could be my undoing, but there is no flash of silver. I blow out a quiet thank You to God then skewer the constable with a piercing stare. “You can see for yourself what it is, can you not?”

  He does not look away. “A woman’s sharp tongue is an abomination to God.”

  Automatically my jaw tightens. I will not be subject to twisted scripture. If I am to be condemned, it will be by merit of my true sins. “I believe the correct wording of Proverbs six lists that abomination as a lying tongue, not a sharp one. And it does not single out women as the sole bearer of such wrath.”

  Black fury ignites in his eyes, almost demonic in its force. I plant my feet to keep from retreating. Malcolm strains against my hold.

  With a sneer, the constable shoves his hand into the basin then pulls it out, rubbing leftover soap scum between his thumb and forefinger. Lifting it, he sniffs the mess and his gaze narrows on the filmy lather.

  Then he flicks it aside, the droplets splatting against the arm of the sofa. “A darkened room is a curious place to shave.”

  I force a small laugh, praying to God it comes across as ludicrous instead of jittery. “Quite the misguided idea, Constable. If you are going to indict me, then have at it. Otherwise, I will thank you to leave at once. I grow tired of your baseless insinuations.”

  “Baseless?” His boots pound across the floor, intimidation thudding in each step. He stops just short of Malcolm’s lunging reach. “Then how do you explain the whiskers in the water, Mrs. Dosett?”

  I freeze, a doe before the hunter. One false word—nay—one false movement stands between me and a cold gaol cell.

  “They are hairs, Mr. Barrow,” I admit. “Dog hairs. My maid has not yet emptied the basin after washing down the baseboards.”

  My stomach heaves as the lie passes my lips. The very abomination I spoke of seconds ago now convicts me.

  Oh God, forgive me. No more will I deceive. Please, have mercy, and send this man—

  Constable Barrow huffs and shoves me aside, knocking me into Malcolm. The dog growls, yanking against my grip, but I hold tight as I right myself, then turn us both around and flee the sitting room.

  For the next twenty minutes, I traipse after the man as he storms into every room in Morden Hall. At each doorway, a fresh wave of fear steals my breath. I do not take in air until I scan from wall to wall and am satisfied the stranger is not secreted away. Where he’s truly gone, I do not know—nor do I want to. I only hope he is gone for good.

  All possibilities exhausted, Constable Barrow finally trots down the stairs and stops in the hall. Slowly, he pivots in a circle, as if some new corridor will appear that he might exploit.

  I toy with the idea of releasing my grip on Malcolm’s collar and allowing his snapping teeth to shoo the man out. “Are you quite finished barreling through my home, sir?”

  Without so much as a glance my way, he stomps to the cupboard door beneath the stair.

  My heart stops. So do my lungs. There was no time to lock the thing an eternity ago when the constable rampaged into the kitchen.

  His podgy fingers grip the knob.

  I swallow, throat impossibly tight. Sweet blessed heavens! Is that where my unwanted houseguest is hidden? And if not, how am I to explain the gown without revealing my identity or succumbing to deception once again?

  The constable yanks—but the door does not open.

  What? I stagger, grateful the man’s back is towards me, for surely it is a giveaway of my confusion. Had I locked the thing after all?

  Constable Barrow pivots and hitches a thumb at the closet. “What’s in here?”

  “My tea chest.” It’s a half truth, but a truth nonetheless.

  He glowers. “Open it.”

  “I will not! I have been more than patient with you, sir, and I am through with your rude antics.” I whirl, running from him, running from falsehoods. Is this what my life will be from now on, doomed to forever and always run?

  A grip on the upper part of my arm yanks me back. The constable shoves his face into mine. His hot breath defiles my cheeks.

  “You’re through when I say you are.”

  Malcolm lunges, and I am sorely tempted to let him go—a highly gratifying prospect, but a temporary one. It will do nothing to keep the bully from shooting him or from returning. No, it is time to wield a gun of my own, though in doing so, I offer a glimpse of who I really am. Still, I have no choice.

  “If you do not unhand me at once,” I seethe, “I shall see you squirm beneath the thumb of Lord Greenham.”

  “Greenham?” Mr. Barrow narrows his eyes. “You’re bluffing.”

  But his lips flatten with a slight ripple of doubt—enough that I wrench from his grasp. “Do you really wish to find out for the sake of opening a tea closet? One word from me in Lord Greenham’s ear and you will find yourself not only fired but arre
sted for the brutality of your assault on my maid. And do not think for one minute that he won’t listen to me. The judge and I go way back.”

  His nostrils flare. A direct hit—yet he doesn’t retreat. How much more incentive does the man need?

  As a last resort, I yank out the chain from my bodice, revealing my key. “And if you must know, I am the only one with access to the space. Your disrespect to a lady of standing will not be well met, so tell me, Mr. Barrow, how exactly will you explain your groundless suspicions of me to a high court judge?”

  He stands motionless, huffing like an ox. The hatred in his gaze is a living monster.

  “This isn’t over, Mrs. Dosett.” He spins on his heel and stomps down the corridor, limping just a bit. Seconds later, the slamming of the front door shakes the bones of the house to the rafters.

  I peel my fingers from Malcolm’s collar. Instantly, he tears off in the wake of the constable. On shaky legs, I lean against the wall then sink to a heap on the stairs. Never again will I take in a stranger from off the moor, half-dead or not. It’s nearly been my undoing.

  Malcolm lopes back. Apparently satisfied the danger is well and truly gone, he snuffles over to me with a great lick to my cheek. I cannot help but allow a tremulous smile as I swipe the moisture away. I bury my face in his fur. “That was close, eh boy?”

  “Closer than you think.”

  I jerk upright, heart hammering against my ribs. Hazel eyes stare down at me, green flecks waging war with gold and brown. Slowly, I rise. “Where were you?”

  “I might ask the same question.” His jaw hardens. “Where were you the night of June eighth? And don’t tell me here at Morden Hall, because I think we both know better than that, don’t we… Daisy Lee?”

  A skirt? He’d suffered in the hell of a cold stone cell all for the sake of a thieving woman? So much rage coloured Oliver’s vision he nearly didn’t detect the blanching of Margaret Dosett’s face—and when he did, it only served to stoke the fire in his gut even more. But of course. Why not a skirt? Was it not a woman’s teeth that first pierced the flesh of the apple in Eden, bringing down all of mankind?