The House at the End of the Moor

by Michelle Griep

His father turned to Maggie. “Is this true, Miss Lee?”

  “Yes.”

  For a moment, his father said nothing as he studied her face in silence, his gaze lingering at the slight swelling near the corner of her mouth. “So then, tell me.” His voice deepened into his official barrister tone, the sort that pulled truth from criminals with nothing but its baritone boom. “Why would Mr. Groat threaten you so severely?”

  “Because, I…” Maggie shifted on the seat, skirts rustling, like a bird who knew her wing was broken yet tried to hide it from a predator. “It is I who has the missing necklace.”

  “You?” Humourless laughter rumbled from his father’s lips. “This just keeps getting better and better.”

  Of all the callous responses! Biting back a retort, Oliver sidestepped to stand directly behind Maggie, hoping to impart reassurance. “Miss Lee has been through quite enough today without your derision, Father.”

  One of his father’s brows lifted. “Of course. My apologies, Miss Lee.”

  “No offense taken, sir.”

  Leaning back in his seat, his father folded his arms and once again skewered Oliver with a pointed look. “Well, Son, I must repeat, what is it you are hoping I can do for you and Miss Lee?”

  Oliver pulled away from Maggie and paced the length of the sofa, then back again, fighting against unbidden memories. Once, shortly after his mother had died, before he knew better than to bare his soul to the barrister, he’d asked his father to defend the father of one of his friends from school. But the boy was from a lowly background, depending upon a scholarship for his education, not the sort of class with whom they associated. The barrister had refused to lend his legal aid, and the boy’s father was transported. The scandal forced the school to withdraw his friend’s funding, and the boy ended up in the workhouse with his mother. Both died within a matter of months. If only his father had helped the man, helped the boy, given more care to a request from his own son rather than societal strata.

  Grinding his teeth, Oliver shoved down the black memory. Seeking his father, asking for his help, was a fool’s errand. If the barrister wouldn’t listen to a tearstained entreaty for justice from a ten-year-old, why should he heed an escaped convict?

  Maggie’s head lifted. Her big brown eyes gazed up at him, waiting.

  He huffed a sigh. For her sake, he had to ask. There were no other options. He stopped and planted his feet. “All I ask for, Father, is sanctuary until I can figure out a way to serve justice to Corbin and Groat.”

  “Hmm.” His father ambled over to the side table. He poured a drink without another word, his back towards them while he slowly sipped from his glass.

  Maggie’s teeth nibbled her lower lip. Each tick of the clock dug chinks into Oliver’s confidence. Why did his father not answer?

  Finally, the man refilled yet again, but this time turned and strode back to his seat, swirling the amber liquid around in the tumbler. “So I am to set aside my current missing-marquis case and house an escaped convict and a thief?”

  “Miss Lee is no thief!” The words shot out like hot lava. “I will not have her character so maligned.”

  “Oliver, please.” Maggie rose and joined his side, resting her fingers against his sleeve, then faced his father with a stiff spine. “The truth is I did not know the jewels in my possession belonged to Mrs. Corbin. I thought it was my stage necklace.”

  “Even if what you say is true, would the replica not technically belong to the theatre?”

  “Yes.” Her voice strangled, and she clenched her hands in front of her. “I suppose that it would.”

  Oliver advanced, this time blocking her from his father’s view. “Stop bullying her. You have no idea what she’s gone through, what she’s suffered at the hands of Corbin and her manager.”

  “Corbin again?” His father set his drink down on the tea table then cocked his head. “What has he to do with Miss Lee?”

  “Corbin is the reason she fled Bath with such haste, threatening her with untoward advances and the bankruptcy of her father’s business. So now you know everything. Will you help us or not?”

  Steepling his fingers, his father tapped them against his lips, mumbling all the while. “This is a very serious matter. Very serious. I should not think… no, that will never do.”

  After a few more indecipherable grunts, he strolled to the window, completely ignoring them.

  “Fine,” Oliver huffed and glanced at Maggie. “Come along. I was wrong to have brought you here.”

  Her lips parted, then closed, and she nodded. “Very well. But I should like to say goodbye to your father. He did receive us, after all.”

  “As you wish.”

  She left his side and crossed over to the window, but Oliver widened his stance, resolute. If his father was going to ignore him, he’d repay in kind.

  “Mr. Ward?” She tapped the man on the shoulder. “Thank you for receiving us. It was a pleasure to have met you.”

  “Hmm?” He pivoted. “What’s this?”

  “I wanted to say goodbye,” Maggie said sweetly.

  “Goodbye?” His brows lowered into a straight line, and he looked from her to Oliver. “But you cannot think of leaving here.”

  For the love of God and country! The man was seriously ordering them about with no alternative whatsoever? The pressure inside his head spewed out his mouth. “Thunderation, Father! We cannot leave? Yet we also cannot stay? Then tell me, sir, what exactly are we to do?”

  “I should think that quite obvious.”

  “What?”

  “Why, hold a dinner party, of course. Tonight. Seven o’clock.” Sidestepping Maggie, the barrister strode to the door and cast them a backward glance. “Do not be late.”

  Five hours is enough time to start a war, birth a child, perform a full-scale production of Don Giovanni, including dressing, cosmetics and voice warm-ups. But though I’ve had that many hours and more, I still cannot fathom the complex relationship between Oliver and the barrister. Not that the relationship with my father is any simpler. But this is different. The barrister is cryptically blunt—a concept I cannot grasp for it ought not even exist. And Oliver is a powder keg just waiting to blow. No wonder he fled this home as soon as he was able. Tension and strife are as much a part of the house as the paint and the draperies.

  I pick up a hairpin and tilt my head. Coaxing a simple chignon is not so simple the way my fingers fumble and my mind wanders. A dinner party is the last thing I wish to attend tonight, especially as underwhelmingly dressed as I am in my simple grey gown—though at least I’d thought to pack it. Why had the barrister suggested such a thing? Who will be in attendance? Why so much veiled intrigue?

  A small golden clock begins to chime, and before it strikes seven, a rap on the door is followed by Oliver’s low voice. “Maggie? Ready for dinner?”

  Tucking in a last wayward strand of hair, I cross to the door. “Yes, I—”

  My mouth hangs open, but no more words come out. Oliver stands inches from me, clean shaven, raven hair slicked back save for a few rogue strands that curl at the ends in rebellion. A black tailcoat rides the lines of his body, sculpted against his broad shoulders, narrowing at the waist, then flaring long at his thighs. Sconce light brushes a pale glow along the curve of his cheeks, his straight, strong nose… his full lips. What would it feel like to brush my own against his? Heat blazes across my cheeks.

  “Maggie?” Alarm flares in the green flecks in his eyes. “What is it? Are you ill?”

  “Yes—I mean no! I—I mean, I am fine.” I fan my face. What is wrong with me? I’ve seen attractive men before—frequently. Why such a visceral reaction now?

  “I am fine,” I repeat, convincing myself and hopefully Oliver. “I am just a little warm and quite a bit famished.” I finish with what I can only pray is a convincing smile.

  Little creases bunch on his brow, but then it clears, and he offers his arm. “I think I can remedy that. May I escort you?”

  I rest
my hand on his sleeve, glad for the support. The spicy scent of his aftershave weakens my knees as we walk down the corridor.

  “My father may not be the easiest of men to get along with, but there is one thing he has in his favor.”

  I peek up at him. “This lovely manor home?”

  “Even better.” He glances at me with a smile that is half pirate, half king of the world. “His staff. Cook has been known to stir up party fare with naught more than four hours’ notice. My mouth is already watering for her delicacies, though I must admit I am curious as to how many people she’ll be serving tonight.”

  Apparently the same thoughts that have troubled me the past hours concern him as well. I peer up at him as we descend the grand stairway. “Speaking of guests, how ever does he manage to lure people here on such short notice?”

  “Intimidation, I suppose. My father is known to be very persuasive. It’s not just his nose that gives him the moniker the Hawk of Crown Court. If he sets about to do something, it will be done, no matter the means. But this evening will be a challenge even for him. I have no idea who he’s invited or what he’s up to, nor do I like it.”

  My step falters as we reach the ground-floor landing. What if the barrister has made some inquiries? Opened the door to Constable Barrow? Purposely invited those who could do Oliver or me great harm? Though Oliver’s strong arm steadies me, I cannot help but ask, “You don’t think it’s a trap, do you?”

  He shakes his head. “Subterfuge isn’t usually my father’s game. When he strikes, he strikes hard and fast. If he intended to trundle me back to prison, I’d be shackled by now.”

  I breathe freer. It could very well be that the barrister is truly willing to help us. I may have been too hasty in thinking ill of him, but mistrust is a hard habit to break.

  Oliver directs me into the dining room. Chandeliers bounce light off rich walnut paneling. Ward ancestors stare down at us from gilt-framed portraits hung on the walls. At the center, a white linen–covered table is set with silver-rimmed china and crystal goblets—for four. Four? That’s it? The tightness in my belly loosens. One guest besides ourselves oughtn’t be too dangerous. Perhaps Oliver overplays his father’s power of intimidation.

  The man himself stands with a drink in hand, conversing with a thin lady in a blue silk gown. When they turn to us, both Oliver and I stop dead. What kind of twisted jest is this?

  Barrister Ward leads the woman towards us. She is plain-faced. The sort you might look at and then forget the second you turn away. Yet there is dignity in her mien, from the tip of her greying head to the beaded hem of her skirt. She is a mix of wealth and commonness. She is a contradiction of privilege and a certain timidity that comes with a lifetime of living in the shadow of the beautiful. She is Mrs. Corbin.

  The very woman whose jewels are in my traveling bag.

  “Adelia.” The barrister looks to her, then gestures towards Oliver and me. “I believe you already know my son and Miss Lee.”

  Oliver’s muscles tense beneath his sleeve. I blink. The barrister and Ambrose Corbin’s wife are on a Christian name basis? How well do they know each other… and why?

  “Indeed.” Mrs. Corbin beams at me. “Miss Lee, the Theatre Royal has not been the same without you.”

  Though she smiles, a sadness hangs about her, a hint of desolate music in her tone, like the singing of a dirge on a very rainy day—and I suspect it has nothing whatsoever to do with my absence from the stage.

  But more than that, she is far wispier than I remember. Her lovely gown hangs from her shoulders as loosely as a garment pegged to a line. Grey crescents curve beneath her eyes on skin that is sallow. She has aged years in the space of the past nine months.

  Oliver clears his throat, pulling me from my observations. I immediately dip a curtsey. “Thank you.”

  “And Mr. Ward—” She turns to Oliver. “I must admit I have been looking forward to this.”

  Why would anyone anticipate a meeting with the thief accused of stealing a beloved heirloom? I peek up at Oliver, who flashes a glance at me before answering.

  “I am intrigued, Mrs. Corbin.”

  The barrister rubs his hands together. “Now that we’re all here, dinner awaits. Shall we?”

  Dread roots me to the spot, but Oliver gently leads me to a chair and seats me next to him. The barrister holds out a chair for Mrs. Corbin, seating her diagonally across from me. Now that I am in the same room with the owner of the ruby necklace, the guilt of having it in my chamber cramps my belly again, and I press a hand to my stomach. I must confess to the lady, let her know her jewels are safely in my care, but how will she take it? Hysterical tears? An ugly confrontation? A run for the door to snag the first available constable?

  I squirm in my seat as a bowl of beef consommé is set before me, then suck in a big breath and lift my face to hers. “Mrs. Corbin, I—”

  “Tut, tut, my dear.” The barrister waves his spoon like a baton. “Allow me to put your mind at ease. Adelia is aware her jewels are in your possession.”

  Oliver stiffens. “You told her?”

  “Of course. It is her necklace, after all.”

  “So now what? You expect us to hand it over, call it a day, and allow her husband and Groat to continue on as if nothing ever happened?” Oliver’s voice cracks along the edges. He shoves back his seat and shoots to his feet. “As if I was never shackled in a hole and left to rot? No, I will not have it!”

  “Sit down at once.” His father scowls. “You will dine like a civilized gentleman or I will ask you to leave.”

  Oliver says nothing, just stands there, clenching his hands so that his knuckles are white. I understand this raw-boned rage. This feeling of helplessness and frustration when life is unfair. But if he doesn’t stop giving free rein to that fury, it will devour him.

  “Please sit,” I whisper for him alone.

  He glances down at me, and I get a glimpse of that same rabid stranger staring out through his eyes. How long will that angry beast living inside him continue to override his good reason?

  But then it’s over, and he sinks to his chair, mumbling an apology.

  Without even touching her spoon, Mrs. Corbin ignores her soup and leans forward. “I understand your apprehension, Mr. Ward, but perhaps you would hear me out? I assure you, your father and I want to see justice served every bit as much as you and Miss Lee.”

  Oliver heaves a great sigh. “Of course, madam. I regret that I have not yet mastered my anger for what your husband has done.”

  “Yes, well, I daresay Ambrose has that effect on people, always driving them beyond their limits. Which is why I came to your father shortly after you’d been sent to prison. You see, though I’d dearly wanted it to be, my marriage is not a happy one, as evidenced by the supreme insult of having a copy of my necklace made in the first place. It was a beautiful mockery, I’ll give him that.” A haunted look ghosts her face. Lines deepen. Shadows darken. Whatever she is about to say will cost her in ways I cannot begin to understand. “For quite some time now, I’ve suspected Ambrose of seeking affections other than mine. I believe this is something to which you can attest, Miss Lee?”

  My throat closes, and I push away the soup. I do not wish to cause the lady any further angst, nor do I want to revisit that horrid evening nine months ago, but her gaze is direct, begging confirmation.

  “Yes,” I answer simply.

  She nods, solemn, her bony shoulders sagging beneath the weight of my affirmation. “I appreciate your candor. But I am afraid my husband’s infidelity is not limited to merely physical pleasures. He used the money I brought to the marriage to fund his degenerate lifestyle. But when I discovered my necklace—a gift given me by my mother on her deathbed—had been swapped for paste, he crossed a line.”

  She pushes back her chair. The barrister reaches for her, but she shakes her head and remains seated, far from the food, as if the smell sickens her. Yet it is not the broth that must surely be roiling in her gut.

&
nbsp; Her gaze drifts to Oliver. “I didn’t believe for one moment you were to blame, Mr. Ward, especially not when it was Ambrose’s men who testified against you in court. Since then, your father and I have been working to gather evidence against my husband. You and Miss Lee could not have come at a more fortuitous time. The one thing I regret is that I did not confide in the barrister sooner. Perhaps this whole thing could have been avoided in the first place if I had.”

  Oliver’s father leans aside and pats her hand. “You are not to blame, Adelia. That falls completely to your monstrous husband.”

  True. But he is not the only one. As soon as the footman swaps my hardly touched bowl of broth for a plate of lemon cod, I edge forward in my seat. “Your husband had some help with his skullduggery. My manager, Mr. Groat, did the actual swapping of your necklace. By rights, they should both be held to account.”

  Oliver picks up his knife and fork, yet pauses before stabbing a bite. “Which is what Maggie and I want to see happen.”

  “Good.” The barrister waves off the footman now that the second course has been served. “We are all of one mind on the matter. Now, any ideas as to how to bring this about?”

  “When Maggie and I first arrived, our plan was to plant the necklace on Mr. Corbin with Magistrate Hunter standing ready nearby, then accuse him and let nature take its course. It’s a good plan, one that could work with two as well as with one.” Oliver answers as if the matter is already decided.

  I frown. “But how can a single necklace be found in the hands of two men at the same time?”

  “Good point, but one that might not be so difficult to render,” the barrister says. “I believe, by drawing from the wisdom of Solomon, it should be divided. Half for each. That is”—he faces Mrs. Corbin—“if you can bear to have your keepsake temporarily deconstructed?”

  Her lips purse for a moment as she toys with a ring that rests far too large on her thin finger. Finally, she lets out a low breath and nods. “I admit I don’t like the thought of my mother’s necklace being tampered with, but if it serves to expose my husband and Mr. Groat’s wickedness, then yes. I agree, as long as it is a professional who does the work.”