The House at the End of the Moor

by Michelle Griep

  Had he been doing it wrongly?

  The thought stunned, igniting a firestorm in his gut. He slammed his hands down on the tabletop and stared into the warden’s eyes. “Do you mean to tell me I hunted down and gaoled a blameless man?”

  “In a word, yes. But that’s not all I mean to say—”

  The warden continued talking, yet it was all a swarm of bees, buzzing and buzzing. Rather the barrister’s words to his son barreled back. “You are not God to mete out justice on a whim.” Slowly, Sebastian straightened and pressed his hands to the sides of his head. He’d captured and incarcerated an innocent man? What kind of monster did that? Why, he was no better than that devilish Groat, no better than the filthy lecher who’d tried to ravish his innocent sister! The world spun. Nausea crawled up to the back of his throat. No, he was worse than that. He was like the Romans who’d hung the innocent God-man on a tree. How the devil would he ever atone for this? For the first time ever, he was out of answers.

  God, what do I do now?

  “—well, Mr. Barrow?”

  The words were muffled. He lowered his hands, shaking his head slightly. “Sorry, sir. What did you say?”

  “I said you’re a fine officer, but I fear you take your job far too seriously, to an extent that is not now nor ever shall be sanctioned by my office. Either you mend your ways or find yourself another career.

  Which will it be?”

  He wavered on his feet. Or maybe the room moved. Mend or find? Those were his only choices? Wait a minute… what about find and mend?

  He sucked in air, everything suddenly becoming clearer. Sharper. Why had he never thought of that before? All this time he’d been trying so hard to mend his relationship with God—done everything in his power to remedy that single moment when he’d taken a man’s life for attacking his sister—that he’d not given one minute to actually finding God. Sweet, beautiful mercy! Ward was right. His pulse hammered loud in his ears. He didn’t know the first thing about God because he needed to find God first.

  And there was only one place to do that.

  “Thank you, Warden. I think, perhaps, it is time I do both.” Sebastian unpinned the badge on his lapel and laid it on the desk. Then he pivoted and stalked out the door, following in Ward’s footsteps.

  To freedom.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  March 1862

  St. Petroc Church, Lydford, Dartmoor

  There are moments in life that are surreal. A fiery sunset. The first cry of a newborn babe. Looking deep into the eyes of the one you love while standing at the altar of a country church. As Oliver reaches for my hand and slides a gold ring on my finger, I cannot help but wonder if this is all a dream and at any moment I might awaken in my cold and lonely bed in the house at the end of the moor.

  But his touch is warm and real. So is the passion in his voice. “With this ring, I thee wed.” Both his hands wrap around mine, skin to skin, flesh to flesh. “With my body, I thee worship.”

  A thrill charges through me. There is no mistaking the desire in his gaze or the craving that burns low in my belly.

  “And with all my worldly goods I thee endow, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” He raises my fingers to his lips and kisses a benediction soft and sweet.

  The vicar clears his throat at Oliver’s breach of etiquette. I hide a shameless smile. The clergyman is notorious for his strict traditional ways.

  “For as much as Oliver and Margaret have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  Oliver leans towards me. I bite my lip. If he kisses me full on the mouth here in front of the Reverend Mr. Mollet, I shall never be able to attend another service without my face turning red.

  But instead, he whispers for me alone, “I love you, Maggie Ward.”

  The more the name sinks in, the deeper I stare into Oliver’s eyes, the larger my grin. It seems forever ago I lamented never having a Mr. Rochester to love me—and now Jane Eyre’s words have become my own.

  Reader, I married him.

  The next several minutes blur together. Nora smiles her congratulations as she hands me my primrose bouquet. Oliver’s father claps him on the back. The vicar mumbles something about the parish register. Next thing I know, Oliver and I stand in the vestry and I sign my name next to my husband’s.

  My husband’s!

  Oliver pulls out an envelope and passes it to the vicar. “Our thanks to you.”

  As if on cue, church bells start ringing, announcing to the world a new union has formed. Oliver reaches for my hand, and though we’ve entwined our fingers many times over the past nine months, the gesture still sends tingles up my arm.

  He nods towards the envelope. “There’s a little extra in there for the sexton as well.”

  “Ahh yes, the ghost of the church, eh?” Mr. Mollet chuckles. “No doubt he’ll appreciate it, but allow me to be the one to thank you in his stead. He’s a hard worker but a bit skittish around others. Prefers his solitude.”

  “Then we shall respect that and leave before he is finished ringing the bells. Good day, Vicar.”

  “God’s blessing on you both.”

  Oliver dons his hat and guides me outside—where a shower of grain rains on our heads.

  “There’s the happy couple!” The barrister tosses another handful, as does Nora, who stands at his side. The two are the sum of our small wedding party. It took some bargaining with Oliver’s father to keep this event so intimate, yet as Oliver helps me into the carriage draped with white bunting, a wry smile twists my lips. No doubt next month’s reception at the barrister’s manor home will be crawling with well-wishers.

  Dobbs, all cleaned up and freshly shaven, glances over his shoulder from the driver’s seat. There is a scar near his eye where Mr. Groat gouged him with the ice pick, but by God’s grace alone, he yet has his vision.

  “Congratulations, missus,” he says.

  I grin. For the first time, his name for me fits. I am well and truly a missus now. “Thank you, Dobbs.”

  Oliver climbs up next to me, hardly sitting before he pulls me into his arms. “Are you happy, Mrs. Ward?”

  “More than I have a right to be.”

  “Then I guess you don’t need this, hmm?” Oliver waves a folded paper in front of me.

  I try to snatch it from him, but he holds it out of my reach. “What is it?”

  “My gift to you.” He finally allows me to snag the paper.

  And as I read, I gasp at the words. It is a contract for the Royal Opera House signed by Mr. Lamb—with a blank signature line just waiting for my name.

  I look from the paper to Oliver. “How… what?” I stammer.

  “After our engagement was announced, I was paid a visit by one Mr. Lamb, whereupon I learned that a certain famous opera singer had turned him down flat.”

  I shake my head. “But Oliver—”

  “He was quite insistent that the world deserves to hear this songbird’s voice.” He leans closer, his tone husky. “And I quite agree.”

  “But I am a wife now. Your wife.”

  “There is no reason you can’t do both. When Parliament’s in session, I have to go to London anyway, and Mr. Lamb was quite amenable to having you sing even on a limited basis. But it is up to you. Only if you want it.”

  How am I so fortunate to get such an understanding husband? “Yes—yes! Thank you so much.” I clutch the paper to me. Gift upon gift. “I mean, only if you’re sure.”

  “Quite sure, my love.” He gathers my hand and lifts the finger ensconced with gold to eye level. “I would that my wife sing wherever she pleases.”

  His words warm my heart and I smile at the ring. His ring. The met
al feels foreign yet so right against my skin… Wait a minute. My bare skin? I frown. “My gloves! I forgot them on the table at the back of the church.”

  “Never fear.” Oliver releases me and taps me on the nose. “If you’ll recall, I’m a champion at returning lost gloves to absentminded ladies.”

  The memory of him disguised as an old woman on our covert trek to Bath rises up. I smirk. “At least this time you’re not in a gown.”

  “Ahh, but a groom should never outshine his bride.” He winks then calls to Dobbs. “Hold up a moment. It seems the lady’s forgotten something.”

  He hops out of the carriage, waves for his father and Nora to pass us, then turns back to me, his head just clearing the low side of the barouche. Late-morning sun rests brilliantly on his broad shoulders. His head tips to a jaunty angle. “Did I mention there is a retrieval fee that must be paid up front?”

  “Such as?”

  “A kiss from my wife.”

  Willingly I lean forward, cherishing the way we blend so perfectly into one. By the time he pulls away, I am breathless.

  “Well.” I arch a brow. “From now on, I shall remember to lose things more often.”

  Strange how a pair of lacy gloves, so petite and frail, could represent such a strong woman—his woman. No… his wife. Oliver pressed the white fabric against his chest. There might come a time when he stopped smiling about his good fortune, but not this day.

  His grin widened even further as he glanced down the aisle to the wooden cross atop the altar. So much light and gratitude flooded his soul, he couldn’t stop from bowing his head.

  How kind You are, God. How merciful. Thank You for setting this prisoner free.

  Then he wheeled about and strode towards the door. The sooner the wedding breakfast was over, the sooner he could make Maggie his in every possible way. But just before he reached the entryway, the bell tower door flung open and a demon stepped out.

  Oliver froze, every sense on high alert. The old scars on his back prickled, and the smile he thought he’d never lose slipped off his lips. He blinked, but that didn’t make the hairy man in front of him disappear.

  “Barrow?” he choked. “Can it be?”

  The man’s bushy brows sank. So did his shoulders. “Yes, Mr. Ward. Indeed it can.”

  “You’re the sexton?” He shook his head, hoping the movement would assemble his jumbled thoughts into a coherent line. It didn’t. “I—I don’t understand.”

  “God’s ways are mysterious—and so is life.”

  Oliver scanned the man. There was no truncheon clenched in his meaty fist. No snarl or threatening stance. He just stood there in a simple sack coat, hair combed back, beard trimmed to a manageable length. But the most noticeable difference was in his eyes. The man’s brown gaze was clear. Peaceful. The driven constable bent on executing twisted justice no longer stared out at a world gone wrong.

  Oliver nearly dropped Maggie’s gloves. “What happened to you?”

  Half a smile curved Barrow’s lips. “Do you believe in the power of words, Mr. Ward?”

  “As a politician, I should hope so.”

  “Well…” Barrow scratched his jaw, his eyes drifting up to the rafters. This was new. Never once had the man been at a loss for something to say.

  After a few moments, Barrow’s hand lowered and his brown eyes bored into Oliver’s. “Two words changed my life that day you walked free, changed me every bit as much as the ‘I do’ you shared here with your bride today. God used Warden Cawsey to call me back to Him, and believe it or not, He even used Groat.”

  His brows sank and deep lines folded in the whiskers at the sides of his mouth. “Listen, Ward.” He stepped away from the bell tower door and advanced.

  Oliver stiffened. Could be Barrow’s avowed redemption was true—or it could be a ploy. Some kind of ruse to get close to him, to slap on shackles and steal him away. But no. He was free! There was no possible way Barrow could haul him back to prison. Not anymore. So… perchance his words were true? The humble dip of the man’s head certainly attested to it. Even so, Oliver shifted his weight, prepared to fight or flee.

  “I know I wronged you. Beat you. Tortured you.” He paused, his jaw working, then he jerked up his face and met Oliver’s gaze head-on. “Still, if there’s any way you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I would be ever grateful.”

  Oliver’s grip tightened on the gloves as memory after memory surfaced. Barrow cracking him in the skull with a club. The man’s iron fist pounding into his nose. The tip of Barrow’s boot crunching into his ribs or the relentless cross-country pursuit that nearly killed him. All the blood and pain cried out for redress—and then his gaze drifted past Barrow’s shoulder to the sun shining through the stained glass window, illuminating an image of the Good Shepherd hefting a ragged sheep on his shoulders. Maggie’s gloves fell to the floor.

  He was that sheep.

  And so was Barrow.

  Both of them had done things, said things, grieved the One who’d bled and suffered in their stead—and yet God never once turned away His compassion. How could he refuse a fellow sheep, even one as gruff and undeserving as Barrow?

  With a sigh, he scooped up the gloves and faced the man. “Yes, Mr. Barrow. By God’s grace and great mercy alone do I forgive you.”

  The swell of Barrow’s throat bobbed, and miracle of miracles, tears welled in the man’s eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Ward.”

  “Thank God, Mr. Barrow. Not me.” Oliver’s smile returned. “Now then, good day. I have a wife that must be attended.”

  Light of step, Oliver bounded out to the carriage and hoisted himself up, marveling the whole way at the Paul that God had made of Barrow’s Saul.

  “Onward, Dobbs,” he called as he shut the door and sank into the seat, then handed Maggie her gloves.

  She frowned at them. “That took quite a bit of time. Were they terribly hard to find?”

  “Terribly. So difficult that I fear I must charge you more for the retrieval.”

  Her lips parted, but before she could speak, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly. Ahh, but he could get used to this!

  She snuggled against him, head on his shoulder, and oh, how right it felt. How right the day. How right the world. Without a word, the contented sigh breathing out from Maggie concurred. By the time the carriage rounded the last curve and Morden Hall came into sight, Oliver was sure of one thing.

  He was the most blessed man to walk the planet.

  “We’re home, love.” He gently set her from him and hopped out of the carriage, then turned to help her down. Together, they neared the door, just as his father stepped out. Inside, Malcolm woofed his greeting at a nearby window.

  “Before we partake of Nora’s wedding feast, allow me to give you my wedding gift.” The barrister swept out his hand. “And here it is.”

  Oliver looked from his father’s empty fingers to Maggie, who looked as perplexed as him.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “Right in front of you.” The barrister chuckled. “You are no longer the tenants of Morden Hall but the owners.”

  “Father!” Oliver gasped. “It is too much. We cannot possibly accept—”

  “Humour me, Son.” His father clapped him on the back. “It’s not every day my boy marries the most beautiful woman in all of Dartmoor.”

  Red warmed Maggie’s face to a rosy hue. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Tut, tut! It’s Father now, my dear.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Father.” Leaving Oliver’s side, she stood on tiptoe and kissed the barrister’s cheek.

  Oliver smiled at the sight. Were it not for Maggie, would he have reconciled with the man? “Indeed, Father. We are very grateful.”

  “And I am very hungry.” Turning, his father yanked open the door and shouted, “Let the feasting begin!”

  With a light touch to the small of Maggie’s back, Oliver guided her to follow—until the sound of pounding hooves stopped him flat. They both tur
ned.

  A man in a brown riding cloak reined a magnificent bay to a stop just in front of them. Winded and dusty, Henri J’Arney dismounted with a lopsided smile, still thin but not the cadaverous sack of bones that he had been. “Looks like I arrived just in time.”

  While the sight of his hale and hearty friend did Oliver’s heart good, still… What was he doing here? The grand reception was weeks away. Oliver cocked his head. “In time for what?”

  A rogue smile curved the Frenchman’s mouth. “A wedding gift.” He held out an envelope.

  Maggie scooted closer to Oliver’s side as he unfolded the paper.

  25 April, 2:45 p.m.

  Though he read it three times over, the writing made no sense. Judging by the way Maggie peeked up at him with an arched brow, she didn’t understand it either. Was this how it was to be with wedding gifts? Each one a puzzle to be solved?

  He refolded the paper and speared J’Arney with narrowed eyes.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your appointment with the prime minister.”

  Oliver gaped. Impossible! He’d tried valiantly to meet with the viscount and, despite his best efforts, hadn’t been able to gain an audience with the fellow’s shoeblack let alone the man himself.

  “How the deuce did you manage this?” he spluttered.

  “Without shackles, the sky is the limit.” J’Arney waved his hand at the clouds. “Not to mention there are many privileges to being a diplomat, access being chief amongst them. Now, are you going to invite me to your wedding breakfast or not?”

  Oliver shook his head, mumbling under his breath. “I can hardly believe it. Perhaps my legislation isn’t dead after all.” He turned to Maggie. “Do you know what this means? Boys like Bodger will no longer have to live in squalor.”

  “If you can persuade the prime minister, that is. But knowing you, that shouldn’t be a problem.” Her brilliant smile shifted from him to J’Arney. “Pardon my husband, Mr. J’Arney. It may take him a moment to get over his shock. Please, go inside.”