by Darcy Burke
Sophie frowned. “Do you know when he’ll be available?”
The butler fixed his eyes on a point just above Sophie’s head and answered, “No, Miss Roe.”
“Oh.” Sophie blinked. She’d been crossed off the list. Julian might be sitting idle in a drawing room right now, alone with a cup of tea and an itch for company, but she wouldn’t be announced. Not now, and not in the future, either. “Could you tell him it’s rather urgent?”
“I suggest you try the post.”
“I see.” Sophie bobbed a curtsey, then felt ridiculous. Curtseying to a servant. Gall and vinegar. “Thank you for your help.”
The shock began to wear off once she was back in the gig. With the wind at her back, the downhill journey proved difficult to manage. She urged her horse to take the road slowly, while her thoughts whirled at greater and greater speed.
If she wanted to find out who killed Clive, she needed Julian on her side. And that meant she needed to talk to him.
But how?
She didn’t stop at Broadstone Cottage. She continued to Iron & Wine, stowing the gig at The Raddle Pit. When she arrived at her shop, the front door stood unlocked. A frisson of still-fresh fear cut through the cold—could Julian have returned? Had he ransacked her things again?—but when she stepped inside Max Dawe’s voice sounded from inside one of the storage rooms: “Just a moment!”
The promised moment later, the young man emerged into the corridor. His eyes brightened and his polite smile stretched to an ear-to-ear grin when he saw her. “Miss Roe! Where have you been? Charlotte is home—our parents wouldn’t let her out of the house once they saw her—but you’ll never believe what we found!”
“The search for a factory space went well?” Sophie asked.
“Better than either of us could have imagined. Charlotte and I found three spaces that fit our purposes exactly, and one of them—oh, just wait until you see—”
Sophie interrupted. “Not just now, Mr. Dawe. I’m rather distracted, and—”
“Of course, Miss Roe.” Max smiled tightly, hiding his disappointment.
“I want to hear all about them!” And she did. But not now. “Just as soon as you’ve packaged and shipped all these bottles I filled while you were gone.”
Max took a long look at the hundreds of finished bottles she’d stacked on pallets in the parlor. She’d been very productive.
“Tomorrow then.” He heaved a sigh. “Maybe the day after.”
“Unless any of the three you wished me to consider are particularly urgent cases?”
“I said I had to consult with my partner and wouldn’t be able to return for a few weeks—” Max winced. “You don’t mind, do you, Miss Roe? I thought they’d be more willing to sign a lease if they didn’t know a gentlewoman owned Iron & Wine.”
“The bad news will come sooner or later.” Sophie stared down the short corridor into her workshop. “I won’t blame you for choosing ‘later.’ Now, I think you’ve got some work to do?”
“I’ll start right now, Miss Roe.”
Sophie continued on into her workshop and closed the door behind her. Once she was safely alone, and private, Sophie pulled the thin gold necklace she wore up from around her neck and over her head. Kneeling down, she slotted the brass key that dangled from the end of the chain into a chest tucked under a table in the most cluttered corner of the room. Flipping the lid revealed rows of journals identical to her current one, all neatly labeled by date.
If she couldn’t visit Julian at High Bend, she’d have to hunt him down elsewhere. Some location of sentimental value where he’d be sure to make an appearance, and she could lie in wait for him. She began her search with the earliest books, from the summer of her fourteenth year.
He’d been pretty enough to wear a dress in those days, slim and long-limbed, with down on his cheeks. All the girls had been a little in love with him, Sophie included. His name didn’t appear on each page of her journal, but it showed up every second or third:
…Julian organized a treasure hunt for Ned’s birthday…
…Julian stole a set of dice from the Duke and taught us to play Hazard…
…Julian insists that we include Gertrude in our games because her grandmama just died, even though she is too young…
The next volume, when Sophie had been fifteen, contained more of the same, though the boys and the girls had begun to drift apart, preferring separate activities:
…The dance tutor partnered me with Julian today. Of all the young men, he dances best…
…Julian found a new swimming hole so we didn’t see any of the boys today…
…Rainy day and marbles. Julian made all the losers invent silly songs about the winners. I vow that we all endeavored to lose for fear of the lyrics the slyer ones devised!…
She’d never wondered how he became so popular. It had always seemed obvious, inevitable. He was beautiful and charming and he lived at High Bend. How strange to realize that she hadn’t been basking in his glow so much as witnessing a sleight of hand, whereby he worked hard to entertain them, and they all pretended not to notice.
But she’d only seen the glow.
He’d seemed larger than life, a giant. She’d never understood what drew him to a quiet girl with odd habits and ink-stained fingers. And so, inevitably, she’d been terrified throughout her courtship, waiting for the moment when he’d come to his senses and take his sunshine elsewhere.
In the end, when he’d shoved her face into the ink, it had almost felt like justice. She should have known that it would never be, could never be.
But she hadn’t known, as she filled these journals, how it would all end. By the time she turned sixteen, she was fully in his thrall:
…Julian went with me to collect oak galls today. He picked them up from the ground himself, so that I didn’t have to dirty my hands, though of course they’re stained quite black right now as I write…
…Julian says I must stop throwing my ghost letters into running water, that burying them will help me put my parents to rest…
…Julian gave me a scandalous, obscene book. He swore that if I would not read it, he would recite it phrase by phrase in my ear, while we are in company…
Sophie shut the journal with a sigh. He was like a bright silver mirror, reflecting his surroundings, revealing nothing of himself.
How had she never noticed?
Who was Julian Swann?
These old journals showed her, most of all, how dramatically the man differed from the boy. A decade ago, he’d lived to make her happy. Now, he seemed just as intent on making her suffer. Sophie touched her scar. Or maybe the anger had been there all along. It was the boy, after all, who’d hurt her.
She could dig deep into his past but no sentiment would well up. She could place him at this knoll or that brook however many times, but he hadn’t left his heart at any of them.
So. If she couldn’t contact him directly, and she couldn’t lie in wait for him, only one route remained open to her. She’d have to trick him.
Sophie slotted her old diary in its place and retrieved, in its stead, another item that she kept carefully hidden—a bundle of letters. She picked it up and shut the lid on the box before rising to her feet. Untying the ribbon that bound the stack, she crossed over to a cleared workspace.
A stack of letters wasn’t itself inherently suspicious. But if her ability as a forger ever became known, this bundle of letters would seal her fate. Over the years, she’d collected writing samples from everyone in Padley, and most of the notables who lived in the surrounding region.
She flipped through the sheets, considering her requirements. What did she hope to achieve? And how could she create enough confusion to mask her intervention?
Chapter 11
Tall, blond, and sleek as an otter, Laura Tidmarsh rose as her footman ushered Sophie into Tidmarsh House’s front drawing room. “Miss Roe! What a charming surprise.”
“I had a bit of spare time, and I knew it was
your at home day.” Sophie squeezed Laura’s hands and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Our at home day is tomorrow.” Laura motioned Sophie toward a silk-upholstered settee. Mr. Tidmarsh had sold his mine shares at just the right moment and reinvested in cotton mills. The quality and newness of the furnishings bore witness to the wisdom of his choice. “That’s why Mama isn’t here—she volunteers at the church school on Mondays.”
“Oh, dregs, I do apologize! Bettina’s day at the school is Tuesday and I must have gotten them mixed up.” Not true, but Sophie paid visits so rarely that Laura would believe she’d made a mistake. “I can come back at another time, if you’re busy? I’d hate to disrupt any plans you may have had—”
“I was just practicing on the pianoforte. I want to be prepared for the Dowager Duchess’s soirée.” Laura flexed her long, slender fingers, each tipped by a perfect, white, crescent-moon-shaped nail. She pointed again to the settee. “But I wouldn’t mind a break. My fingers were beginning to cramp. Shall I ring for tea?”
“That would be delightful, thank you.” Sophie plucked at her gloves as she dropped into the offered seat, but didn’t remove them. The chemicals she handled ruined her nails and dried out her skin. Even her aunt couldn’t repress a shudder when she looked at Sophie’s hands.
“You must be so happy for your cousin, Mr. Roe.” Laura tugged at the bellpull. “Do he and Lady Honoria plan to remain near Padley after the wedding, or will they relocate? Rumor has it that the Dowager Duchess will desert the area.”
“They’ll stay close by. Peter had hoped that Lady Honoria would move into Broadstone Cottage, but she’d rather set up her own establishment.”
A light knock heralded the entry of a servant.
“Could you make up a tea service for us, Molly?” Laura asked.
“Yes, Miss Tidmarsh.” Molly bobbed a curtsey. “This note just arrived for you, miss. From Mrs. Tidmarsh.”
“Thank you, Molly.” Laura accepted the note and waved it at Sophie with an apologetic smile. “You don’t mind…?”
“Oh, please open it,” Sophie urged. “What if it’s urgent?”
Laura cracked the seal. The paper rustled as she unfolded it. Sophie looked on with a touch of feigned anxiety, just as though she hadn’t written the note herself.
“It’s from Mama,” said Laura. “She wants me to bring an extra jar of plum preserves down to the school.”
“Right now?” Laura thought her mother very silly, so Sophie injected the slightest hint of disdain into her tone. “If you can’t spare Molly, I could drop them by the school when I go. It’s not far fromIron & Wine.”
“Oh, Mama won’t thank me for sending anyone else.” Laura fanned herself with the letter. “If I know my mother—and I do—she’s spied a young gentleman in the vicinity and will hold him captive until I’ve arrived.” She chuckled. “Poor fellow. I wonder how long she’ll keep him if I don’t show up?”
“You should go to her, then. I don’t mind.” Sophie stood and shook her skirts to smooth them. “I passed by the school on my way here. Mr. Allsop was walking in that direction.”
Laura dropped her pose, eyes narrowing. “I was under the impression that Mr. Allsop had been courting you, Miss Roe.”
“He has. Unfortunately.” Sophie smirked. “Why else would I be so quick to suggest that you go meet him?”
Laura Tidmarsh burst out laughing. “Oh, Sophie, I’d forgotten…”
Sophie interrupted her script to flash Laura a quick smile. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” They’d been friends when they were younger; might have remained so if Sophie’s life hadn’t taken such a turn.
“Perhaps we’ll see more of one another now. Thanks to Clive’s bequest?” Laura hesitated.
Sophie held her breath. She counted her heartbeats: one, two, three.
“Listen,” said Laura. “We’re old friends. Why don’t you wait here? Have a cup of tea while it’s hot. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Well, I—” Sophie tried to look abashed. She didn’t play these sorts of tricks very often, and success tasted sweet. “Thank you. I would enjoy the rest.”
“You should stop working,” replied Laura instantly. “I’m surprised you haven’t already. But we can talk about that when I return!”
Sophie hovered while Laura donned her coat and hat, retreating to the drawing room only when Laura trotted out the door, a little basket hanging from one arm. Before Molly arrived with the tea cart, Sophie tucked Mrs. Tidmarsh’s note—the note she’d forged—into her bodice.
Done and done.
She’d concocted a scenario she doubted Laura or her mother would question. It rolled along in the rutted track of long-established family dynamics: Laura’s complaints about Mrs. Tidmarsh’s assiduous matchmaking, and Mrs. Tidmarsh’s complaints about Laura’s excessive choosiness.
In a battle between facts and established beliefs, Sophie had found, beliefs generally won the day. That knowledge, more than her skill for mimicking handwriting, had unlocked the secrets of forgery to her.
If Laura tried to tease her mother about the note, and Mrs. Tidmarsh denied having written it, Laura would ignore the truth because it ran counter to her expectations. To her established belief. But, just in case, Sophie would carry the evidence home with her.
The mantle clock read twenty past. Mr. Tidmarsh—in reality Sophie; Mr. Tidmarsh had gone to visit family in Manchester—had sent Julian a message suggesting a visit at the half hour. So far, so good.
The cadenced crunch of hooves striking gravel filtered through the window. Sophie migrated to the door and peeked into the hall. Molly dashed past.
“Would you inform Mr. Tidmarsh that I’ve arrived?” Julian favored one hand as he dismounted and handed over the reins to his horse. He wore gray pantaloons, snug against his long legs and slim hips, the billowing folds of a heavy woolen cloak revealing in flashes his blue coat, cream-colored waistcoat and matching cravat.
Sophie made herself look, knowing that would help her face him. Julian wasn’t the kind of man she could look her fill at—a single glance was too much; any more than that was just more, unbearably more—but he didn’t need to see how badly he unbalanced her.
“Mr. Tidmarsh isn’t in,” replied the boy. “He’ll be gone all week, at least. Mrs. Tidmarsh is teaching at the school and Miss Tidmarsh just stepped out as well.”
“Fortunately, Miss Tidmarsh will soon return.” Sophie advanced into the corridor and crossed the short distance to the threshold.
Julian looked in her direction. Only the fine, almost colorless hairs on his head moved, rising and falling with the breeze. The fingers of one gloved hand flexed and his lips, white from the cold, thinned. But he didn’t speak, not even to greet her.
“Perhaps His Grace wouldn’t mind taking a turn with me while we wait?” Sophie gestured at the small ornamental pond and wrought-iron bench in the parkland that belted the house, the new grass sparse and wet.
Silently, Julian held out his arm. Sophie closed the distance between them and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, but he didn’t move until she pulled him forward.
His voice emerged low and stifled, his Adam’s apple working. “I thought you never wanted to see me again.”
“That hasn’t changed,” Sophie replied.
Julian’s forearm jerked in her grasp. Sophie looked up reflexively and he squinted back down at her, lean jaw tight. Pained. A flicker of movement drew her attention and she glanced down to see his free hand—the one he’d favored—clenched into a fist by his thigh.
“I owe you an apology,” he said suddenly.
“What?”
“I was wrong,” Julian said. “I asked you about Clive the Ninth, but I never listened to your answers. I should have. I believe you now. If the old duke knew who—or what—killed him, he didn’t want anyone else to find out.” He paused, swallowed. “I’ve decided to respect his wishes and drop the matter.”
Sophi
e felt… disappointed? Not that she wanted Julian harassing her. She didn’t. Not at all. But why this change of heart? When last they’d met, he’d been furious. She searched his expression for some clue, but he looked away.
He looked away?
“Julian—”
He interrupted. “I should have controlled my anger. I shouldn’t have frightened you.”
“You shouldn’t have,” Sophie agreed.
“I’m sorry.” He kept his face turned away but his voice had gone thick. She couldn’t doubt his sincerity.
“Julian.” Sophie rested her free hand on his upper arm, a gently sloping curve of lean muscle wrapped in layers of wool. “I wanted to talk to you because I have come to the conclusion that you are right. I believe that Clive was murdered.”
Quietly, still not moving, he asked, “Is that so?”
“I want to help you find out who is responsible.”
Julian’s whole demeanor changed. His posture softened, loosened. He smiled faintly. “I take it you wrote the letter I received from Mr. Tidmarsh?”
“I did.”
Julian bowed shallowly. “Nicely done, Miss Roe.”
Bemused, Sophie dipped into an equally shallow curtsey. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“If I may ask—what convinced you?”
“Peter and Lady Honoria.”
Julian reclaimed her arm and, with a gentle pressure, urged her forward. They circled around behind the empty bench, its seat still puddled with morning rain. A low stone wall blocked any farther advance, separating garden from pasture. A pair of wooly sheep paused their grazing to observe them with shiny black eyes.
“Clive swore that he would never permit them to marry,” Sophie continued. “He was adamant, completely fixed in his opinion.”
“And now the two are engaged,” Julian supplied. “I agree it’s tasteless—disrespectful, certainly—but suspicious?”
“Peter had begun courting Laura Tidmarsh.” Sophie nodded at the house. “Clive’s hostility had been so adamant, for so long, that he’d lost hope. His heart wasn’t in it, but…” Sophie shrugged. “It was Uncle Malcolm who advised him not to give up on Lady Honoria.”
