The Whispers on the Moors Collection Page 3

  “I’m sorry.” He took a step closer. “I did not see you . . . I mean, I was not aware . . .”

  She did not pause for his explanation. She brushed past him so quickly that he barely had time to step out of her path. “Wait, Miss Barrett, please, I—”

  But she disappeared through the gate, leaving him alone with the wind and his memories.

  He considered chasing after her. If he ran, he could overtake her before she reached Eastmore’s outer walls. But if he caught up with her, what would he say?

  Graham looked back to his wife’s final resting place, and the sight of her name carved in stone made him momentarily forget about the woman running from the graveyard. Katherine. All these months, he realized, something in him had clung to the hope that it was all a mistake. That the letter was wrong, and his bride still waited for him in their little cottage on the grounds of Eastmore Hall. But now all trace of foolish hope departed. He would never again see Katherine’s contagious smile or feel the warmth of her hand in his. Anger pulsed from his core. He’d always assumed that if one of them were to die, it would be he, so dangerous was his profession. How could a merciful God allow someone so pure to die so young?

  He blinked away from the tombstone. He’d seen enough. But even as he turned, something caught his eye. A small book rested in the grass next to the grave. He knelt to retrieve it. The brown leather binding was smooth beneath his fingertips. He flipped it to read the spine. Psalms. Miss Barrett must have just now dropped it.

  He dried the volume on his outer coat and tucked it in his pocket, where his fingers brushed Katherine’s letter. With the commotion of encountering Miss Barrett and the sting of seeing the tombstone, he’d almost forgotten about it.

  The letter’s dark red wax seal broke easily as he slid a finger beneath it. He held his breath as he unfolded the letter. The strokes were wide, the letters shaky, but the script was surely Katherine’s.

  My dearest husband,

  My end is near. I am not frightened, for I am ready to meet my Saviour. My sadness lies in the fact that I shall never see you again nor live to see our daughter grow and thrive.

  I have named the child Lucille Katherine Sterling and left her in Miss Amelia Barrett’s care. Miss Barrett has been a loving friend to me since I came to Darbury and will ensure the child is raised in the ways of God. She will love our daughter, of this I am certain.

  I admit to sorrow that our time together was so brief. But this I tell you truly: I have loved you as much as any wife could love her husband, and my sincerest wish is for your happiness. Do not let your heart grow cold. Open it to loving our child, and if the Lord brings you love again, do not hesitate on my account.

  Grieve not for me, my dearest, for when you read this I will be amongst angels.

  All my love, Katherine

  Guilt weakened his arms. He lowered the letter and stared at the engraved stone slab. Had he really been so naive as to think he could be a husband? He was a naval captain, dedicated to his ship, bound to his crew, and sworn to serve the Crown. But now the sea seemed so very far away, and long-suppressed thoughts clouded his mind. Had he even realized how precious Katherine’s love had been? He should have told her when he had the chance.

  But now it was too late.

  He folded the letter and tucked it away for safekeeping. Katherine’s wishes seemed clear. She had wanted Amelia Barrett to care for the child while he was gone. But in order for that to happen, he would have to marry Miss Barrett.

  Blast if he was going to make the same mistake twice.

  Graham leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees, and stared at his brother. William Sterling fumbled with the trigger on a pistol, attempting to polish gunpowder residue from the engraved casing. When Graham could stand it no further, he pushed himself up from the chair and stood to his full height.

  “Who in blazes taught you to clean a pistol?” Graham snatched the weapon with one hand and the polishing cloth with the other. “At the rate you’re going, this will take you the entire day.”

  William leaned back and balanced on the back two legs of the carved chair. “Ah, the great sea captain believes his weaponry skills are superior to those of his simpleton brother. You know I’ve always preferred horses to firearms. Annoyed Father no end.”

  Graham ignored his brother’s taunt and turned the pistol over in his hand to examine the weapon’s fine craftsmanship. Smudges of gunpowder provided evidence of recent use. He closed one eye and looked down the pistol’s barrel, checking its straightness. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Fine, isn’t it?” William dropped the chair to its normal position and stood next to his brother. “Father bought it off a Frenchman. Not very patriotic, if you ask me.”

  Graham looked up from the pistol and studied the gilded portrait of their father hanging between two narrow windows. Even allowing for the difference in their builds, the resemblance between William and their late father was uncanny. Same cleft chin. Same sandy hair. Same light eyes, with a hint of mockery.

  Graham sat down and began to polish the pistol. “Like this, see?”

  William leaned over his shoulder. “I suppose you have use for a clean weapon in your line of employment, eh?”

  “Indeed.”

  William laughed a deep, hearty laugh and slapped Graham’s shoulder. “Good to have you home, Graham. How long has it been since you’ve been at Eastmore Hall? Fifteen years or better?”

  “Eighteen.” Graham could have told him the exact number of months, but he doubted William would care. Very few of those months had been spent on land. The sea had been his home for nearly all of his youth and into his manhood, and it wasn’t until he achieved the rank of captain a few years back that he’d returned to England for any length of time. That was when he traveled to Plymouth to take command of the ship he’d been assigned—and when he met Katherine. Even now, though the Miracle had only been docked in Plymouth for a week, his life at sea seemed a thousand miles away.

  He glanced up at his brother. “Place looks the same, mostly.”

  “Never changes.” William flopped down into a wingback chair and propped his pointed boots up on the edge of a nearby mahogany desk. “Dull as tombs around here, most of the time.”

  Graham surveyed the room. The heavy, crimson curtains still flanked the tall casement windows, and family portraits of all sizes still adorned the cream-and-gold foliage-patterned walls. The only notable difference was the absence of his mother’s portrait, which in his childhood had hung to the left of the intricate stone fireplace.

  Graham nodded toward the empty space. “Where is Mother’s portrait?”

  “Father had it moved to the drawing room.” William leaned his head back and folded his hands on his chest. “Why did you not return to Eastmore when you were last in England? I did not even hear of your marriage until that wife of yours arrived at Moreton Cottage. Quite a surprise, that was.”

  Graham stiffened at the comment. He didn’t want to talk about Katherine, especially not with William. Their courtship had been swift and intense, the wedding quite sudden. No doubt, he should have notified his brother, his only living relative, of the union. But so many years had passed since he and his brother had spoken. Even their letters had become nothing more than a yearly update, and he’d found himself reluctant to share something so personal as his marriage in such a missive. He’d never imagined that Katherine would travel to Moreton Cottage alone and meet William without his being present to make introductions.

  With all that in mind, he supposed he did owe his brother an explanation. Moreton Cottage belonged to Graham, of course, his only inheritance from the vast estate. All other assets had transferred to his brother upon his father’s death. Still, it must have been a shock when she appeared, two servants in tow.

  “I assure you, Katherine’s move to Darbury surprised me as well. I met her in Plymouth when I returned to England to assume command of the Miracle, and we married shortly thereafter. When my ship sailed, the plan was for her to remain in Plymouth with her mother. But apparently her mother died unexpectedly, so Katherine left the coast to set up housekeeping at Moreton Cottage. By the time I heard of it, I was in Halifax.”

  “Halifax—in Nova Scotia, right? I had wondered where you might be now, with that rogue Napoleon finally in exile.”

  Graham shook his head. “Even with Napoleon conquered, brother, we are still at war, and I’ve got a battered ship to prove it.”

  As if poking a festering wound, his brother’s questions continued. “What happened to your ship?”

  Graham considered exactly how much to reveal. He scratched his forehead and rubbed his hand down his face before speaking. “It was a close-range battle with an American frigate. We sustained substantial damage but prevailed and sailed back to Halifax for repairs. But the resources there were sorely depleted. That is why we have returned to England. As soon as the repairs are complete in Plymouth, we will return to Halifax.”

  William nodded toward the scar covering Graham’s hand. “The battle—so that is how you were . . .”

  Graham followed William’s gaze, then sucked in a breath. “No.”

  He said no more. William evidently understood, for he changed the subject. “What of your visit to Winterwood? They say George Barrett is in Leeds, due back tomorrow.”

  Graham held the pistol up to the fire’s light to check his work, then resumed polishing. “I saw Miss Barrett and my Lucy, no one else.”

  “Ah, yes, my pretty little niece and her even prettier guardian.” William removed his feet from the desk and sat up straight. “I must confess to some relief that Miss Barrett insisted on caring for your daughter. The situation seemed far more suitable, although of course I have tried—”

 
“No need for an explanation.” Graham waved his hand in dismissal. “Miss Barrett seems an ideal caretaker. In fact, I have arranged for Lucy to remain at Winterwood until I can make other arrangements.”

  William chuckled and leaned with his forearm on his knee. “Speaking of Winterwood, do you recall how, when we were children, we would climb the stone wall separating Eastmore’s south field into Winterwood’s orchard and steal apples?”

  Graham paused. A cloudy vision of himself and William climbing the gnarled elm materialized in his mind, but he could not recall an apple orchard—or climbing a wall with his brother, for that matter. “No.”

  William studied the toe of his boot. “I suppose that is what happens when one is out in the world, having adventures and sailing the seas.” William’s words grew pensive. “One forgets the happenings of sleepy country life.”

  Graham rested the clean pistol on his leg. Was that what William thought Graham’s life was like? An adventure? If that were indeed the case, he should be so lucky as to lead a completely unadventurous life. He changed the subject. “What do you know of Amelia Barrett?”

  William shrugged and stepped over to the sideboard. He uncorked a decanter of brandy and poured the amber liquid into the trumpet-shaped bowl of a glass goblet. “Want one?” Graham waved his hand in refusal, and William indulged in a long swig. “Miss Barrett? You’ve not fallen for her charms, have you? She’d be the one to pick, I’ll tell you. Rich as Midas, that one. And lovely.”

  “I find it odd that a woman of her situation is not yet wed.”

  “’Tisn’t odd if you know her uncle,” William exclaimed. “Keeps her under lock and key. ’Tis no secret he handpicked the man she’s to marry.”

  Graham frowned. “I don’t find that strange.”

  William threw his tawny head back and laughed. “Not strange, he says. I have it on good authority that dear old Uncle George has his sights set on Edward Littleton—that’s the scoundrel’s name—joining him in the family business.” William downed another drink and pointed his finger toward Graham. “I bet you ten to one that once the money from the Winterwood inheritance starts flowing into Barrett Trading Company coffers, things will suddenly get a little brighter for ol’ George Barrett.”

  William’s words simmered in Graham’s mind. An engagement to a man of her uncle’s choosing? The possibility of her inheritance being used to support her uncle’s business ventures? No wonder Miss Barrett was dismissive about her engagement. And yet another reason why she might be eager to be free of it. A seed of suspicion planted itself in his mind. Could Miss Barrett have other motives for wanting to marry him besides her love for Lucy?

  Graham resumed polishing. “Have you met Mr. Littleton?”

  William nodded. “He visited here a fortnight past to inquire about Eastmore’s west fields. Seems that once he’s master of Winterwood Manor he plans to make a few, ahem, improvements.”

  Graham stopped polishing. “What did you tell him?”

  “What do you think I told him? ‘Sorry, my friend. Can’t risk Winterwood getting any larger, nor Eastmore any smaller.’” William finished off his brandy and grabbed his coat off the chair. “I’m off for a ride. Care to join me? I just bought a new stallion in Birmingham last month. Capital animal—fast as blazes. Runs as if the devil himself is at his heels and takes a fence like a dream.”

  Graham shook his head. He needed to be alone. He needed to think. “Thank you, no. I need to see to some correspondence.”

  William shrugged. “If you want to meet Mr. Littleton, there’s a dinner tomorrow night at Winterwood Manor. Did Miss Barrett mention it? I believe it is to celebrate their upcoming nuptials. I received an invitation. Wasn’t planning to attend, but now I think the evening could prove entertaining. What do you say?”

  Curiosity prevailed. Graham took the pistol by the barrel and extended the handle to his brother. “I would not miss it.”

  The sun had set, and night had descended upon Winterwood Manor. Flickering candles and a freshly stoked fire provided ample illumination for the expansive dining room, the yellow glow glittering off the silver service and gilded frames adorning the olive-green walls. Aunt Augusta and Helena sat near Amelia at the mahogany table, their upcoming move to London the topic of discussion for most of the dinner. But their cheery excitement just aggravated the heaviness of Amelia’s heart.

  The captain’s refusal burned fresh in her memory, and every second that slipped past reaffirmed the consequence. Still, she harbored no regret for her actions. In fact, if she thought asking again could in some way sway the captain’s decision, she would ask him one thousand times. But with pointed melancholy she recalled the firm set of his square jaw and the determination in his gray eyes. He did not wish to marry, not even to secure a new mother for Lucy or the fortune that would come from being the master of Winterwood Manor.

  She studied the lamb fricassee and sweetbreads on her plate and pushed at the food with her fork. Her aunt and cousin’s chatter continued. The sounds of their voices were so familiar, so much a part of her home. Ever since her father died twelve years past and named her Uncle George guardian over both her and the estate, Amelia had lived here at Winterwood with her aunt, uncle, and cousin. But in little more than a month, all that would change. Once she and Edward wed, her uncle’s family would move to their new residence in London, and she would continue her life here at Winterwood—only as Mrs. Edward Littleton.

  Aunt Augusta’s head of fading hair bobbed with each word. The woman’s words always spilled forth in a rush, like a waterfall of unchecked thoughts. “Five weeks, dearest! Can you fathom it? I am counting down the days. Perhaps we should consider having new gowns made before departing—although of course the London seamstresses are far superior. By my word, Helena, this will be the season. Amelia has her match, and now you shall have your pick of suitors.”

  Helena’s golden eyes flicked toward Amelia.

  Now that Amelia has made her match. Amelia knew the words must have stung, and her heart went out to her cousin. When Uncle George first invited his colleague Edward to visit Winterwood Manor, he’d no doubt regarded him as a suitable match for either his daughter or his niece, and Helena’s interest in him had been evident. But Helena, for all of her charm and beauty, lacked the single asset Amelia possessed and the one quality that would catch Edward Littleton’s eye—a substantial inheritance.

  Helena quickly turned her attention back to her mother. “I am eager for Father and Mr. Littleton to return.”

  “I, too, look forward to Mr. Barrett’s return tomorrow, but I daresay our feelings are nothing to Amelia’s anticipation for the return of her Mr. Littleton.”

  The weight of her aunt’s attention shifted to her, and Amelia turned to see her aunt smiling at her as proudly as any guardian could. “Dear Mr. Littleton. You must be eager to see him.”

  Amelia’s spine stiffened at the sound of her future husband’s name. She pressed her napkin to her lips before returning it to her lap, refusing to look at Helena. “Indeed.”

  Her aunt continued. “I have instructed Cook to make pigeons en compôte for dinner. I have it on good authority that Mr. Littleton is fond of the dish.”

  Amelia forced words. “That is very considerate of you, Aunt.”

  Her aunt lowered her spoon to the table, surprise crossing her pointed features. “Why, Amelia, I should think you might show more enthusiasm. It has been more than two weeks since he last was here, has it not?”

  Amelia nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, Aunt. A fortnight.”

  “Two weeks is a long time to be separated from one’s love.”

  Separated from one’s love?

  Did she love Edward?

  At the beginning of their engagement, she had believed so. But now? So much had changed in the span of the past year that made her question the wisdom of her choice. And now, with Edward’s refusal to allow Lucy to remain at Winterwood once they wed, she realized he was not the man she’d thought she knew.

  “And what of the child?”

  Amelia jerked her head up at her aunt’s indifferent reference to Lucy. Immersed in her own thoughts, she had lost track of the discussion.