Yorkshire, 1881. Imogene York has one job: authenticate a dead man’s signature and witness the reading of his will. It should take an afternoon.
But the moment she arrives at Trelawney Grange, she can tell the people gathered to hear Lord Alaric Trelawney’s final wishes aren’t waiting on an inheritance. They’re waiting on something they’ve spent fifteen years hoping would stay buried.
Every person in that house-the doctor, the solicitor, the reverend, the aristocrat, the household staff who move through it like they were never there at all-is bound together by a secret from one terrible summer years before, and no one will say what it is. As the snow closes in and the will’s true purpose comes to light, Imogene realizes she wasn’t hired to verify a signature. She was hired to witness a reckoning fifteen years in the making, and there is no walking away from the past.
A gripping Victorian mystery about the debts the past never stops collecting, and the lengths people will go to keep a secret buried or to finally bring it to light.
EXCERPT:
He shivered as a draft moved through the room. He sorted through documents spread out before him, organizing them into careful piles. He thought about the conversation that had occurred and anger exploded inside his head. The upstart!
What did he know about anything? He, who had studied with Dr. John Snow, so renowned in his field. His throat was dry. He pulled the decanter of whiskey toward him and poured. The amber liquid splashed on a piece of paper but he brushed at it dismissively.
He drank it quickly and it seared his throat but he poured himself another. He contemplated the glass this time before drinking. He should have known. Those do-gooder types didn’t understand the true sacrifice he was making. They couldn’t see the big picture. They couldn’t see what was really happening. What he was trying to do. He set the glass back down without taking a sip and saw that his hand was shaking. Blast it! It had all been going so well. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Now what.
He looked about the room. The draft no longer bothered him and he felt a sweat break out on his brow. There was much to do. But most importantly, he must find his medical notes. They had been right here on his desk. He was certain. It was a necessity. No one would have come into his room and removed them, had they? No. They wouldn’t dare.
He pondered it. Perhaps his assistant, the new fellow fresh from school, had simply moved them. No. He wouldn’t. He had expressly told him not to meddle with his things. He didn’t like it and he had everything just as he liked it. So where were they, dammit!
A knock sounded at the door and almost caused him to jump. The hour was late. Who could it be?
“It’s me,” the familiar male voice called out.
His benefactor. The one with all the purse strings. He must play the part at least for him.
“Just a moment,” he called back.
He looked at his reflection in the window and saw that his hair was disheveled. He took out a comb and quickly brushed his wavy hair in place. The desk was in disarray and he quickly placed the papers in neat stacks to show the appearance of order.
Jesus, what awful timing. He called the man to enter and the visitor did, looking about the room.
“Am I interrupting you?” the older man asked.
“Certainly not,” he replied. “I was looking for some misplaced medical notes. That blasted assistant must have moved them. I told him not to meddle.”
The older man settled himself into the red leather chair. “I wanted to speak with you privately. It’s important.” He swallowed visibly and appeared to be trying to find the words.
“The hour is quite late.”
“It is. You’ll forgive me.” The older man nodded. “I would have waited but—” He almost stumbled over his words.
“It must be something of great importance to bring you here at this late hour,” he noted.
His benefactor seemed to take in the words and almost seemed dazed. “Yes,” he said in agreement. “Something most concerning has reached my ears, most concerning,” he repeated for emphasis.
The man had no time for this. What’s more, he didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. It was irritating that in all of his important work, he had to give the man anything. For Christ’s sake! Didn’t this feather-head realize what was at stake? But he steeled himself and responded as he should.
“What is this concern?”
But instead of answering outright, his benefactor merely looked about the room. “I scarcely know where to begin.”
In a flash of blinding anger, he resisted the urge to stand up and reach over the table to slap the man’s face. Who did he think he was? How dare he presume anything? The man might have status and money but little else. Just because he had been born into the right family, what else did he have? Brains? Certainly not. If he had been born a common person, he would be selling fish at the docks.
But he calmed himself. He knew who he was. He was the one with brilliance and brains, decidedly so. He was the one who had risen and become the man he was today. He was the shining star. But he needed the older man’s patronage. He knew that. He would have to play the game, then, and pretend to care about whatever was preying on the man’s mind.
If the man told him something stupid like they had not enough places set at the dinner table or the china was mismatched, he might strangle him.
Instead, his expression stayed mild, untroubled. “Tell me the concern. Perhaps together we can alleviate the issue.”
Relief eased across his benefactor’s face. “Yes. This must be a mistake. It can’t be what I’ve been told. I heard something from my sister, but she can ramble. But then the vicar came to me—”
“Oh yes?”
“And the family solicitor—”
“Him as well? My, my,” he said, trying to pretend to care. “What is it they are saying? Tell me quick.”
He only hoped he would tell the story quickly so he could be on his way.
Then without preamble, his benefactor began to speak. He laid out the whole issue, the concerns, the rumors and the whispers that were being spoken about and how grave the matter was. He mentioned his sister’s concerns and a young man who had spoken to the solicitor’s son and on and on the man babbled. He thought if the man was a tenor opera singer, his aria would last thirty minutes. It was exhausting and supremely irritating.
“It’s fantastic – is it not?” His benefactor said. “Most fantastic. I can hardly fathom it myself. I told Delly she was ridiculous. She should know better than to pass on rumors.”
“That is – quite a story,” he agreed as he pulled the decanter to him once more. “Quite a story.”
He poured the man a drink and pushed it across the desk to him. He took up his glass from earlier and took a long sip. “What proof is there of these allegations?”
His benefactor’s shoulders dropped. “That’s just it. Some rumors and whispers. But as it’s reached my ears, as your benefactor, we must discuss it.”
“My, my.” He set his glass down. “And what are you prepared to do?”
“Get to the bottom of it!” His patron said passionately. “Good God, man! These are lies, slander! I’ll not have you slandered! You could sue in court. I’ll be your witness,” the older man’s face grew red with exertion.
“Very decent of you,” he murmured. He swirled the amber liquid in the glass absently. “Very decent of you indeed.”
“Of course, my dear chap,” the older man looked relieved. “Least I could do.”
The mantel clock chimed the half hour.
“That’s of course assuming these rumors are false,” he said quietly, taking another sip. “What if they are true?”
His benefactor looked slightly irritated. “This is no time for jests, old boy,” the older man said curtly. “The rumors are grave. I might even say macabre.”
“Macabre?” he echoed.
“Yes!”
But he just continued to stare at his patron while swirling the liquor in the glass.
“Wait. What are you – what are you saying?” His benefactor suddenly straightened up in his chair. “In plain English. Gentleman to gentleman. I demand you tell me what is happening.”
“Your witnesses speak the truth.”
The silence between the two men was deafening.
“No. No, that can’t be.” His patron grew pale.
“I assure you, it is,” he said, his mouth curving.
His benefactor suddenly looked sick in the low gas lights. “No. I- I don’t believe it,” he whispered.
“Well, you certainly don’t need to believe it.”
“But if the witnesses are correct, and the rumors are true,” he visibly swallowed, “you’re a—” He shook his head.
“Yes? Go on.” He was amused at the turn of conversation. The man was an idiot.
“You’re a monster.”
He sat back in his chair and surveyed his patron. “Come now. There’s no need for dramatics.”
But his benefactor stood up then. He looked flushed now.
“I demand you refute these rumors laid at your door! I demand it!”
Calmly without saying a word, he pulled a cigarette from his silver case and lit it. He took a long drag before responding. “The rumors are not rumors,” he said steadily. “Your witnesses are correct.”
The man’s face drained of color.
“I’m leaving tonight,” he told him. “There need not be any fuss or theatrics. I will leave quietly and continue my work in India. The matter will end and you will squash the rumors.”
“The hell I will!” His face was now mottled with anger. “The hell I will!”
He took another sip of whiskey completely unbothered by the man’s outburst.
“If these things are true, you should be imprisoned! Hanged even!”
“No, sir. I won’t be.”
“Why won’t you be?” The patron demanded.
“For the simple reason that you helped me. Your family helped me, your vicar helped me. You are complicit. Whether you like it or not,” he told him.
“No,” he whispered and fell into the chair. “I’m not. That’s not what I did. I thought – I thought you were helping. I thought you were a savior. We all thought that.”
“Hmph! Did you really? Or did you also want to be involved with the discovery of a lifetime?” he said coolly. “Perhaps you wanted to even take a bit of credit as my benefactor.”
His benefactor sputtered out several words but nothing made sense until he finally whispered, “How dare you?”
He poured himself another glass enjoying himself and the interaction. “So. As I said. I will leave quietly. You will let everyone know that I was called to India of the utmost importance, and nothing else will be said.”
“You can’t get away with this,” he said weakly. “You can’t.”
Author Bio:
Nicola is a Los Angeles native. Early in elementary school, Nicola had a great fondness for reading and began to write creatively. She graduated from university with a degree in communications and has held a variety of positions in journalism, education, government and non profit.
Nicola has traveled extensively throughout Europe, China, Central America and Egypt and loves all things historical.
She has nineteen historical romance and mystery novels on Amazon.
https://linktr.ee/authornicolaitalia
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