The coach driver rapped on the side of the carriage and called out, “We turn a bit here, heading due north toward the coast. Only another two miles or so to Blackwell Hall.”
“Thank heavens!” Kitty huffed. “It is hard to fathom that such a refined man as Blackwell comes from this hideous little corner of nowhere. Cornwall, indeed.”
“There!” she cried. “It is Blackwell, I am certain of it.”
At the top of a rise, between the road and the sea, sprawled an imposing and rather ancient-looking castle. It was an unusual hodgepodge of structures. What appeared to be an old stone keep dominated the crest of the hill, but a smaller, more elegant Palladian manse sprouted from the front of the hulking structure, as though the owners sought to hide the true nature of their home. Rather like draping a doily over an elephant, Mira thought.
From the south side of the stone castle, an enormous crenellated wall followed what must be the line of the cliff, and then extended out onto a rather treacherous-looking promontory. Out upon this spit of inhospitable rock there arose a forbidding tower, a stark and ominous edifice right out of the pages of a gothic novel. Nicholas’s tower.
As the rest of Mira’s family fell over one another in their efforts to get a glimpse of Blackwell, the carriage took an abrupt turn and began the ascent from the main road to the manor house. Mira bit back an unladylike oath when Aunt Kitty, struggling to keep her balance in the wildly swaying coach, planted a boot firmly on Mira’s toe.
The Fitzhenrys had only just righted themselves when the carriage rocked to a halt. They looked at one another in silence for a moment. Mira realized that, in that instant, she felt more of a familial bond with George, Kitty, and Bella than she ever had before. As much as they might dislike, even despise, one another, at that precise moment they were united by the tacit realization that they were wholly out-classed by the Ellerbys. George might play cards at White’s, Kitty and Bella might be accepted at Almack’s, and Mira might be welcome to tea in the home of a few titled bluestockings, but at heart they all knew they were frauds—interlopers in a Society that only just tolerated them. But the Ellerbys, murderers or not, were the genuine article, full-fledged aristocracy that could trace its lineage to the Domesday Book. If they chose to, the Ellerbys could eat the Fitzhenrys alive.
Collectively, the weary travelers took a fortifying breath and began to pile out of the carriage and into the heaven of fresh air. As soon as her feet were planted on the rocky Cornish soil, Mira found her gaze drawn to the tower, the tower in which she knew Nicholas resided. A dim and flickering light shone through the narrow windows encircling the top of the tower. From there, her eyes drifted inexorably to the curtain wall running between the tower and the main house.
With a sudden, icy blow, the realization struck her: Olivia had died there.
Mira stood staring at the merciless rocks that had ended Olivia’s life. She shivered with a sudden chill and, looking up from the rocky ground, saw a figure atop the curtain wall, standing in the gap between two battlements.
Despite the dark, Mira knew it was Nicholas, and she felt his stare on her even from that great distance. His presence held her captive. Of its own volition, her hand rose to her breast, and she gently brushed the tips of her fingers over the bulge of the blue enameled pendant she had worn inside her gown since the day she had received it. After a few moments, she timidly raised a hand in greeting.
She thought she saw a shiver of movement, as though perhaps Nicholas had waved back at her, but she could not be certain, and he abruptly turned and retreated toward the tower, his movement exaggerated by his limp, his figure flashing erratically between the battlements.
Clasping her hands to still their trembling, Mira forced her attention back to her family. Aunt Kitty was directing the coachman and a footman who had emerged from Blackwell in the unloading of luggage, while George strutted about shaking the cramps from his legs and Bella leaned against the side of the carriage in weary misery, her chest heaving as she took in great gulps of clean air.
Just as the last of the luggage was laid out on the drive, a short, square figure appeared at the door. Atop a solid body, with a bosom like an anvil, the woman had a dark Cornish complexion and a dour look to match.