away…”
Another roar of thunder shook the walls. “Sweet Jesus, it’s right above us.”
“We’re safe inside.” But somehow his pitiful attempt at assurance didn’t convince him. The hairs at the back of his neck rose, and he tried to shake off the pounding in his head.
A crack lashed through the house, the thunder rattling the manor walls.
“Oh, my God.”
“What?” Gideon followed her stare. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach. That last whip of thunder shaking the house had shifted Bartholomew Walker’s portrait. It hung on precariously, tilted to the side. “Damn!”
He jumped up and grabbed the gilt frame to straighten it, but the portrait wouldn’t stay in place. “I have to take it down..” Gently, he pulled it away from the wall, making sure the loop attached to the nails didn’t rip chunks off the wall. He set it down, looking at it. This close up, and with little light in the room, something in the expression of the long-dead man struck him; a mean streak in the eyes, the hard line of the mouth. The face of a bully.
“Gideon,” Minnie whispered and he swirled around. Her eyes wide, she pointed at the place where the portrait had hung but moments earlier. “Look!”
Chapter Seven
Minnie’s heart pounded in her ears. She swallowed hard as she watched Gideon.
“A nook.”
A secret hiding place.
The square opening in the wall was just above his head. Gideon leaned forward on his tiptoes. “Papers.” He reached inside and pulled out a leather bound file, secured with string. Gently, he brushed off a layer of dust and placed it on the desk. With deft fingers, he untied the bow and opened it.
Minnie circled the desk and stood next to him. “What are these?” She edged closer, her arm brushing his. Her skin tingled through the thin fabric of her nightdress.
His gaze was focused on the sheets spread out in front of them. “Letters. See here.” He pulled out a small bundle of envelopes.
Minnie held her breath. Another roll of thunder cracked through the air, now further away. Instinctively, she edged nearer to Gideon, reassured by the warmth emanating from his body. “Addressed to your grandfather…”
He nodded. “Yes.” Using his fingertips, he extracted the sheet from the envelope and unfolded it, scanning the contents. “My God.”
“What?” She was close enough to feel his breath on her neck as she read the content. “Oh, poor Hettie.”
“Well, I’m sure Bartholomew didn’t see her that way. A wife writing love letters to another man–a married man given the date here–wouldn’t endear her to her husband.” His tone cynical, yet with a flicker of admiration, he returned the letter into its envelope and picked up a small, bound notebook. “Now, what’s this?”
Minnie’s eyes widened as he opened the first page. “A diary?” The writing was identical to the letter. “It must be Hettie’s.”
“Yes. Here’s a paragraph about how much she missed Rufus and what–” He moved away from her, blocking her view. “Perhaps it’s not for unmarried ladies to see.”
“Oh, suddenly!” Minnie tutted. “Never mind the fact that the unmarried lady in question caught an intruder–you–in her house, discussed how a distant relative left her husband to join her widowed lover and now browses through papers meant to be kept secret forever.”
“There is that.” He cocked his head, smiling.
“Let me see!” She held out a hand, and he gave her the diary. Flicking through the pages, Henrietta’s writing provided a sad glimpse into her life. “Listen to this: Bartholomew did it again. With only three days to the garden party at the vicarage, I have a black eye and my wrists and arms are covered in bruises. Fortunately, nobody can see the marks on my body beneath my clothes. But my face? I hid three bottles of port this week, yet he always finds them. Dear God, what can I do? ” Minnie’s voice faltered, her heart going out to the woman.
Another roar of thunder shook the walls. “Sweet Jesus, it’s right above us.”
“We’re safe inside.” But somehow his pitiful attempt at assurance didn’t convince him. The hairs at the back of his neck rose, and he tried to shake off the pounding in his head.
A crack lashed through the house, the thunder rattling the manor walls.
“Oh, my God.”
“What?” Gideon followed her stare. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach. That last whip of thunder shaking the house had shifted Bartholomew Walker’s portrait. It hung on precariously, tilted to the side. “Damn!”
He jumped up and grabbed the gilt frame to straighten it, but the portrait wouldn’t stay in place. “I have to take it down..” Gently, he pulled it away from the wall, making sure the loop attached to the nails didn’t rip chunks off the wall. He set it down, looking at it. This close up, and with little light in the room, something in the expression of the long-dead man struck him; a mean streak in the eyes, the hard line of the mouth. The face of a bully.
“Gideon,” Minnie whispered and he swirled around. Her eyes wide, she pointed at the place where the portrait had hung but moments earlier. “Look!”
Chapter Seven
Minnie’s heart pounded in her ears. She swallowed hard as she watched Gideon.
“A nook.”
A secret hiding place.
The square opening in the wall was just above his head. Gideon leaned forward on his tiptoes. “Papers.” He reached inside and pulled out a leather bound file, secured with string. Gently, he brushed off a layer of dust and placed it on the desk. With deft fingers, he untied the bow and opened it.
Minnie circled the desk and stood next to him. “What are these?” She edged closer, her arm brushing his. Her skin tingled through the thin fabric of her nightdress.
His gaze was focused on the sheets spread out in front of them. “Letters. See here.” He pulled out a small bundle of envelopes.
Minnie held her breath. Another roll of thunder cracked through the air, now further away. Instinctively, she edged nearer to Gideon, reassured by the warmth emanating from his body. “Addressed to your grandfather…”
He nodded. “Yes.” Using his fingertips, he extracted the sheet from the envelope and unfolded it, scanning the contents. “My God.”
“What?” She was close enough to feel his breath on her neck as she read the content. “Oh, poor Hettie.”
“Well, I’m sure Bartholomew didn’t see her that way. A wife writing love letters to another man–a married man given the date here–wouldn’t endear her to her husband.” His tone cynical, yet with a flicker of admiration, he returned the letter into its envelope and picked up a small, bound notebook. “Now, what’s this?”
Minnie’s eyes widened as he opened the first page. “A diary?” The writing was identical to the letter. “It must be Hettie’s.”
“Yes. Here’s a paragraph about how much she missed Rufus and what–” He moved away from her, blocking her view. “Perhaps it’s not for unmarried ladies to see.”
“Oh, suddenly!” Minnie tutted. “Never mind the fact that the unmarried lady in question caught an intruder–you–in her house, discussed how a distant relative left her husband to join her widowed lover and now browses through papers meant to be kept secret forever.”
“There is that.” He cocked his head, smiling.
“Let me see!” She held out a hand, and he gave her the diary. Flicking through the pages, Henrietta’s writing provided a sad glimpse into her life. “Listen to this: Bartholomew did it again. With only three days to the garden party at the vicarage, I have a black eye and my wrists and arms are covered in bruises. Fortunately, nobody can see the marks on my body beneath my clothes. But my face? I hid three bottles of port this week, yet he always finds them. Dear God, what can I do? ” Minnie’s voice faltered, her heart going out to the woman.
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