The Vanishing at Loxby Manor, Abigail Wilson [best value ebook reader .TXT] 📗

He did demand that Miles leave the estate. Therewere terms to his exit.”

“As there should have been, but Mr. Cavanagh knew full well Miles planned to depart in the morning. He told him so in my presence.Mr. Cavanagh was more than gracious enough to grant us that. The whole blasted business was arranged for me. Mr. Cavanaghfelt compelled to do right by me, and Miles threw all of it away. Believe me, that boy was happy enough at the time to agreeto Mr. Cavanagh’s commands. Something else must have transpired to cause such urgency that night.”

“Perhaps Seline proposed an elopement and they set off at once,” I said.

A look of doubt blew once again across Mr. Lacy’s weathered face. “I tell you right here and now my nephew was afraid, Miss Halliwell.I don’t care what this note looks like. He was afraid. Something must have got beneath that tough skin of his, and he sawno recourse but to leave Loxby Manor as soon as possible. It is the only conclusion I can come to.” He plunged his hand intohis pocket and retrieved the note, shaking it in his hand. “He must have left this letter to appease me.”

Piers crossed his arms, tapping his finger against his jacket sleeve. “Did you recognize the handwriting?”

“It’s his all right. No doubt there.” He spread the letter into the light.

Piers shrugged. “I cannot say I have any recollection of Miles’s handwriting, so I will take your word that this is his.”

I moved in close to Piers, scanning quickly what I could of the script.

Uncle,

I write this in haste as I depart Loxby Manor for the last time. I’ve been granted a lucky opportunity for protection, and I would be a fool not to take it. My monetary troubles will be over soon, and I hope you can rejoice in my newfound fortune. Such is the way in life. One man’s trouble is another man’s gain, or something like that. I shall always remember you stuck your neck out to help me. Consider my leaving straightaway as a favor for you.

Miles

Mr. Lacy ran his hand through his hair. “What I don’t understand is if that nephew of mine meant to flee with Miss Cavanaghto the Scottish border”—his eyes flashed as he looked up—“why wouldn’t he simply say so? Moreover, where the devil are theynow?”

*  *  *

That night I returned to my bedchamber to find something of a surprise. A square, white card lay propped on my escritoire.The unexpected flash of white startled me at first. That is, until I moved a bit closer.

Overcome, my hand flew to my mouth, for I knew just what it was.

Piers had loved to study plants since we were children. He kept a journal where he recorded his various experiments in the garden. He gathered seeds from all over the world, and once the plants grew to adulthood, he’d sketched every inch of the beautiful creations. I used to sit and watch him for hours as he detailed every last curve of the flower, sculpting the delicate shade of the petals. Once I even grew an orange tree in our hothouse from a seed he gave me.

It wasn’t until our secret courtship that he began drawing the flowers only for me. He would pen out each plant’s Latin nameon the back and leave the sketches in various places where I would be sure to find them. I kept each one in a book in my roomwhere I then spent hours admiring them.

Strange that I’d not thought of those drawings in years. I took the card into my shaky hands.

A chrysanthemum. The flower of friendship.

I melted onto the bed, pressing the paper to my chest for a long moment before holding it out once again to read the Latinname on the back, but the words didn’t seem correct. What Piers had written was a phrase, not the flower’s name.

I’d studied Latin years ago when Piers had been working with a tutor. Slowly, I mouthed out the words he’d written, journeyingback into my memories.

Cras enim a die.

“Tomorrow is a new day,” I said aloud, proud I’d remembered the vocabulary before the deeper meaning sank in. It was one ofthe sentences we’d studied together. I ran my finger along the chrysanthemum’s petals, then closed my eyes. He’d rememberedtoo.

I stood to place the drawing in my bedside table drawer when a flash of light out the window caught my eye. My heart constricted as I rushed to the glass. The glow seemed to move across the edge of one of the remaining walls of Kinwich Abbey, like a ghost, bobbing and weaving in the night, illuminating a dark hooded figure.

The spectral monk?

A transient chill slithered up my arms, prickling my hairs to rise. And then nothing.

The light vanished.

*  *  *

It was two days later when Mrs. Cavanagh received the much-anticipated correspondence from Piers’s uncle Charles, which shepromptly shared with the group of us gathered in the drawing room.

My dear sister,

I have searched every thoroughfare from East Whitloe to Gretna Green and have come up empty-handed. If the runaways journeyed to Scotland, they most certainly did not come to Gretna Green. I shall make haste back to Northampton where a local innkeeper swears he saw a gentleman that matched Miles Lacy’s description who was accompanied by a person he claimed was his sister. Seline perhaps? The gentleman gave his name to the inn as Fitzgerald. Do not lose hope. I shall endeavor to come up with the pair, although at this point we must assume they are already married or shall be so very soon.

Your loving brother,

Charles

Avery flopped against the back of the sofa. “See, Mama, it is not as bleak as we once thought. Uncle Charles will come up with her.” Though Avery made a show of addressing his mother, I couldn’t help but feel he spoke more for Piers’s and my benefit.

Mrs. Cavanagh’s face brightened before it dissolved into a heavy sigh. “But to be married to