Flight From Blithmore (5 page)
Six
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Death at the Manor
In
Isabelle’s youth
, Lady Oslan had been a tall, slender, majestic
being whose principle endeavor had been to put her family into the center of
Richterton’s social circles. However, when Isabelle turned ten, her mother’s
health took a sharp, unexplainable turn, and over the last nine years, the
elegant woman had gradually wilted into a fragile, aged invalid who slept more
than twelve hours on a normal day. Most mornings, Isabelle read to her mother
from a book of stories handed down through the family, spoke about her plans
for the future, or brushed her mother’s silver hairs out of her face when a
strong draft blew through a window. It was imperative that Lady Oslan have
someone in the home within earshot at all times, and since Lord Oslan wouldn’t
answer her summons, Isabelle and Norbin bore the responsibility together.
For
three days after Henry’s disastrous meeting with Lord Oslan, Isabelle and Henry
met in the secrecy of night. She spent the rest of the time in her mother’s
room trying to raise the frail woman’s spirits, but her efforts were futile.
Lady Oslan’s condition continued to deteriorate.
On
the fourth day, Isabelle simply had to get out of the manor. Hearing from
Norbin that her father intended to eat lunch with one of his few friends, Isabelle
sent a message to Henry telling him to expect her around noon. Norbin would
ring a bell from the back door if Lord Oslan came home earlier than expected.
She
and Henry focused their meal conversation on places they wanted to visit,
pretending as though they might go on a very long vacation. Isabelle was
reluctant to return home, but the sky threatened a rainstorm. Their picnic
lunch went well over an hour, but was still much shorter than she would have
liked. She left promising Henry that she’d try to visit him again before she
retired for the evening, and returned home wearing a smile stuck to her face.
Norbin was in the kitchen scrubbing dishes and watching her with a pleased
expression on his face.
“Do
you need help?” she asked him.
“I’ve
told you before, Master Henry wouldn’t like it if I let you. Your hands are too
well-made, Miss Isabelle. Oh, and before I forget. A letter from Master James
arrived today.”
Isabelle
was about to comment when she heard her mother’s bell ringing upstairs.
“Excuse
me, Miss—”
“No,
Norbin.” Isabelle dried her hands and flattened her dress. “I’ll see to her.”
The ringing became more urgent as Isabelle reached the stairs, so she quickened
her pace to Lady Oslan’s room.
Her
mother’s colorless, quaking hand clutched the bell tightly, her lids were
closed, making her face appear even more sallow without the natural color of
her eyes. Profuse sweat dampened her face and hair, plastering it to her scalp
and cheeks.
“Mother,
what’s the matter?” She rushed to the bedside. “Are you in pain?”
A
little smile grew on the pale pink lips of Lady Oslan. “I’m dying, Isabelle.”
“Mother,
don’t talk that way,” Isabelle pleaded. “I’ll get Norbin.”
Lady
Oslan reached out and took Isabelle’s hand. Her eyes opened and she seemed
happy, despite her anguished state. In fact, Isabelle noticed her mother was
more alert than she had been in months. “Please listen. I’m beyond Norbin’s
care and yours. Will you believe me?”
Isabelle
sobbed twice. “No, Mother. I won’t believe that. We’ll do everything we can and
then you’ll be—”
“You’ve
already done everything a daughter can do for a mother. Let me help you now.”
“Have
faith, Mother.” She tried to sound brave, but tears betrayed her. Why did this
have to happen today? Life seemed too dark to face without her mother’s
guidance.
“You
must listen to me, Isabelle, or I will not be able to help you at all.”
Lady Oslan’s voice had a soothing effect.
Isabelle
wiped her eyes and nodded. “Alright, I’m listening.”
“Pay
attention to me. When I married your father, my parents gave me a large sum as
a dowry. Your father spent most of it, but our marriage contract stated that
some of it belonged solely to me for as long as I wished to keep it.”
Isabelle
remembered her parents fighting over the money on multiple occasions, but her
mother had never caved to Lord Oslan’s demands. On James’ sixteenth birthday,
Lord Oslan announced that James had one year to make arrangements to leave and
start supporting himself. When James left at age seventeen, Lady Oslan made it
a point of giving her son the money. That decision had led to one of the
biggest altercations Isabelle had ever witnessed.
Her
mother touched Isabelle’s cheek to get her attention. “Recently, I promised
your father that if he gave Henry his permission to marry, not only could he
demand from Henry a bride price, but I would also give him one thousand
crowns.”
Isabelle
breathed sharply, trying to grasp all this information. “That’s impossible!
We’ve been nearly penniless since James—”
“I
never gave the money to James.”
This
news stunned Isabelle, and for several seconds the only sound in the room came
from the gears of Lady Oslan’s clock ticking away the time. “But I saw you give
him—”
Lady
Oslan could barely move her head side to side, but the effort silenced
Isabelle. “I gave him a bag of coppers. I tried to give him the money, but he
refused. We tricked your father into thinking it was gone.”
“Where
has it been all this time?”
“In
banks earning interest—for the last seven years. I had the money returned to me
only weeks ago when I sensed I would need proof of it to barter with your
father. He had no idea until I showed him one of my receipts, but he doesn’t
know where the money resides or the exact amount.”
“Why
are you telling me this now? Please let me get you a physician.”
Lady
Oslan coughed several times, but gestured
no
to Isabelle. “I would have
told you sooner, but I feared if your father pressed you for answers—threatened
you—you would have told him.”
“No,
Mother, never.”
“Think,
Isabelle,” Lady Oslan insisted. “Your father still holds great sway over you,
especially with your desire to marry Henry. He can use your feelings as a
powerful lever.”
“I
would be firm.”
“That
remains to be seen. There isn’t a thousand crowns in the coffer now.”
“How
much is left? Why not leave it where he can’t reach it?”
Her
mother licked her lips and caught her breath before continuing. Each word took
great effort. “When I die, your father receives the money without question. I
have no control over the gold if it is tied up in banks. I had Norbin remove
it—a sense of foreboding. Now I need you to take the gold and give it to
Henry.”
“Why
not will it to me and James?”
Lady
Oslan pointed to the water pitcher, which Isabelle hastened to get. Her mother
drank two large mouthfuls from her goblet and coughed up half of it. Isabelle
wiped her mother’s mouth with a towel and eased her back down to the bed. She
said a silent prayer, begging God to spare her mother.
“Part
of my marriage agreement states that my first heir is my spouse. Under the laws
of Blithmore, it cannot be willed to anyone else unless your father agrees. I
had five lawyers review this.”
“Unless
he opens the coffer and finds nothing there?”
Lady
Oslan smiled. Her eyes became dim. “You must do it quickly—before your father
returns. If the money is gone, it will be believed that I spent it. He can do
nothing about that. You will need help moving it, and Norbin is too old.”
“Norbin
and I can manage a thousand crowns together.”
Lady
Oslan coughed and shook her head. Isabelle offered more water, but her mother
declined. “The coffer holds over fifteen hundred double crowns.”
Isabelle
reeled backward. “Mother! That’s enough money—”
“To
build Henry a second woodshop and furnish it. That’s why he must have it. I
gave your father the choice: a thousand crowns and allow you to marry Henry, or
never see the money again.” Lady Oslan’s face paled. Isabelle finally realized
her mother’s death was near. “Henry has so much talent. I am sure . . .
wherever you go, you’ll be fine. The coffer is buried at the hedge. Only Norbin
knows exactly where.”
Isabelle’s
tears fell as she clenched her mother’s hand to prevent Death’s pull. Lady
Oslan’s face tightened into an awful grimace. Seeing her mother in such pain
crumbled Isabelle’s spirit.
“Isabelle.”
Lady Oslan had to whisper between breaths. “Isabelle, if you wish . . . to be
with Henry . . . you must get the chest . . . before your father returns home.
Do you understand me, Isabelle? You must—before he returns. He often looks in
on me, checking to see if—if I’m—He has plans, ideas, and if you give him time,
he will make your life more miserable than he made mine.”
“I
will, Mother,” she answered through her cries, “even if Norbin has to bar the
door, but I won’t leave your side right now.”
Lady
Oslan’s face grew more wrinkled, and for a moment Isabelle felt her mother’s
surge of agony. “Thank you, Isabelle,” she muttered softly. “I am glad your
father is away, but—but I wish James were here.”
“Me,
too.” With her free hand, Isabelle put a cool cloth on her mother’s head. “Are
you comfortable, Mother?”
Lady
Oslan squeezed her eyes shut tightly. “Tell me again how your wedding will
look.”
Isabelle
calmed herself and then began to describe in detail her dreams for her wedding
ceremony. She talked about her gown, the flowers she would put in her hair and
around her wrists, and what Henry would wear. Then she explained how she wanted
James to give her away, and sang to her mother the bridal song she would sing
to Henry. As she finished the song, her mother’s breathing quickened and the
trembling in her hands lessened until they were far too
still. Hope left
Isabelle, and she tried to accept her mother’s death. “I will miss you,
Mother,” she whispered. “Don’t go. Don’t leave.”
“No,
no, it’s alright . . . we’ll be together again.” Lady Oslan’s voice was barely
louder than a breeze. Then her eyes lost their focus, and with her last breath,
she said, “Tell James to climb the windy side.”
The Coffer
Isabelle
opened
her mouth to ask her mother what that strange last utterance meant, but Lady
Oslan’s eyes softly closed and her chest rose no more. A tiny sound of surprise
left Isabelle’s mouth, and she gasped for air as her vision began to darken and
blur. Her anguish in that moment was tortuous. She thought she would cry for
hours before being able to calm down, but she underestimated her own strength.
Something inside her, a spot of warmth, began deep in her chest. The warmth
spread until it filled her with a burning heat that gave her the focus she
needed to obey her mother’s dying wish.
With
tenderness, she covered her mother up to her chin so anyone looking in would
think Lady Oslan was sleeping. Then she let go of her self-pity, drew in a
shaky breath, and hurried downstairs.
“Norbin!”
she called as she reached the back door, “Fetch a spade and meet me at the far
hedge.”
Norbin
tried to sputter a question, but Isabelle raised a hand and repeated the order
with increased urgency.
Isabelle
sprinted across the lawn. The rain that had been threatening at lunch now fell
lightly, making the grass on the slope glisten. As she passed the hedge, she
wondered which piece of earth covered her mother’s treasure. When she burst
into Henry’s woodshop, her breaths came in sharp pants. A cry of surprise came
from the far southwest corner where Henry stood.
“Henry?”
she called out.
“Isabelle?”
Not Henry. Brandol. “What’s it you want?”
“I
need Henry now. It’s urgent!”
Brandol
stepped closer. It wasn’t the first time she’d mistaken the two at a distance.
“Boss’s on delivery,” he explained, taking off his work gloves. “Took his
‘prentices with him.”
“Can
you help me?”
Brandol
glanced back to his work and then back to her. “I s’pose.”
She
led him to the hedge. Norbin was coming down from the manor as fast as his
skinny, wobbly legs would carry him with not one, but two spades.
“Follow
me,” he wheezed to them, somehow understanding exactly what was going on. As
Brandol obeyed, his face wore all the confusion Isabelle had felt only a short
while ago.
The
afternoon sunlight dimmed as darker clouds gathered rapidly above them. The air
was thick with a steady breeze that made the rain fall at a mild slant.
Isabelle prayed that her father would be gone long enough for them to get the
gold.
Norbin
stopped only a few yards over from the spot where Henry and Isabelle normally
met in secret at night. Isabelle wondered if he had chosen this spot with them
in mind.
“How
deep is it?” she asked.
“It
took the man who delivered it almost an hour to bury it,” Norbin wheezed.
“Dig,
Brandol,” Isabelle said, thrusting a spade at him. As she made to start, Norbin
stopped her.
“My
Lady, please allow me to—”
“Norbin,
you are a dear,” Isabelle said as she brushed hair out of her face, “but you’re
too old to do this.”
“No,
Miss, it’s not that. If your father sees you dirty . . .”
“I
have no other choice,” she said as she scooped the first lump of dirt.
Several
minutes passed in silence as Isabelle and Brandol dug. Norbin watched
anxiously, his gaze going from the house to the digging and back. The rain
continued to fall, softening the dirt they worked at. Isabelle was grateful
that Brandol did not stop to ask questions. She bent her will on unearthing the
coffer before her father came home. A low rumble sounded overhead, and in a
matter of seconds heavier drops splattered her face.
The
dirt grew sloppier until it turned to mud, slowing them down. They dug faster
to compensate until, at last, they struck something solid. Isabelle threw aside
her shovel and frantically pushed aside the mucky soil with her hands. Norbin
raised a small yelp, but didn’t attempt to stop her. Brandol entered the hole
with her to help, and finally the lid could be seen.
The
coffer was as long as a grown man’s arm and wider than Brandol’s chest, made of
black oak with gilded corners. For a brief moment, the party of three stopped
and stared at the large black box.
“At
least we don’t have to lift it,” Isabelle commented.
Even
Brandol must have sensed what was inside, because his eyes widened in anticipation.
The sound of hooves in the distance interrupted their efforts. Isabelle
recognized instantly the distinctly feeble gait of Esmond, the family horse.
“The
key!” Isabelle cried. “The key, Norbin!”
The
ancient servant reached into his pockets, fumbling about, trying to find where
he had placed it. After too much time, he retrieved a small silver key from his
vest pocket and handed it over to her.
“You
must hurry back to the house, Norbin. Close all the shutters if you can.”
“Miss
Isabelle, if he asks me where the money is—now your mother is dead—I can no
longer deny my knowledge of its location. I could be arrested if I do.”
“Then
do whatever you can to keep him out of my mother’s room and away from the back
windows!”
Without
another word, Norbin turned toward the house, walking and puffing with vigor
that defied his age.
Isabelle
put the key in the hole and turned. It wouldn’t budge. Grime and other debris
clogged the keyhole. She let out a groan of frustration and dropped to her
knees, using the key as a tiny shovel to scrape the dirt and pebbles out.
Brandol looked on with interest, but said nothing. She tried the key again, but
there was no improvement. She peered over the edge of the hole, but saw no sign
of either her father or Norbin.
“Here
. . . let me have a go at it.” Brandol jumped in beside her and took the key.
He scraped and blew sharply into the keyhole, occasionally dislodging larger
chunks.
“Hurry!”
she urged in a terrified voice as she thought she saw a dark shadow pass by one
of the windows in the back of her house.
“I
ain’t taking my time!”
Rain
poured down on them while lightning streaked the sky in what promised to be a
terrible storm. Isabelle’s eyes went back and forth from the coffer to the
house, growing wider with her fear. She was no longer certain whether the black
shapes moving past the windows were real or imaginary. Who knew how long it
would take for her father to discover what had happened and then seize the
information from Norbin?
Brandol
gave a particularly hard blow into the lock which was accompanied by a soft
rattling sound. He blew three more times in rapid succession, and a small
pebble tumbled out. Then he slipped the key into the lock and turned it with a
click. Isabelle’s attention went to the coffer as Brandol opened it. Both of
them gasped.
Gold
coins filled the coffer to the brim, all emblazoned with a Blithmore crown on
each side. The sight of so much gold had an intoxicating effect. Isabelle had
to resist the urge to handle the money.
“Brandol,
I need you to fetch me a sturdy sack,” she ordered. “Run as fast as you can!”
Brandol slowly looked away from the coffer. When he did, he appeared dazed. “A
sack!”
He
climbed out of the hole and sprinted toward the house, leaving Isabelle alone
and anxious. She ducked down inside the hole, peering back at her house over
the edge. She tried to get the hair out of her face, but ended up smearing dirt
over her cheek and forehead. Mud caked most of her dress, ruining it. It
covered her fingers, nails, and palms. What little skin she could see was red
and raw from shoveling.
She
considered trying to put the gold in her dress and carrying it into Henry’s
house, but the idea was far too impractical. “Hurry, Brandol, hurry!” she
cried. He hadn’t been gone more than two minutes, but it already seemed too
long. Finally, the door to Henry’s workshop reopened, and Brandol returned not
only with a large potato sack, but also Maggie.
“Is
it true?” Maggie exclaimed, running alongside Brandol to the large hole, but
her question was answered as soon as she looked down. Her hands flew to her
face and covered her gaping mouth. “Oh, great heavens!”
“Brandol,
what’s the best way to move it?” Isabelle asked.
“Maybe—maybe
you and Maggie hold the bag, and I scoop the gold in.”
Brandol
and Isabelle switched places, and Brandol began shoveling the gold. However,
fifteen hundred double gold crowns weren’t easily moved. It was clumsy work.
Isabelle’s trembling hands shook the bag as she kept one eye on her house, gold
pieces fell off the shovel into the mud, and more than once the wind slammed
the lid on the coffer shut.
Isabelle
crawled back into the hole to help him grab handfuls at a time while Maggie did
her best to manage the bag. How much more time did they have? The absence of
constant coughs and sounds of Lady Oslan’s fitful tossing and turning would
certainly rouse Lord Oslan’s suspicion.
When
the last gold piece finally fell in the bag, Isabelle slammed the lid of the
coffer shut. “We have to get the gold to a safe place inside,” she told Maggie.
“My
house?” Maggie asked.
“Yes!
Brandol, take it inside while we fill in the hole.”
“I
cain’t carry that load with no help,” he told her.
“Maggie,
will you help him?”
“Me?
Are you mad?”
Thundering
shouts came from Oslan Manor. Both Maggie and Brandol stared in that direction.
“You
must go now!” Isabelle urged. “Run!”
Together,
Brandol and Maggie heaved the bag, Brandol supporting it from the bottom, and
Maggie pulling from the top. Isabelle spent no time watching them, and began
shoving piles of dirt into the hole. From across the lawn, she heard the back
door of the house bang open.
“Hurry
up, old man!” Lord Oslan yelled, his head turned toward the manor.
Frantically,
Isabelle stood and stamped on the earth, then kicked leaves and grass over the
spot where the coffer was buried. It was a terrible job of disguising her
activity. Norbin appeared again at the back door, clutching his side and
gasping for air as he chased her father down the lawn. Isabelle grabbed the
spades and ran to Henry’s woodshop; Maggie and Brandol were only halfway across
Henry’s lawn, still struggling to move the bag of gold inside the backdoor to
the homestead.
Closing
the shop door behind her, Isabelle leaned against it and let the spades clatter
to the floor. From inside, she heard her father shouting at a distance.
“Where’s the spade, Norbin? My spade!”
She
could not hear Norbin’s response, but knew it wouldn’t be adequate.
“We
have a spade! I’ve seen it. Go to the Vestin house and borrow one from them.”
Isabelle
moved from the door and retreated to the darkest corner of the shop she could
find. Moments later, Norbin knocked on the door. Isabelle froze. Should she
risk handing Norbin the spade? She decided against it. Norbin could let himself
into the shop. The spades rested on the floor next to the door, right where
she’d dropped them.
Norbin
knocked again. “Master Henry, are you there?” his aged voice wheezed.
“Hurry
up!” her father shouted. He sounded louder than before, and Isabelle heard the
beginnings of rage in his voice.
Norbin
knocked a third time, his raps now hard and urgent. Isabelle doubted her
decision. Her chest heaved in fear. What would her father do to Norbin if he
couldn’t find a spade? She made up her mind. Crossing the room, she opened the
door enough to peer outside.
“It’s
about—” Her father stopped speaking when he saw her. “What are you
doing
here?”
Even
at an early age, Isabelle had known she had little talent for lying. This
didn’t stop her from trying. “I—I’m helping—I’m watching the shop while Henry
is on an errand.”
“The
devil you are!” her father yelled. He pushed the door hard enough that it upset
her balance, and she stumbled over one of the shovels.
He
pushed his way inside and appeared genuinely surprised to find that Henry was
nowhere to be seen. When he saw her state—mud covering her hands, face, and
dress; his own spades beneath her; and the look of guilt she wore—Lord Oslan
became apoplectic.
“What
have you been doing?”
“I
told you, I’ve been watching Henry’s shop.” She watched his eyes as they flickered
once more around the room and braced herself.
“You—!”
He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her to her feet. “—lying little whore!”
He swung her through the door using her hair as a rope. Isabelle cried out in
pain. Her scalp burned and the pain forced tears to her eyes, but her father
was relentless.
“Please
let me go!” she begged as they made their way across the lawn. “Please, Father,
it hurts!”
