Chapter 1
October 1774
Jonathon Jones knew, even before he came to the beach to identify the body, that no one would have died if he had never come to Bosals Hall. Death had followed him to Cornwall, and now three people associated with him were dead: Mother, Father, and–
“Mr Jones!” Constable Treweek called as two men hauled the body up onto the wagon, leaving behind a large imprint in the sand. The horse at the front of the vehicle snorted. “I appreciate you coming to oversee the proceedings.”
Jonathon nodded in answer, his light grey eyes fixed on the broken remains, the traces of salt and blood stuck to the damp hair and torn clothes. One of the men covered the body with a white sheet, and Jonathon shuddered. That would be the last time he saw the face of someone he had known once.
Like he had known Mother.
And Father.
Perhaps if Jonathon had acted quicker this time—
No!
Jonathon squared his shoulders, his back rigid. He was almost sixteen now and had too many responsibilities to let the events of the last few weeks tear him apart—even if he had played a part in how things had unfolded. Still, he had no reason to mourn the recently-deceased. No reason to feel sorry. He had lacked the strength needed to prevent the tragedy from happening, but it had not been his fault. If anyone was to blame for the whole mess, it was Father. Always Father. The root of all his recent problems.
“We shall be in touch.” Constable Treweek joined the other two men at the front of the wagon and grabbed the reins. He tipped his hat to Jonathon. “Sir.”
The wagon groaned as the horse pulled it slowly across the beach, its wheels sinking into the wet sand, slicing deep lines in its wake. Jonathon waited until it had disappeared around a rocky corner, leaving him alone with the seagulls and the sound of crashing waves, to spin around. He headed back to Bosals Hall, the house a dark silhouette atop the distant cliff.
According to Constable Treweek, it had been drizzling when the fisherman stumbled upon the body at the crack of dawn. The light rain had eventually abated at some point this morning, although Johathon remembered it had still been drizzling when the constable called at Bosals Hall to bring the news.
“Not my fault,” Jonathon whispered and turned his wet eyes to the sea—a roaring sheet of bluish silver under the dull afternoon’s light. “Not my fault at all.”
A lone raindrop fell on Jonathon’s nose. He looked up at the bruised sky, raising a hand to comb back the loose strand of blond hair that had fallen over his eyes. The gathering of black clouds announced more rain, but the downpour was holding back…
Exactly like it had the afternoon Father had been buried.
Jonathon sped up, unable to stop his mind from dragging him back to the moment he, Anthony and Patrick had fled London, pursued out of the cemetery by a horde of debtors and newspapermen. That day the summer storm had waited—a dark looming presence that had turned the sky vicious as they were leaving the capital behind, feeding the despair clinging to Jonathon like a leeching shadow. The heavy rain and strong winds had chased after them across the country too, their four-horse carriage rocking nonstop. Yet, the journey had progressed without incident—
—until they had reached the inn.
Because, on their ninth day on the road, Jonathon had given in to the chill stabbing into his bones and, despite being only a few hours away from Bosals Hall, asked their driver to stop.
On that cold night back in August, the innkeeper had tried to warn them.
***
Five weeks earlier
“What’re young people like ya doin’ on the road so late?” the innkeeper asked as his wife carried a tray of fruit, cheese, and milk to the table the three boys sat at beside the ash-smelling fire.
“We are trying to reach Bosals Hall before dawn,” Jonathon’s eight-year-old brother, Anthony, announced, giving little thought to the words leaving his mouth, as usual. “Aunt Mary lives there with my uncle. Mother said he was a lowly apothecary when they e-eloped and got married.” He chewed on a piece of cheese and turned big grey eyes on Jonathon. “Is that the word, Jon? Eloped?”
Jonathon hunched his shoulders to hide his reddening face. “Do not speak with your mouth full,” he said, his voice cultured and soft.
“But my mouth is always full.” To prove the statement, Anthony opened his mouth wide and pointed inside. “See? I’ve got a tongue. And teeth. Do they not count?”
“Bosals Hall, ya say?” The innkeeper’s gruff voice drew their attention back to him. “Are ya certain that is yar destination?”
Anthony sank his teeth into an apple and answered with a full mouth again, his eyes challenging Jonathon, “Uh-huh.”
The innkeeper and his wife exchanged a look.
Jonathon’s best friend, Patrick, stopped pouring milk into a glass and frowned. “Is anything wrong with Bosals Hall?”
After a short silence, the innkeeper shrugged. “Well, there ain’t nothin’ wrong with the house itself.” He looked right and left as though afraid someone might hear; yet it was close to midnight, their driver Merlyn was outside tending to the horses, and only the five of them were in the room. “But people talk, ya see.”
Patrick leant forward. His dark skin looked sallow with fatigue, but his brown eyes shone with curiosity. “Talk about what, sir?”
The innkeeper opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by his wife. “Vile accusations good folks ain’t repeatin’ in case ‘em are accused of lyin’,” she said. “After all, a man deserves the benefit of the doubt if he ain’t around to talk for himself.” The woman seized her husband’s arm and dragged him towards the bar. “Call out if ya need anythin’.”
***
The innkeeper’s words were soon forgotten, and the three boys finished their meal, jumped back in the coach and set off again, rattling away up a gentle hill and across a dark field. It was well past midnight now, and the lights from the inn soon faded away. As the miles stretched on and on, Patrick and Anthony huddled together and fell asleep with a blanket draped around their knees. Too jittery to sleep, Jonathon kept his senses on the sound of Merlyn’s whip slicing the air over the horses, on the smell of damp wood and leather, trying not to brood over Father. Over the way he had died, leaving his two sons destitute and at the mercy of their last living relative.
Because Father had been selfish and, after Mother passed away, had become more distant than ever, preferring the gambling halls to his sons’ company. Then, Father lost his fortune and his life, and the scandal of his death was splashed all over the London papers.
“Boys, we are almost there,” Merlyn shouted over the roar of the wind.
Rainwater had gathered atop the coach. It trickled in through a small crack in the roof and fell on Jonathon’s hand as he pushed the curtain aside to look out. The coach’s oil lamp hardly emitted any light, but he could still make out the shadowed trees flanking the road, shielding them from the worst of the weather. The road weaved in front of them, twisting and turning, and when the coach jerked suddenly to one side to avoid a low branch, Jonathon got his first glimpse of Bosals Hall atop the cliff. Large. Dark. Forbidding.
Aunt Mary’s home.
Jonathon shivered. Would Aunt Mary welcome her two nephews and their friend, or turn her back on them like Mother had done to her sister when Aunt Mary married below her station?
Jonathon glanced at Patrick. The boy was the same age as him, but a couple of inches taller with short, dark hair. His breeches and jacket were as fine a quality as Jonathon’s and made him look nothing like the scared twelve-year old boy Mother had brought home after finding him on the streets alone. Patrick had tried to steal Mother’s brooch. If Aunt Mary sent them to the workhouse, would they need to rely on Patrick’s experience on the streets to survive?
Jonathon turned his gaze back to the window. They had reached the end of the drive, where the woods pulled back into a clearing at the top of the cliff. Without the shelter of the trees, the wailing wind lashed at their coach, making it rock from side to side, its wheels moaning as they sunk into wet earth. In seconds, the thumps of hooves turned into crunching sounds as the coach rolled over stone-paved ground and rumbled to a stop.
His fingers trembling, Jonathon let the curtain fall to veil the window. He leant over and shook Patrick’s shoulder.
Patrick blinked awake. “Are we there?”
“Yes.”
Jonathon pushed the coach door open and got out, the wind blowing his warm breath in his face. Patrick alighted behind him and dragged a yawning Anthony out. It was still summer, but an autumnal mood had fallen over the weather. Jonathon pulled his cloak around him and stared up at the house. It grew from the ground like a giant shadow, ancient and proud, its tall walls like rusty steel, the dark ocean at its back. A sliver of moon peeked through the leaden sky to paint a halo over its roof.
Merlyn climbed down from the dickey box and stood beside them. “The inhabitants of the house seem to have retired for the night.” He scratched his large belly and, in the wavering light of the coach’s lamp, Jonathon saw doubt in his face. “Are you certain your aunt and uncle are expecting you, Master Jonathon?”
“I sent a letter before Father’s funeral,” Jonathon said. “But the weather has delayed our arrival by a day or two.”
Merlyn nodded. “Maybe one of the servants is still up.”
Merlyn stalked over to the front door and raised a fist to knock. Angry growls filled the air, stalling his hand inches from the oak. The growls grew louder as the metallic scratch of sliding bolts echoed. The door swung open and Merlyn stumbled back, startled, as two men emerged to stand in the doorway.
“Despite what Mary says, those dogs are not fond of me,” one of the men said. He wore a coat over his large frame and was putting a hat on his head. He jerked his chin towards the inside of the house. “They always bark when I call.”
“It is the odour of ether and blood on your clothes, Dr Gard,” the second man said. He was smaller, thinner, clad all in black. He was also holding a candelabra in one hand. “You should not have come directly from the infirmary.”
“Maybe next time—”
Dr Gard’s reply was cut short when he noticed Jonathon and his companions. He stared at them with his mouth open.
They stared back.
“I do not think they were expecting us.” Anthony glanced up at Jonathon, his little features twisted in worry. “Are they going to send us away, Jon? Where are we going to go?”
Jonathon was thinking along the same lines. “We apologise for our tardiness.” He hated that his voice shook. “The journey to Cornwall has taken us longer than anticipated.”
The man with the candelabra stepped forward. He wore a broadcloth suit and knee breeches with no embroidery or livery, but he looked too plain and too formal to be the master of the house. Probably a senior manservant, Jonathon concluded. A frown formed on the man’s brow. “Jonathon Eden Jones?”
Jonathon nodded.
The dancing light of the candelabra cast shadows on the servant’s pale face. “Three chambers were made ready waiting for your arrival four days ago,” he said, his voice toneless.
The knot in Jonathon’s stomach eased.
“I shall get the boys’ boxes down,” Merlyn offered without further ado. “Where do you want them?”
“In the entrance hall,” the manservant said. “The footman will carry them up to the rooms in the morning.”
“Do you have to leave right away, Mr Merlyn?” Anthony pasted his little body against Patrick’s side, his eyes on the driver. “Can you stay with us a few days?”
“We talked about this, Master Anthony,” Merlyn said. “I need to leave as soon as your luggage is in the house; my wife and daughter will worry if I delay.”
“But it is so late,” Anthony protested.
“I promise to stop to rest if my eyes begin to close.” Merlyn ruffled Anthony’s hair and strode back to the coach to yank the boxes down from its top. Wet bangs resonated when they struck the ground. “Now, you be a good boy and obey your brother.”
Anthony buried his face under Patrick’s armpit.
Patrick patted the little boy’s shoulder. “We shall be fine.”
Dr Gard cleared his throat. “Well then, I shall be off.” He started towards a dark building sitting a few yards away from the house, the stables from the look of it. As an afterthought, he stopped and turned to the manservant. “Tell M–Mrs Williams to…” He coughed. “To send for me if she needs a, err, refill.”
The manservant frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“A refill,” the doctor repeated. “For your mistress’s sleeping tonic? The reason you sent for me tonight?”
The manservant snapped out of his stupor. “Indeed.”
With a nod, Dr Gard hurried to the stables, his shoulders hunched against the wind and the drizzle.
“Do you care to come in while your man brings the boxes into the house?” the manservant asked. “There is some bread and cheese, if you are hungry.”
Patrick steered Anthony towards the house. “Are you coming, Jonathon?”
“In a moment,” Jonathon answered, reluctant to leave Merlyn’s side. The driver had been one of the few servants that had not abandoned the boys the moment they learned their wages would never get paid. He had offered to take them to Aunt Mary, expecting no reward, and would now need to return the coach and horses to their new owner before going home to his wife and daughter. “Thank you.”
Merlyn did not ask the reason for Jonathon’s gratitude. He understood. “Do not mention it.”
Jonathon helped Merlyn drag Patrick’s large chest into the house. In the distance, hooves thudded, the muffled sounds of Dr Gard leaving the stables and riding away down the drive. Five minutes later, Jonathon’s shoulder-length hair had lost its ribbon and tiny raindrops dusted his cloak, but their possessions rested safely against a white wall in the entrance hall. Merlyn clambered back onto the coach and gazed down at Jonathon, hesitation contorting his expression.
Jonathon slapped away the wetness on his face, pretending it was the light rain. “Have a safe journey.”
Merlyn nodded and flicked his whip. The horses nickered and trotted off.
Jonathon watched the coach leave, the creaking of its four wheels drowned by the rumbling sea. The vehicle disappeared in the darkness, but he kept his gaze on the road until his body began to shake. He blamed the trembling on the cold night, refusing to admit the panic etching his soul. He sucked in a lungful of earth-smelling air and was about to turn back to the house when he caught movement at the mouth of the woods. He froze. Someone stood under a tree, observing him.
A male figure.
After a still moment, the stranger set off across the clearing and towards the stables. Halfway to his destination, he stopped and stood in the rain, his gaze locked on Jonathon. He was close enough now for Jonathon to make out the mop of black hair falling over the stranger’s eyes, shadowing his features. His body looked lean. Strong. His shoulders broad and…tense, as though expecting an attack.
The stranger moved his lips, but his words were stolen by the wind. Then he whirled around and jogged into the stables.
