Page 38 of A Secret Correspondence (Hearts of Harewood #4)

Chapter Thirty

Paul’s small house was cold and dark. Dust had gathered on so many of the surfaces, it appeared that he had not been living there in the last fortnight—perhaps even the last month. Marguerite crossed to the window and pushed the drapes open, unsettling the dust and causing her to cough.

“He must have been staying in Locksley,” Samuel guessed.

“Do you think he borrowed the carriage?” Marguerite asked, walking the perimeter of the room and noting the neglect.

She had noticed it when she had been here last time, but what she had imagined was Mrs. Keel’s advancing years had been the absence of the woman altogether. “I do not think he could afford one.”

“He must have. I will return to the Locksley Inn and question the innkeeper tomorrow.”

She nodded, continuing around the room. “He mentioned stopping in to see an old student—Mr. Frederick Peele.”

“Perhaps that was who he stayed with. If the carriage belongs to him, then we shall return it.”

Sighing, Marguerite looked to the stairs. “I suppose we should go up. ”

“Would you like me to go first?”

Marguerite shot him a grateful look. “Thank you, but I can manage.”

She hesitated, fearing the trunk would not be here. If Paul had been in Locksley all this time, surely he had taken the trunk with him. If they could not locate his lodgings, would Mother’s gowns be lost forever?

Marguerite climbed the stairs, Samuel just behind her.

She felt his strength and support in waves.

When they had been passing anonymous letters, he had been her companion and friend, someone she had felt consistently at her side.

She would find herself dealing with a matter in the shop, curious how he would handle the situation, or if he would find a joke humorous.

Now, he was again her companion and friend, but this time, his familiar, comforting presence was rich and tangible.

This time, she could hold his hand or lean in for a kiss.

This was happiness.

The landing was lit by a window at the end of the corridor. Marguerite methodically looked in the school room and study. When she came upon the third and final one, the room she knew to be Paul’s bedchamber, she pushed the door open and relief flooded her body.

“That is the trunk,” Samuel said. “It matches the one in your parlor.”

“Yes, it is,” she confirmed, crossing the small chamber and kneeling in front of it. She pushed open the lid, and her mother’s scent blew from the trunk in a cloud, drawing hazy memories from her mind.

“That smell is familiar,” Samuel said.

“Paul sprayed one of the letters. It is my mother’s perfume.” She pushed aside the gowns, gently moving them until she found a small blue gown that had belonged to her. She recalled how much she had loved it. Pulling it from the trunk, she held it up.

“I am certain you looked quite fetching in that. ”

“I thought so,” Marguerite said with an impish smile. “My mother was wearing one this very same color the night she died.”

Samuel took the gown and laid it on the bed. Marguerite pulled another from the trunk, then another. Samuel accepted each one and laid them on the bed. When she reached the bottom, she grew still.

“Samuel,” she said, her voice quiet. She could scarcely believe her eyes, but the same blue fabric from her child’s dress was nestled there in a full woman’s gown.

The very gown her mother had been wearing the night they had fled France was in the trunk.

But how? This trunk had been sent off days before.

Had mother changed her gown? Did Marguerite remember incorrectly?

Or had she owned more than one gown in the same color, and now Marguerite had given herself false hope?

“Yes?” Samuel prompted.

“Do you have a small knife?”

“I can try to find one.”

“Please do.” She pulled the gown from the trunk and drew in a small gasp, then carried it toward the bed and laid it out. Her heart hammered in her chest, uncertain if she should allow hope to prosper.

Time stretched. It felt like hours had passed before Samuel returned, but it had more likely been mere minutes. He handed her a letter opener and she turned the gown over, pulling the back open to reveal the interior of the bodice.

“Will you open the drapes more?” she asked. “I need light.”

“Of course.” Samuel pushed them wider, letting more of the late morning sunshine in.

Using the point of the knife, Marguerite worked the stitches free one at a time, breaking only the thread so she could sew the seam back into place when she was finished. It was an arduous process, but she wanted to be careful not to harm the fabric .

“My mother and my aunt both sewed jewels into their gowns when we escaped. I never mentioned it to Paul, which has served me well.”

Samuel did not reply, but stood mutely, watching her.

When Marguerite finished breaking the seam, she pulled open the elaborately beaded panel and reached inside the narrow space, her fingers making contact with cold, hard edges. Her breath caught.

The diamonds were here.

When she tipped the bodice, both the fleur-de-lis earrings and the necklace fell onto her palm.

Samuel gasped.

“They have been safely tucked away in my mother’s gown all this time, sitting in Paul’s bedchamber.”

“Right under his nose.” Samuel shook his head. “The fool.”

“It is a good thing I did not tell him everything after I received the first two notes.”

“I should say so. How did he not find them?”

She ran her fingers over the front of the gown, the panels embroidered and beaded with great care. “The bodice is so stiff, the jewels are impossible to feel through the fabric. They are not overly large, either.”

He reached forward, feeling the thick, inflexible bodice.

Marguerite looked into Samuel’s blue eyes, shaking her head in awe.

“I do not know how this gown came to be in this trunk. My mother must have changed before we left the house. I cannot credit it.” She shook her head.

“I have believed these diamonds to be buried with her for the last twenty years, and I had accepted it.”

“Now you have them.” Samuel took her hand, pulling softly until she rose to her feet. He looked at the jewelry for a moment before his gaze fell upon her face. “You should keep these, Marguerite. They were important to your mother.”

“Yes.” She nodded, drawing in a shaky breath. Samuel’s arms came around her, his hand pressing softly to the back of her head as she rested on his chest. He comforted her, holding her in his arms as she cried softly, a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and grief.

“You know,” Samuel said, his voice muffled with her ear pressed to his coat. “If you would like, you do not need to be a modiste for the rest of your life.”

She leaned back. “You mean I ought to sell the building?”

“No, not unless you want to. I only mean you do not need to work any longer. Not with all the jewels you were hiding in your mattress.”

Marguerite considered this. She had needed an occupation, and the jewels were meant to be something to fall back on in case she needed them at the end of her life.

But now? She could sell the building. Or she could rent it out, bring in an income from the rent, and put her focus on raising a family when that time came.

“Perhaps we can discuss our options later. For now, I think we ought to look in the rest of my mother’s gowns.”

Samuel leaned back. “What, all of them?”

“My aunt had more items hidden among her bodices. It would be foolish not to look.”

Samuel shook his head. He cupped her face and leaned down to kiss her. She enjoyed the moment, the feeling of warmth that crept down to her toes despite the coldness in the room.

When Samuel finally broke the kiss, his cheeks were rosy and his eyes bright. “Perhaps we can do so at home? I do think you will freeze if I do not remove you from this veritable ice box soon.”

She chuckled, nodding. “Very well. It would be better to do this at home, anyway.”

Together, they packed the trunk away again, carefully ensuring the fleur-de-lis jewels were secured.

Marguerite found her mother’s bottle of perfume on Paul’s writing table with a handful of notes he had practiced and pushed aside, as though he had been determining how best to disguise his handwriting.

She tucked the bottle inside the trunk as well.

Samuel heaved the trunk down the stairs and to his curricle. He tied it to the back and helped Marguerite onto the driving bench. She tucked the rug around her legs while Samuel situated himself.

As the curricle pulled out of town and onto the country road, Marguerite turned her face toward the sun, closing her eyes and letting the warmth wash over her skin.

Her bonnet did nothing to protect her at this angle, but she did not care.

She felt free. She was loved. She would not have to go through this life alone.

Her family would be small, but she had one now.

Samuel, Oliver, Ruth, Jacob, and Eliza. They were only the beginning. Marguerite could sense the road ahead would not be straight and simple, but it would be glorious, and she would not be taking it alone.

“You are wearing a rather large smile,” Samuel said, his voice amused. “I surely hope this means you are thinking of me.”

“In a sense, I was.”

“Only in a sense? Drat. What do I need to do to take up all your senses?”

“Well, that would be dangerous. I would prefer you kept most of your attention on the horses.”

He scoffed. “I am one of the best drivers in Harewood, Marguerite. Or have I not told you about the last race I won?”

“You might have mentioned it,” she said lightly. “But a good driver does not boast, Sam. He is good because he humbly cares for his team, his future wife, and the conditions of the road.”

“Oh, very well.” He grinned, leaning over to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I will do all those things. I love you and how well you know your own mind, Marguerite soon-to-be Harding.”

“I love you as well.”