Page 15 of A Time Traveler’s Masquerade (A McQuivey’s Costume Shop Romance)

I sla followed the maid down a narrow hall, her thoughts racing. They were moving away from the front of the house, but maybe that was for the best. If she were to be seen leaving through the front door, it might raise questions she was unwilling to answer. Surely there would be a back door associated with the kitchen or the servants’ quarters.

They passed three or four closed doors before the smell of roasting meat and baking apples signaled that they’d reached the kitchen. An older woman stood in front of an enormous fireplace. A cauldron-like pot hung over the flames, and as Isla entered, the woman drew a peeled apple out of the pot with a long-handled ladle and set the fruit on a platter beside a dozen others. A younger servant girl then proceeded to pour some kind of syrup over them.

“This way, miss.”

Unaware that she’d slowed her steps to watch, Isla turned to see Agnes standing at the entrance of another smaller room.

“This ’ere’s the scourin’ ’ouse,” she said.

The narrow space lived up to its name. Two maids knelt beside a large metal tub, their arms elbow-deep in water. They were scrubbing trenchers, pots, and platters clean.

“Lord Monteagle’s guest is needin’ some fresh water,” Agnes announced from the doorway.

The two girls looked up with a start. The one who looked to be the oldest immediately rose to her feet, and drying her hands on her apron, she crossed to a wooden pail in the corner. “We just dumped th’ last of it int’ th’ tub. I’ll fetch some more.” She eyed Isla’s gown. Even with the room’s faint candlelight, the stains were obvious. “Might ya be needin’ a rag as well?”

“That would be wonderful,” Isla said. “But don’t trouble yourself to go for water. I can do it myself.”

The maid’s eyes widened in shock. To have a member of the upper class offer to do such a menial task was probably unheard of, but Isla had just been gifted a way out of the house, and no matter how many protocols she was bending, she was determined to take it. She reached for the pail. The girl’s hesitation was so slight, it was almost unnoticeable, but as she relinquished the pail to Isla, the concern on her face remained.

“Think nothing of this,” Isla said. “It will take me only a moment. You have your work to do, and Agnes needs to return to the great hall with more mead.”

“As you say, miss.” The maid offered her a small rag. “You’ll find th’ rainwater barrel on th’ left, just outside th’ back door.”

“Thank you.” Isla exited the scouring room. “Which door takes me outside, Agnes?”

Agnes pointed down the passage. “That one, miss. It’s right after th’ cheese room an’ bake’ouse.”

“Perfect. You’ve been most helpful, but I can manage now.”

Agnes’s anxious expression was a mirror image of the scullery maid’s. “If you’re sure, miss.”

“Absolutely. I am perfectly capable of mopping up a spill, and I shall find my own way back to the great hall.”

By now, the cook would have the platter of apples ready for Lord Monteagle’s guests. She’d heard nothing to suggest that it had already left the kitchen, but she had no doubt it would happen soon. Mentally willing Simon and the Maidstones to slow their enjoyment of the food already on the table so that the delivery of the next course was delayed, Isla hurried toward the exit.

A gust of cold air accompanied the opening of the door. Dropping the rag into the empty pail, Isla slipped outside and closed the door behind her. Moonlight painted the back garden in shades of black and gray. Trees and shrubs appeared in ghostly silhouettes, and at her left, a large barrel partially blocked her view of a gravel path—a path that undoubtedly led to the front of the house. Setting the pail on the ground beside the barrel, Isla lifted her frustratingly wide skirts a few inches higher and started running.

The gravel crunched loudly beneath her feet. Too loudly. She turned the corner of the house and stepped onto the grass. If Lord Monteagle’s servant was already outside, he would hear her approach. He must not know that she’d come from within the house. Staying on the grass and moving as quickly as she dared, she followed the silver-ribbon path as far as the next corner. Here she paused to listen. In the darkness, every sound was magnified: the rattle of tree branches in the breeze, the distant hoot of an owl, and the rhythmic thud of footsteps drawing steadily nearer.

Pressing herself against the wall, she peered around the corner. Dark shadows marked the shrubs lining the front of the house. She was within a couple of yards of the spot where Lord Maidstone had hidden his cloak, but did she dare hunt for it now? The footsteps sounded closer. Could it be the servant she was supposed to meet? If so, she had to find the cloak straightaway.

Bending low, she scurried past the nearest bush, aiming for those that grew closer to the steps. A branch caught on her skirt. She tugged at it, and it snapped. She froze, but the footsteps kept coming. Dropping to her hands and knees, she extended her arms, groping in the darkness for the cloak. Rocks, sticks, dirt, thorns. Her fingers encountered everything except what she was looking for. She inched a little closer to the steps. Candles burning in lanterns on either side of the front door partially illuminated this area. It was probably only a matter of seconds before the person approaching the house was close enough to catch sight of her. Offering up a silent prayer for divine help, she thrust her arm around the base of the nearest bush. Thorns scratched her fingers. She pressed her lips together to prevent a cry from escaping, and then she felt it. The soft pile of fabric was pressed against the base of the rosebush. She drew the cloak out, backing away from the illuminated stairs as soundlessly as her voluminous skirts allowed.

She’d almost reached the corner of the house when the front door opened. She held perfectly still. A man exited. Short but broad shouldered, he stood on the top step, gazing out across the front garden. Perhaps he heard the approaching footsteps, too, because he appeared to stiffen.

“Who goes there?” he called.

“You know full well who I am,” a man’s voice replied. He must have stopped within the shadow of the large ash trees that lined the front lawn because he remained invisible.

The man near the door descended the steps. “No matter that I expect a visit whenever Lord Monteagle entertains, I cannot be too careful.”

“Most wise.”

The two men were close enough to each other that they could converse in whispers. Isla strained to hear.

“What news?” the newcomer asked. “Any hint that your master is hosting one of Cecil’s spies?”

Isla tensed. Lord Maidstone and Simon had warned her of the men who infiltrated Society, gathering information for Sir Cecil. Surely no one at the table this evening fell in that category.

“No mention has been made of the king or the delayed opening of Parliament,” the servant replied.

“Any whisper of frustration or hint of defiance?”

“No, sir.”

“Hmm.” The visitor paused as though thinking through the information. “My friends and I are most appreciative of your allegiance to the Catholic cause, Ward. With good men such as you keeping an eye on the evil and misguided course Protestant nobles intend to pursue, we better know how to counteract their actions.”

Isla pressed her hand to her mouth, her thoughts spinning. Ward. That was one of the names she’d been unable to recall. Thomas Ward. He was the servant who read the letter to Lord Monteagle. He was also the man who would inform Catsby that a warning had been sent to his master. It seemed that Sir Cecil was not the only gentleman in London employing spies. The Catholic conspirators had some of their own.

“I aim to do my part with full diligence, sir,” Thomas Ward said, his voice low.

“I am glad to hear it.” There was the sound of a slap—perhaps a hand on a back or arm. “I trust that you will send word should you learn of anything that might be of value to us.”

“I shall.”

“Good man.”

The visitor was leaving, and that meant Ward would return to the house. Isla fumbled with the cloak, throwing it across her shoulders and raising the hood. Her farthingale held the fabric in a wide circle, but it was long enough to cover all but the bottom few inches of her gown. If she remained in the shadows, Ward might not notice, and if she masked her voice well enough, he might be tricked into thinking she was a short, stout man.

She looked toward the trees. The stranger had chosen his location strategically. Close enough to the house to attract the attention of someone on the front step without raising his voice, yet far enough away to remain anonymous. Isla would do well to follow his example. Ward still had his back to her. A rustle of footsteps suggested that the stranger was already heading back across the lawn to the road. Hoping the retreating man had no further interest in what was happening behind him, Isla darted out from behind the corner of the house. She crossed to the other side of the narrow path in one leap and ran for the closest tree. Sliding her hand into the pocket in her skirt, she pulled out the letter.

Ward stood waiting. Isla inched closer, listening for the distinctive sound of footsteps on the hard-packed road. Moments later, she heard them. The visitor was off the Monteagles’ property. Ward must have reached the same conclusion. He turned toward the steps.

“Ward!” The rasp in Isla’s voice was partly intentional and partly breathlessness.

The servant swung around. “Who goes there?”

“A friend of your master’s.”

Ward took a step back, but his gaze remained fixed on the tree that obscured Isla from view. “A friend of my master’s would not come to his house only to remain in hiding.”

“At times such as these, the very best of friends choose to conceal themselves,” Isla croaked. “You know this.”

“Why have you come?” Ward asked.

“I bring a message of vital import to Lord Monteagle. You must take it to him this very night. There can be no delay. His very life depends upon it.”

“Why should I believe you?”

Isla grasped the tree trunk with tense fingers. Somehow, she had to motivate him to act. “Why should you not?”

Ward’s laugh was hollow. “Half of what is spoken abroad these days should not be believed.”

“True. But the other half—the half that hints at a change that will impact all true believers—should be taken seriously.”

For an agonizingly long three seconds, there was complete silence.

“I will give your letter to Lord Monteagle,” he said. “What he chooses to do with it, however, is his concern.”

Relief left Isla’s knees weak, but she took an unsteady step forward and thrust the sealed message at Ward. “There is no time to lose,” she said. “Take it to him directly.”

“That is not possible. He is at dinner with guests at present.”

“Do not underestimate the urgency of this message,” Isla said. “The danger to Lord Monteagle increases with every minute that passes. He must be notified immediately.”

The servant grunted his displeasure at her injunction, but he accepted the letter. “You’d best leave here,” he said. “No matter whose errand you are on, there is no safety to be had in these parts.”

“A well-deserved warning,” Isla said, retreating farther into the shadows. “You shall not see me again.”

That, it seemed, was the very assurance Ward had wanted. Without another word, he turned and strode across the short distance to the front steps without a backward glance. The moment he entered the house and closed the door behind him, Isla tore the cloak off her shoulders and tossed it to the ground. Raising her skirts, she raced across the lawn toward the back of the house. Dunking her hands in the rainwater barrel would be enough to wash off the dirt on her fingers. A few splashes on her clothing would give the impression that she had attempted to soak the stains. A modern-day stain-remover stick would have been really helpful right now. Instead, she would simply have to hope that the candlelit grand hall was shadowy enough to mask the new grass stains on her skirt and scratches on her hands.

Simon did not know exactly how long Isla had been gone. He knew only that he could not sit at the table pretending to enjoy his meal much longer. The maid who had led her out of the great hall had returned long ago, her pitcher refilled. But there had been no opportunity to surreptitiously question the servant about Isla’s whereabouts, and he was quite sure that Isla would not wish him drawing any attention to her prolonged absence.

He’d told her that he would wait until the sixth and final course was served before going after her, but he’d been rethinking that vow from the moment she’d disappeared. So many things could go wrong. He knew full well that her focus was on seeing the letter delivered to Monteagle and preventing a tragedy of catastrophic proportions. He desired those things just as badly, but he also desperately wanted Isla returned to him safe and uninjured. The depth of that desire was uncomfortably revealing. Their betrothal might be a sham, but his feelings for her were not.

He glanced at Martha. She and Simon were the only people at the table who had yet to finish their poached apples, and he had the distinct impression that she was fully aware of it. He watched her take a tiny bite and then pause to exchange a few words with Lydia. His sister was either suffering from the same lack of appetite that he was, or she was deliberately delaying the servants’ removal of the remains of the fifth course.

Across the table, Mr. Tanner set his spoon in his dish with a clatter. An echoing thud sounded from without the great hall. Had that been the front door closing? Simon pushed his half-eaten apple aside, wishing he could do the same for his mounting anxiety. Isla had been gone too long. Something must have happened to prevent her from passing along her letter. His gaze darted to the top of the table again. This time, he caught Maidstone’s eye. His brother-in-law’s shrug was almost imperceptible, but Simon noticed and understood. The final course would likely be cheeses and would be consumed in no time at all. If a servant was truly meant to make an appearance during the meal, he should have done so by now.

Simon pushed his stool back and had just begun to rise when a servant he hadn’t seen before entered the room. Dressed more grandly than those who had served the food, Simon guessed this was Monteagle’s personal manservant. Simon dropped back onto his stool, his pulse quickening. The fellow had a sealed letter in his hand.

“Ward?” Monteagle had spotted him. “What are you doing here?”

“I beg your pardon, my lord.” The manservant bowed. “A letter was just delivered, and I was told that it must be given to you without delay.”

Monteagle frowned. “I am not in any position to read a letter at present.” He raised his hands, and even though Simon sat some distance away, he could clearly see the meat juices and apple syrup coating his host’s thick fingers.

“Of course, my lord.” The servant took a reluctant step back.

“Blast it all, Ward, you cannot come barging in here and wave a mysterious letter beneath my nose only to take it away again unread.”

“No, my lord.” Ward appeared distinctly uncomfortable. “What would you have me do instead?”

“Why, read it, of course. You can hold it and read it out loud for all to hear. I daresay it might be quite amusing.”

Simon swallowed against his suddenly dry throat. He did not dare look at Maidstone or Martha. It was happening. Just as Isla had said it would.

An expectant silence fell across the table. All eyes were on Monteagle’s manservant. The fellow straightened his shoulders and broke the seal on the letter. Simon attempted to maintain an air of mild interest even as his chest tightened. He may be one of the only ones in the room who knew what the letter contained, but he could not be sure of the response it would receive.

Ward cleared his throat. “ My lord ,” he read. “ I have a care for your preservation; therefore, I would advise you to devise some excuse to shift your attendance at the opening of this Parliament. God and man have concurred to punish the wickedness of this time, and you would be best served to retire to the country, where you may later learn of the events to come. For though there shall be no appearance of any stir, Parliament shall receive a terrible blow, and none shall see who hurts them. May God give you the grace to make good use of this warning .”

Some of the ladies gasped. Monteagle appeared temporarily dumbfounded.

Whitely issued his signature contemptuous snort. “What rot!” The arrogant gentleman dismissed the message with a shake of his head. “You are being played for a fool, Monteagle.”

“How can you be so sure, Whitely?” Maidstone countered. “The letter was exceedingly well written, and everyone in this room is well aware that the king and his policymakers are despised by many powerful men.”

Monteagle dipped his fingers into the small washbasin on the table and reached for the cloth beside it, his expression grave. “Who gave you this missive, Ward?”

“I cannot say, my lord. The gentleman wore a hooded cloak and remained in the shadows. I did not recognize his voice.”

A heady blend of relief and gratification flooded through Simon’s veins, and it was all he could do to prevent a smile from forming. Isla had managed to pass along the letter without divulging her identity—or even that she was no gentleman.

“You see!” Whitely was on his self-important pedestal once more. “No honorable gentleman would send a message in such a secretive, disreputable way. It can only be the work of ne’er-do-wells.”

“If you believe that, my lord, you must be wholly unfamiliar with the methods of Cecil’s men,” Simon said.

Whitely scowled, but before he could respond, the Duke of Tunstow spoke. “Cecil’s spies are well known for their clandestine behavior. Could this message have come from one of them?”

“There is only one way to find out.” With the passage of time, Monteagle’s confidence was returning. “I am well enough acquainted with Cecil; I shall raise the question with him myself.”

“Given that his men do not own to being spies, Cecil is unlikely to admit to it,” Tunstow pointed out.

“True. But I am not in need of knowing the identity of the deliverer or his master. I simply seek to know if there is any truth behind this warning. If Cecil is aware of the threat, he will surely tell me that much. If he is not, then I shall leave it up to him to determine how to proceed.”

“No matter Sir Cecil’s response,” Lady Monteagle said anxiously, “after so specific a warning, I would wish you to be absent when Parliament reconvenes.”

Monteagle leaned over and patted his wife’s hand. “Have no fear, my dear. If I am unable to get to the bottom of this myself, I shall insist that Cecil investigate.”

“Do you think he will?” Lydia’s face was pale, her eyes wide.

Monteagle cast a silencing look at her father. “Yes, Your Grace. Cecil has reached his current position because he is ruthlessly thorough in all that he does. I see no reason to believe he will ignore so troubling a message.”

A hum of assent hung over the table. Everyone present was aware of Cecil’s unpopular draconian methods. He was more likely to accuse an innocent than allow an innocent to go free. If Whitely thought otherwise, he was wise enough to hold his tongue. No matter what his wife thought of his opinions, it appeared—in this instance, at least—that his daughter had been swayed the other direction.

Monteagle waved his hand, and the servants, who must have been awaiting some kind of signal at the door, flooded forward, platters of cheese and flagons of mead in their hands.

“We shall finish our meal,” Monteagle announced, “and then, if you will pardon my discourtesy, I shall ride to Westminster to meet with Cecil. At this juncture, I believe it would be foolishness to ignore the message or the messenger, and so I must act upon the warning with haste.”

“Hear, hear.” Lord Byrdsall voiced his approval.

“Most wise, my lord,” Maidstone said, adding his approbation to Byrdsall’s and bringing a gratified smile to Monteagle’s face.

“Yes, well, one must do what one must to maintain the law, I always say.” Their host waited until the servant at his elbow had refilled his goblet, and then he raised it. “To King James.”

All around the table, goblets rose, and a chorus of voices echoed the toast. “King James.”

Simon took the obligatory sip of mead, his elation that Monteagle was willing to act upon the warning tempered by the fact that Isla had yet to reappear. She had obviously delivered the letter some time ago. What had become of her?

One of the many servants exchanging empty platters for those covered in a variety of cheeses appeared at his elbow. She leaned forward to remove the trencher containing his half-eaten apple. “May I take this for you, m’ lord?”

“You may.” Another mouthful of food was beyond him at present.

“Actually, would you be so good as to leave the apple a little longer?”

Simon swiveled at the request and was on his feet before the servant had fully retreated empty-handed. “Isla!” Barely remembering to lower his voice, he seized her hand. “Are you well?”

“I am.”

The stains on her gown seemed to have multiplied, and a few strands of hair had fallen free of their pins.

“I was concerned for you,” he said. A small leaf was caught on her Medici collar. He reached for it, brushing his fingers against her neck as he pulled it free.

Her cautious smile was a good reminder that they were not alone and could not speak freely.

“Come.” He took her hand, straightway noticing the angry scratches that had not been there earlier. “I deeply regret that you were unable to remove the stains from your gown after all this time.”

“And I regret that I have been gone for so long.” She took her seat, and he did the same. “The scouring house had no fresh water.”

“Oh, you poor dear.” They had been wise to refrain from speaking plainly. It seemed that Mrs. Ellerson had been eavesdropping, and now her expression was full of sympathy. “You should have returned directly. None of us would have minded your stains.”

“That is very good of you,” Isla said. It was a ridiculous response to an equally ridiculous comment, but Isla must have gauged Mrs. Ellerson’s temperament better than he had because it seemed to please the older lady.

“Well, I have been told that I have a very compassionate nature.” Mrs. Ellerson smiled serenely. “I find that it is helpful to remember that we all have to endure such discomfitures at one time or another.”

Discomfitures? Simon could scarcely believe the lady’s empty-headedness. Lord Monteagle had just received an anonymous threatening note, had chosen to curtail the evening’s activities so as to take it directly to Sir Cecil, and the lady was extolling her own empathetic virtues.

Isla took a small bite of the apple on their trencher. “This delicious fruit dessert aside, what more did I miss whilst I was gone?” she asked.

“Lord Monteagle received a rather ominous warning regarding the opening of Parliament,” Simon said, jumping in before Mrs. Ellerson could offer any more words of commiseration.

“Oh my!” Isla’s voice was filled with concern even as her eyes brimmed with questions.

“He has decided to take the missive directly to Sir Cecil this evening,” he told her.

The tension fell from her shoulders as though it were melting butter. “Then, I pray Sir Cecil will know how to act.”

“I believe we all entertain the same hope.” Even Whitely . Simon did not say the words out loud, but he spared the insufferable gentleman a brief glance. It seemed that the arrival of the cheese platter had been enough to redirect Whitely’s attention, even if it had not done the same for his daughter. Unlike all the other guests at the head of the table, Lydia was watching Simon intently. Why? Had she seen him take the leaf from Isla’s collar and suspected that Isla had been farther than the scouring room? A trickle of unease skittered down his spine. This event could not end soon enough.

As though Monteagle fully concurred with Simon’s desire, the gentleman rose from the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, I beg you would excuse me. Lady Monteagle and I invite you to stay as long as you wish, but due to my pressing need to reach Westminster before Sir Cecil retires, I must take my leave.”

There was a general murmur of appreciation, and everyone rose. Martha exchanged a quiet word with Maidstone, and as Monteagle strode out of the great hall, they turned to speak with Lady Monteagle.

Guessing that his sister and brother-in-law were as anxious to depart and hear Isla’s report as he was, Simon leaned a little closer to Isla. “I believe Maidstone and Martha may be offering Lady Monteagle their thanks and preparing to leave,” he whispered. “Shall we do the same?” He sensed her nod and took her elbow. “If you will excuse us.” He included all those standing near them. “It appears that Lord and Lady Maidstone are preparing to depart, and as we rode together, we must do the same.”

“What a shame,” Lady Ellerson said. “Miss Crawford and I were just getting to know one another.”

“We shall enjoy it all the more next time, my lady,” Isla said.

The older lady gave a gratified smile. “Just so,” she agreed.

After inclining his head politely, Simon guided Isla toward the head of the table.

It seemed that Monteagle’s withdrawal had prompted the departure of every one of his guests. They milled around the table, expressing thanks to their hostess and farewells to each other. Simon readjusted his course, steering Isla toward Martha.

“I am very sorry, Isla.” His sister eyed Isla’s soiled gown with concern. “You must be as cold as you are uncomfortable in that wet gown.”

“Are you?” Simon asked, chagrined that he hadn’t even thought to ask.

“I shall manage very well in the carriage if I have a cloak,” she said.

“Do we have an extra cloak available?” Maidstone asked.

Isla shook her head. “No, my lord.”

Her message was clear. She had discarded it and had no plans to retrieve it.

“You must wear mine,” Simon said.

“Thank you, Simon.” Martha claimed Isla’s arm. “If you would express your appreciation to Lady Monteagle on Isla’s behalf, I shall ensure that Isla is warmly clad in your cloak by the time you join us in the entrance hall.”

With no small amount of reluctance, Simon let Isla go and crossed to where Lady Monteagle was taking leave of her guests.

“Lord Bancroft!” Lydia broke away from speaking with her mother and approached him.

Simon hesitated. More than anything, he wished to offer his thanks to Lady Monteagle and be gone from here. With Isla. But no matter their complicated past, he could not bring himself to snub Lydia. Stifling a sigh, he inclined his head. “Your Grace.”

“I need only a moment of your time, my lord.” Her hesitation was so fleeting, he wondered if he had imagined it. “I simply wish to offer you an apology.”

Simon stared at her. He had not known what to expect, but it was certainly not this.

“You have always treated me with the utmost respect and kindness.” Her hands were clenched, and there was a look of determination in her eyes that he had never seen before. “But I am ashamed to admit that the same cannot be said of me. I should have spoken to you—explained my situation more fully—before dissolving our betrothal.”

“I . . . I see.”

“You deserved better,” she continued, “and although I had nothing whatsoever to do with your change in fortune, I am happy that you have been offered it now.”

Simon felt quite certain that he should know what Lydia was referring to, but his head was spinning too fast to grasp it. “Offered what exactly?”

Sadness tinged her smile. “You gave me no reason to doubt that you cared for me all those months ago, and had circumstances been different, I truly believe we would have been content together. But I have watched you with Miss Crawford. You never looked at me the way you look at her. It is quite obvious that the two of you share something far more rare and lovely than we ever experienced.”

“I ...” Simon shook his head as if to clear it. Did Lydia have the right of it? Was this why she had been studying him so intently? “I hardly know what to say.”

“You do not need to say anything,” she said. “My apology stands regardless of whether or not you accept it.”

For months, Simon had dreamed of this moment, of the satisfaction he would feel if Lydia ever deigned say those words. But he had never considered that his foremost reaction to her admission would be relief or gratitude.

“Please consider your apology accepted.” He could have said more—likely should have said more—but the words escaped him.

“I am most thankful, my lord.” She smiled, and this time, he caught a glimpse of the carefree Lydia he’d once known. “You have lifted a burden I have carried for too long.”

He understood the sensation. On the day he’d walked out of the Whitelys’ front parlor in gutted despair, he could never have imagined being fully free of the anguish he’d known then. “I wish you well, Your Grace.” He could say that in all honesty now.

“And I, you, my lord.” Her smile faltered slightly. “Miss Crawford is lovely. I am sure you shall be very happy together.” She bobbed a curtsy and turned to go, unaware that her parting words had pierced him with more pain than joy.

With an all-too-telling ache in his heart, Simon crossed the short distance to Lady Monteagle. He was twice the fool. He had overcome past hurt only to set himself up for even greater injury. If his desperate concern for Isla this evening was any indication, he was well on his way to being fully in love with her. He smothered a groan. Given that Isla could disappear at any moment, never to return, he was in no better position now than he had been when he’d exited the Whitelys’ manor alone and for the last time.