Authors: Bonnie Leon
“Thank you, dear.” The cook left her hands in the dough but kept her eyes on Hannah. “Is something troubling you?”
Hannah stopped. “No. Nothing whatever.” She tried to relax tight muscles.
Mrs. Goudy eyed her suspiciously. “I’ve been watching you this morning, and I’d say you’re a bit tight ’bout something. In fact, you’ve not been yourself the last couple of weeks.”
“I’m fine, truly. I just plan to meet Lydia and I’ve need of some sewing supplies.” The lie slipped out easily, too easily for Hannah’s liking.
Dalton stepped into the kitchen and stood just inside the door. “Can I be of assistance?”
“Thank you, Dalton. I’ll have need of the buggy.”
“Certainly. I’ll get it ready for you.” With a knowing look, he walked through the kitchen and the back porch.
Mrs. Goudy returned to her bread dough, pressing the heels of her hands into the mound and then rolling it back onto itself. Without looking at Hannah, she said, “Something’s going on. I can feel it.” Her hands rested. “Of course, if you’d rather not share, I’m fine with that. But I’ll be praying for you all the same.”
Hannah wished she could tell the kindly woman the truth, but she dare not. For now, no one could know. “Everything’s fine, Mrs. Goudy. But thank you.” She left the kitchen and headed for her cottage. She’d need to take something as a gift for Margaret, just in case she was home.
After laying a dish towel in a basket, she took three jars of preserves down from a shelf and put them in the container. At least this way, if need be, it would appear she’d had no ill intent.
With the basket over her arm, she set off for the tool shop. When she stepped inside, Thomas stood watching Perry at the kiln. Another man worked the bellows. Smoke and the smell of burning metal filled the room. Hannah moved toward them. “What an awful stink.”
“Perry’s teaching me to cook metal,” Thomas said.
“He’s a bit young for that, don’t you think?”
Perry straightened. “He’s just watching, is all.”
“All right. But stay clear, mind you.” Hannah tousled Thomas’s hair.
“Aren’t ye going to town?”
“Yes. I’m just leaving and wanted to say good-bye. You mind Perry, now.”
“I will.”
“No worries, Hannah. He’s a good lad,” Perry said.
“Thank you for looking after him.”
Perry set long metal tongs on the hearth. “I like spending time with him. He’s a fine lad and a help to me.”
“I shan’t be long. Just there and back.”
Hannah dropped a kiss on Thomas’s forehead. “Well then, I’ll be off. Dalton will have the buggy ready for me,” she said, her nerves popping.
She left the shop and hurried to the carriage house. Dalton already had the horses in harness and the buggy set to go.
“Thank you.” Hannah moved to the buggy and placed the basket on the seat.
“I ought to go with you.”
“I understand your concern, but I shan’t be long. And if John or Margaret do happen to be home, how will I explain your driving me? I’ve made the trip on my own many times. I don’t want to raise questions.”
“Do be careful.” He gave her a hand up. “If John is about, what will you tell him?”
“I doubt he’ll be there. This time of day he’s always working on the property somewhere. And if for some reason he’s home, I’ll simply tell him I’ve come to visit Margaret.”
“And will you tell him what we’ve discovered?”
“At the proper time.”
“And that will be . . . ?”
“I’m not certain, but I’ll know when the time comes.” The idea of John discovering that she’d been sneaking about and snooping into his life made her tremble inside. Would he understand that she’d done it
for
him and not
to
him?
“If it was me, I’d want to know the truth. And the sooner the better.”
“I’ve thought of that.” Hannah settled on the seat. Just the idea of speaking to John about all this ugliness made her stomach tighten into knots. “Pray that I find the truth.”
“I’ll do that.”
Hannah lifted the reins, clicked her tongue, and the horses set off. Choking dust billowed up around the buggy and settled on the seat and Hannah’s skirt. Her mouth and throat became dry, and she couldn’t keep from coughing. Slowing the buggy, she reached down, picked up a canteen, and took a soothing drink. After replacing the lid and putting it back on the floor beside her feet, she looked at the cloudless sky and longed for rain to dampen the dry earth and cool the air.
Hannah urged the horses to a fast gait. She wanted to get this thing done. Soon the geldings shimmered with sweat, and lather appeared between their hind legs. Hannah knew she needed to drive more slowly. It was too hot to hurry the poor beasts. “Sorry, lads,” she said, pulling back on the traces until the team’s trot became a walk.
The world moved by at a leisurely pace, but Hannah’s nerves thrummed. Would she discover Margaret’s intentions? And just what was she up to? Was John in any danger?
Oh, Lord,
I pray not.
She decided that if she found something dreadful, she’d speak to John straightaway. Still, the idea of facing him with a terrible truth horrified her.
Lord, I need your guidance. I’m not sure what I’m to do. I don’t
know what to expect, but whatever may come, please protect
John’s heart. It’s already been heavily tread upon.
Hannah approached the track leading to the house. She stopped the team and looked all around to see if anyone was about. She saw no one so moved forward, her hands gripping the reins so tightly her fingers ached. The muscles in her neck were tight, so she rolled her shoulders back to release some of the tightness. She needed to appear relaxed in case she met up with Margaret or John.
She steered the team to the front of the house, almost expecting to see Margaret step onto the porch. Unconsciously, she touched the basket next to her, preparing a speech of well wishes. No one appeared. All remained quiet.
She stopped, tied off the reins, and climbed down. Lifting the basket of preserves from the seat, she faced the house. Memories of how it had been built came in a torrent. Friends and neighbors arrived with materials and strong backs, and the house had seemed to rise from the land. She remembered the party after the house was finished—she and John had danced, and life seemed perfect.
None of that matters now,
she told herself, forcing the pictures from her mind.
Moving up the steps, she made her way to the door and knocked. There was no answer. She knocked again; still no answer. To make certain no one was about, she set the basket on a table and walked to the barn.
“Hello,” she called and stepped inside, the shadows making it hard to see. The smell of heated hay and grain calmed Hannah’s nerves slightly.
“John? Margaret? Is anyone here?” There was no answer. Hannah moved to the back stalls. Her mare stood in the shadows, munching hay. Hannah pressed a hand to her face and stroked her. “I’ve missed you.” The horse seemed to remember Hannah and nuzzled her shoulder. With a pat, Hannah moved to the shed to make sure it was empty. When she found no one, she returned to the house.
I’d best hurry before John or Margaret
return,
she thought, quickly taking the steps.
Fear of being discovered bristled within Hannah as she opened the door and walked inside. She was an intruder.
“Hello. Anyone here?” Silence answered. She shut the door. It wasn’t the same as she remembered. A different tablecloth covered the simple table, lace curtains framed the windows, and a brocade mantle had been draped over the chair that had once been Hannah’s. The changes seemed to mock her, shouting that she no longer belonged here.
Strange I didn’t notice
any of this when John was sick,
she thought, then shrugged it off, realizing she’d been thinking only of John and his welfare. Her eyes followed the rungs of the ladder up to the loft. Tender memories of Thomas met her there.
It was peculiar to stand in this house. She and John had shared so much here. Now it was Margaret’s—she didn’t deserve this nor a man like John. And if all they’d discovered thus far was true, she would lose it all and again John would lose his wife. The thought cut through Hannah.
Lord, he deserves better
. “Enough,” she told herself swiping away unbidden tears.
She moved to the bedroom. It seemed the most likely place for Margaret to hide something. When Hannah reached the door, she stopped and stared inside. Unprepared for the power of her past, she gripped the doorframe and fought a tide of heartache. So much love had been shared within these walls.
She willed away the memories and stepped into the room, moving to the bureau. Pulling open the top drawer, she searched through Margaret’s handkerchiefs, stockings, hats and gloves, a corset—nothing remarkable. She quickly looked through the other two drawers, but still nothing.
With a glance out the window to make sure she was still alone, she moved to the armoire and ran a hand over the top shelf. Her fingers found an envelope and her heart quickened. Was this what she was searching for? With trembling hands, she opened it and scanned the papers inside. She swallowed disappointment when she realized it only had to do with Margaret’s parents’ estate. She returned the papers to the envelope and set it back on the shelf.
After that, she looked through the clothing hanging in the cabinet, and searched the drawers, but found nothing.
Frustrated and afraid that she was running out of time, she surveyed the room. There was nowhere else to look. Hannah moved to the kitchen and explored the cabinets, but found only commonplace items. She made a quick trip up the ladder and inspected the loft. Thomas’s bed was still there, unmade since his last visit.
Descending the steps, her eyes found Margaret’s sewing basket. It sat beside the chair just the way Hannah’s had.
Perhaps
she’s hidden something in it.
Afraid Margaret would return and feeling as if she were being chased by the woman’s very spirit, she hurried down the steps and to the basket. Opening it, she found the mundane—scissors, pieces of trim, needles, and thread. Closing the lid, she asked,
Lord, what am I looking
for? Show me.
She returned to the bedroom and stood just inside the door, her gaze roaming over the room.
If I were going to hide something,
where would it be?
Her eyes moved to the bed. What about underneath it? In three steps she reached the bed and dropped to her hands and knees for a good look but found only a bit of dust. Disappointed, she rested on her arms, allowing her stomach to press against the floor. She could feel the presence of her child and with renewed vigor pushed to her knees. Just as she was about to stand, Hannah’s eyes went to the bedcovers. They were snugged in beneath the mattress. It seemed a bit untidy, odd for someone like Margaret who was obviously a meticulous housekeeper. Hannah pushed to her feet and lifted the mattress. A large folder had been stuffed beneath it. Taking it out, she could barely catch her breath as she sat on the edge of the bed. She knew she’d found what she’d been looking for. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, then untied the laces and opened it.
A stack of legal papers lay inside. Her eyes went to the top of the first page. It read “Last Will and Testament of John Bradshaw.”
John had a will written up? But why hide it beneath the mattress?
She read on. “Signed and witnessed 4 February 1804 together with Joseph Taylor and signed into probate on 10 January 1806.”
This can’t be John’s will.
Confused, she read more.
In the name of God I, John Bradshaw, of the city of Marseille, being of sound mind, memory and understanding do make and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament thereby revoking all former wills by me made.
First, I resign my Soul to Almighty God, trusting solely through the merit of our blessed Lord and Savior Jesus Christ to have a Joyful resurrection to eternal life and my body.
Secondly, I bequeath all my worldly goods to my nephew John Bradshaw, my country mansion house and my city home, including all of the effects therein. I give also all the sums and dividends held in trust at the bank of England and . . .
Hannah’s head swirled. She scanned the following pages, which included land holdings, lists of furniture, jewelry, dishes, and other property. There was also a public notice that Mr. Bradshaw had died on 10 January 1806.
With a gasp, Hannah pressed the papers against her chest.
This must be John’s uncle.
She remembered him mentioning his uncle and said he’d liked the man but that he hadn’t seen him since he was a boy.
John is wealthy beyond belief.
Hannah’s mind clicked back over the past months. This must be why Margaret had come to New South Wales. She wanted to share John’s inheritance.
Why
would she say nothing about it? What good is a hidden will?
Suddenly Weston Douglas’s words returned to her. “
He’ll
soon be meeting his Maker.”
A shiver went through Hannah. When he’d said it, she’d thought he was talking about John’s illness. That hadn’t been it at all.
Weston Douglas and Margaret meant to kill John.
He’ll soon be meeting his Maker. He’ll soon be meeting his Maker.
Douglas’s words echoed in Hannah’s mind like a taunting lyric. Alarm shouted at her. If John were dead, Margaret would receive his inheritance, unencumbered.
Hannah pressed down rising panic. She had to do something—now.
I should have known. There were signs. Oh Lord, why didn’t
I see?
Rage momentarily replaced Hannah’s panic as she envisioned Margaret and her cruel plan. It was unspeakable. How could anyone do something so heinous? She gripped the papers so tightly she crumpled them. Loosening her hold, she tried to read the top document again, but tears blurred her vision and dread, like a rogue wave, washed over her.
I’ve got to find John.
Hannah shoved the papers back into the packet.
I won’t let
them hurt him. I won’t.
She tied the string, nearly snapping it as she pulled it tight.
Douglas and Margaret are odious human
beings. Monstrous. John is a good, kind man. How can that
woman even consider doing such evil against him?