Chapter 5: Close call
The snap of the twig was a gunshot in the silent tension.Joseph’s eyes locked with Anastasia’s. In the half-light, her hazel irises were wide pools of pure alarm. He put a finger to his own lips, the gesture slow and deliberate, then pointed sharply towards the deepest corner of the shed, where the shadows were thickest behind the hulking silhouette of the press.
He didn’t wait for her agreement. He grabbed her hand, his own rough and warm, and pulled her with him. They moved on the balls of their feet, the grit on the stone floor whispering under their steps. The space behind the press was narrow, a dank pocket of air smelling of cold iron and wet stone. He positioned himself flat against the wall, the rough-hewn rock biting through his shirt, and guided her back against his chest.
His arm went around her front his hand flat against her stomach, holding her firmly against him, a silent instruction to become part of the wall. Her body was rigid, trembling faintly. With his other hand, he gently covered her mouth, his palm a warm seal over her lips. He felt her breath, hot and rapid, against his skin.
He bent his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Don’t move,” he breathed, the words so low they were almost vibration. They waited.
The river roared, a constant white noise that now seemed to mask a multitude of sins. Through a crack in the shed’s wall, a sliver of misty light cut across the floor near the door.
A shadow moved into it, long and low. Joseph’s grip tightened instinctively, his hand still firm over her mouth, his other arm a locked band across her ribs. He tilted his head just enough to see around the bulk of the press.
The shape resolved, stepping fully into the dim light from the doorway. It was a young buck, its coat slick with river mist, one foreleg held gingerly aloft. It lowered its head, sniffing at the dusty floor, then limped a few paces farther into the shed, seeking shelter.
Joseph let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. The air left his lungs in a slow, quiet rush. He lowered his hand from Anastasia’s mouth, his fingers brushing her cheek as he pulled away. He kept his other arm around her, his palm still pressed flat against her stomach where he could feel the frantic drum of her heart beginning to slow.
“It’s a deer,” he whispered, the words thick with relief. He rested his forehead against the back of her head for a second. Anastasia shuddered, a full-body release of tension.
Her own hand came up, moving to her stomach in a gesture of helpless relief. Her fingers landed directly over his, interlacing with them for a brief, electric moment. Then she turned within the circle of his arm. Now she faced him, her back to the press, looking up. The narrow space forced them close, their bodies almost touching. Her eyes searched his face in the near-dark, reading the same adrenaline crash mirrored there.
The fear in her expression softened, transformed into something else, something more vulnerable.“You scared me half to death,” she breathed, her voice a ragged whisper.
He didn’t move his arm from around her. The outside world, the reason they were here, receded for a heartbeat. It was just the two of them in the dark, hidden away, the only sound their mingled breathing and the soft snuffling of the injured animal a few feet away.
She lifted a hand and touched his jaw, her fingers tracing the line of tension there. “Your heart is still pounding,” she said, as if realizing it for the first time.
“As is yours.”
The buck shuffled in the corner, drawing their attention. It was a reminder, fragile and broken, of the world outside their hiding place. Anastasia’s gaze shifted from Joseph to the forgotten proof sheet, still clutched in her other hand. The reality of what they’d found slammed back into focus.
“We have to take this,” she said, her voice gaining strength. She carefully folded the brittle paper. “It’s the proof. His intended front page.”
Joseph nodded, the practical part of his mind kicking in. “We can’t leave anything else. If someone comes…”
He looked at the press, a monstrous, silent witness. They couldn’t move it, but they could make it look untouched. He guided her out from behind it, their movement stirring the dust. The deer watched them with dark, liquid eyes but didn’t flee.
Anastasia tucked the folded proof sheet into the inside pocket of her cloak. Joseph dragged the mildewed canvas back over the press, erasing their discovery from view. He paused, looking at the cases of type. “Should we take the letters?”
“Too heavy,” she said, thinking quickly. “And too obvious. The words that mattered are right here.” She patted her chest where the paper crinkled softly. “This is the blueprint. The press is just the tool he never got to use.”
They backed toward the door, leaving the shed as they found it. Joseph pushed the heavy door until it closed with a solid thud. He slid the padlock through the hasp but didn’t click it shut, leaving it exactly as they’d discovered it.The mist had thickened, swallowing the ruined mill and the rushing sound of the water.
“We need to get to the ridge,” Anastasia said, pulling her hood up. “Before Elias wonders.”
They moved quickly up the overgrown path, the adrenaline lending speed to their steps. The gray light made the world two-dimensional. When they broke out onto the main track, the black carriage was a vague shape in the fog farther up the hill. They slowed their pace, falling into the roles of surveyor and guide once more.
Joseph’s mind raced ahead. They had the evidence. They knew the method Elijah had planned. The ‘why’ was screamingly clear now. What they didn’t have was a plan. He glanced at Anastasia walking beside him, her profile set with a new determination. She had crossed a line today, not just with him, but with her entire history. As they neared the carriage, she spoke quietly, for his ears only. “He’ll be back in eleven days.”
“I know,” Joseph said. The fortnight was a clock now, ticking loudly in his head.
“We need to decide what this means,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “What we do with it.”
He had no answer yet. The weight of the secret felt immense, a physical thing in the misty air between them. The carriage door opened, and Elias’s impassive face peered out. The ordinary world was waiting to reclaim them, but nothing about them was ordinary anymore.
They carried a ghost in their pocket, and its truth was a live wire, humming with dangerous potential.
They carried a ghost in their pocket, and its truth was a live wire, humming with dangerous potential. The ride back to Blackwater was a study in tense silence, broken only by the jangle of tack and the rumble of wheels. Joseph sat stiffly opposite Anastasia in the carriage, the folded square of the old deed a burning weight against his own chest.
Her eyes were fixed on the passing blur of wet trees, but he could see her fingers worrying the edge of her cloak, tracing and retracing the seam. They didn’t speak. Every possible word felt too heavy for the space between them, with Elias’s back a silent, listening wall just beyond the lacquered wood.
The mist dissolved as they neared town, replaced by a cacophony of sound that grew louder with each turn of the wheels. Hammering, shouts of laughter, the reedy squeal of a fiddle being tuned.
The Harvest Festival was in its final, frantic stages of preparation. Brightly colored ribbons were being strung between lampposts, and the smell of roasting nuts and spiced cider cut through the damp autumn air. The carriage slowed to a crawl, navigating through carts and bustling townsfolk.
“We’re just in time, ma’am,” Elias called back, his voice almost cheerful against the backdrop of noise.
They pulled up at the edge of the green, where the new bandstand stood raw and unfinished amidst the organized chaos. Joseph stepped out first, the solid ground feeling strange under his feet. He turned and offered his hand to Anastasia. She took it, her grip firm and brief, her fingers cool as she stepped down the carriage stairs onto the cobbles. She didn’t meet his eyes.
“Thank you, Elias,” she said, her voice smooth and clear, the perfect, practiced tone of the Governor’s wife. “That will be all.”
Elias tipped his hat and clicked to the horses, the carriage pulling away and melting into the flow of traffic. They were left standing together on the curb, abruptly plunged into the swirling, noisy reality of the town. A group of children ran past, shrieking with excitement, nearly colliding with them. The contrast was jarring, violently so. One moment they were in a silent, dusty shed heavy with a dead man’s ambition, and the next they were adrift in a sea of mundane celebration.
Joseph watched her straighten her spine, a visible mask settling over her features. It was like watching a door shut. “I must find the committee,” she said, not looking at him. “They’ll be in a state about the flower deliveries.”
“Of course Ma’am.” He jammed his hands into his pockets, his fingers brushing the deed. “I should… check on the bandstand. The roofing felt needs to go on before tomorrow.”
She gave a tight nod, her gaze already scanning the crowd for someone official. But as she made to turn, she paused. Her eyes flicked back to his, just for a heartbeat. In that glance, he saw the shed, the darkness, the shared breath.
He saw the terror and the resolve. Then it was gone, replaced by polite detachment. “I’m sure it will be fine, Mr. Black.”
And with that, she walked away, her grey dress disappearing into a cluster of women arranging pumpkins. Joseph stood rooted for a moment, the festival’s joyous noise washing over him like a cold river. He felt split in two. One part of him was here, a builder with a job to finish. The other was still back in that river mist, his arm around her waist, a secret so large it seemed impossible the entire town couldn’t see it bulging from his coat.
He took a deep breath, the scents of cider and sawdust filling his lungs, and forced his feet to move toward the skeletal frame of his work. The real world demanded his hands, and for now, that was the only anchor he had.
Joseph took off his coat and put it on a pole nearby. He grabbed his tools and got to work starting on the roof. Each swing of his hammer was a punctuation mark against the festival’s chatter, driving a nail, driving out the image of her folded paper in the dark. The physical strain in his shoulders was a clean, simple pain he understood.
Across the green, Anastasia accepted a clipboard from a harried woman. She nodded along to complaints about tardy bakers, her answers automatic and competent. Her eyes, however, kept straying past the speaker’s shoulder. From the festival, Anastasia watched him working on the roof. The muscles in his back flexed beneath his work shirt with each forceful, precise movement.
She remembered the feel of his hand against her stomach holding her close, the solid wall of his chest at her back in the shed’s shadows. She closed her eyes. “The florist, ma’am?” the woman prompted, confused.
Anastasia’s eyes snapped open. “Yes. Tell her the town’s budget is firm. She can use more oak leaf if the asters are too dear.” Her voice didn’t waver. She moved on, a phantom in grey silk inspecting pies, tasting cider, all while a part of her remained pinned in that dark corner, his hand over her mouth.
Joseph hauled a sheet of roofing felt up the ladder. The sun broke through, hot on his sunburned neck. He worked with a furious focus, trimming the material with a sharp knife, the blade a quick silver flash. Sweat stung the cut on his thumb and the raw skin of his face.
He didn’t see her approach. He only heard her voice below him, cool and public. “The pitch looks correct, Mr. Black. It will shed the rain well.”
He glanced down. She stood there, hands clasped demurely, a model of spousal support for anyone watching. Her face was angled up, her expression politely interested. But her eyes were storms.
“It’s all in the math, ma’am,” he said, wiping his brow with his forearm. The casual words felt absurd. “Math is reliable,” she replied, her tone light. Then, softer, a sentence just for him. “Unlike history.”
He froze, the roll of felt heavy in his hands. A child ran by laughing, trailing a ribbon. They were a tableau of normalcy crackling with subtext. “Some history’s written in stone,” he said, meaning the deed in his coat. “Some you have to dig for.”
She held his gaze for a second too long. “Finish before dusk. The light goes quickly this time of year.” It was a warning, a plea, and a goodbye all at once. She turned and walked toward a cluster of market stalls, blending into the fabric of the event she was meant to oversee.
Joseph watched her go, a hollow ache settling beneath his ribs. He turned back to the roof, the unfinished wood waiting. He drove the next nail in with a single, definitive blow. The sound was swallowed by the festival’s noise, a tiny rebellion no one heard but him.
He worked through the afternoon, the sun arcing across the sky, baking his already-tender skin. Each shingle he laid felt like laying another stone on top of the secret, burying it under the ordinary spectacle of a town celebration.
By the time the last nail was driven, the green was bathed in the long, golden light of late afternoon. The festival committee was testing lanterns, their warm glow fighting the deepening blue of the eastern sky. His body ached with a clean, honest fatigue. He wiped his tools down, the oilcloth moving methodically over metal, and packed them into his canvas bag.
He slid down the ladder for the last time, his boots hitting the packed earth with a final thud. He stood back, looking up at the completed roof. It was a good job, straight and true. It would keep the rain off the fiddlers and the politicians. The simplicity of that fact was a small, solid comfort.
He shouldered his bag and turned for home. The festival’s energy was a palpable hum at his back, a world of light and sound he was walking away from. The streets grew quieter the farther he got from the green, the cobbles gleaming damp from an earlier sprinkle. The air cooled quickly, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from chimneys.
His house was a dark shape against the twilight. He fumbled for his key, the metal cold in his fingers. He pushed the door open and stepped into the familiar dimness of the front room, the smells of pine and beeswax a welcome silence.
Something white on the floor caught his eye, just inside the threshold. A folded square of good-quality paper, slipped under the door. He bent, a stiffness in his knees from the ladder, and picked it up. It felt weighty, expensive. He closed the door behind him, leaning against the solid wood, and opened the note.
The handwriting was elegant, precise, and utterly formal.
Mr. Black,
Please attend at the residence at eight o’clock this evening to review the final arrangements for the bandstand’s dedication. Your expertise is required.
Regards,
Anastasia Cardwell
He read it twice. The words were correct, distant. A command from the Governor’s wife to a tradesman. But the paper itself seemed to hold the echo of her whisper in the shed, the frantic touch of her fingers over his in the dark. This was the alibi, written down.
He looked at the clock on the mantel. He had an hour. He moved through the quiet house, stripping off his sweat-damp work shirt. The water from the pump in the kitchen was bracingly cold. He washed the day’s grime from his face and neck, the water stinging his sunburn. He shaved carefully, the razor scraping away the shadow.
From his small wardrobe, he took his only pair of black trousers and a clean white shirt. He added a brown wool coat, worn but well-tailored. Dressing felt like putting on a costume for a play whose script he didn’t know. He checked his reflection in the dark window glass—a stranger, clean and composed, with troubled eyes.
He blew out the lamp and stepped back into the night. The walk to the Cardwell residence was a journey through a different Blackwater, one of broad, quiet streets and high fences. The white house loomed at the end of its gravel drive, windows dark save for a few on the ground floor. It looked less like a home and more like a monument.
He crunched up the drive, the sound absurdly loud in the stillness. The grand front door felt like the wrong entrance. His gaze swept the darkened grounds, and he saw it—a soft, flickering light from the walled garden at the side of the house. A lantern’s glow, not the steady beam of electric light.
He changed course, his shoes whispering on the damp grass. The iron gate to the walled garden was unlatched. He pushed it open, the hinge letting out a soft sigh.
Inside, the air was still and fragrant with late roses and turned earth. The lantern sat on a stone bench, its light painting the sleeping flower beds in pools of gold and deep shadow. And there she was.
Anastasia was curled on a wrought-iron chair, a book open but ignored in her lap. She wore a silk nightgown the colour of cream, The lantern light caressed the line of her throat, the curve of her shoulder where the silk slipped down. Her bare feet were tucked beneath her.
She heard his step on the gravel path and looked up. The book slid from her lap, landing with a soft thud on the grass. Her expression wasn’t the polite mask from the green, or the wide-eyed fear from the shed. It was raw, open, stripped of every pretense.
He stopped a few feet away, the night air cool on his face. His eyes, of their own volition, took her in—the fall of her brown hair loose around her shoulders, the nervous flutter at the base of her throat, the way the silk clung.
He looked down immediately, fixing his gaze on the fallen book. The words felt thick, inadequate.
“Ma’am.”
The word hung in the fragrant air, stiff and all wrong. It sounded like a servant’s deference, and the space between them felt like anything but.
“Don’t,” she said, her voice a low thread of sound. She uncurled from the chair, the silk whispering against her skin. The lantern light painted the length of her, the way the fabric draped and hinted. She was a different woman here, all the polished layers of the Governess shed like a skin.
He turned around as she stood up, not daring to look at her dressed like that, vulnerable, comfortable. He stared instead at the dark rose bushes, their shapes indistinct in the night. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs.
“I got your note,” he said, stating the obvious just to hear his own voice.
“I needed to see you.” Her footsteps were silent on the grass. He could sense her behind him, closer. “I needed to be somewhere he’s never looked for me. This garden is mine. The only thing in that house that is.”
He finally risked a glance over his shoulder. She was hugging herself, not from cold, but as if holding her own center together. The nightgown was modest, really, but in this context, with the memory of her body against his in the shed, it was the most intimate thing he’d ever seen.
“This is reckless, Anastasia.”
“I know.” A simple admission. “Sitting in the parlour after today, pretending to read, greeting everyone ant the festival all I could think about was the feel of your hand on my mouth, on my stomach.
He turned fully then, the danger be damned. Her face was pale in the lantern light, her eyes deep pools of shadow and reflected flame. She looked fearless and terrified all at once. The social contract that usually held the world in place was gone, burned away by the secret they now shared.
“What are we doing?” he asked, the question for both of them.
“I don’t know.” She took a step closer. The scent of her, lavender and night air, washed over him. “But I can’t unknow it. I can’t un-feel what I feel when I’m near you. It’s like waking up after being asleep for a decade.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. The touch was electric, a confirmation. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second, leaning into it.