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  CHARLOCK’S SECRET

  By Leah Moyes

  Charlock’s Secret is a work of fiction. Names characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 Leah Moyes

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal. First Printing.

  ISBN 9798646686467

  Cover Design: Molly Phipps/WGYC Book Design

  Publisher: SpuCruiser Media

  Email: [email protected]

  Website: https://www.leahmoyes.com/

  Facebook @BerlinButterfly

  To Taylor

  Acknowledgements

  A special thank you to the many hands that played a part in this decade long effort.

  To my daughter Taylor, for your strength. love, and for the many hours you listened to the raw details of a story coming together.

  To my husband Greg, who without a doubt, is my number one everything.

  Thank you, Irene Hunt for your instant love and valuable advice for Charlock.

  To my writer friends, Jennie Durkee and Stacy Johnson, who encourage and support unconditionally.

  To my amazing critique team, Diana Allred, Dawne Anderson, Maria Carrasco, Wendy Hargrave, Melisa Harker, Stacy Johnson, Susan provost, Lina Taunima, and Lani Taunima, and your unique perspectives that mold and shape my stories.

  And my family for their never-ending love and support.

  Prologue

  March 2009

  “Silver and blush?” Jeff’s hands went for my waist. “What color is blush?” His fingers pinched and sent my body into a tizzy. He knows I’m deathly ticklish there.

  “Stop!” I cried, but my pleadings came out in a laugh more than anything else, which encouraged him to continue. “Stop now, Mr. or I’ll call it off.”

  “Call what off?” He chuckled and though he released his grip a bit, his touch against my skin launched my heart into somersaults. His chin dipped into the hollow of my neck and his breath warmed my ear when he spoke.” “You would call off our wedding?”

  My chest thumped. His lips now brushed my skin with a tenderness he perfected and sent chills down my spine. “Uh,” I moaned as his mouth now slid up past my jaw. “I, um, would never dream of it.”

  When his mouth moved to mine, my body surrendered. If it weren’t for his arms wrapped around me, I would have fallen weakly to the floor. His fingers caressed my back, with a tease. Then with an urgency, he pulled me in against him.

  “Three months, love,” he whispered, “three months, and I get you all to myself.”

  “You already have me all to yourself.” I laughed.

  Jeff let go long enough to press a button on his stereo. Bruno Mars’ smooth voice rang out as if he had it set in a queue. When Jeff reached for me again, he wrapped one arm around my waist and gripped my hand against his chest with the other.

  “Your new shoes are going to be covered in dust by the time we’re through.” I laughed, knowing the dirt would come directly from my clumsiness.

  “Black is overrated. I’m willing to risk it.” He taunted.

  I was a terrible dancer, but when he glided me across the kitchen floor to the song “Just the way you are,” I couldn’t imagine being any other place.

  “You haven’t packed yet,” I reminded him as the song ended.

  “It’s only a five-hour drive. One more,” he pleaded, “please?”

  “We can dance on the beach, babe.” I teased. Even though I preferred snuggling to dancing. I knew our weekend getaway would have a little bit of both.

  “We will.” He turned me under his arm as another song began and drew me in again. “There’s no rush. We have forever, Kat.”

  Forever has a price.

  The ringing in my ear wouldn’t stop. I slammed my palm against it twice before a hand covered mine and brought it slowly back to my lap.

  “What’s your name?” The deep voice penetrated the darkness.

  My name?

  “I need to stop the bleeding.” He added, “keep your hands away from your head.”

  Bright red splotches smeared across my fingers. Blood? Whose blood?

  “Please hold still. This will only sting for a second. It’s for the pain.”

  What pain? I feel nothing.

  A light flashed repeatedly in my eyes, but I didn’t flinch. Red—blue—red—blue. White. Where did the white one come from?

  I shivered.

  “What relation were you to the driver?”

  “Th—the driver?” I stuttered.

  His finger pointed downward. A pair of black Vans peeked out from one end of a sheet.

  “The poet waits quietly to paint the unsaid”

  -Atticus

  Chapter One

  April 2010

  The scream lurched my body forward and my head collided with the seat in front of me. Ignoring the pain, I grappled for clarity. Seat. . . why is there a seat here? The heaviness in my heart amplified as reality set in. I’m not in the car. Slapping my chest in a furious attempt to get air into my lungs, I opened my eyes. My fingers fumbled to release my seat belt, despite the lit sign above.

  Ignoring the objections from the other passengers, I jumped across their legs and ran down the narrow aisle towards the back. My palm pressed against the lavatory door the moment the flight attendant reached me.

  “Miss, you must take your seat. We’re about to land.”

  I nodded and quickly shut the door behind me. Her loud tapping finally subsided by the time my breakfast hit the toilet. I heaved dramatically between sobs until nothing, but air came out. Exhaling deeply, I rested my forehead feebly against the rim.

  Jeff seemed so real this time.

  “Miss!” The tap expanded into a hard knock. “We’re on our final descent. You must take your seat!”

  I leaned against the counter and washed my hands. The shell of a person I hardly recognized reflected from the mirror. My weary features implied a forty-year-old stood here, not a woman in her twenties. Dark circles under my eyes met hollow cheeks and cracked lips added horror to the misery. The curls I attempted to impress my new employer with had flattened. My eyelashes that once drew compliments were smeared with misplaced mascara. The smile once known to light up a room fell comatose, and now my clothes reeked of vomit.

  I unlocked the door. The smell preceded me enough to silence the flight attendant. She covered her nose with one hand and pointed to my seat with the other.

  Fumbling to lock my seatbelt again, I wiped my sweaty hands on my skirt and searched the seatback pocket for the barf bag. The woman next to me scooted closer to her companion in her obvious intent to get out of range. I ignored her huff and raised the window shade.

  Scanning the scene below, various buildings came into view. Yet, even as we circled above a city, I’d never been to; all I could think about was how much I hated falling asleep. I closed the shade again and laid my head back against the headrest, anxiously awaiting the impact of the wheels on the tarmac. Thud! Whoosh! A small sigh escaped.

  Though the chatter increased around me, I kept my eyes closed until the plane came to a stop at the gate. Contradictory to the eager departures from the other passengers, I couldn’t get my body to move and deliberately waited to be the last one off the plane.

  As I followed the signs to “Baggage Reclaim”, I staggered like I’d joined a zombie invasion. A mass of obedient bodies, all shuffling in simultaneous motion, drawn to the fresh scent of bloo
d. Only in this case, it was the luggage carousel. I turned when they turned. Stopped when they stopped. Then as I waited, the squeals of joyful reunions and excitement burst all around me. In a blur, glimpses of faceless figures and undefined shapes materialized. Misery followed me here.

  I spotted my yellow scarf wrapped around the handle of my black suitcase immediately, however, my legs remained paralyzed. Like a pair of binoculars, my eyes blinked and focused in a variety of ways to identify the obstacle directly in front of me. At first, I wasn’t sure if it was one person or two, but once I fixated harder, the realization transpired into my worst fear—a couple in love. Possibly honeymooners since it was hard to determine where his arms ended and hers began. They were fastened longingly together in a world of eternal bliss.

  Several months had passed since my angry side emerged, but suddenly I sensed it tunneling out of me, aggravated by my nightmare on the airplane. I often worried about my lack of control, however, lately, I feared my lack of desire to control.

  My teeth pressed into my bottom lip and my fingers lost color the tighter they gripped the strap on my backpack. The last time I didn’t keep my hands occupied, I paid a heavy price.

  Lucky for us both, the unsuspecting couple claimed their luggage before I punished them for such disallowed pleasure. I stared at their empty spot for another three turns on the carousel before I reached out and grabbed my suitcase.

  Silence filled the ride from the airport to the country. My palm shielded my mouth to the unintentional sway of my body in the back seat. I clutched the plastic bag swiped from the airplane a little closer as the cab driver caught air over the last hill. I failed to mention my queasy stomach, though even if I had, he might not have cared. Not that he could control the curves in the road, but he also hadn’t said over two words to me since I entered his taxi at Heathrow. . . and possibly because I’m American.

  The drive continued to be unrelenting, chaotic, and narrow, something I overlooked in my “England for Dummies” book. I could still hear my mom’s cautious voice in my head, “Kat, I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to do this alone,” as if I were still a teenager. My assurances turned sarcastic when I reminded her of the five years I’d lived on my own.

  “Really mom, how foreign could it be? They speak English!”

  I knew it wasn’t my time away from home or the transcontinental distance that became the cause of her worry, but like everything else in the last year, I pretended all was fine.

  “This be it, Missy.” The statement I waited for, well over thirty minutes ago. I misunderstood the transition from miles to kilometers and assumed the manor to be much closer to London than it was. Removing my hands from my mouth and eager to stand, I stepped out towards the trunk to retrieve my suitcase. The driver retrieved it swiftly. “That will be 40 pounds,” he quipped.

  Growing up in New York City, I learned at an early age the meaning of a split second—the time between the light turning green and the honk behind you—but this cabbie had his own version of it and before I could close my purse, the dust from his tires erupted as they peeled out of the driveway. Just the added look I need to impress my new boss.

  Chapter Two

  Coming to England was not the first geographic leap I’d ever made. I still remember my parent’s expressions when I announced my intended college, prior to my 18th birthday.

  “I’m going to accept the scholarship from Arizona State University.”

  “Arizona what?” My dad gagged on his salami sandwich while mom grabbed a map.

  “You know we’ve never been out west, right?” The truth of his statement resonated. The Shelton Family had never ventured past Philadelphia.

  “You don’t know what’s out there.” Mom placed one finger on New York and dramatically slid her other one to a square state near the border of California and Mexico.

  “It’s not like it’s overseas,” I retorted, “I’ll be fine.”

  I wasn’t trying to get as far away from family as possible. My decision was much shallower. After years of a home school education, my spirit busted at the seams to get out on my own. Listed as one of the top ten party colleges in the nation, ASU’s freedom and year-round warm weather appealed to me.

  As I stood there motionless in the dusty wake of the only interaction encountered in Europe, besides the customs agent—I suddenly felt alone.

  Even going halfway across the country to college without knowing a single person, I acclimated quickly and made lifelong friends. Some now, are more like the sisters I never had. But here, at this very moment, as I stumbled in heels, towing my oversize suitcase towards a two-hundred-year-old mansion, I suddenly realized I’d entered unchartered waters with a leaky boat.

  Nearing the entrance, I hesitated. I must be out of my mind. My suitcase dropped flat to the ground and despite the short length of my skirt, I squatted clumsily on top. How did I get myself into this? My head fell hopelessly into my hands while the events replayed in my mind.

  *****

  “Kelly, what’s this?” I ripped the paper off my bathroom mirror and stormed out into the hall to confront my intrusive roommate.

  “What are you talking about, Kat?”

  “This!” I said, spraying fresh toothpaste in all directions. “Yoga instructor for a poodle? Seriously?”

  “What’s the problem?” Her eyes remained glued to her laptop and didn’t glance my direction.

  “What’s wrong with it?” I cried. Then ran back into the bathroom to spit in the sink. “I graduated in humanities. . . not human idiocies!”

  “Uh-huh. . . ” Was the only response I heard. I stomped back to the living room in time to see her flash a sneaky smile. “You have a problem with my job suggestions, why?”

  “Ugghh.” Groaning, I crinkled the paper into a ball and tossed it at her head.

  The next day, the printout on my mirror highlighted a pineapple picker in Hawaii. The day after that showed a bilingual puppet master. The fourth day was a research assistant for a reality show on funeral homes. After a couple weeks’ worth of ridiculous want ads, I finally relented and gave my best friend the desired results she’d hoped for. My first laugh in nearly nine months. Kelly was tenacious. That’s what I loved about her since that first day freshman year.

  This job, however, posted on day thirteen, as crazy as it sounded—moving to a foreign nation and guiding tours in an old English country estate—seemed more like the seclusion and privacy I yearned for. Without the mental hospital, straight jacket option I was headed towards. I submitted my resume that afternoon.

  With a Bachelor of Arts Degree from ASU, one summer of experience as an intern at the Modern Museum of Art in Manhattan, and my current part-time job of managing an art studio for a local photographer from Tempe, I doubted I held the necessary experience required to be a museum curator. When an interview was granted, I was only slightly more shocked at receiving the appointment; than Kelly was at finding out I applied for the job.

  In the days leading up to the interview, I researched the Gilford Estate, also known as Charlock Manor, on the internet. Once it materialized, I struggled to believe what transpired. The home, built in the late 1700s, listed well over 30,000 square feet. With the addition of the grounds, the property culminated a massive sixty acres. Truthfully, the word manor no longer seemed to fit.

  In my search, I located one unauthorized autobiography written on the Gilford family, which I immediately ordered, followed by a lot of dubious critiques, none of which I had the authority to verify. Frederick Gilford, the family patriarch, became a trusted legal advisor of Her Majesty Queen Victoria after a distinguished career in the English House of Commons. Charlock Manor was the private residence they acquired from his wife, Martha’s parents, in 1850, and the home his family lived in, while he served in London.

  My interview was to be conducted through Skype by the executor of the estate, Trenton Gilford III. He’s the fourth great-grandson of Frederick and Martha. The current curator, Pa
uline Campbell, would also be present. One Brit seemed intimidating, but two? I had no idea what to expect.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. I didn’t hold my breath as far as an offer went, but an interview without the benefit of being in person made me feel vulnerable. A person’s qualities cannot be fully revealed through a computer screen.

  There was a time when one of my noticeable strengths was meeting new people and winning them over with my confidence and personality. That was the old me. The new me scarcely found the strength to get out of bed each morning, but I did this one morning in late March. I even managed to put on a nice blouse and business suit, and since that was all that would be viewed, I wore my cotton pajama bottoms below.

  As I waited for the strangers to connect to the computer screen, I studied my appearance in the corner camera box. It had been a while since curls rested across my shoulders, and color lightened my eyes. Even with the enhancement, it shrouded the truth. Behind my cover, emptiness reigned.

  The ring of an imitation telephone caused me to jump. I accepted the call with forced professionalism. “Good morning.”

  “Miss Shelton?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am Mr. Gilford. Thank you for allowing the time to answer a few questions today.”

  I nodded, but Mr. Gilford’s eyes remained on the papers in front of him.

  “We have received your resume and corresponding paperwork.” He mentioned “we” although he didn’t introduce the woman sitting next to him, I assumed her to be Pauline.

  “You are Katharine Shelton, born 12 July 1986 in Manhattan, New York, educated at P.S. 121 until 6 years of age . . .” his voice trailed off despite an attempt to appear confident. “Then homeschooled until college. Forgive me, what does P.S. represent?” Again, no eye contact.

  “Public School.”

  “Then educated at home?”