Chapter 237: Chapter Two Hundred And Thirty Seven
The back door of the tea shop slammed shut behind Augusta as she burst into the alley. A simple, covered wagon was waiting for her, a far cry from the elegant carriages she was used to, but it was a vehicle of escape. She scrambled onto the driver’s box, her fine dress catching on a splinter of wood. Fredrick sat holding the reins, a look of mild surprise on his face.
"You’re done already?" he asked, expecting her to have taken longer.
"Go. Now!" Augusta shouted, her voice a raw, panicked command.
Without another word, Fredrick flicked the reins. The single, sturdy horse pulling the wagon lurched forward, its hooves splashing through the puddles as they clattered out of the alley and onto the main street. A moment later, Constable Davies and his men rushed out of the tea shop, their expressions grim. Davies saw the wagon turning the corner at the end of the street.
"There!" he yelled. He and the others ran to their own prisoner carriage, a heavy, black box on wheels. They scrambled in and the driver whipped their horses, beginning the chase.
At the side of the road, parked discreetly under the shade of a large oak tree, sat another, far finer carriage. Inside, Eric watched the entire scene unfold—Augusta’s panicked flight, the constables’ determined pursuit.
Mr. Rye came to the carriage window, his face impassive. "Your Grace, should we follow them to track down the Baroness?"
Eric shook his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. He trusted the law to do its job this time. His own priorities lay elsewhere. "There’s no need. They will take care of it for now." He looked out the window in the direction of the city’s outskirts. "My wife and Prescott are at the last monastery on the old North Road. Take me there."
Mr. Rye bowed. "Yes, Your Grace." He went to the driver’s box to do as he was told.
~ ••••• ~
Anne got home to Willow Creek Manor, her mind a numb, empty space. In her hand, she clutched the half-burnt letters she had taken from her mother’s room, the physical proof of her entire life’s lie. She squeezed them in her fist, the brittle paper crackling under the pressure. Her first instinct was to throw them away, to destroy them, to erase the truth from the world.
"No one must know," she whispered to the empty, luxurious room, her voice a low, venomous hiss. "No one must ever know that I am the daughter of a lowly man. The daughter of an ex-convict." A surge of pure, desperate rage filled her. "I am not a mere commoner! I am of high status! I am to be respected!"
She raised her hand, ready to throw the crumpled ball of paper into the fireplace. "No one in this world must know," she repeated, her voice rising in a frantic chant. "No one. No one."
She paused, her hand frozen in mid-air. A new, paranoid thought seized her. The maids. They would be cleaning the fireplace in the morning. What if they stumbled upon a fragment that hadn’t burned completely? What if they recognized a word, a name? What if they found out her secret?
Her plan changed. There was only one way to be absolutely sure the evidence was destroyed forever. She put the crumpled ball of paper into her mouth.
The taste was vile, a dry, dusty flavor of old paper, soot, and bitter ink. Her body trembled with revulsion, but a mad, desperate certainty drove her on. She began to chew, her jaw working mechanically, a single tear of pure self-loathing tracing a path down her cheek.
~ ••••• ~
The old monastery stood on a lonely hill, its stone walls grey and weathered by centuries of wind and rain. It was the last one on their list. For three days, Delia and Prescott had been checking every old, abandoned monastery in the Albion countryside, searching for the hidden workshop. They had found nothing but dust, decay, and disappointment.
They arrived at the last one, the carriage stopping at the foot of the hill. "This must be it," Delia said, her voice full of a certainty that came more from hope than from evidence.
Prescott nodded his head, his own expression grim but determined. "Where is His Grace?" he asked, looking around the empty, windswept road.
"He should be on his way," Delia replied. "He had some business to attend to in the city first."
"Very well," Prescott said. "You can wait here for him. I will go in and see what is going on." Delia nodded. Prescott began the long walk up the winding path to the monastery gates.
Delia walked to the side of the road to wait for Eric, the cool, damp air a welcome relief. She stood alone in the quiet, desolate landscape, a solitary figure in a world of green hills and grey skies.
From a distance, the sound of an approaching wagon grew louder. Augusta, sitting beside Fredrick, sighted the lone figure on the road from far away. Her eyes narrowed.
"Stop the horses," she commanded, her voice sharp.
Fredrick looked at her, confused. "Why?"
"Halt the horses!" Augusta repeated, her voice rising.
Fredrick pulled the horse to a stop at a safe distance, still hidden from Delia’s view by a bend in the road. Augusta stared at the solitary figure, a look of pure spite twisting her features.
"How did she know?" she hissed, her voice a low, paranoid whisper. "How did she know I was coming here? Why is this girl always one step ahead of me? Why is she always just after me?"
Then, a cruel, terrible smile spread across her lips. An opportunity. A final, perfect solution. She turned to Fredrick, her eyes gleaming with a mad light. "Hit her!"
Fredrick looked at her, his expression one of pure shock. "What?"
Augusta continued without taking her eyes off the road, off Delia. "That’s Delia," she said, her voice a low, excited hiss. "The one I told you to kill."
Fredrick still didn’t say anything.
Augusta looked at him, at his hesitation, and her patience snapped. "What are you waiting for?" she snarled. "Let’s run her over, get the fabrics from that old workshop, and get out of here. Nobody is here. There are no witnesses. Nobody will ever know."
Fredrick was still silent, his hands frozen on the reins. He couldn’t do it.
His hesitation enraged her. With a furious cry, Augusta snatched the reins from his hands. She flicked them, once, twice, three times, hard and fast. She whipped the horse with the loose ends of the leather, a series of sharp, stinging blows.
The horse, startled and in pain, let out a panicked whinny and bolted, surging forward at a terrifying, uncontrollable speed.
The wagon lurched, throwing Fredrick back against the seat. Augusta held the reins, her face a mask of triumphant madness as they hurtled down the road toward the unsuspecting Delia.
"Rest in peace, Delia," she screamed over the thunder of the horse’s hooves and the rattling of the wagon.