Dead After Dark (Companion #6.5)(63)

Both Barton and Henley snorted. “Squatters doesn’t suck blood,” Henley remarked. “Did she suck yer blood?”

Drew felt himself coloring. He did not want to have this conversation. “Barton, do you have a boy who could take this note round to The Maples?”

“Jem took th’ cart into Camelford for supplies,” Barton apologized. “And Billy’s come down with th’ influenza. His ma says he’s bad.” Barton wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. His hand was a little shaky.

“Damn,” Drew said under his breath. He didn’t want take the note himself. Was he afraid of meeting Emily?

“I’ll take it fer ye.” Old Henley had somehow appeared at his shoulder and was peering at the envelope. He looked up at Drew with a strange expression on his face. Pity? Ah, he had seen it was addressed to Miss Emily Melaphont. That likely wasn’t her name any more since Henley had intimated that she had once been married.

“I’ll make it worth your while.” Drew fished in his pocket. He didn’t care if delivering notes to young widows wasn’t respectable behavior.

“Save it. Ye can deliver it yerself. I’ll show ye th’ way. I’m goin’ right by there.”

No one “went right by” The Maples. It was four miles from the village and stood in its own impressive grounds. He hesitated. Still, Henley was already starting out the door.

“Don’t ye want to collect yer pint?” Barton called.

“Later,” Drew flung over his shoulder. Henley didn’t give him any choice.

Drew had to pace his long strides to the older, shorter man’s. The creature was still spry for all his years. Drew thought he would have to field a lot of questions. But Henley was silent. Drew’s pulse raced. He might meet Emily face-to-face in a matter of moments. Henley turned off the road. Drew looked around, disoriented. They were heading up the hill to the church. It was a small affair, fifteenth century, its rough stone mellowed golden with age. His pulse quickened. Perhaps she was dressing the altar with flowers. Would she know him? They had been in love. How could she not? The expression on her face the instant she recognized him would tell everything. He and Henley crunched up the gravel path to the ancient wooden doors, carved with undecipherable pictures in bas relief. He was reaching for the great iron latch when Henley pulled him to one side.

“Around th’ back, son.”

He started off, eager. Then his steps slowed. The churchyard was back there. Was she putting flowers on a grave? Perhaps her husband’s.

There was no one in the churchyard. A breeze leavened the heat up here. The grass between the graves still smelled of summer.

He knew then. His intestines knotted and threw a loop around his heart. He couldn’t seem to breathe. Henley was pointing. He didn’t have to. Drew walked slowly to the area fenced off with iron spikes topped with tiny fleur-de-lis. The Melaphonts were all buried there.

His eyes filled so he could hardly see the inscription on the stone.



Emily Margaret Melaphont Warner. 1788–1806. May she and her unborn babe find peace everlasting in Jesus’ arms.





A year. She’d lived only a year after he’d been sentenced. She’d married so soon? Had Drew meant so little to her? She’d died while he was still on the prison hulk. All these years of longing for her had been so useless. She’d been pregnant, too. Who was this Warner fellow she’d loved? He felt cheated. All his dreams of making her love him again, of marrying under the nose of her father in spite for all he’d done to Drew, seemed foolish.

Drew felt Henley come up behind him. Anger surged up from his belly. “You said she wasn’t married, that she was still here.”

“Aye. Truth, when ye come ta think on it.”

He didn’t know what to ask. What difference would any of it make now? His throat was so full he thought he might choke.

“ ’Er father found ’er a ’usband before th’ summer turned brown th’ year ye left,” Henley said philosophically. Drew saw out of the corner of his eye that Henley had taken out a pipe and was tamping down the tobacco in its bowl. “ ’E were a nice enough lad. Family was weavers, I think. ’Ad factories up ta Cumberland. Paid ’andsome for th’ Melaphont name.” Henley took an old flint striker from his pocket and lit the pipe, drawing on it to make it catch. “Melaphont made ’em live under ’is thumb up at Th’ Maples while ’e put on th’ new wing with Warner’s money. Said she were poorly and ’e daren’t let ’er go. But you know ’im. ’E just wanted control of th’ both of ’em.” Drew knew. Puffs of smoke curled into the air. “Warner went back to ’is people when she died.”

Poor Emily. Sold off to provide a new wing for The Maples. It had always been a symbol of Melaphont pride. Wait. Through his haze he had let one fact slip by. “The year ye left.” Henley knew who he was. He turned fierce eyes on the old man. “Don’t think to spread my identity about. You’d find me a formidable foe.” He hoped the threat did the trick. He wouldn’t actually harm the old man.

“So ye slipped yer chains,” Henley mused. “They can throw ye back inta prison if ye ain’t served yer full time. Must ’ave wanted ta come back fair bad.”

“I have a marker to redeem,” Drew growled. “You wouldn’t want to hold one of my markers, old man.”