CHAPTER 16

I paced back and forth on the gravel path, the stones crunching beneath my slippers. The night air held a chill, and I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders.

"Where are you, John?" I whispered.

Behind me, the manor lay in darkness. Even the maids were tucked up in their beds in the attic. The housekeeper's footsteps had echoed through the hallways far longer than I would have preferred. Each time she passed my bedroom door, I'd snuggled down further under my blankets in the event she burst in and saw that I still wore a day dress. Nothing of the sorts happened, but to be sure I'd waited until the clock in the hallway chimed for the half hour to midnight.

"Oh, is there a clock he could hear?" I felt disappointed at my oversight. Clocks were so commonplace in the manor, but I didn't recall seeing any in his home. "Oh Hannah, silly goose."

As I stood there waiting, minute after minute, I gazed out on the property. I knew it extended far past where I could see to the east and north. Truth be told, despite living here all these years, I had never thoroughly explored it all. The maze interrupted my view of the little river lake. I scowled at it. Just looking at it made me want to return inside.

A rustle of leaves drew my attention. I whirled around, my heart in my throat, only to see John emerge from the shadows, still dressed in the clothes from earlier and carrying something in his hands.

"John, I was worried…"

A breath caught in my chest when I saw his face in the moonlight.

"John!" I gasped, hurrying towards him. "What happened to you?"

His lip was split and swollen, and his left eye had already begun to blacken. He looked like he'd been in a brawl, the clothes he'd borrowed dishevelled, torn about, and stained with blood.

"It's nothing," he said, wincing as he spoke. "Just a little disagreement with an old friend. Sorry about the clothes."

Frowning, I reached up to gently touch his bruised cheek. "Never mind the clothes, no one will miss them. This doesn't look like nothing. We should get you inside, clean you up-"

He caught my hand, lowering it from his face. "She said your mother is on her way back?"

I nodded, a fresh wave of urgency washing over me. "Yes, she sent word earlier this evening. She's not likely to arrive before early afternoon. Mrs Ravenscroft, the housekeeper, will no doubt be fussing all morning. This is the only chance."

John straightened his shoulders. "Let's not waste time then. If I could have a place to change and wipe off some of the dirt. Don't need your housekeeper's suspicions raised. Show me to this secret passage of yours."

I led him around the side of the manor, to a small door half-hidden by a tangle of ivy. It was one of the servant's entrances, rarely used these days. I pulled a key from my pocket and the mechanism groaned as I unlocked the door.

"It's easier to slip in through here rather than in the house. The doors inside can be dreadful at announcing what you are doing. Come on, this way," I whispered, slipping inside doorway and into the narrow passage.

Inside it was narrow and dark, the air stale and thick with dust. I felt around in my pocket for the candles I slipped in earlier along with a tinderbox candleholder.

"Let me quickly change," John said.

I turned my back, hearing the clothes fall to the floor. My mind imagined things a lady shouldn't, but I dared not peek. At last, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see him wearing clothes much like the ones he wore the night he pulled me from the lake.

"The door will need to be closed. Mrs Ravenscroft would be most displeased if a critter wandered inside. I'll just light this candle."

I placed one candle into the top of the tinderbox, checking it was secure before attempting to make a flame. After several attempts, I realised that the maids made it look easy. Embarrassing as it was to admit—I'd never used a tinderbox before.

"I may need to defer this one to you," I said.

"Fancy one, that is too," John commented as he took the tinderbox from my hand. With a single strike, a flame burned, and the candle was lit.

"I'll close the door." That, at least, was something I could do.

With the small space closing in on us, John passed the candle back to me. Bunching up the hem of my dress in my hand, I held the candle high. Its flickering light cast shadows on the rough stone walls as we started up the stairs. Our footsteps echoed a little, though if everyone slept soundly, they wouldn't be heard.

Finally, we reached the end of the stairs and moved through a passage. Then another set of stairs to see us to the next floor of the manor. We followed the passage at the end of that set of stairs, passing by other doors and fighting with cobwebs. I paused only when we reached a carved wooden door, cross-planked with timber that had been nailed into place.

"This is it," I said, my voice sounding small in the gloom. "The forbidden room."

John stepped forward, running his hands over the planks. "These aren't too thick. A bar should do the trick, though it will be tough to keep it quiet."

"I trust you to do your best. The one time a frightful storm would have been convenient," I joked.

John turned the metal bar in his hands. He wedged it into the gap between the door and the frame, putting his weight behind it. The nails screeched in protest, but slowly, one by one, they began to give way.

My heart pounded as I watched him work, my palms slick with sweat. The candle trembled in my grip, with its wax dripping on the tinderbox and a few stray ones to the floor. With a final heave, John wrenched the last board free. He leaned it against the wall gently with the others.

For a moment, we both stood there, staring at the door. My hand shook a little as I reached out for the handle. I'd been in there many times before, but wondered if Mother might have cleared it out before sealing it.

"You alright?" John asked.

I glanced up at him. Nodding, I took a deep breath and turned the handle. John's hand reached out and gave the door a push and then another. The door relented and opened.

Moonlight lit the room as the curtains were open. My nose twitched at musty smell in the room. The room looked just as I remembered with a writing desk against the far wall, a bookshelf beside it, on the wall with the door that led to the house corridor a large painting of a couple watched us.

I moved closer to the painting, my breath catching in my throat. The man stood tall and proud in a fine suit, his dark hair tidy for the most part framing a handsome face. Beside him, the woman beamed in a yellow gown with embroidered roses, her red curls tumbling over her shoulders.

"Thomas and Rebekah," I breathed, reaching out to touch the gilded frame. "I remember the painting, but the details of the faces had faded."

"They look very happy." John came to a stand beside me, his gaze fixed on the portrait.

"You look like Thomas," I said. "Silly as that sounds."

I waited for a reply, but none came. When I turned to look at him, his head was lowered.

"John?"

"Something you don't know. My ma and pa, they're not my parents. I mean, they are, but they're not."

"But…" My thoughts raced at that comment. I looked again at Thomas and then at John. Surely such a coincidence couldn't be.

"You don't know who your parents were?" I asked softly.

"Never seemed important. Ma and Pa raised me like I was theirs. I found out the story of being left with Ma one day, but assumed I was unwanted by whoever they were."

"You're the right age and the resemblance is striking."

"There's more. Ma was given this." He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. "Can you read it for me?"

I took the letter from him and passed him the candle to hold. My fingers trembling as I unfolded it. The paper was thin and delicate, the ink faded but still legible. My eyes scanned the lines of neat, precise script, my heart pounding harder with each word.

"It's a translation," I said, my voice hushed with wonder. "Most likely of the French papers we found in Susan's box. Look here - Oliver Jonathan Nicholson, born on the 15th of May, 1795 in Marseille, France."

"It can't be, though. I'm no one."

I looked at John. "All this is rightfully yours, John. Mrs Hale saved you and…Oh my, I wasn't expecting this. I had these grand plans of hiring someone to track down church records of every baby boy born, but it's you. Perhaps fate intervened at the lake that night. Time for things to be put right. Sorry, I need to sit for a moment."

Walking to the chair at the desk, I sat down. The letter wavered in my hand.

"It's just a piece of paper, Hannah. What good would that do me? I'm the son of cotton workers. I don't belong in a place like this."

"You've shown more loyalty and honour than men raised in my circles. Mother always said that's what mattered and in that, I will agree with her. Who you are is more important than what you are. You're still John, but you're Oliver too. Think of what you could do with all this?"

"Think how much of a fool I'd look. Look at me, Hannah. I can't even read. I've only ever eaten food with one fork and one knife, actually hands for a good part."

"I can see beyond that. You need to as well. Reading and etiquette can be learnt, but a quality of a character is who a person is in their very soul."

"I don't know." He ran his hand through his hair.

"John, come here," I said. He did as I asked and crouched down on one knee, placing the candle on the floor. "John, before I met you, I was determined to slight any man. Happy to grow old with myself for company. Then I met you, and I'm learning so much about life beyond the estate. You've given me wings to fly and I've found what the stories tell about. I'd stand beside you proudly, whether as John or Oliver, because they are the same man."

I reached out, taking his hand in mine. His skin was warm and calloused, so different from the soft, manicured hands of the gentlemen who had never done a thing on their own.

"You wouldn't prefer a fine gentleman?"

"Not to the one before me," I whispered. I meant it too.

I watched him while my heart frantically beat. My breath caught in my throat as he reached out, his hand brushing against my cheek. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down my spine.

"Hannah," he whispered, his voice husky with desire.

He cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs gently caressing my cheekbones. I felt myself melting under his gaze. I felt myself wanting no other man to touch me again and no other eyes to stare back at me.

"John." I struggled to find the words I wanted.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against my lips. The anticipation was unbearable, the air thick with unspoken desires. Then, his lips met mine in a gentle, tentative kiss—so much like the first.

Unlike the first time, I reached up my hand to hold his wrist, unwilling for it to end so soon. The gentle kiss became something more as John's hand trailed from my face before wrapping around my waist. He pulled me closer until our bodies were flush against each other. Who knows how long that kiss lasted.

"Hannah," he whispered. "I love you."

"I love you too, John," I confessed.

He held my face again, his thumbs gently wiping away my tears. Then he leaned in and kissed me again.

"Guess we should look for what we were looking for," John said.

"We should." I smiled. A genuine, happy, I-want-the-moment-to-last-forever happy.

John stood up and offered me a hand. Standing up as well, I glanced at the desk. It seemed the obvious place to search. The desk was a lovely piece made of satinwood and featured five drawers, but only one had a lock. We searched them all, but the desk yielded nothing but old account books and faded correspondence, the bookshelves nothing but dusty tomes on land management and etiquette.

"We should go," John said at last, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "The sun will be up soon, and if your mother catches us…"

I nodded, glancing one more time in the open drawer. A small portrait lay there of Thomas and Rebekah, which I slipped into my pocket. We crept back through the passage, our footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust. At the door, John paused, turning to face me.

"Hannah, I…" He hesitated, searching for the words. "I don't know what's going to happen next. With all of this, with us…"

"It's alright," I said, forcing a smile. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it—we're good at doing that. For now, you should go. Get some rest, heal up." I reached up, brushing a gentle finger over his bruised cheek.

He caught my hand in his, pressing a kiss to my palm. With a final squeeze of my hand, he slipped out the door and into the moonlight. I stood there watching, wishing that I could follow him home.