The Secret Behind Sycamore Hills

By Luis Ammerman

A DARK SECRET IS ABOUT TO BE UNBURIED.

 

Ophelia Harlow, a London housekeeper, can't believe her luck the day when she's asked to marry Charles Witherford. He is seemingly the man of her dreams. Handsome, rich, and charming.

 

But the marriage isn't what she expected. Each day in Witherford Manor brings another question to her mind; another mystery to solve. If Charles isn't hiding secrets about his late wife, he's acting out in anger toward his new wife.

 

Did Ophelia make the biggest mistake of her life when she said yes to his proposal?

• Language: English
• Publisher: T&L Publishing
• Release date: Sep 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798223472636

Luis Ammerman

Luis Ammerman has always loved reading, writing, and history. For many years he has written short stories, fiction, and has worked on his true love and passion—romance novels. In every era there is the chance for romance, and Luis enjoys exploring many different time periods, cultures, and geographic locations. No matter when or where, love can always prevail. He has a particular soft spot for history and love in his stories. Luis was born and raised in Florida but now lives and writes in the Mountains of Tennessee. He is the author of In The Arms of The Enemy, Against All Odds, The Secret Behind Sycamore Hills and Amarillo Sky.

Book preview

Prologue

BRANWOOD, OUTSIDE

LONDON—1888

THE ICY WIND BIT HARD, billowing around the mourners at the gravesite. More than one person dragged their coats tighter across their bodies to ward off the chill. Gathered together, their hearts clenched over the loss to the small town of Branwood.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the vicar read from his prayer book in front of the grave, flanked by two altar boys.

One man stood still and aloof from the mourners at the edge of the grave. He stared with unseeing eyes at the coffin encased in the thick earth. Every few minutes, the mourners glanced in his direction with pity, but the man didn’t acknowledge their presence. His heart was seized with grief at the loss of his beloved wife, Emily.

Charles Witherford stood a head taller than most of the people there. His harsh features tightened as the priest finished his prayers, and the diggers slowly pushed dirt into the grave. Charles shook hands with the vicar and thanked him for coming.

One of the townsfolk came forward to commiserate with him. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Witherford.

Charles had to swallow thickly before he found his voice. Thank you.

Within minutes, people offering him their condolences flooded forward.

Emily was such a sweet soul. It’s a pity what happened to her.

She looked so young and healthy; it’s a shame how the disease took her away from us.

I’ll miss her smiles. She didn’t deserve to die.

We will miss her.

Every word spoken to him added to the weight in his heavy heart. Emily had indeed been a wonderful person. The townspeople had loved her, and she had gone about the place carrying out works of charity. But now she was no more, and there was no one to continue her good works.

Charles nodded at the old women who hugged him and the men who either clapped him on the back or placed comforting hands on his shoulders. He accepted their condolences in silence, afraid he would break if he spoke. He sensed their pity for him at the loss of his delightful wife, and it nearly sent him into tears. But he controlled himself.

He stayed back at the graveside even after the diggers had finished. The mourners had all moved away, back into town to the comfort of their warm homes. But Charles stood there for minutes on end, staring at the heap underneath the gravestone.

ONE OF THE DIGGERS turned around to cast eyes of pity on the tall man who resembled a lonely tree in a forest. His austere features showed the amount of grief running through him.

Poor Mr. Witherford, he muttered, and turned around.

The other digger nodded. What a great loss.

Everyone felt sorry for Charles Witherford and his household. If only they knew the secret behind Sycamore Hills.

One

RADLEY, OUTSIDE

LONDON—1889

OPHELIA, WE’VE RUN out of sugar, the cook informed her the minute she stepped into the kitchen.

Ophelia released an inaudible sigh. She scratched the back of her neck, which she often did when she was nervous or didn’t know what to do. The thought of meeting her employer, Lord Richard Fortney, for more money to run the household left her in dread. She was tired of pinching every penny she received from the miserable old man. She had resurrected the dying garden at the side of the manor and planted vegetables when the weather was favorable. That had helped her save money for other things, yet her employer never appreciated what she did to keep the manor going.

We’ll just have to manage, Mrs. Port. Lord Fortney would have an apoplexy if I dared ask him for a little extra money to buy some sugar.

He’ll complain when there’s no sugar to take his tea, the cook pointed out.

Ophelia shook her head. Mr. Malay won’t give me goods on credit anymore. He said I don’t pay on time.

To save money, Ophelia went to the village market herself to bargain with the traders. With time, the traders had become wary of her ability to bargain for lower prices and sometimes owe when she didn’t have enough money for her purchases. Yet she never had enough to run the household.

The Earl of Radley expected the absolute best from her as his housekeeper. However, the old widower remained tightfisted with his money although he had a large inheritance which could successfully run the manor.

I don’t have a penny more, he was fond of saying whenever she asked him for money. You’ll just have to manage with what I’ve given you.

Ophelia had learned to save her breath and not to argue with him. She had discovered early it was a waste of time trying to make him see how giving just a little more money would help the manor.

Mrs. Port, I’m tired of pinching every penny until it yells at me to stop, she told the older woman in a weary tone.

She moved to the window and stared out of it. Dried leaves littered the yard in a cacophony of colors. Red, yellow, and brown leaves crunched as the footman swept them into a heap. Winter was almost here, and that meant they would have to get all their produce from the market. Her employer didn’t care that with the change of seasons, they wouldn’t get vegetables from the garden but would have to buy them. Fortney still wouldn’t increase the money he gave her each month, no matter how long winter lasted.

I understand, dear child. The cook stood beside her and placed a comforting arm around her shoulders.

I’ll have to see to the accounts today and see what I can do about the lack of things in the pantry.

Why don’t you ask him for some more money? the older woman suggested.

Ophelia shook her head. It’s a waste of time. He’ll have to take his tea without sugar for the rest of the month.

The cook laughed a little. Have you forgotten he has a sweet tooth?

Ophelia shrugged. His love for stinginess definitely outweighs his love for sweet things. So, he’ll manage.

If you say so. Mrs. Port moved away to serve the master of the house breakfast. She summoned a maid to assemble the meal on a tray.

Ophelia prepared herself for what would come next once the maid served Lord Fortney his breakfast. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She wished she could leave the manor and travel somewhere—possibly to London or Paris. But the funds weren’t available. Neither were there suitors knocking at her door with proposals. Lord Fortney didn’t pay her enough wages for her to even save, and sometimes, her wages went into paying for things around the manor.

At twenty and two, she felt as if she had been left to at wither Fortney Manor. Mrs. Port told her not to look at herself like an old maid because she was a beautiful lady—with her dark hair, blue eyes, and graceful carriage, but Ophelia couldn’t help but feel loneliness and despair.

What was the point of having beauty when it didn’t result in marriage?

Leave Radley. It’s too small a place for you to find a respectable gentleman to make a wife out of you. Go to London and meet noblemen searching for beautiful and responsible women to make their wives, Mrs. Port had repeatedly told her.

Ophelia had, in the past, considered the older woman’s words solemnly, but when she thought deeply about her circumstances, she had changed her mind. As an orphan from a small village, she had no one to introduce her to society in London. At her age, attending balls with seventeen and eighteen-year-old debutants, vying for attention from suitors, would surely embarrass her. And then she had nowhere to stay. Possibly, she might gain employment as a housekeeper if Lord Fortney gave her good references, but he always threatened not to do that, as he always mentioned he wasn’t satisfied with her services.

Miss Harlow!

It didn’t surprise Ophelia when her name vibrated all over the ramshackle manor. As the breakfast room was only a short distance from the kitchen, the earl had the luxury of bellowing her name instead of summoning her like a civilized human being.

Good luck. Mrs. Port gave her rueful smile.

Thank you. I’ll need it. Ophelia crossed the kitchen with its broken tiles and headed for the breakfast room just as a teary-eyed maid who had served his breakfast hurried out of the place.

My apologies, Mary.

The maid nodded as she brushed past her to the kitchen. At the door, Ophelia looked down at her plain blue cotton dress and worn, light blue slippers. She had tied her raven black hair in a neat bond at the back of her head, hoping she was presentable enough. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly before opening the door.

Once upon a time, the breakfast room had looked elegant and lovely, but now, it was a shadow of its former self with faded curtains, an old breakfast table, and a washed-out rug covering the floor. The room was identical with every other room in the house with peeling walls, stained ceilings caused by leakages whenever it rained, broken and worn-out furniture amongst other things. Ophelia feared that someday the entire building might fall around their ears.

What took you so long? Lord Fortney snapped, his thin, hawkish face squeezing in a frown.

Ophelia stared at her employer and let out a small sigh. I apologize for my tardiness, Lord Fortney.

Leaning his lean frame against the back of his chair, he scratched his greying hair and nodded at the breakfast tray.

There’s no sugar to take my tea with.

I’m sorry, my lord. We’ve run out of sugar.

The man’s dark eyes bulged, and she feared he might just keel over and die. His face unexpectedly turned red, and he barked, How’s that possible? Didn’t I give you money three weeks ago?

She nodded, used to such interrogation. Yes, but it wasn’t sufficient to buy a sack of sugar. I could only afford a small quantity as I had other things to purchase as well.

He let out a sharp hiss. You always do this! You always try to squeeze me out of my money. He stabbed a crooked finger at her. Let me tell you once more; you won’t get another penny from me. You can deny me of the basic things I need in a bid to get more money out of me, but you have failed. Again.

Ophelia took the dressing down in stride. She had long since learned not to allow his harsh words to get to her. After working for him for almost two years, she had come to understand he was a miserable old man who enjoyed making others unhappy.

Don’t you have anything to say for your ineptitude?

I apologize, my lord. But I didn’t tell you we now have to purchase vegetables from the market as the weather no longer favors growing ours. So, I’ve had to purchase more things than before.

Utter nonsense. That’s a silly excuse. How much do vegetables cost? Certainly not enough to cost me having sugar with my tea.

Ophelia bit her tongue from telling him to visit the market himself and hear the prices of goods.

You’re useless! Immediately after I get another person to replace you, you’re out the door in the next second.

Ophelia thrust her chin out. Her employer always threatened her with relieving her of her employment. She feared he might do it someday and throw her out with no money or roof over her head.

Get out of my sight. You disgust me.

Ophelia nodded. My apologies, my lord. I’ll do better next time.

He ignored her as he began to butter his bread. She curtsied and hurried to the door. As she crossed the corridor back to the kitchen, she decided at that moment to stop using her savings to run the house. She would start saving extensively so she could leave the manor and Radley for good. When the old man carried out his threat, she would have something to fall back on.

Two

I s your master in residence ? Charles questioned the butler, who opened the door after his knock. He had to shout because of the sound of the wind billowing.

Peering at him with suspicious dark eyes, the thin, willowy man nodded. Yes, milord.

Charles released a small sigh of relief. What an utter waste of time it would have been if he had arrived there and Lord Fortney wasn’t in residence. Not that the older man did much travelling, but he might have gone to London on business.

Inform him at once that his distant relative, Mr. Charles Witherford, has come calling, Charles instructed the butler, who still stared at him with wary eyes.

And then summon a groom to attend to my horses, posthaste.

The man nodded and hurried to do his bidding while Charles strode to his carriage. When he left Branwood, the thought of stopping over at the Earl’s place hadn’t crossed his mind. The weather hadn’t been favorable, and so he had thought of where to stop for the night before continuing his journey the following day. If he had known the weather would be this terrible, he wouldn’t have waited until autumn to make his annual trip to London on business. Except it would have seemed insensitive if he had gone earlier in the year, having lost his wife, and tongues would have wagged. And no one would have understood he needed the distraction business offered to forget his grief. He was sure when the people of Branwood heard he had gone to London on business, they would still frown at it. But he had desperately needed the change of location.

Charles quickly placed a hand over his hat as the wind threatened to take it away. Breeze wafted all around him, sending dried leaves his way across the lawn. He sighed and retrieved his small trunk from the floor of the carriage. He dragged his coat tighter and headed for the steps. The door opened immediately and the butler took the trunk from him.

Welcome, Mr. Witherford. Lord Fortney will see you in his study.

Charles nodded and handed him his hat, his coat, and his gloves. His eyes trailed the worn-out carpets encasing the staircase. The broken floor tiles in the lobby, the wobbly door handles, and the ancient chandelier with broken pieces told him the Earl hadn’t changed one bit. The man was still as miserly as ever. With an inheritance that would make any man jealous, the nobleman could live like a king. But, no; he chose to live like a pauper. Pitiful.

Charles followed the butler to the study, which he knew would no doubt be as shabby as every other part of the manor. The butler announced him, and he strode into the room. It did not surprise him to see the Earl seated behind a desk that had seen better days. The shelves covering one part of the wall held books Charles believed were from the fifth century as their owner would surely be too thrifty to purchase books from the present century. The old carpet covering the floor was as old as the one in the lobby, but it was clean. The curtains had lost their color probably due to consistent washing over the years so he could only imagine how beautiful the blue and yellow color had once been.

Well, well, well, Charles. As I live and breathe. Lord Fortney leaned back in his chair and regarded him with an expression Charles didn’t understand.

My Lord. Charles executed a small bow and strode forward to shake hands with him.

What brings you to my abode? I haven’t seen you in years, the Earl said after nodding at one of the timeworn chintz-covered chairs stationed before the table.

Charles sat gingerly on it, afraid he might find himself on the floor if the chair broke from age. Satisfied he wouldn’t be the source of snickering from the Earl, he reclined on the chair.

Charles shrugged his broad shoulders. I thought to myself I hadn’t seen you in years and so decided to make a stop to see how you’re faring. You haven’t aged in years.

Truly, the man still looked the same as he did when they last saw each other in London. Despite his miserly way of life, his relative lived well. Although he was as slim as ever, he didn’t look sickly. His greying hair thinned at the edges, but he didn’t look worse for wear.

The Earl scoffed. The terrible weather didn’t allow you to move on, did it? I hate lies. I hope you remember that.

Charles’s face stiffened. He had merely been trying to be polite instead of making the older man feel he had only stopped by because of the poor weather.

Very well then, my lord. The wind became too terrible for me to continue with my journey. I hope you’ll allow me to stay here for a few days until the weather clears.

Lounging back against the chair, Lord Fortney shrugged. You should have just said so in the first place, my boy. I don’t need patronizing words. I’m not a fickle woman.

Charles nodded, accepting the reprimand in silence.

Speaking of women, I hope you received my condolence message about your wife.

Charles’s throat constricted. Yes, my lord. Thank you for your kind words and thoughts.

Nasty business, losing a loved one. I remember when I lost Betty. I couldn’t find anyone to replace her after her demise. And now, I’ll die without an heir.

That’s a shame.

Lord Fortney nodded. Indeed it is. Don’t make the same mistake I did. Remarry and have children to carry on your legacy. You’re fortunate you’re still young. I reckon you should be about eight and twenty or thereabout if I’m not mistaken.

Charles didn’t correct him that he had seen thirty seasons. He didn’t like the direction in which the conversation was going, and didn’t want to encourage the older man.

Never mind your age. Find someone to marry and move on with your life. Don’t grieve for long.

Charles found it insensitive for the Earl to talk about him remarrying when it was just a year after he laid his dear Emily to rest that wintry morning. In order not to appear rude, especially to an older and superior man in