That afternoon, Benjamin found himself bounced, jostled, and thoroughly shaken on the Emerald, a day-coach traveling westward from London. The journey into Berkshire was only some thirty miles, but it felt interminable. Ben worried he would become ill or, heaven forbid, have one of his . . . episodes.
Ben closed his eyes, drawing deep breaths of fresh air, trying to stave off his own nausea. Again and again, he inhaled deeply and exhaled with a long “Hooo.” The spell began to pass.
He hoped the worst was over, for he wanted to perform this assignment well and make Mr. Hardy proud. To do so, he needed to arrive on Belle Island looking the picture of a competent, composed lawyer.
If he concentrated, he could still feel Mr. Hardy’s comforting hand resting upon his shoulder after his failure. It was the closest thing to fatherly affection Benjamin had experienced in years. He supposed he should have been the one offering comfort, since Robert Hardy had lost not only a partner in the law firm but also an old friend.
You can do this, Benjamin admonished himself. For his sake, you must.
Finally reaching Maidenhead’s Bear Inn, Benjamin hired a driver—a young man with a small gig pulled by a single horse—to take him the rest of the way. The rickety vehicle listed to one side and possessed not a single spring or ounce of comfort.
After fifteen bone-jarring minutes, they reached the outskirts of Riverton. The little hamlet curved around the riverbank, its church, homes, and shops situated on a low rise and, at present, enveloped in fog.
The driver pointed to a wooden bridge spanning the river, just wide enough to allow a carriage to pass.
“That takes you to the island, sir,” the young man said. “The Wilders have lived there for ages. You’ll see the house better once the fog burns off. All right if I set you down here?”
“Hm? Yes, all right.” Benjamin paid the driver, climbed down on rubbery legs, and turned to study the scene. He faintly heard the driver’s “Walk on,” and the gig continue on its way, but his gaze remained fixed on the opposite shore.
Through the filmy grey fog, he made out a tall stone manor house shrouded in climbing vines and mist. Nearer shore, trees overhung the river—prickly junipers and chestnuts, weeping willows and elms, their hoary heads bowed in grief, their arms reaching out, pushing him back. Warning him away.
Benjamin frowned. What a foolish notion. The journey had clearly addled his brains.
As he stood staring across the bridge, it seemed to undulate, the rails to compress to a narrow tunnel, and then widen again. He grasped a post for support. Good heavens. No wonder he rarely traveled.
Movement caught his eye. Across the bridge, a figure appeared through the mist—a woman in a long red coat, her deep bonnet concealing her face. She stood out against the grey background like a rosefinch in winter.
Benjamin blinked and looked again, and the woman was gone. Disappeared into the fog . . . or had it been an apparition?
He shivered.
Stepping onto the bridge, he felt it tremble beneath his feet. For a moment, he stopped where he was, everything in him longing to be back in his shabby, comfortable rooms in London. Something told him if he crossed the bridge his life would never be the same again.
He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and prayed for wisdom and direction. He again reminded himself of his purpose in coming. He was there on behalf of the firm—to offer legal advice to Miss Wilder after Percival Norris’s death, and to discreetly discover if she or a member of her family was to blame for it. His success would go a long way toward redeeming his recent mistakes.
Soon he felt a bit steadier. When he opened his eyes again, the fog was beginning to lift.
He wondered about the female figure he’d glimpsed—or imagined. Had it been Isabelle Wilder? He had not seen the woman’s face. He wondered how old Miss Lawrence’s maiden aunt would be. Forty? Five and forty? For some reason, he imagined an angry spinster with a hooknose and an evil glint in her eye.
Through the lingering mist, a few more details of the island began to emerge. Beyond the bridge, a lawn led up to a broad veranda that wrapped around the front and side of the stone manor house. Columns flanked its entryway, and a three-story bay projected on the right. His gaze traveled up to a high rooftop parapet, and an unpleasant jolt of nerves shot through him. Not fond of heights, he quickly looked away and walked on.
As he stepped from the bridge onto the island, a woman near his own age appeared from behind the house, a shaggy dog trailing slowly behind. The woman was tall and slender. Light brown hair with streaks of gold shone from beneath her dark red bonnet. Now that he could see her face, he realized she was far too young and attractive to be the spinster he’d imagined. A companion, perhaps?
She noticed him and stopped. “Oh. Good day.”
He took a deep breath and began, “I am here to see to Miss Wilder.”
The woman replied, “I am she.”
Incredulity flared. Her face was oval and smooth, her eyes large and blue, though dark circles shadowed them at present, like faint crescent bruises. She seemed a pretty, pleasant young woman, not evil looking at all. Though he knew too well that looks were often deceiving.
“You are Isabelle Wilder?”
“Guilty.”
Interesting word choice, Benjamin thought. A wave of dizziness washed over him, but he tried to ignore it.
She looked down. “I’m sorry. You’ve caught me.”
“Caught you?” he echoed stupidly. Was she going to confess on the spot?
“Just coming down for the day. I usually rise early, but I was not quite the thing this morning.” The dog lay at her feet, tongue lolling, as if as weary as she.
“Oh? I . . .” he stammered lamely. “I have just arrived myself.”
He set down his valise and gave her his card, hoping she did not notice the slight tremor of his hand. “Benjamin Booker. With Norris, Hardy, and Hunt.”
She glanced at it. “Uncle Percy’s firm, of course.” She started up the veranda steps and gestured for him to follow.
“Oddly enough, I was just thinking about Percival. In fact, I dreamt about him last night.”
“You did?”
“Um-hm,” she replied casually. “Not surprising, I suppose. He was just here a few weeks ago.”
“So I heard.”
As they crossed the veranda, she asked, “What brings you here? I suppose you brought something I need to sign?”
Benjamin hesitated. He recalled Mr. Hardy’s advice to more than one young barrister. “State what you suspect as fact with confidence, and nine times out of ten people will believe you in possession of the evidence and respond accordingly.”
With this in mind, he said, “The two of you had quite a row, I understand. And afterward, you sent him a rather unpleasant letter.”
She grimaced. “Yes. I suppose he told you all about it.”
Benjamin sketched a noncommittal shrug.
She sighed. “I was angry. He is insisting we lease part of the island to a . . . stranger. It would spoil everything I have tried to do here.”
“Well, with him dead, there’s that problem sorted.”
Her head whipped toward him, mouth parted, face elongated in shock or a convincing imitation. “What? Percival is dead?”
He nodded, the dizziness mounting. No, no, not now. Hold yourself together, Booker.
Taking a deep breath he asked, “Where were you last night?”
“Here on the island.”
“Can anyone vouch for that?”
“Um . . . yes.”
Suddenly unsteady, Ben teetered and grasped a nearby column for support.
Her eyes widened in alarm. “Are you all right?”
He shook his head, the act making him woozier yet. Heaven help him, he was going to faint. Not in front of this woman of all people!
“Are you unwell, Mr. Booker? Truly, you look very ill.”
He pressed his other hand over his eyes. “Just . . . dizzy. It will pass.”
&nb
sp; “Do sit down, before you fall down.” She took his arm and guided him to a nearby chair, her grip surprisingly strong.
Strong enough to kill a man?
Julie Klassen loves all things Jane—Jane Eyre and Jane Austen. Her books have sold over a million copies, and she is a three-time recipient of the Christy Award for Historical Romance. The Secret of Pembrooke Park was honored with the Minnesota Book Award for Genre Fiction. Julie has also won the Midwest Book Award and Christian Retailing’s BEST Award, and has been a finalist in the RITA and Carol Awards. A graduate of the University of Illinois, Julie worked in publishing for sixteen years and now writes full-time. Julie and her husband have two sons and live in a suburb of St. Paul, Minnesota. For more information, you can follow her on Facebook or visit www.julieklassen.com.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Half Title Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
Epigraph
Prologue
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Epilogue
Author’s Note
Discussion Questions
An Excerpt from The Bridge to Belle Island
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
List of Pages
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