The Debt Collector I Saved From A Crash Turned Out To Be The Woman Destroying My Life
Part 3
The silence in the cavernous, dripping hall stretched out, heavy and claustrophobic.
Greg looked at the mud on Megan’s face, the way her bare toes were curling against the freezing marble.
She wasn’t a cartoon villain.
She was a desperate gambler who had just lost her winning hand in a mudslide.
They were two rats fighting over a sinking ship.
A sudden sharp pain lanced through Greg’s right shoulder, so severe it stole his breath.
He doubled over, his left hand grabbing his right bicep.
The room tilted.
He saw the black and white tiles of the floor rushing up to meet him.
Small, surprisingly strong hands grabbed the front of his shirt, hauling him backward before he could hit the marble.
The scent of ozone and ink hit him again as Megan shoved her shoulder under his arm, taking his dead weight.
She ordered him to walk, her voice tight with strain.
He didn’t have the breath to argue.
He let her drag him.
She half-carried, half-shoved him away from the puddle, maneuvering him toward the open doors of the drawing room.
The drawing room was a shade warmer, a small fire struggling in the grate.
She steered him toward a dilapidated velvet sofa and dumped him onto it.
Greg fell back against the cushions, gasping, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill.
She told him not to move.
He heard the rustle of the blanket, the squeak of floorboards.
A moment later, she was standing over him with a glass of amber liquid.
She pressed it against his mouth.
Greg smelled the harsh medicinal bite of cheap brandy.
He swallowed it greedily.
It burned all the way down, leaving a trail of fire that marginally distracted from the agony in his shoulder.
He slumped back, closing his eyes.
Megan’s voice came from somewhere near his waist.
She noted that his collarbone was bruised, but his shoulder was dislocated.
She said it had popped forward out of the socket.
Greg groaned, rolling his head against the velvet cushion.
He admitted it happened before, a souvenir from a boxing match seven years ago.
Megan rolled up the sleeves of his cambric shirt past her elbows.
She wiped her muddy hands vigorously on the dark wool of her blanket.
She stated it needed to be put back.
Greg told her to go fetch Tyler from the stables.
Megan replied that Tyler was looking for the rest of his chickens, and Brian looked like he might shatter.
She declared she would do it.
Greg let out a short, incredulous laugh that ended in a cough.
He told her she weighed eight stone soaking wet and couldn’t set a dislocation.
She moved to the head of the sofa, wedging her knee against the wooden frame to anchor herself.
She said she grew up in an apothecary in Cheapside and had set bones on dockworkers twice his size.
She told him to hold still and try not to scream.
Greg didn’t have time to brace himself.
Megan didn’t give him a count of three.
She grabbed his right wrist with one hand and shoved the heel of her other hand hard against the front of his shoulder joint.
With a sharp, violent twist and a sickening pop, she forced the bone backward and up.
A guttural, animalistic sound tore from Greg’s throat.
His vision blacked out entirely for three seconds.
His left hand flew up, blindly grabbing a fistful of her shirt, pulling her down toward him as his body convulsed.
When his sight returned, he was panting, his fingers locked in the fabric at her waist.
Megan was bent over him, entirely still.
Her face was inches from his.
He could see the faint, uneven spray of freckles across her nose that the dirt hadn’t covered.
He could hear her breathing, just as ragged as his own.
She whispered that it was in.
Greg slowly released his grip on her shirt.
His fingers brushed against her waist as he pulled away.
She was not soft.
There was no corseted padding, only the rigid, tense muscle of a woman braced for an attack.
He murmured his apologies, letting his hand drop to his side.
The sharp, stabbing agony in his shoulder had melted into a deep, throbbing ache.
Megan stepped back, her face unreadable.
She pulled the wool blanket tighter around her shoulders.
She told him he needed a sling and shouldn’t use the arm for a week.
Greg pushed himself up to a sitting position, feeling entirely exhausted.
He stated he had a leaky roof to patch and a ruined carriage to haul out of the mud.
He did not have a week.
Megan turned her back on him, holding her hands out to the weak flames.
The silence returned, but the texture of it had changed.
The hostility had fractured.
They were no longer just a debtor and a creditor.
They were a man with a ruined shoulder and a woman with ruined ledgers, trapped in a rotting house.
Greg asked why Cheapside.
Megan stiffened.
He pointed out that she bought up ducal estates and spoke like a woman educated in Mayfair.
Yet she said she grew up setting bones for dockworkers.
She picked up the iron poker, jabbing at a piece of coal.
She said her father was an apothecary, a brilliant man and a terrible gambler.
He accrued a massive debt to a local syndicate.
When she was sixteen, they came to collect.
She stared into the orange embers.
She said they took the shop, the house, and then broke both his hands so he could never work again.
He died of an infection three months later in a poorhouse.
Greg felt the air leave his lungs.
He stared at her, the reality of her words painting a stark, brutal picture.
Megan turned her head slightly to look at him over her shoulder.
She said she learned very quickly that the world is divided into two types of people.
Those who owe and those who collect.
She decided she would never owe anyone anything ever again.
She turned fully around, her dark eyes pinning him to the sofa.
She taught herself numbers, forged letters of introduction, and worked as a clerk for three different banks under a man’s name.
She started buying debt, small things at first, then bigger things.
Until she bought Hawkherst.
She whispered that it was supposed to be her masterpiece.
The sale to the railway would have secured enough capital that she would never have to hustle in the mud again.
She looked down at her muddy hands.
Now she was standing in a freezing room wearing a man’s shirt with nothing but wet paper in the hall.
Greg didn’t know what to say.
His own tragedy, a squandered inheritance, suddenly felt remarkably hollow.
He stood up, ignoring the throbbing in his shoulder.
He walked slowly across the room, stopping beside her at the hearth.
He looked down into the weak, struggling fire.
He told her there was a town surveyor in Yorkshire named Craig.
Megan looked up at him, her brow furrowed in confusion.
Greg continued, saying Craig was as corrupt as they come.
He handled the land registry and hated the railway companies more than he hated Greg.
Greg said that if she had any proof of her identity, Craig would certify the transfer of the deed without the original contracts, for a fee.
Megan stared at his profile.
She asked why he was telling her this, since he hated her and wanted to keep the house.
Greg finally turned his head to look at her.
He said he was tired of fighting.
He had been losing this war for three years.
He admitted that if someone was going to defeat him, he would rather it be someone who earned it.
Dust danced in the pale, anemic shafts of morning light that finally managed to pierce the leaded windows.
The storm had broken sometime near dawn, leaving behind a profound, dripping exhaustion.
Brian eventually returned, carrying a garment over his frail arm.
It was a riding habit of heavy, dark green wool, smelling intensely of mothballs and lavender.
It had likely belonged to Greg’s mother.
Megan took it without a word, retreating behind the rotting velvet partition of the dressing screen.
Greg remained on the sofa, shivering as the adrenaline fully leached from his bloodstream.
He watched the shadow of her silhouette through the thin gaps in the partition.
He heard the rustle of the cambric shirt falling to the floorboards.
Megan’s voice came from behind the screen, muffled and strained.
She said the closures were in the back, meant for a woman who had a maid.
Greg pushed himself up, his bare feet numb against the cold floor.
He stepped around the partition.
Megan was struggling with a row of tiny brass hooks.
The gown was slightly too long and a fraction too tight across the shoulders.
Her dark hair was still a damp tangled mess, falling over her pale neck.
Greg told her to turn around.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then dropped her hands and turned her back to him.
Greg’s left hand was clumsy.
He fumbled with the tiny hooks.
As he worked, his knuckles brushed against the warm skin of her spine.
She shivered.
He smelled the lavender of the ancient dress mixed with the sharp clean scent of her skin.
He secured the final hook at the base of her neck.
He stepped back instantly, putting a safe distance between them.
Megan turned to face him, holding her chin high.
She thanked him.
She then said they needed to bind his arm.
She bent down, retrieving his discarded white shirt from the floor.
With a ruthless pull, she tore a long strip of cambric from the hem.
Greg flinched at the sound of the tearing fabric.
She looped the fabric under his right wrist and brought the ends up around his neck.
She tied the knot behind his head, her face mere inches from his chest.
He noted she had a brutal bedside manner.
She replied that survival rarely affords the time for coddling.
She pulled the knot tight, and Greg hissed as his arm was jerked upward.
She told him that if they were going to commit fraud together, he might as well use her first name.
Greg pointed out they were not committing fraud, but navigating a bureaucratic obstacle.
They left the manor through the kitchen, stepping out into the biting November air.
The mud in the courtyard was thick, sucking at Greg’s boots and the hem of Megan’s borrowed skirt.
In the stables, only two horses remained.
A swaybacked roan mare and Thunder.
Working with one arm, Greg managed to throw a saddle over the mare for Megan.
He didn’t bother saddling Thunder.
He threw a bridle over the massive horse’s head and vaulted onto the horse’s bare back.
He ignored the blinding flash of pain that shot through his right shoulder.
Megan mounted the mare from a rotting mounting block.
She hiked the heavy wool skirt up to her knees, straddling the leather with utilitarian disregard for modesty.
Greg said the village was three miles west and told her to stay in his tracks.
They rode in silence.
The wind was a physical force, cutting through Greg’s thin linen shirt.
The landscape rolled past them, a bleak testament to ruin.
Greg watched Megan out of the corner of his eye.
She didn’t look at the ruin with a conqueror’s pride.
She scanned the horizon with the calculating gaze of a surveyor, assessing the timber, mapping the drainage.
She was already fixing it in her mind.
As the village finally appeared over the crest of the hill, Greg realized he didn’t hate her.
Craig’s office was located above a tannery, smelling aggressively of cured hides and cheap pipe tobacco.
Greg kicked the warped wooden door open with his boots.
Megan followed close behind, coughing into her fist.
Craig sat behind a desk piled high with rolled parchment and empty gin bottles.
He was a small, round man with a greasy comb-over.
He looked up, his jaw dropping as he took in the sight of the towering Duke and the woman in an antique riding habit.
He stammered, saying he didn’t expect to see Greg in the village.
Greg rasped that the roads were garbage and they were there on business.
He introduced Megan Carter from London.
Craig’s eyes darted to Megan, taking in the mud on her face.
He asked if she was the financier.
Megan placed her hands on the desk, mirroring Greg’s posture.
She let the flat, hard cadence of Cheapside bleed into her voice.
She stated she held the debt on the estate and needed Craig to certify the transfer of the deed.
Craig blinked, a slow, oily smile spreading across his face.
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.
He said he couldn’t process a transfer without the original promissory notes.
Megan kept her voice steady, explaining her carriage was run off the road and the documents were destroyed.
Craig clicked his tongue in mock sympathy.
He stated that without the papers, he only had her word.
And the word of a duke who had a vested interest in seeing his debts vanish.
Megan’s eyes narrowed.
She reached into the deep pocket of the riding habit and pulled out a heavy, gold signet ring.
She placed it on the desk.
It bore the crest of the mercantile bank she operated through.
She told Craig she could have her bank send a letter of confirmation, but it would take a week.
She leaned in closer, lowering her voice.
She said the railway company was sending their final offer on Friday.
If she didn’t have the deed by then, the deal fell through.
She slid the ring across the sticky surface of the desk.
She suggested they bypass the wait for a fee.
Craig looked at the ring, then up at Megan.
Greed warred with caution in his bright eyes.
He slowly reached out and picked up the ring, turning it over in his greasy fingers.
He muttered that it would require significant risk on his part.
Greg leaned his good hand flat on the desk, looming over the smaller man.
He told Craig not to push his luck.
Craig swallowed hard, his eyes darting between the two of them.
He slipped the ring into his waistcoat pocket.
He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward him and dipped his quill in ink.
He began to write, his scratching the only sound in the cramped room.
When he finished, he sprinkled sand over the wet ink and blew it off.
He slid the document across the desk to Megan.
It was the certified transfer of the deed.
Megan picked it up, her eyes scanning the words.
For the first time since she arrived at Hawkherst, a genuine smile touched her lips.
It was a small, dangerous smile.
She carefully folded the parchment and tucked it into her pocket.
She thanked Craig and turned toward the door.
Greg followed her down the narrow stairs and out into the biting wind.
They stood in the muddy street, the tannery stench surrounding them.
Megan looked up at Greg, the certified deed safe in her pocket.
She held the power now.
She could sell the land to the railway and leave him with nothing.
Greg waited for the dismissal, the final severing of his legacy.
Instead, Megan pulled the heavy wool blanket tighter around her shoulders.
She looked toward the horizon, where the skeletal oaks of the estate stood against the gray sky.
She said the eastern pastures needed better drainage if they were going to hold cattle.
Greg stared at her, the meaning of her words slowly sinking in.
She wasn’t selling to the railway.
She was staying.
She was going to rebuild.
And she was including him in the plan.
Greg let out a slow, ragged breath, feeling the crushing weight of the past three years finally lift.
He looked at the mud-stained, resilient woman beside him.
He told her they should start with the roof.
The ride back to Hawkherst was a slow, agonizing crawl through the relentless mud and fading light.
The wind howled across the barren moors, whipping the skeletal branches of the ancient oaks into a frenzy.
Greg’s right shoulder throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache that kept time with the heavy footfalls of Thunder.
He rode in silence, his mind churning with the monumental shift that had just occurred in Craig’s smoke-filled office.
Megan rode beside him, her small frame swallowed by the heavy, moth-eaten riding habit.
She didn’t speak either.
Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, her face a mask of iron determination.
She had secured the deed, but the real work was just beginning.
They reached the manor as the last slivers of daylight bled from the sky, leaving the world plunged into a deep, bruised twilight.
The crumbling stone facade of Hawkherst loomed before them, a monument to centuries of pride and decades of neglect.
Brian was waiting for them in the courtyard, a lantern clutched in his trembling hands.
The yellow light flickered across his pale, sunken face, casting long, wavering shadows against the rotting wood of the stables.
Greg slid down from Thunder’s bare back, his boots sinking deep into the muck.
He hissed as the jarring impact sent a fresh wave of agony through his right arm.
Megan dismounted with more grace, though she stumbled slightly as her numb feet hit the freezing ground.
She didn’t wait for Greg.
She marched straight past Brian, the heavy wool skirt of her habit dragging through the mud, and pushed her way through the heavy oak doors of the kitchen.
The kitchen was a cavern of shadows and freezing drafts.
The roof had indeed given way during the storm, leaving a gaping hole that exposed the heavy, waterlogged beams to the elements.
A pathetic fire smoked in the massive hearth, fighting a losing battle against the damp chill that permeated the room.
Megan stopped in the center of the kitchen, looking up at the hole in the roof.
Rainwater dripped steadily onto the cracked flagstones, pooling around her muddy boots.
She stood there for a long time, the silence broken only by the rhythmic plink of the water and the howling of the wind outside.
Greg stepped into the kitchen, leaning heavily against the doorframe.
He watched her, waiting for the reality of her new acquisition to crush her.
She had traded the security of her Cheapside empire for a crumbling, waterlogged ruin.
But Megan didn’t break.
She didn’t weep or curse the heavens.
She turned to face him, her dark eyes flashing in the weak light of the fire.
She told him they needed timber, slate, and a dozen able-bodied men by dawn.
Greg let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head.
He told her the men in the village wouldn’t work for free, and he didn’t have a single copper to his name.
Megan reached into the deep pocket of the riding habit and pulled out a small, heavy pouch.
She tossed it onto the scarred wooden table in the center of the kitchen.
The pouch landed with a satisfying, metallic thud.
She stated that she had secured a line of credit from her bank before she left London.
It wasn’t much, but it would be enough to get the roof patched and the east wing sealed before the next storm hit.
Greg stared at the pouch, the reality of her words sinking in.
She was not just a ruthless financier who had cornered the market on his debt.
She was a builder.
She was going to resurrect Hawkherst from the mud and ash, piece by piece, stone by stone.
And she was expecting him to help her do it.
He walked slowly toward the table, his bare feet numb against the freezing flagstones.
He picked up the pouch, feeling the heavy, undeniable weight of the coins inside.
He looked at Megan, the woman who had dragged him out of the abyss and forced him to confront the ruin he had become.
He didn’t hate her.
He didn’t resent her for taking what was his.
He respected her.
He respected the iron in her spine, the calluses on her hands, and the sheer, unadulterated willpower that kept her moving forward when the rest of the world would have surrendered.
He told her they would start with the roof in the morning.
For the first time since she had arrived at Hawkherst, Megan smiled.
It wasn’t a small, dangerous smile.
It was a genuine, weary smile that reached her dark, haunted eyes.
She nodded, a silent agreement struck between them in the freezing, ruined kitchen of the estate they now shared.
The battle was over.
The real war was just beginning.
The next morning broke with a brittle, freezing clarity.
The storm had finally passed, leaving the estate washed in a pale, anemic sunlight that offered no actual warmth.
Greg woke in a small, damp servant’s room near the kitchen, his back aching from the lumpy mattress.
His right shoulder throbbed with a persistent, gnawing pain, a constant reminder of the previous night’s ordeal.
He pushed himself up, his breath pluming in the freezing air of the small room.
He dressed slowly, clumsily, his left hand fumbling with the buttons of a fresh, slightly too small linen shirt.
When he walked into the kitchen, he found Megan already awake and intensely focused.
She was sitting at the scarred wooden table, wrapped in the heavy, moth-eaten riding habit.
In front of her was a massive, leather-bound ledger she must have salvaged from the wreckage of her trunk.
She was writing furiously with a cheap quill, the scratch of the nib against the parchment the only sound in the room.
Brian hovered near the hearth, attempting to coax a decent fire out of damp wood and wet straw.
Megan didn’t look up as Greg entered, but she slid a piece of paper across the table toward him.
It was a list, written in sharp, precise handwriting.
Timber, slate, nails, flour, salted pork, and a dozen other essentials.
She stated they needed to send someone to the village with the list and a portion of the coin.
Greg picked up the list, his eyes scanning the items.
He asked who she planned to send, since Tyler was still chasing chickens and Brian could barely lift a teapot.
Megan finally looked up, her dark eyes meeting his.
She suggested he go, since he knew the merchants and could negotiate better prices.
Greg let out a harsh bark of laughter.
He told her the merchants in Oakhaven hated him and wouldn’t give him a single discount.
Megan’s jaw tightened, a flash of annoyance crossing her face.
She said they didn’t need discounts, they just needed the supplies before the next storm hit.
Greg folded the list and tucked it into his pocket.
He agreed to go, but warned her that the villagers were not fond of outsiders, especially ones from London.
Megan turned back to her ledger, dismissing his warning with a flick of her hand.
She told him she had dealt with far worse than angry villagers in Cheapside.
Greg walked out of the kitchen, feeling a strange, unsettling sense of purpose.
He wasn’t fighting to save his legacy anymore.
He was fighting to survive, and surprisingly, he was fighting alongside the woman who had orchestrated his downfall.
The ride to the village was cold and miserable, the mud sucking at Thunder’s hooves with every step.
When Greg arrived at the general store, the merchant, a stout, red-faced man, stared at him in thinly veiled contempt.
Greg didn’t rise to the bait.
He didn’t pull rank or demand respect as the duke of Hawkherst.
He simply placed the list on the counter and dropped a heavy gold coin next to it.
He told the merchant he needed everything on the list, delivered to the estate by noon.
The merchant looked at the coin, his eyes widening slightly, and then at Greg.
He asked where the Duke had found real coin, considering the rumors circulating in the village.
Greg leaned across the counter, his good hand resting near the coin.
He told the merchant the rumors were none of his concern, and asked if he could fill the order or not.
The merchant snatched the coin, muttering that he would have his boy deliver the supplies.
Greg left the store, feeling a small, hollow victory.
He spent the rest of the morning visiting the timber yard and the blacksmith, securing the necessary materials to patch the roof and seal the broken windows.
Everywhere he went, he felt the heavy, suspicious stares of the villagers.
They knew something had shifted at the Hawkherst estate, but they didn’t know what.
When Greg returned to the manor, he found Megan in the courtyard, orchestrating a chaotic scene.
Half a dozen men from the village had arrived, lured by the promise of real coin.
They were hauling timber, mixing mortar, and climbing ladders to reach the gaping hole in the kitchen roof.
Megan stood in the center of the mud, shouting orders and pointing to structural weaknesses.
She looked completely in her element, a general commanding her troops.
Greg watched her for a moment, a grudging respect blooming in his chest.
She hadn’t just bought the estate; she had taken command of it.
He walked over to her, handing her the receipts from the merchants.
He told her the supplies would arrive by noon, and the blacksmith was coming tomorrow to fix the iron gates.
Megan took the receipts, her eyes scanning the numbers with lightning speed.
She nodded, a tight, satisfied smile on her lips.
She told him he did well.
It was a simple compliment, devoid of any warmth or affection, but it felt incredibly significant.
They spent the rest of the day working side by side, their differences momentarily forgotten in the face of the massive task before them.
Greg used his left arm to haul timber and mix mortar, ignoring the throbbing pain in his right shoulder.
Megan was everywhere at once, directing the men, balancing the ledgers, and keeping the chaotic operation moving forward.
As the sun began to set, casting long, bloody shadows across the courtyard, the last slate was nailed into place on the kitchen roof.
The men from the village collected their pay and departed, leaving the estate quiet once again.
Greg and Megan stood in the courtyard, covered in mud, sweat, and sawdust.
They looked at the patched roof, a small but undeniable victory against the decay that had consumed the estate.
Megan wiped a streak of dirt from her forehead with the back of her hand.
She told him it was a start.
Greg looked at her, truly looked at her.
He saw the exhaustion lining her face, the dark circles under her eyes, and the relentless fire that burned within them.
He agreed that it was a start.
They walked back into the kitchen, the heavy oak doors closing behind them, shutting out the cold, darkening world.
The fire in the hearth was burning brightly now, offering real warmth.
They sat at the scarred wooden table, sharing the heel of bread and a pot of weak tea.
They didn’t speak much, the silence between them no longer hostile, but filled with a shared, exhausted understanding.
They were two people who had hit the absolute bottom and decided to start digging.
The journey ahead would be brutal, long, and fraught with challenges, but for the first time in three years, Greg felt a flicker of hope.
He looked across the table at Megan Carter, the woman who had ruined him and then handed him a shovel.
He knew their partnership would be volatile and difficult.
But as he raised his chipped teacup in a silent toast, he knew he wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the world.
THE END
Tell us what you think about this story, and share it with your friends. It might inspire them and brighten their day.
If you enjoyed this story, read this one: My Mother Gave Her House To My Sister While I Fought Cancer—Then The Math Caught Up To Them
Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. If you would like to share your story, please send it to [email protected].
