The Wrong Girl

by CJ Archer

I didn't have to open my eyes to know I was in a carriage traveling at a fast clip along a rough road. The cabin rocked and bumped violently, tossing me about on the seat upon which I half lay. My feet were on the floor, but my body was covered by a blanket. Both the blanket and my clothes smelled of damp wool, possibly the worst smell in the entire world. No, not entirely true. Whatever had been soaked into that rag and caused me to blackout at the cottage was now the worst smell ever. Still, damp wool was unpleasant and, along with the rocking cabin, made my stomach churn.

  "Here, use this," a voice said.

  I cracked open my eyes to see a young woman of about my own age sitting across from me. It was dim in the cabin, but I could see she was quite pretty in a quiet way that didn't strike you immediately. She had a wide mouth and bright eyes that sparkled even in the dimness. I guessed them to be blue to go with her hair color, but it was impossible to tell if they were dark like mine or paler.

  She was beautifully dressed too in a pale pink gown trimmed with black lace and a tall black hat perched loftily on her blonde head. She emptied the contents of her reticle in her lap and passed it across the gap between us.

  "I'm fine," I rasped, my throat dry.

  The carriage lurched again and my stomach dipped and rose. I took the reticule just in time to throw up in it. Good lord, were all carriage rides so turbulent?

  When I finished, I closed the reticule and hesitantly held it out for her. She screwed up her nose and shrank into her seat.

  "Please don't take offense," she said, "but I don't suppose you'd mind holding it until we reach our destination. It won't be long now."

  I slowly sat up and lifted the green velvet curtain edged with gold lace. The landscape whipped past at a rate that had my stomach rolling again. I'd not thought anything could move so swiftly! I let the curtain fall back into place, but not before I'd seen that it was still raining, albeit with less ferocity.

  "Do you feel better?" the woman asked.

  "Not particularly."

  Her face fell. "Oh. It's just as well you still have my reticule then."

  "Most fortuitous."

  She must have heard the sarcasm in my voice because a small crease appeared between her eyebrows. "I know this is very trying for you, Lady Violet, but I want to assure you that you have nothing to fear. We don't intend to harm you."

  Did I just imagine the slight emphasis on the word 'intend,' and the shifting of her gaze so that she wasn't quite looking me in the eyes? "Then you won't mind answering my questions," I said, sounding bolder than I felt.

  "I don't mind, but unfortunately I'm forbidden to do so."

  "Forbidden? By whom?"

  She gave me a tight smile. "All will be explained when we arrive, Lady Violet."

  Hearing Vi's name only deepened my sense of dread. What would they do when they discovered I wasn't Vi? What did they want her for in the first place? Ransom money? Yes, that must be it.

  "Don't worry," she said as I shrank into the corner. "It's nothing sinister, and our reasons are noble. Indeed, we wish to help you." She squeezed her lips as if trying to hold back more words. I got the feeling she wasn't supposed to have said that much.

  I swallowed. The lingering taste of bile burned my throat. Bile and fear. My heart hammered in my chest and I desperately wanted to go back, to see Vi again and Windamere. I'd even settle for seeing Miss Levine and my small bed. Just something, or someone, familiar. I wished I could take back every moment in which I'd craved to be far away from the attic. I suddenly felt terribly ungrateful for everything I'd been given.

  I wondered how long it had taken Vi to notice I was gone. What had she done when she realized I wasn't coming back? Had she run to the house and alerted her father? Would he have listened to her and sent out a search party or ordered her to return upstairs to the attic?

  It was possible that Lord Wade cared nothing about my disappearance. I was, after all, nothing more than his daughter's friend. The only person in the world who cared whether I lived or died was Vi, a prisoner in her own home and quite powerless to search for me. One thing I did know for certain—she would be utterly miserable without me, just as I felt utterly miserable and alone without her, despite the presence of the mystery woman across from me.

  "I'm Miss Sylvia Langley," she said, as if she could read my mind. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

  Politeness dictated that I give my name in response, even if it were already known, but I was in no mood to be polite, nor did I want to lie and introduce myself as Lady Violet Jamieson, daughter of Lord Wade. But I certainly did not want to give her my real name and divulge that she had the wrong person. Whereas I could endure a kidnapping, and more, Vi's nerves would snap altogether and ruin her fragile mind.

  "You seem quite certain I won't attack you and try to escape," I said instead.

  "Why would you want to escape?" She seemed genuinely puzzled. "You'll be offered a great deal more freedom than you were given at Windamere Manor."

  "'A great deal more freedom' doesn't have quite the same meaning as 'You're free to come and go as you please.'"

  Miss Langley's jaw went rigid. "I know your father has kept you in the attic. I would consider anything other than a genuine prison cell 'more freedom,' wouldn't you?"

  So she knew that much. Interesting. It was no secret that Lord Wade's eldest daughter lived in the attic of Windamere with her governess and companion, but most thought she was there of her own volition. Even our tutors had been under the impression. Miss Levine had told us it was generally thought Vi was simple-minded and wanted to be left alone. Her stuttered greetings to the butler certainly did nothing to dispel the rumors. What everyone thought of me being kept in the attic with her, I couldn't guess. Perhaps, being the orphan of servants, they thought my situation was a fortunate one. Sometimes I believed that too.

  "I'm sorry if you think Lord Wade will pay your ransom," I said. "You're going to be quite shocked when you discover he doesn't care enough to capitulate to your demands."

  She lifted one brow. "You don't think he would pay a ransom for your release?"

  "Do you think a gentleman who keeps his child in the attic would want her back?" Whether he did or didn't, wasn't the point. The point was, Miss Langley and her friends had not kidnapped his daughter. They'd kidnapped Hannah Smith. A nobody. Vi might not consider me replaceable, but I wouldn't begin to know what Lord Wade thought.

  "I see what you mean," she said. "Well then. It's fortunate that we don't want his money, or we'd be in a pickle."

  No ransom? How curious. "Then what do you want with me?"

  "I am sorry, but I cannot answer any more questions." The carriage slowed and she pulled the curtain back. "Ah, here we are. Home at last."

  I lifted my side of the curtain just as the carriage passed through an iron gate. Tall, thick oaks lined the drive, their overhanging branches shielding what little light filtered through the gray clouds. I caught a glimpse of a lake where bare weeping willow branches cried into the still, flat surface. Beyond that, what looked to be a ruined building rose out of the ground liked jagged teeth. It was too far away for me to see what sort of structure it had once been, or if indeed it was a genuine ruin or a folly like the one in Windamere's park.

  We rounded a gentle bend and the trees thinned out until all that was left was a neat lawn and some low shrubs clipped into the shape of inverted drips. Gravel crunched under tires, and the driver urged the horses to slow with a few commanding words.

  Was he the one who'd captured me? Or had my kidnapper remained at Windamere after delivering me to the carriage?

  I ceased wondering as the house rolled past the window. No, not house, mansion. Or more particularly, a castle. Where Windamere Manor was all formal regularity, this house was not. There were gabled roofs in abundance, their peaks topped with decorative pinnacles like insect antennae. The gables were broken up by castellated turrets and towers, and I couldn't even begin to count the chimney stacks, there were so ma
ny. The dark gray stone was also in contrast to Windamere's golden hues, and with the heavy clouds hanging low overhead, it looked rather medieval and altogether forbidding.

  A shiver trickled down my spine. "What is this place?"

  "Freak House," Miss Langley said.

  "Pardon?"

  The carriage door opened and, because I was leaning on it, I tumbled out without an ounce of grace. I managed to hang onto the reticule as strong hands caught me by the upper arms, saving me from a muddy puddle. It had stopped raining, but the ground was drenched.

  "Thank you." I looked up, straight into the green eyes of the new Windamere gardener. "You!"

  He let go, but not before I noticed how warm his hands were, even through my sleeves. "My apologies," he said. "I feel terrible about what happened, but it was necessary. Or so I was I told." This last he muttered under his breath, but it didn't disguise his voice, so deep and rumbling. I remembered how it had vibrated through me when he'd grabbed me outside the woodsman's cottage. It must have been he who'd captured me and held that God-awful cloth to my nose. "Are you all right?" he asked. "No lasting effects from the ether?"

  "None at all." I held out the reticule full of vomit. "Would you mind carrying my luggage?"

  A small frown creased his brow as he took the reticule and glanced at Miss Langley behind me.

  She giggled. "I do believe I like you already, Lady Violet." She hooked her arm through mine and I found it comforting, despite my apprehension.

  Comfort or no, I released myself and took a step away from her and the gardener. They were my captors. No matter how polite or kind, I must always remember that they'd kidnapped me using unconscionable methods.

  Miss Langley chewed her lower lip and looked as if she'd burst into tears. "Say something to her, Jack."

  The gardener stared at me, and for a brief moment, I saw a sadness in his eyes that equaled Vi's on days when I couldn't drag her away from the window. But it was so fleeting that I wondered if I'd imagined it. "I suspect anything I say will sound hollow." Although he answered Miss Langley, I felt as if he spoke directly to me.

  "You could introduce yourself," I said. "That would be a good place to start."

  It must not have been the response he expected because he took a moment to answer and his mood seemed to lighten a little. "Jack Langley at your service." He bowed.

  "Langley? You are brother and sister?"

  "Cousins," Miss Langley said.

  "I see. And will you tell me why I've been brought here against my will, Mr. Langley?"

  "All will be revealed soon enough," he said.

  I glanced from him to his cousin. She smiled unconvincingly. "As I already told Miss Langley, Lord Wade will not pay a ransom for my return. He simply doesn't care enough. Why would he when he has a perfect daughter in Eudora?" I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself blabbering. The Langleys didn't know about the fire starting. How could they? No one outside the family and Miss Levine knew. All they could possibly know was that Lady Violet was kept in the attic because it was what she wished.

  "Come inside, and we'll settle you in," Miss Langley said. "Then all will be made clear. Won't it, Jack?"

  She was a terrible liar. Not only was her apprehension written into every line on her forehead, but her voice pitched higher and higher with each word.

  "You'll be treated with respect here," he said. "And you'll have every comfort."

  "I had every comfort at Windamere," I said. "Respect too." Of sorts.

  His mouth kicked up in a brief smile that was quickly dampened. "I see you like to argue."

  "It appears to be the only course open to me. I tend to fight when I'm cornered."

  "I know." He held up his hand. Three bloodied scratches raked down the back from knuckles to wrist.

  "I'm—" Sorry, I'd been about to say. But I wouldn't apologize to my kidnapper for trying to save myself. "You ought to be more careful where you put your hands, Mr. Langley."

  Again he gave that small smile, but once more it disappeared before taking proper hold. "Call me Jack. I'm not one for formalities."

  "And you can call me Sylvia," Miss Langley said. "May we call you Violet?"

  "If you prefer." I peered past her to the house, a rather solid, dominating presence that looked as if it had been hewn from a mountain of rock. Yet it appealed to me in a way that Windamere never had. There was no symmetry to it, no evenness of form and certainly no beauty, but it was interesting, in a grim way.

  "Welcome to Frakingham House," Sylvia said, following my gaze.

  "You called it Freak House in the carriage."

  "Did she now?" Jack glared at her from beneath a fringe of dark hair. He looked bedraggled, and I supposed I must have been equally unkempt. I touched my curls. Ugh. It was an untamed mess. I must have lost hat and hairpins somewhere along the way.

  "That's what the villagers call it," Jack said. "Behind our backs."

  "Behind your back perhaps," Sylvia said.

  "Where are we?" I asked.

  "A few hours from Windamere," Jack said. "Show her to her room, Syl, then come see us. I'll meet you there shortly."

  "Where is 'there' exactly?" I asked. "And who else will I be meeting?"

  Neither answered me. Sylvia steered me up the flagstone steps to an enormous arched doorway recessed deep into the stone moldings. Carved rosettes and a coat of arms decorated the lintel above.

  Jack pushed open the door and allowed Sylvia and me to walk through first. As I passed him, a strange warmth spread along my veins to the tips of my fingers and toes. His breath hitched, but I didn't dare look at him. Didn't dare desire this man who'd kidnapped me.

  I walked side by side with Sylvia to the grand staircase. It rose up to the first level then split in two with both sections continuing higher, disappearing through arched doors. Stone arches were everywhere. They formed the baluster, were carved into the walls to create niches, and enormous ones held up the vaulted roof. To my surprise, neither butler nor footman greeted us. If it had been Windamere, Pearson would have known we were about to walk through the front door before we did.

  "Don't be afraid," Sylvia said with a squeeze of my arm.

  "I'm not," I lied.

  Our footfalls echoed throughout the cavernous space as we walked up the stairs and along a series of corridors that seemed to turn and turn again until I no longer knew whether I faced the front of the house or the back.

  Sylvia stopped at a closed door. "This is your room."

  "I'll never find my way out again. Or is that the point?"

  "I see it'll take some time before you realize we're not going to harm you."

  "You may not harm me, but you do intend to keep me prisoner here."

  "This door will never be locked," she said, opening it. She said nothing about the front door and others leading outside, and I didn't ask. I suspect it would be something she wasn't allowed to discuss.

  So who was forbidding her? The mysterious other person I was about to meet?

  The bedroom was nothing at all like my attic one. Not only was it considerably larger and not covered in woolen hangings, but it was lavishly furnished. Paintings and tapestries hung on the walls, and the walls themselves were papered in a rich, deep burgundy. There was rather a lot of furniture, most of it beautifully made from dark wood, but it all looked comfortable, particularly the canopied bed with its swathes of crimson fabric covering the tester and cascading down the posts to form curtains.

  "It's very grand," I said.

  Sylvia fluffed up the cushion on one of the chairs. "We thought it appropriate for the daughter of an earl."

  Would I be removed to the servants' quarters if they learned I was really plain Hannah Smith?

  "It's a little chilly in here," she said. "Do you want the fire lit?"

  "No. Don't trouble yourself."

  The fireplace didn't look as if it had been lit in years. Perhaps it hadn't been. Perhaps I was the only visitor the room had ever seen. It
did have the musty smell of a closed room, and the bedcovers and all the cushions looked crisp and new.

  "Did you do these yourself?" I asked, indicating the embroidered cushions.

  Sylvia smiled. "Yes. I painted most of the pictures too."

  I studied the paintings. Some depicted ruins that resembled the ones I'd seen earlier, and others were of the lake or woods. They were a little dark and ethereal for my taste with stormy skies and an abundance of tangled vines, but they suited the house itself. "I hope you haven't removed them from your own room for me," I said.

  "Oh no, I've done many more. They're in every room."

  "You're very prolific."

  "Oh, I meant every room that we inhabit. Most of Frakingham is empty. We don't need all of it."

  "Who are 'we' exactly?"

  She set the cushion down on the chair and arranged it just so, then rearranged it again. "Jack and me, of course, and Uncle August."

  "Jack's father?"

  "No."

  "So he's Jack's uncle as well as yours?"

  "Yes, of course. You do ask a lot of questions." She opened one of the cupboard doors. "There is a selection of gowns here, and jackets. They should all fit nicely as long as Jack was right."

  I frowned. "Right about what?"

  "Your measurements. He assured me he could tell your size just by looking at you."

  "Jack first appeared at Windamere two weeks ago. Don't tell me you've had them all made since then based on the guess of someone who's only seen me a few times and at a distance?"

  "Not all of them were made new. Some are altered ones of mine. I hope you don't mind. As to the fit...Jack's rarely wrong."

  How irritating. "An expert on women's sizes, is he?"

  She flashed me a mischievous grin. "I think you've made an impression on him. He almost smiled earlier, and when you get to know him better, you'll learn that he smiles rarely."

  "I don't wish to get to know him. I wish to go home." It sounded petulant, but I didn't care. The Langley cousins might have been all solicitude toward me, but fear tightened my chest. Besides, I wanted to see Vi again. She must have been frantic with worry.

  Sylvia turned suddenly and strode to the dressing table situated in the bay window. Her fingers lightly caressed the silver-capped perfume bottles, the combs, brushes and a silver candlestick and trinket boxes. It was as if she sought comfort in the familiar objects, or perhaps it was merely a way of avoiding eye contact with me. "You'll find unmentionables in the drawers."

  I came up beside her and looked out the arch window. I could just see the lake and the ruins off to one side. Beyond that were wooded hills and little else. The village the cousins had spoken of must be in another direction. My soul thrilled at the sight of a new vista, so different from the one I had stared at every day for years. Yet I felt a stab of sorrow and the cold lump of unease too. I might never see the view over Windamere's park again.

  "How old is this place?" I asked. Talking about the history of Frakingham might keep my nerves under control. Hopefully.

  "The estate itself is ancient. People have been living and worshipping here for centuries." She pointed at the ruins. "That was Frakingham Abbey. It belonged to the Cistercian order, but was abandoned and fell into ruin around the time of the Dissolution of the Monasteries. It's rather a pleasant place to picnic now in the summertime."

  "It looks eerie."

  "I suppose it does." She looked at my crossed arms as I hugged myself. "Don't worry. There are no ghosts here that we know of. Indeed, this building is only about sixty years old, although you wouldn't know it."

  "I thought it was medieval."

  "Not at all. The previous Lord Frakingham wanted a grand house built in the Gothic style. He bankrupted the estate in the process, and his heir had to sell it when the place began to need repairs."

  "Your uncle bought it?"

  She tilted her chin and her eyes flashed. "He did. He's a self-made man, Uncle August. He worked his way up from nothing to be able to afford this. The son of a grocer now living in the same house that a lord built. Imagine that!"

  "Yes, imagine." I had no idea how expensive it would be to buy something on the scale of Frakingham, but it must be considerable. Few Englishmen who hadn't been born into the upper echelons of society could afford it. No wonder Sylvia was proud of her uncle. "I'd like to meet him. Now, if you please." Commanding her allowed me to command my own trepidation as the full extent of my situation sank in. Well, to a certain extent at least.

  Sylvia bristled. "Demands won't get you anywhere with Uncle. As it happens, he wants to see you immediately anyway. Let's get you ready." She spun me around and scanned me from head to toe. "These clothes are so drab. They won't do. Uncle August expects women of your status to dress accordingly. He likes order, you see." Her nimble fingers unbuttoned my jacket. "Servants ought to dress like servants, shopkeepers like shopkeepers and ladies like ladies. I'm surprised your father doesn't too. I'd have thought an earl would be more of a stickler for these things than Uncle."

  "Who knows what Lord Wade thinks," I muttered as I allowed her to take off my jacket. There was no point in arguing with her, either about who my father may or may not be or about what I should wear to meet her uncle.

  The prospect of meeting him filled me with foreboding. What sort of man inspired a nice girl like Sylvia to fumble nervously with the hooks and eyes on my dress? What sort of man had his niece and nephew kidnap for him?

 

  CHAPTER 3