There was nothing to do but look to Wyatt and pray the limp bundle in his arms was not who and what she feared. “Wyatt?”
“It’s alright, Amelia.” He patted the back of Luca’s head, prompting him to raise his head. “We found him.”
If war made men out of boys, it made warriors out of women.
Amelia took Luca in her arms as if his flesh and blood were hers, or as if she shared him in some way with the parents he mightn’t even remember. Every moment of the last five years came back in a torrent. Watching him grow . . . losing teeth and stretching in height . . . learning English . . . reading his books and hiding away in a beekeeper’s cottage like they had their own secret world that the war couldn’t touch.
But it could. And did.
And war ravaged her now, demanding her arms cling tighter than they ever had before.
“You’re alright, my darlings,” she whispered against Luca’s ear, holding so tight, his little heartbeat thundering against hers. Amelia wrapped her arm around Liesel’s shoulders, squeezing the three of them together. “See? You’re just fine. We’ll get you cleaned up, spick-and-span. Just like new, ja?”
She winked at them—German their little secret—then reached past the children, desperate in gratitude, and held out her hand until Wyatt took it. He squeezed her fingertips but let go, instead bringing his hand up to wipe something from her cheek. It must have been blood because his brow tipped down with the familiar deep crease as he looked her over.
“You’re hurt?”
“No,” she breathed out, pressing her face into his palm, loving the feel of warmth and life in it. “No. Bombs fell in town too, but . . . I’m well.”
Wyatt pressed against the three of them, his arms enveloping, his lips pressing a hard kiss to Amelia’s brow over the children. He was affected too—dirt-smudged uniform, hat lost somewhere along the way, and the ghost of his burns shielded over by the same soot that covered the children. But it was more.
There was a shock about him—even a tremble in his embrace.
“How can I ever thank you?” she whispered as she gazed into his eyes, but he seemed to look through her. “Wyatt?”
Was this what it was like to pull crew members from flaming wreckage? She’d never get used to it, as long as she lived, the carnage of bomb blasts and the search for loved ones beneath piles of rubble. It had happened to Arthur at Parham Hill, when he’d had to pull her out. And now, whatever it was that caused the smoke curls in the sky, they’d lived.
Wyatt had saved them.
Amelia squeezed his hand, trying to draw him back to her. He hesitated, like he’d lost his voice and needed a slap in the face to find it.
“You were caught in town?” he asked again. “What happened?”
She nodded. “Yes. German fighters. They came in past the airfields. Dropped their load on the way, then one pointed his nose at the church and let the engine do the rest. The wreck took out the entire altar at St. Michaels. I don’t know how many might have been killed . . . I couldn’t stay. But I pray none. Buildings were bombed out—shells of brick and stone remaining right across the street. The bookshop is gone—gone, Wyatt. Singed paper floated down from the sky like some ghostly ticker-tape parade. I’ve never seen anything like it. And all I could do was get back here. To you.”
“Are you sure you’re not hurt, love?” He examined her again, his thumb lingering over the tip of her shirt collar. “You’re shaking. And blood has stained your blouse.”
“No harm done. I’m just relieved to see you all in one piece. You weren’t caught in it, were you?”
Wyatt stilled her hand and pressed his lips to the curl of her fingertips, terrifying her with the tears that gathered in his eyes. But he didn’t shake his head. Didn’t deny what she knew deep down. Where there was smoke, fire ate a meal. And if there was fire burning up the willows beyond the path, there was little doubt in her question of it.
“The cottage, Amelia . . .”
Be brave. Buck up. Take it.
“So the cottage is gone, is it?”
“Not gone. The men are putting out the flames. But I’m so sorry.” He stopped, emotion thicker than the smoke and ash heating the air around them. “Sweetheart—Darly’s dead.”
Twenty-Seven
June 9, 1843
Drury Lane
London, England
London had begun to cry a dreary, steady rain.
Elizabeth imagined the front steps of the Theatre Royal swarmed over by patrons on a high summer night—ladies dripping in their velvet and diamonds, bare shoulders hiding under demure wraps, and gentlemen preening in their starched and stuffed white-tie dress. A peculiar thing to arrive now: this time instead of tiptoeing her way through a stage door to a back hall teeming with props, they rode straight to the grand front doors on a rain-soaked street clouded under gray.
Keaton exited the coach under the front portico and reached for Elizabeth’s hand. As she took it to step down onto the sidewalk, they might have looked the noble pair—a contented couple heading into the theater for some sort of elegant business or to purchase tickets for a night show, instead of what they actually were—a couple who couldn’t claim the delights of the theater were even on their list of present concerns.
His was a swift and purposeful march inside, adding a courteous, “This way,” as he led Elizabeth through the front entry. Its marble floor and grand staircase were shrouded in shadows that would linger until the gaslights were lit one by one, burning bright for the shows that evening. The building appeared to have slept through morning—the gentle sway of wind and smattering of rain against the windows and chugging of carriages that breezed by outside making the interior seem like a lost world. And though the corridor of offices might have been hidden from view to the average theatergoer, Keaton knew his way behind the curtained alcove and marched off in that direction like a shot, his bootfalls echoing loud against the groin vaults in the ceiling.
“Churchill!” The office lay dark and still behind the frosted glass door. Keaton knocked but turned the knob anyway, not waiting for an invitation to enter.
Empty.
The open window from days prior had been shuttered and curtains drawn tight with gold cords dangling at the sides. Stacks of loose papers and ledger books had been left in a tower upon the corner of the desk, piled high in some semblance of order as it was when Elizabeth had last been there. A map of the country hung on the wall—she’d not noticed it before—with show advertisements pinned to its edges like a great feathered bird composed of paper and ink, and tattooed letters that called out oddities such as Nicholas Nickleby—Tremendous Hit! in bold block print.
All lay quiet, the walls and hallway, and even the entry, as if London and its famous bustle in the theater district had vanished into the deluge outside. Elizabeth could almost hear her own heartbeat in a wild cadence against the stillness.
“He had to have known this was coming, sooner or later.” Keaton sighed, shaking his head, hands anchored at his waist as he scanned the office.
“You mean Mr. Churchill.”
He nodded. “I suspect he’ll make plans to avoid the city while you’re here. Now that he’s seen you, he won’t want to take it any further.”
“Take what any further?”
It was absurd that Elizabeth should wonder if she should add, “Who am I?” in response to his statement. Who was she but an earl’s daughter from Yorkshire, a lowly sketch artist forgotten these last ten years? And now the past felt closer than ever, the sidewalk in Piccadilly running over in her mind like the snow had just fallen around them yesterday.
“Why would Mr. Churchill leave the city because of me? I’m a complete stranger.”
“You may be strangers in practice, Elizabeth, but there is more to it than that. I couldn’t care whether Churchill wishes to reveal this or not—it’s a decision that’s already been made by your coming here. As you’ve managed to unravel much of this yourself, I won’t stop you from
knowing. You have every right to be here.”
The gasp of a match sparking to life drew Elizabeth’s attention, and she smelled the flame he used to light the oil lamp on the desk. Keaton replaced the glass hurricane and tossed the dead match in the dish on the desktop, then moved about the room like he knew exactly what he sought and had an idea about where to find it.
He thumbed through the ledger books for a brief moment. Pulled books from the shelves and fanned the pages of a few, as if expecting something to fly free from the bindings. He turned, spying the advertisements pinned to the map on the wall, and stalked to them.
“What are you looking for?”
“One of these.” Keaton pulled on an advertisement until the pin ripped a trail through the top of the paper and gave it up to his hand. “It’s dated, but I knew one of them would still be here.”
He stepped over to her so the advertisement was cast in the glow of the lamp’s light. It flickered against bold typeface promoting an opening night performance of The Christening: the advertisement boasted “from Dickens’s ‘The Bloomsbury Christening.’ It was dated 13 October 1834—almost one year after her father’s death.
It wasn’t the play itself that had any bearing on the situation but the portrait of one of the lead actors. The man’s visage was sketched, much like the image of Keaton she’d captured so many years ago, but this image stared back as if she’d seen it before. A strong jaw. Elegant brow. Similar cut to the hair. And though his eyes didn’t boast the rarity of Keaton’s, they did pierce the viewer with an uncommon impetuousness so that had it been hung as a poster on the street, the portrait certainly would have beckoned passersby to halt in their tracks.
His presence was regal—almost royal—and far too familiar.
“Who is he?”
“Thomas Whittle—the man whose name you asked after when first you walked through this door.” He pointed to the tiny typeface in the cast credit list. “You’ll recognize him among the list of billed cast for this play, and any number of others in London—at the Adelphi and here at the Theatre Royal, until 1834.”
Elizabeth looked up at him, his eyes open and exposed before her.
“Few knew Thomas Whittle was his stage name. A young gentleman whose interest in theater would have been quite unacceptable for his station. It was to keep his name and title secret. But he was known to me as Fenton James—my elder brother.”
“Your brother,” she breathed out, running a fingertip over the familiarity of the profile—so evidently akin to Keaton now at a second glance. How could she have missed it? “Yet you inherited your father’s title and the estate at Parham Hill. Why? Unless . . .”
Keaton took the advertisement from her slowly and laid it on the desk as if he were done with reliving it.
“You mean why does a man inherit unless the heir apparent is out of the equation? My brother was killed in a riding accident. Not a year after your world was torn apart, mine was upended as well. And the younger James brother who’d never considered himself a grand anything was thrust into a future that never should have been. You sought a dead man, Elizabeth. A man who cannot tell any tales about what occurred that night outside the tea shop, any more than I wish to hurt you by reopening old wounds.”
Elizabeth crossed the space of a few steps between them, no longer afraid of what those eyes made him or who he was underneath a gentleman’s exterior. That image dissolved as if the sketch from ten years before had been set aflame. All she wanted was answers. Whatever he could offer, it had to be better than wondering a second longer.
Even the truth—whatever it was—she needed it more than breathing.
“Hurt me if you must. Just help me to understand,” Elizabeth whispered, looking up at him, watching the flickering lamplight dance against his shirt collar and flutter in lines across his face. “You said you’d tell me if I asked. Well, I’m standing before you now. Asking. I cannot believe it was you who pulled the trigger that night, no matter how my memory tries to sway me . . .”
She swallowed hard, her fingers aching to reach for him instead of twisting into knots in front of her. “I’ve come to know you, Keaton James. I have seen who you are. And I know you cannot now be what I once thought. My innermost will not allow my heart to believe it.”
Keaton wouldn’t meet her eyes. He stared down at his boots on a deep inhale, his jaw battling with an unconscious flex.
“You thought me a beast that night. Watching from the carriage as I stood by the streetlamp, waiting. Elizabeth, I’ve lived these last years as a monster in your eyes. There is no reclamation from that.”
“There is no monster in you,” she whispered, but this time she reached out a hand and ghosted her fingertips along the jaw that battled so with whatever he refused to say. She left them there, holding him with her touch until he finally looked back in her eyes. “If you care for me at all, please—do not leave me in this senseless oblivion any longer.”
Her words must have struck in a way that arrested him. Keaton caught her hand, warming the back of her fingertips with his palm. There was no dining table between them now. No silent coach rides, forced marriage contracts, or chance meetings across a meadow. Either one of them could have walked out of the office, leaving the other behind.
But they stood together. A single flame cutting the darkness all around. Hands lowered but fingers still entwined. The truth-battle raging between them as he leaned down, as if debating whether he could—or should—press his forehead to hers, brush his lips against her own.
“I wouldn’t have . . .”
“Wouldn’t have what?” Elizabeth asked, so close she could have run her arms up to his collar, slipped them around his neck—so close she could almost feel the pulse of his lips against hers.
“I wouldn’t have kept anything from you if your father hadn’t made me vow it. Please know that. Even now it feels like a betrayal to have brought you here. But my conscience cannot keep you in the dark any longer.”
She backed up, steps that felt like a chasm to cross in an eternity of breaths, the bookshelf and her skirt meeting in a fluster of misaligned half steps.
“You knew my father then.”
Keaton looked up, eyes sharp though finding her through the darkness. “Not well, but yes. Fenton and he were business associates.”
“What kind of business—at the mill?”
“No. That was a business venture all his own. But you said he took you there when you were young, to the textile mill in Manchester?”
“He did. On many occasions.”
“And what do you remember?”
What on earth did the mill have to do with a street corner in front of a tea shop? Elizabeth shook her head, untangling memories she hadn’t visited in so long.
“I don’t know . . . The operations? I was to engage in learning the mill owner’s trade. I’d one day have a husband, after all, and what I brought to the marriage must be understood.”
“There must be more than that or you’d not have mentioned it before.”
“The lack of real attention given to learning the trade was a bit of a secret. Pa-pa took me along and looked the other way as I indulged my fancy for sketching the doldrums of the poor worker’s lot in life. How completely imperious that neither one of us saw the reality behind what we were doing—he employing workers in near-scandalous conditions and I moved about, fancying myself clever for sketching the plight of the downtrodden. But I never helped them. Not once.
“I look back now to the memory of children scurrying under the machinery, trying not to get eaten by the grinding of metal tines that chased their feet and ankles. The men and women . . . They worked until they were near ragged with exhaustion and could barely carry themselves home at the end of a day. That is the legacy I now see. I may have been surviving in my own grief these ten years, but they had long before.”
Elizabeth shuddered, knowing she’d changed due to her own years of reduced circumstances. How arrogant. How cold and unfeeling
and plagued by apathy she’d been. As if an artist’s job was to put on a grand performance with the skill of the eye and hand but never care what heart beat beneath the surface of the subject in the picture.
“So you recall children working in the mill up until the earl’s death—even in 1833?”
“I believe so. Why?”
“I regret to tell you, but your father was in very dire financial circumstances at the time of his death. In part because of the child labor he attempted to keep secret, but also because of the conditions in which he’d employed them.”
“You are certain of this.”
The layers had begun to peel back. Causing pain in remembrance. With the words he spoke, with every breath and open glance, it seemed the false memory of Elizabeth’s childhood chipped away and her father became more and more distant. The smile on his lips, the care in his voice, even the stately way he held his shoulders when he walked—all were in jeopardy of falling apart.
Summoning bravery from whence she didn’t know, Elizabeth whispered, “Go on.”
“Parliament passed a series of laws leading up to August of that year, meant to protect workers—primarily children. The Factory Act made it illegal to employ any younger than age nine. And it severely limited the hours that child workers could labor in a day. Your father’s interests were hit hard when it was discovered that he’d not only ignored the laws and continued the harsh working conditions put upon children, but that a five-year-old child had died in his mill as a result, in November of that year.”
“A child died . . . I never knew.” Elizabeth covered her mouth with shaking fingertips as the image she’d built of her father crumbled into memories of dust. “How could he do this?”
“He was wracked with guilt over it. Truly. And never wished you to know. But as a result of this negligence and the impending investigation, he faced losing all that he owned—the mill and all his properties, including your Yorkshire estate. A series of risky business speculations had come to light and in order to cover the reason behind them, he’d gambled . . . and lost. The only option that awaited him was the poorhouse, prison, or both.”
The Painted Castle Page 29
