“And she agreed to take in one of the girls,” Colin said.
“Yes. She confirmed the anniversary of the girls’ mother’s death is tomorrow and told me where she is buried.”
“Hence your scheme. Let us hope Adelaide—if indeed it is she—plans to pay her respects.” Colin’s mouth was set in a grim line. “I shall speak to Leighton at once.”
* * *
I did not sleep well that night, wondering if Adelaide—for I had decided the mysterious woman could be no one else—would appear outside again. She did not, at least not so far as I knew. I had not seen her since she dropped her necklace in the snow, and I wondered what had stopped her from coming again. In the morning, Colin and I breakfasted early and set off for St. George in the East, in whose churchyard the unfortunate Mrs. Hartford had been buried. The church, near the intersection of Cannon Street Road and The Highway, served a rough neighborhood, many of whose residents were hardened dockworkers. I could understand Mrs. Parnell wanting to escape the place, but wished she had not chosen to abandon her sister and her parents in the process.
Colin had contacted the rector of the parish, who greeted us when we arrived and took us at once to the grave in question. There were no signs as of yet that anyone had visited it recently. Deciding our presence might scare off Adelaide, I went into the church, while Colin sent the carriage to wait out of sight and then positioned himself across the street. The cold did not trouble him so much as it did me but, even so, he was forced twice to come inside to glean whatever warmth he could from the interior of the stone building.
Shortly after one o’clock, a solitary figure entered the snowy churchyard. Colin spotted her, but waited until she had reached her mother’s grave before fetching the vicar and me. Together, the three of us approached her.
“Adelaide, I am a friend of your sister’s,” I said. “She would very much like to see you and I suspect you feel the same, or you wouldn’t have been coming to her house night after night.”
“Who are you? How do you know my name?” she asked, her eyes darting nervously. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“No, you have not,” I said, “but a great wrong has been done to you.”
She backed away. “I don’t know you.”
I introduced Colin and myself and then held up her locket on its thin chain. “I found this, and my neighbor, your sister, Penelope, has its twin. Don’t you want to see her?”
“Not now that I know how she lives. Left me here to fend for myself, didn’t she? While she marries a society bloke.”
“You do not have a coat,” I said. “You must be freezing. Please have this.” I had brought a warm woolen cloak for her. She eyed me with great skepticism, but took it and pulled it over her old-fashioned gown.
“What do you want from me?” she asked.
“They have come to bring you to your sister,” the vicar said. “That is all.”
“Why would she want me now when she didn’t before?”
“You were both children when you lost your mother,” Colin said. “Penelope went where she was told to go, as did you, but she had no idea where you wound up. She asked after you so frequently that eventually your aunt told her you died so she would stop trying to get information about you.”
“She thinks I am dead?” Adelaide asked.
“If she didn’t, she would be doing everything in her power to find you,” I said. “She feels responsible for what happened to you and fell apart when she saw you outside the window, believing you had come to haunt her. She is ill with worry. Will you not go to her and relieve her anxiety?” I reached toward her and, after a brief hesitation, she gave me her hand.
“She thinks I am dead?” Adelaide repeated, her eyes so wide in her thin face that they dwarfed her other features. She looked like a scared child rather than a young woman of eighteen.
“Will you come?” I asked again.
“Yes.”
Colin ran off to fetch the carriage, and as soon as we reached home I installed Adelaide in a spare bedroom at Park Lane, where I had a maid prepare for her a hot bath. I gave her a change of clothes, although she was so emaciated that my gown hung loose on her, but at least it was clean. She had only one dress of her own, the cast-off garment she wore every day, which she had received from a charity house. It was in no state to be worn ever again. I sent my lady’s maid up to help her dress and to do her hair, knowing Meg was better qualified than anyone to make her feel lovely.
“Tell me your story,” I said, as I plied the girl with tea and soup. When Meg had finished with her, Adelaide had insisted on coming downstairs, assuring me she was not ill, only cold, tired, and extremely hungry. Colin had summoned the doctor, who agreed that her health was as good as could be expected for one with such poor nutrition, and told us she needed nothing more than to be kept warm and fed.
“Aunt Clara and Uncle John came after Mother died,” she said. “They seemed angry at the imposition of having to deal with the situation, and neither could manage to take in both of us. Pen and I wept at the thought of being separated, but we had no recourse. Aunt Clara took Pen to Manchester, and I stayed in London. When Uncle John died, I told anyone who would listen that I had an aunt in the north, but no one could locate her. So far as I know, he had never communicated with her after she left London. I had no one willing to care for me. The orphanage … you have been there?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I do not imagine it has improved in the years since I ran away. I was already too old to hope any family would take me in, and I could not bear staying there. So I fled in the night. I had nowhere to go, but I met a woman who gave me goods to sell for her: flowers in the summer and matches in the winter. In exchange, she offered me a little food and a place on her floor to sleep, and I was happy enough for a time. As I grew older and no longer looked the part of a helpless child, I stopped being able to entice people to buy from me, and she threw me out. I worked for a time in a factory, but could not afford to live on my meager wages and then, one night, a gent came by and asked if I … well … the less said about that the better.”
“You had no choice,” I said, “and should not be ashamed of whatever actions you were forced to take to survive.”
“My sister will never be able to forgive me.” Adelaide focused her gaze on the floor, and would not look up.
“Your sister has never been able to forgive herself for not having been able to save you,” I said and raised her chin. “You are not responsible for the events that led you to this state.”
“Pen is married now,” Adelaide said. “I saw the announcement in the paper. That’s why I started coming here, every night. I saw her, sometimes, but I don’t think she saw me, no matter what you say. If she had seen me, she would have known I wasn’t a ghost.”
I looked at my husband and pressed my lips together, debating whether to tell her that seeing her had driven her sister into a state of mental decline.
“All that matters is that Penelope does, very much, want to see you now,” Colin said. “May I send for her?”
“I do not think her husband will be delighted to find such a relation,” Adelaide said. “I can’t be the ruin of my sister. One of us should have a decent life.”
“I will tolerate no more talk like that,” Colin said. “You are not acquainted with Mr. Leighton. I am a better judge of his character than you. Let me speak to him.” He took his leave, kissing me quickly on his way out.
“I am cognizant of your hesitation and concern,” I said when Adelaide and I were alone. “There is no need for you to share every detail of your past with Mr. Leighton. He would be wrong to judge you harshly, no matter what you think.”
“I should not have come here,” she said, burying her face in her hands.
“You should have this back,” I said and fastened the locket around her neck. “Your sister wears hers always.” I rang for more tea, and did my best to direct Adelaide’s thoughts away from anything that might cause h
er further distress, yet when more than an hour had passed, I began to worry that the Leightons had not responded to Colin’s news as I had hoped they would. But then, the door to the library burst open, and Mrs. Leighton, her face drenched in tears and her eyes focused on no one but her sister, bolted into the room.
“Adelaide!” She had embraced her with such force I feared the poor girl would break in half. “You look exactly the same, only taller.”
“As do you,” Adelaide said.
“I shall never be able to make up for these awful years we have been apart. Had I known you were alive—“
“None of it matters now.” Mr. Leighton entered the room, Colin behind him. “You will live with us and want for nothing ever again.”
Adelaide shook her head. “I could never impose on you in such a way. My life has been—“
“Your past, dear sister, is no concern of mine, nor should it be of anyone else’s,” he said, putting a friendly arm around the girl. “You are family, and I shall stand by you.”
“We will not, however, be going to Essex for Christmas,” Mrs. Leighton said. “Aunt Clara will have to earn her way back into our good graces.”
“Forgiveness is a Christian virtue, my darling Pen,” Mr. Leighton said. “And we shall endeavor to apply it, even to this awful situation. She lied because she could not find Adelaide and did not want you to worry. It was wrong of her, but I do believe she did it without malicious intent. Have we all not suffered enough?” He pressed his wife’s hand and her cheeks colored.
“Yes, I suppose we have,” Mrs. Leighton said and turned to me. “I shall never be able to thank you adequately, Lady Emily, for bringing Adelaide back to me. It is nothing short of miraculous.”
“Not at all,” I said. “Adelaide is the one deserving of praise. It is she who found you. And now you must all dine with us tonight.”
“Your invitation is so kind,” Mrs. Leighton said, “but I am afraid we must refuse. Adelaide and I have much to discuss and I am not quite ready to share her just yet.”
“Of course,” I said. “We shall leave you to your reunion.”
Colin and I watched as they walked back to their house, Adelaide between the newly married couple. “Does he have any idea of what she has been through?” I asked.
“I believe so,” Colin said, “but he is too discreet to ever mention it. We discussed the situation at length, as you must have gathered from the time of my absence. He is a good man who would do anything for his wife. And Dr. Holton, when consulted on the matter, told him that Mrs. Leighton is bound to begin to recover almost immediately now that the source of her problems has been identified.”
“She will still struggle with guilt, no doubt,” I said.
“Yes, and her sister is likely to have a less than straightforward path to an ordinary life after what she has suffered but, for now, they will have the happiest of Christmases thanks to your persistence.” He pulled me close. “As shall we. We have lingered too long in London. I think we must return to Anglemore. I miss the boys.”
“When is the next train?” I asked.
“We shall go first thing in the morning,” he said. “I would not object to one more evening of having you all to myself.”
Although I would never be so crass as to discuss the particulars, I will say the evening was a spectacular success. The mutually expressed affection of two happily married individuals is, without question, one of the greatest pleasures in life. Despite my satisfaction, however, I woke up sometime deep in the night, consumed by a chill sense of dread. I lay still, willing myself to fall back asleep, but Morpheus would not come. A sound—a low sort of moan—only barely audible, seized my attention, and I rose from bed and slipped into the room across the corridor.
I had made no conscious decision to go there. It was as if some other force had control of my body and led me to the window, where, when I pulled back the curtain, I saw her, still there. Her face was pale and drawn, and her dress was a near match to the one Adelaide had been wearing when I found her. This time, the woman did not hold a locket in her hands, but then, she had never had a locket, had she? Instead, she pressed her palms together, in front of her chest. I could only just make out the slightest hint of a contented smile on her lips as she bowed her head, and then, in a flash, she was gone, and with her the chill that had surrounded me, leaving in its place a rush of warmth.
I knew without question what I had seen. Adelaide and Penelope’s mother could now, at last, rest in peace.
I also knew without question that this information would be best kept from my husband. There is no point in trying to convert those who don’t believe.
Author’s Note
It is common knowledge that many of the Christmas traditions we observe today come from the Victorians. Dickens solidified and immortalized the image of a perfect family Christmas—much of which the English had adopted from the Germans via Prince Albert—and set them against the backdrop of his famous ghost story. Christmas and ghosts have a long association, and one that may have its roots in Britain rather than the Continent. Families and friends would gather around the fire on Christmas Eve after tiring of charades and other games and start the serious business of the evening: telling creepy stories as gaslights cast long shadows in a dark room.
The best ghost stories, of course, are the ones told in person by a narrator who knew at least one of the central characters in the tale, lending it a sense of veracity. Even better if one could give a first-hand account of a ghostly apparition. But one must not discount the multitude of stories penned by writers eager to provide readers with suitably eerie fare for the holiday. Along with Dickens, M. R. James, provost of King’s College, Cambridge, became famous for his stories, which he shared with students and eventually published (Ghost Stories of an Antiquary was his first collection). Mrs. J. H. Riddell, Wilkie Collins, Elizabeth Gaskell, Edith Wharton, and Amelia B. Edwards (yes, the Egyptologist who gave her first name to Amelia Peabody) all contributed to the craze. Henry James’ magnificent The Turn of the Screw is one of the best:
The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless, but except the obvious remark that it was gruesome, as, on Christmas Eve in an old house, a strange tale should essentially be …
Emily, I am confident, would not be able to resist telling her own tale on a snowy Christmas Eve, regardless of Colin’s feelings on the subject. She would, however, wait until the boys were just a bit older before sharing it with them. Heaven knows what it might inspire Henry to do.
Read on for a preview of the newest Lady Emily mystery,
The Adventuress.
Copyright © 2015 by Tasha Alexander
1
“The English duke is dead.”
The words, muffled and heavily accented, hardly reached me through the voluminous duvet that, while I slept, had somehow twisted around me with such violence that it now more closely resembled mummy wrappings than a blanket. Struggling against its bonds, I managed to extricate one hand before realizing my head was under a stack of pillows. I flung them aside and sat up, turning to discover my husband was no longer next to me. The words came again, and this time vanquished in an instant all of the confusion clouding my mind after being awoken from a deep slumber.
“Monsieur, the duke, the English duke, he is dead.”
“Jeremy?” I leapt from the bed, dragging the duvet with me (I had not been quite so successful in the removal of it from my person as I had hoped), and started for the narrow patch of light coming into our room from the door, held open by my husband, his dressing gown pulled around him. A chasm seemed to open inside me, as if my heart were splitting and filling me simultaneously with intolerable cold and heat. Jeremy Sheffield, Duke of Bainbridge, my dearest childhood friend, who had tormented me in my youth not quite so much as I had tormented him, could not be dead. I tried to step forward, but my limbs would obey no commands.
“Is he in his suite?” my husband asked. The man standing in the corridor no
dded. “I shall come at once.”
He must have closed the door, but I have no memory of him having done so. I collapsed in an undignified heap, my legs no longer able to support me.
“Emily.” Colin knelt at my side, scooped me into his arms and deposited me back onto the bed. “I must see what has happened and will return as quickly as possible. Will you be all right?”
“Yes, of course.” I rubbed my face. “No. No. I must come with you.”
“I don’t think you ought.” His dark eyes locked onto mine, and I could see pain and worry and just a bit of frustration in them.
“I have to see him. I—”
“No.” He squeezed my hand and slipped the dressing gown from his shoulders, finding and putting on the stiff boiled shirt he had discarded earlier in the evening with entirely no regard for its subsequent condition. After retrieving his trousers from the back of a chair and locating his shoes—one had disappeared under the bed—he shrugged into his tailcoat and walked to the door, pausing to turn back and look at me as he opened it. Had I not been so upset, I would have better appreciated the handsome dishevelment of his cobbled-together evening kit. “I am so terribly sorry, Emily.”
The tears did not come before the door clicked shut behind him, but then my eyes produced a worthy monsoon. Sudden storms are short, however, and this was no time for succumbing to emotion. I splashed water on my face and pulled on my dressing gown. There could be no question of returning to my own previously discarded garments: Ladies’ gowns are designed to require assistance, and while this may allow for a more beautifully designed bodice, it proves an immense frustration when one finds oneself on one’s own.
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