by C. J. Archer
"Thank you, but it's not my color."
"Perhaps not," she said, sitting. "I can't wait for our new dresses to arrive. Pity we don't have anything to wear them to except dinner with Jack."
"Something wrong with dining with me?" he asked as he too sat.
"You're hardly an excellent catch for either of us. Violet is the daughter of an earl and I am...more particular. No offense meant."
"And how could I take offense when you put it so eloquently?" It was difficult to tell if he were teasing or a little bitter.
"Perhaps you ought to ask some neighbors to a dinner party," I said.
Both Jack and Sylvia looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "Dinner at Freak House?" Sylvia said. "How they will be falling over themselves to attend."
"Why do they call this place Freak House? Do they know that Jack can start fires?"
"No," he said. "It's not that."
"It's Uncle August and Bollard." Sylvia served herself from the dish of Pheasant Mandarin that Tommy offered her. "One is mute and the other is crippled and...reclusive."
"August hasn't courted either the neighbors or the villagers so they distrust him," Jack said. "By secluding himself in the house, he's turned himself into an object of curiosity and gossip. I'm sure the servants have gossiped about his temper and how he keeps to his rooms."
"And there's the house's past, of course," Sylvia said.
"Its past?" I asked.
Jack cast a warning glare at Sylvia. "I'm not sure we need to hear this now."
"Nonsense. There are rumors that a hundred years or so ago, the then Lord Frakingham kept some of his offspring locked in the dungeon."
My stomach rolled. "Oh. How..." Familiar. "Horrid. Whatever for?"
"They were...imperfect," Jack said. "Due to centuries of inbreeding, it was said that most of the Frakingham children were born abnormal, some with physical deformities, others mad or simple."
"Freaks," I whispered.
Sylvia snorted as she picked at her pheasant. "It's not true. There is no dungeon. I've searched everywhere. Of course this house isn't as old as the stories. Who knows what the previous one on this site looked like. Perhaps it had a dungeon."
"The rumors have persisted anyway," Jack said.
What a strange coincidence that I should be kept in an attic almost my entire life only to be rescued, in a manner of speaking, and end up in a place where something similar occurred years earlier.
Over dinner, we discussed the viability of organizing a party with some of the well-to-do families in the area, but decided it had to be done with Langley's blessing. Sylvia was adamant she wouldn't have one without him present, and although Jack was less enthusiastic, he did agree that Langley should be kept informed.
His reaction only deepened my curiosity about his relationship with his uncle, if indeed that's what Langley was. While the two of them seemed to be in frequent conflict—and occasionally I was even convinced that Jack despised him—he always gave Langley due respect as master of the household. I admired him all the more for it.
Tommy brought out a dessert of jelly and served a portion to each of us, but when he got to Jack, he almost dropped the plate when Jack accidentally bumped him.
"Bloody hell, Tommy," Jack said, catching the footman's elbow to steady the plate.
"Sorry, Jackie. No harm done, eh?" He seemed to realize what he'd said as soon as the words left his mouth. He flushed and glanced at me. Jack pretended nothing was out of the ordinary and avoided my gaze altogether.
If I hadn't overheard their conversation a few nights earlier, I would have been confused by the informal exchange. It did get me thinking, however.
After dinner, I pretended I had a headache, but instead of retiring to my room, I went in search of Tommy in the service area. I found him in the large kitchen polishing a silver tray as the maids cleaned up after dinner. When they saw me, their chatter died and they stopped what they were doing.
"Lady Violet!" Tommy pushed back his chair to stand, toppling it over. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes, thank you. Tommy, is there somewhere we can talk?"
He covered a nervous little cough with his hand and led me to a sitting room nearby. Neither of us sat and he remained by the door, his hands behind his back, chin out. It was his footman's stance, the one he used when he stood in the dining room as we ate.
"Tommy, I have some questions for you."
"Yes, my lady."
"Tell me about the first time you met Jack."
There was a slight twitching of muscle in his cheek, a faltering of his steady gaze. "I can't rightly remember, my lady."
"I know you knew him before he came to Frakingham."
He blinked, but said nothing.
"I know that Jack came from a London slum, and that you did too. What I don't know, and what I want you to tell me, is what led him here."
"I couldn't say."
The man was loyal, I'd give him that. "Why are you protecting him?"
"He don't need my protection. But a man is entitled to his privacy, ma'am. If he don't want you to know about his past, then I've got no right to tell you."
"If he didn't want me to know?" I stepped up to him. He was much taller than me, but not as tall as Jack. "Why not me specifically?"
Sweat beaded on his brow, yet he didn't answer.
"If you don't tell me, Tommy, I'm afraid I'll have to go to Mr. August Langley and inform him that you knew about Patrick breaking into the house too. I doubt he'll be pleased to hear that. He might not throw his nephew out, but I doubt his mercy will extend to you. Do you like your job here?"
Tommy gawped slack-jawed at me. "You...you'd chirp to Mr. Langley?"
"I don't want to." I turned away, so he couldn't see me cringe as I lied. "But if I had to..."
"Bloody hell," Tommy muttered. "He'll kill me."
I wasn't sure whether he meant Jack or Langley. "I won't tell either of them what is said between us now. It'll be our secret."
He muttered something under his breath then sighed. "Promise you won't tell Jack I said this."
"I promise."
His body lost some of its stiffness, as if he'd decided to shed his footman persona and put on his real one. "His name's Jack Cutler, not Langley. I met him when he came to join our family."
"Family?"
"Not a real one, but that's what our little group called ourselves. We were orphans, him and me. Patrick too, and some others. We looked after one another. We had to or we'd starve to death, or be taken by the rozzers and be sent to the workhouses. Or worse."
"Worse than the workhouses?" I'd heard about the terrible conditions of workhouses. How the food was riddled with maggots, the beds and clothes with lice, and the children forced to work inhuman hours or suffer a beating.
"There were Haymarket Hectors out to get boys and girls like us," he said. "Prostitution," he clarified when I shook my head.
Oh my God. I felt sick to my stomach, and suddenly so very lucky that I'd only had to endure the solitude of an attic for fifteen years. There was much worse out there for orphans. I'd been fortunate, as had Jack, Tommy and their friends.
"We got by," Tommy said. "Stealing mostly, sometimes finding work doing the jobs no one else wanted. We never froze in winter though. Jack and his...fingers saw to that. Then that big mute comes up and hands Jack a letter one day. Jack can't read, so he takes it to the baker down the street who can. The letter says he's the nephew of August Langley and that he wanted to adopt him."
"And then?"
Tommy shrugged. "Then he came here, bringing me with him. Langley didn't want me though, so he made me a footman because Jack says he's not staying if I don't too. He's a good friend. Like a brother. We've always taken care of each other."
"So...is he August Langley's nephew? You said his name was Cutler, but now he goes by Langley."
Tommy shrugged. "Maybe he is, maybe he isn't. All I know is, the old man gave Jack an education, horses, an allowance. Why wo
uld he be so generous if he weren't a relation?"
"I suppose." Yet it didn't make sense. According to Sylvia, there'd been three Langley brothers—her father, Jack's father, and August himself. Yet Jack had been a Cutler not a Langley. And what of Tommy's and Patrick's doubts on the matter?
I thought about asking him if Jack had a more nefarious motive for staying, but decided not to. He was as loyal to Jack as he could be, and if he did know anything, I was sure he'd deny it.
"Thank you, Tommy. I'm sorry to have put you through this."
He sighed. "I suppose it had to come out sooner or later. You'll keep your promise, won't you, m'lady? You won't tell Jack you and me spoke?"
"I won't. Are you afraid of him?"
"No, but I don't want him to be disappointed in me. He trusts me, and that's the way I want it to stay."
I squeezed his arm and he dipped his head, but not before I saw his cheeks redden. "Don't worry, I won't say anything. Believe me, I understand what it's like to have Jack disappointed in me."
He blinked. "You do?"
I nodded. "I followed him in London when he went to see Patrick. He thought I told Langley about the meeting, but I wouldn't tell that man anything if I could help it."
His frown drew his thick brows together into a single line. "I think I know who it was who told Mr. Langley."
"Who?"
"Bollard."
I gasped. "How do you know?"
"I can't be sure, but he left Frakingham just after you and got back just before. Maybe he went to London."
I nodded slowly. "Perhaps he did. Do you think he might have followed Jack too and overhead the conversation?"
"P'haps."
"But surely I would have noticed." And yet, I had heard footsteps following us, although not until we were almost back at Claridges. It was entirely possible that I was too distracted earlier to hear them.
"He can read lips, you know," Tommy said.
"Bollard? I thought he was a mute, not deaf."
He shrugged. "He's not deaf, but I know he can read lips like a deaf person. I wouldn't put it past him to have told Mr. Langley what he saw and heard."
"No. Nor would I."
CHAPTER 10
Bollard opened the door on my knock and gave a formal, curt bow. When he straightened, he raised his eyebrows in question, but did not step aside.
"I need to speak to Mr. Langley," I said.
"She may enter," came Langley's voice from within.
Bollard opened the door wider and I went through. It took me a moment to realize Langley wasn't in the immediate part of the room furnished as a parlor, but in the end that served as a laboratory. He sat at a low table, his head bent over a microscope.
"Mr. Langley, I—"
He held up his forefinger for silence, and I dutifully shut my mouth, biting my tongue in the process. I waited as he wrote something down then wheeled his chair out and turned to look at me.
"I'm glad you've come to see me, Violet," he said. "We need to speak about London again. It'll be easier without Jack here." He moved his chair forward, pushing the wheels with his hands. It looked arduous and progress was slow until Bollard rescued him. Once he was near me, Langley indicated I should sit.
"Refreshments, Bollard," he said. When the servant hesitated, he added in a softer voice, "I'll be all right."
Bollard left, but the exchange piqued my curiosity. It was almost as if Bollard's concern went beyond that of a master for his servant. I supposed they'd been together a long time, and Bollard did do more than a mere valet or laboratory assistant. He was Langley's legs too, and, it seemed, his eyes and ears. Why he thought I'd hurt Langley was a mystery though.
"I'm sorry the hypnotist couldn't help," Langley said. "Truly sorry. We'll have to continue your training. Is Jack making progress?"
"A little," I hedged.
"Good. It was a shame you had to witness his temper, Violet. Jack can be very...passionate. I do hope you realize that it was entirely directed at me and had nothing to do with you."
"Why does he dislike you so?"
He rubbed the palm of his hands along the arms of his wheelchair. "You would have to ask him that."
"I find it strange considering you rescued him from the streets and have given him a comfortable life here at Frakingham. Shouldn't he be grateful?"
"To repeat: you should be asking him."
"I followed him into the slums of London, although I suspect you know that already." He blinked slowly and I took that as confirmation. "He knew his way in the darkness, which is remarkable since my escort and I got lost on the way back to Claridges."
"What are you getting at, Violet?"
It was difficult to speak of the matter without implicating Tommy. I needed to tread carefully. "Is Jack originally from that very slum where he met the man named Patrick?"
He didn't answer.
"He's not your nephew, is he?"
"Isn't he?"
"Mr. Langley, I have agreed to remain here until Christmas, against my better judgment. If you continue to evade sensible questions, then I may not be able to keep that promise." I don't know where I got the courage to speak so boldly to such a man as August Langley. The fact that I had seemed to trouble him less than me. I swallowed and hoped I hadn't overstepped the mark.
"If you want to find out about Jack's past, ask him. Now, if you came here to waste my time then we're finished. You may go. It seems we don't have much to say to one another after all." He shifted his wheelchair backwards, away from me. He was dismissing me as casually as he'd dismissed Bollard. It irked me that he could disregard such an important point.
I stood abruptly and caught the arm of his chair. "I am asking you, Mr. Langley." I suddenly wasn't afraid of him anymore. What could a crippled man do to me? If Bollard were there it may be a different matter, but he wasn't. If Langley turned me out, I'd return to Windamere. "Is Jack your blood relative?"
"Let go of my chair, Violet."
"Answer me, Mr. Langley."
He caught my sleeve and dragged me down to his level. His face was a distorted mask of anger, his mouth a twisted gash. "You do not tell me what to do."
Something inside me shattered, and I jerked free of his grip. I did not step back. I did not look away or run for the door. I would not fear this man, nor would I endure any more of his lies and threats. If I wanted to walk away, I would. I had been kept prisoner at Windamere for fifteen years. I'd been denied a life, and even if that life had turned out to be a dire, desperate one, at least it would have been mine to make of it what I could.
I'd had enough of being told what to do and how to conduct myself. Enough of being told to accept my condition and situation, that I ought to consider myself lucky. I wasn't lucky. I was a prisoner, and I'd be damned if I would endure it on anyone else's terms anymore, especially someone as nasty as Langley.
"You let Jack think I told you about his visit to Patrick," I said, choosing the one thing I knew the answer to. The one thing I could absolutely blame him for without a doubt. "Why? Why didn't you tell him it was Bollard?"
His lips peeled back and he bared his teeth. "I already told you I don't answer to you." He spat out each word as if they were poison on his tongue. "Your father may be an earl, but here, that means nothing. You're nobody. Your opinion means nothing, your questions even less. You are our prisoner, and I do not answer your questions."
His voice rang in my ears, throbbed in my veins. My blood rose like a tidal wave, rushed through me, fast and fierce. Hot. It was so loud that I hardly heard the door open, but I turned just in time to see Jack enter, Bollard at his heels.
"No!" Jack shouted. His brows crashed together in a deep frown. "Stop it, August. Are you mad?" Sparks flew from his fingers onto the floor, but he quickly stomped them out as he approached us. "Tell her she's not a prisoner. Tell her she can come and go. Tell her!"
Langley laughed, the sound like fingernails down a blackboard. "Of course she can't leave. You know that
as well as I do."
"Jack!" I cried. "Is that true?"
But Jack's gaze was fixed on his uncle. It was filled with such fury that I was amazed his fingers didn't explode. "I will not be a party to this." His voice was quiet, cold, and filled me with dread.
"You can't leave, Violet," Langley said. "Jack has known this all along. He's been keeping an eye on you. Lying to you. We all have."
Everything dimmed, and I thought I was going to fall asleep at the worst possible moment, but then my vision cleared, only to see sparks spraying around the room like fireworks. So many of them. Too many.
They landed on the curtain, the floor, the table and even in Langley's lap. He yelped and swatted them just as the curtain went up in a whoosh of flames. Some of the furniture had caught alight, the floorboards too.
We had to get out.
"My research!" Langley cried, wheeling himself toward the laboratory.
"Not now!" Jack cried. "Bollard!"
Bollard rushed past me, and I stumbled forward, my body suddenly heavy, my head filled with cotton wool. Jack caught me and picked me up. We didn't combust. That was something. I was a rag doll in his arms. Exhaustion dragged at me, pulling me into a slumber. But I did not fall asleep.
"Get out!" Jack shouted. "Forget the papers!"
But Bollard didn't listen. He scooped up some notebooks and stuffed them into his jacket, then he returned and picked up Langley. They followed us to the door, but flames were already licking up the doorframe. Wood cracked and popped in the heat, and I felt that I might do the same. I burned as if I had a fever.
Jack held me tighter then ran through the doorway onto the landing. "Tommy!" he shouted. "Water!"
My head bumped against Jack's shoulder as he ran down the stairs, giving orders to the servants to put out the flames. "Don't endanger yourselves."
He carried me outside where the crisp evening air slammed against my hot face. It was raining and I was so glad I almost cried. The rain would help put the fire out. Bollard and Langley followed us, and the female servants weren't far behind, carrying silver and other valuables. Sylvia wasn't among them.
