by Zekas, Kelly
Straightening my back, I pierced him with a cold glare.
“Last evening at the ball—you obviously knew that giant French man, Mr. Cheval. What is the nature of your relationship with him?”
He glared back hard before answering. “I gather you are referring to the man I asked to leave, yes?”
“Of course I’m referring to him. It’s rather difficult to confuse him with another.”
He bristled and broadened his already considerable shoulders. “I have not been acquainted with him.”
“If you were not acquainted, how did you know he was not invited?”
“I did not see my uncle greet him at the door,” he said, his voice strung tight and low. “It was obvious he snuck inside.”
No. The rage in his face had been deeper than that. I knew in my bones that he wasn’t telling me everything.
“I apologize if you mistakenly received the wrong impression,” he said curtly, moving away from the stone church wall. “But that was our first meeting.”
Liar.
“Is he an acquaintance of your sister?” Mr. Braddock asked, attempting a guileless innocence and failing. “Is she here today?”
I ignored his question and latched onto his mention of my sister. “What is your interest in Rose? Why were you so intent on speaking to her with all that nonsense about her gift?”
Frowning, he spoke slowly to me as though I were a child. “I wished to thank her for helping save my uncle’s life last week.”
Ha! “You could have easily given her all the thanks and gratitude in one sentence. But you demanded a private word with her. You, sir, wanted to talk to her about her ‘powers.’ What could you mean by that?”
His eyes narrowed in annoyance, and his lips twisted into a sardonic smile, a lazy, roguish attitude altering his features in a way intended to make a girl swoon. “Miss Wyndham, I think your problem is one that is common amongst bored country dwellers—you’re scrutinizing meaningless details when there’s nothing to be found. I simply wished to speak to your lovely, demure sister. Now, I’m sorry, but if there’s no other problem, I believe a higher power is calling.”
I gaped at the sweeping generalizations and mouthed inarticulately as he passed me with a smirk and a tip of his hat.
Finally, I found my tongue and my feet to follow him to the church steps. “My problem, Oh Lord Byron, is this secretive, mercurial behavior! First you make all sorts of strange, veiled suggestions, then you hide information and lie to me! I know you know Mr. Cheval, and you will tell me where he is!”
Confronting him directly on the issue was remarkably refreshing, like puncturing the skin of an orange. Still, he simply ignored me and stormed up the steps, taut as a bent bow. I flew after him like an arrow.
“Why can’t you answer a straight question with the truth? Do you believe this brooding masquerade is somehow attractive? Just tell me what you know and stop wasting my time.” His back tensed visibly under his jacket as he spoke without turning to me.
“Nothing would give me more pleasure. Except, of course, if you stopped wasting mine.”
I felt all shreds of rationality flee my head. “Mr. Braddock!” I half yelled. “Stop at once!” He gave no sign of acknowledgment.
How dare he! Fuming, I flew up the steps behind him, hissing his name to no avail. As his hand closed on the church door, I reached and grabbed his wrist, catching the bare skin between his glove and shirt. At once, a rush of hot blood and some unfamiliar, sublime essence worked itself into my veins. Frissons of stimulation swirled up my arms—peaks and depths, vacuums and floods, compressions and explosions, endless contradictions fitting together like jigsaw-puzzle pieces. I was aware of every distinct, tiny part of my body. A gasp climbed out of my throat as I glowed brighter than the sun had ever shone. And then he wrested his wrist away, our connection severed. I was again normal and alive and existing here on earth, and he was gazing at me with horrified concern, his own breath coming in shallow pants.
“What on earth did you do?” The words left my still-trembling lips without permission.
His expression changed to wonder as he took me in, and his eyes darted to our hands, as though they had suddenly appeared at the ends of our wrists. Indecipherable emotions swam in the depths of those eyes, and his hand hovered up to my face, but with a snap, he pulled it back, afraid to cross some unspoken boundary.
“You . . . you’re well?” The words fell softly, reverently from lips that curled into a soft smile. I stood transfixed for a moment before pulling away from him, away from the confusing sensations that warmed my skin.
“Wh-what?” I stuttered, stumbling away.
He followed eagerly, face utterly transformed by a strange zeal. “It must be something—my God!” He cut himself off with a deep, relieved laugh. “Miss Wyndham, you needn’t hide it from me. It must have to do with your power.”
Just then, the church door opened, and for the first time in my life, I thanked God for the unexpected appearance of my vexed mother.
“Darling,” she said, “I am sure you and Mr. Braddock would like to attend church today, yes?”
“I—Mother, I am terribly ill, and I must go home at once,” I said. Mr. Braddock drew a few steps back. Mother pinned me with a dark stare but gave a sympathetic sigh for Mr. Braddock’s sake.
“How unfortunate. I will see you to the carriage. But please be sure to send it back for your father and myself.”
She pulled me away, chastising me for my peasantlike arguing that she could hear from inside the church. Just because Rose was missing, she reminded me, did not give me cause to act like a hoyden. I bit my tongue and agreed, thankful to be left alone. Nestled in the moving carriage, I tried to keep my eyes on the church, my mother, anything, but Mr. Braddock’s gaze held mine like a vise until he disappeared behind a rising hill.
I rapped on the roof. “James, we will stay in town. I must stop by the inn.” The only way I could remain composed was to concentrate on one problem at a time. If Mr. Braddock wouldn’t tell me anything about Mr. Cheval, I would just have to find him myself.
But the trip into town only supported the information in Rose’s letter. At the inn, the owner explained that Mr. Cheval had left late the previous night with all his luggage. At the train station, an attendant recalled selling two early-morning London tickets to a large foreigner and his tired female companion.
As we headed back to my parents at church, I fretted, desperately trying to sort it all out. The obvious pieces of evidence supported the letter’s veracity, but the little details said otherwise. Rose had planned to speak to Robert and Mother today and sort out all our problems. She did not have cause to lie to me about that and disappear. She would not have packed so strangely, nor written such a confounding good-bye letter. I knew how unlikely and ridiculous an abduction would be, especially in Bramhurst. I knew I sounded like a pliable reader of too many sensational mystery novels. I knew this outlandish conclusion went against everything I normally thought. But I absolutely believed she was taken against her will. I could feel it in my bones.
The problem, however, was no longer convincing myself that she was kidnapped. The problem was convincing my parents to do something about it.
“AND THAT IS why we must travel to London to retrieve Rose.”
The parlor fell dead silent. Mother and Father gaped down at me over a wooden table cluttered with tea things. In my short chair, I felt like I was on trial.
I had explained everything to them: the clues in the letter, Rose’s strange packing, my inquiries at the inn, the sighting at the train station, and my general conclusions from all the evidence. Too much was amiss for there to be a simple explanation. Surely it would be impossible for them to ignore the signs.
Yet Mother managed to exceed all my expectations. “Your sister has acted somewhat rashly, yes, but she has always shown uncommonly good sense, and we are sure she will do so now by remaining discreet. We have already decided to wait until Rosamund sends
word from London.”
A spectacularly awful plan. “Mother, I don’t believe she is there by choice. We may never get a letter from her.”
Both of them gave tight, condescending nods, as if I had concocted my own fantastic adventures in wonderland. My mother took a dreadful tone of authority. “It is entirely possible that in her hurry, your sister packed the wrong clothing and miswrote a few words in her note, is it not?”
“No! Of course not. And she wouldn’t forget her medicine bag or leave such blatant hints! Don’t be daft, Mother.”
“I am not the one proposing this wild theory,” she said, folding her arms. “What do you even mean for us to do in London?”
“Start a search for her.”
She raised her eyebrows skeptically. “And if it turns out she really is helping this man, as she said in the letter, everyone will know she went to work as a doctor. Or worse yet, people will gossip and exaggerate and come to believe it an even bigger scandal. In any case, we cannot walk through the streets shouting her name, telling the police and publicizing this information. I have sent word to your aunt and uncle to give out that Rosamund is with them. If anyone asks to see her, she will be ill or in Bath. That is the way to handle this and preserve her reputation.”
“Perhaps we should worry about preserving her safety. Or her life.”
She leaned back in her chair. “I’m quite aware how bored you are of Bramhurst, but there’s no need to be so melodramatic.”
“This is not melodrama! You might trust me for once!”
“Evelyn, I know you. You’ve gone and gotten this idea stuck in your head, and now you’re too stubborn to give it up. But you must consider the whole situation.”
“And then do what? Just accept the most pleasing explanation with an utter disregard for any other possibilities?” I gripped the wooden arm of my chair, wishing I could crush it. They were ignoring everything!
My mother rubbed her forehead and glanced at my father, who was busy pouring himself another cup of tea. She changed tactics and spoke in a slow, soothing voice. “We have no other recourse. We’re in debt.”
What was she doing? Trying to distract me with poor jokes?
But the look of pity did not leave her face. “I hadn’t wanted that sort of pressure dictating your marriage, so we decided not to tell you, and I apologize for that.”
My mind was a blur. “What—how is that relevant?” I asked.
“There’s no money for your dowries. All we have to offer is our reputation, and if word about Rosamund gets out, we’ll have nothing.”
I took in their grave faces. “How . . . did this even . . . happen?”
My father struggled to look me in the eye. He took a sip of tea and spoke into the cup. “I’m—I’m sorry, Evelyn.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
“Please,” my mother cut in. “You’ve been through much today. Perhaps you need some rest.”
“You want me to take a nap?” I yelled. Hang it all, she was infuriating! I looked to my father, whose eyes were now aimed downward at a Turkish rug. “Father, you actually agree with this?”
“About the nap or—?” He cleared his throat and caught my mother’s eye before responding. “Yes, your mother is right. It would be wise to be prudent,” he said.
“Ha! Like you were prudent in handling our money?” I asked, rising from my seat. I tried to be respectful, but it had come to this. “Thank you for all the help. I will see you both when I find Rose.”
I stormed out of the parlor and bounded up the staircase. My mother’s footsteps followed. “You are not going to London!” she called from the foot of the stairs.
“I believe I am.”
“No. I won’t have you running around there and jeopardizing everything for us.”
“Then I won’t run around. I’ll walk.”
She was silent. I never stopped. There was no need to look at her. I knew the expression of suppressed ire well. Just before I slammed my bedroom door shut, her voice rang out once more.
“If you leave this house, do not plan to return!”
Very well. If bearing the Wyndham name meant caring more for the name than the actual people who bore it, I’d rather not be associated with it.
Furious, I rummaged through my closet, unearthed a trunk, and started packing it. I had not planned to leave so abruptly. Now I had to determine everything about my trip in a matter of minutes.
The first issue was lodgings. I would have to try to beat my mother’s letter to my aunt and uncle. They would surely take me in, even if I appeared on their doorstep without warning. Once they heard that I had left home without permission . . . well, that was a problem to be dealt with later. After finding Rose.
Within ten minutes, my trunk was packed with an assortment of clothing, some jewelry to sell, and Rose’s medicine bag. All that was left to do was ride to the train station. But when I called for our butler, Pretton, to have my trunk sent down and the carriage readied, he met my request with a stony face. “I apologize, Miss Wyndham, but your mother has halted all carriage use.”
“Is there a messenger available? I’ll hire one from town, then.”
His lips tightened. “No messages are to come in or leave without her knowledge.”
So she was truly making matters difficult. Well, then. It was close to noon and a three-mile walk to town. I could make it by the afternoon, hire a carriage to take me to the station, and reach London by evening.
Already regretting the amount I’d packed, I slid my trunk down the stairs myself and heaved it out the front door. Slowly but surely, I trudged out of our estate, dragging the great wooden burden and crushing assorted plant life along my path, with no stops to wish good-bye to anyone.
As I passed through meadows and over hills, the house gradually receded into the distance. I took a moment for one last look back, wondering if this would truly be my final glimpse of the place. Had Mother watched me leave? Did she even expect me to go this far? A twinge of guilt for disobeying sparked in my stomach, but I knew it was nothing compared with what I would have felt staying trapped in that prison. Really, I was better off.
Onward I trekked, and my home shrank to a distant speck before disappearing behind the hill. After the first awful hour of the exodus, I stopped to catch my breath on a grassy field and consider how much farther I could realistically walk. It would only get more difficult, and my blind rage was turning into a frustrated self-doubt, which was not as great a source of energy.
While I rested, a low trotting sound slowly rumbled in from the west, and a rider emerged over a distant ridge. The gallops grew louder and closer, and a jolt of dread wriggled through me. It was either someone calling on my family, or the only other nearby estate, Feydon Hall. Oh, please, not Mr. Braddock. I couldn’t deal with him now. Anyone but him.
And my wish was granted, but my anxiety was not much abated by the sight of Mr. Kent riding toward me. I had picked possibly the worst spot in England to stop for a rest. Nowhere to hide in this open field. I debated the effectiveness of squeezing inside my trunk, but before I knew it, he was dismounting his horse before me.
“Miss Wyndham, I was just coming to call on you because I did not like the way our last conversation ended, or the fact that it ended at all. How do you do?”
“Very poorly,” I spit out.
“I can see that. I almost mistook you for a packhorse. Why exactly are you doing poorly?”
“Because my sister is missing, in all likelihood kidnapped, and my parents refuse to believe me.” Fine. Let’s see what the man thinks of the truth.
Mr. Kent’s face turned darkly serious. “When did you last see her?”
I am quite sure my eyebrows shot to my hairline. “Last night. You believe me?”
“I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t.”
I sat down hard on my trunk. He smiled slightly before frowning again. “I gather there was nothing strange about the last time you saw her. . . .”
/>
“We said good night and she went to bed. I—well, I had an odd nightmare. And then her room was in shambles this morning, plenty of clothes missing, and—I know this sounds odd—but there’s a very strange man in town whom Mr. Braddock seems to know named Mr. Cheval who had snuck into the ball to get Rose’s help in London, which is what this good-bye letter Rose wrote also says, but I know it’s false—”
Fortunately, Mr. Kent cut me off before I babbled myself into the highest register man had yet to know. “I’m sorry . . . which man is this?”
I took a moment, trying to coherently arrange my thoughts.
“My sister was seen boarding a train to London with a strange man. And I know he forced her. So I am going to bring her back.”
“I see. I imagine that trunk has become burdensome. It is still a mile or two away.”
“My mother all but threw me out of the house and refused me a carriage. I have no other choice.”
Mr. Kent furrowed his brow and tapped his riding crop meditatively against his leg. “And what do you plan to do when you arrive in London?”
“Explain my presence to my aunt and uncle before my mother’s letter arrives. Though they will never stand up to her and let me stay if they know that my parents do not wish it.”
He paced back and forth in contemplation, the grass swishing against his leather boots. “You believe your sister is in harm’s way?”
“Yes.”
“And she left a false letter?”
“Yes.”
“And your family will not believe you or help you?”
“No, they refuse to bring more attention to it. You know, you are beginning to sound rather like a detective, Mr. Kent.”
He turned sharply and exhaled. His eyes were wide as he carefully took my hand. “Not just any detective, my dear Miss Wyndham. I am the greatest detective the world has ever seen. And I will be escorting you to London to find your sister.”
THE TRAIN SQUEALED into Victoria Station with a deafening, bouncing finality, an excess of steam hissing out as the bells signaled our arrival. Coughing our way through the smog, we descended the train, found porters to retrieve our luggage, and shoved past the hordes to the exit.
