She nodded towards the neat pile of garments lying in a basket and I recognised the garb of the veiled lady.
“My mother’s things,” she told me. I lifted one sleeve to find the buttons of the Sigmaringen-Hohenzollerns. The device matched that on the plaque of the nearest coffin. Beneath it were inscribed the words, “Kristina, Countess of Mortlake, Baroness von Hoefgen, beloved wife and mother.”
“You must miss her very much,” I observed quietly. “I lost my own mother. I understand.”
Felicity rolled her eyes. “You understand nothing. And if you think to raise my sympathy by pointing out what we have in common, you have rather missed the point.”
I shrugged. “It doesn’t alter the truth. We have both of us lost our mothers.”
“Stop talking,” she ordered. “I have to think what to do next.”
“This was rather impulsive,” I agreed. “It is always best to have a plan if one can possibly arrange it.”
She bared her teeth at me. “Do you have a plan?”
“I suppose it rather depends upon yours,” I admitted.
“Good. Then be quiet. I am thinking.”
Her voice had risen sharply, and I realised that if her cool composure deserted her, it would make her more volatile. She might make a mistake, but she might also become more erratic and therefore more dangerous.
I gave her a few minutes to think and then began again.
“It’s curious that you and Mr. Sullivan both decided to make nefarious use of Highgate,” I observed.
She made a moue of distaste. “Sullivan? You mean the ginger fellow. Is that his name? He followed me once from the Spirit Club when I came back here to change before I returned to the country. I lost him outside the gates of the cemetery, but he poked around here so long I very nearly missed my train.”
“That would have been awkward to explain,” I said, infusing my voice with sympathy. “In fact, you must have been very clever indeed to account for all your absences from Mortlake House.”
“It did take some ingenuity,” she admitted, preening a little. “I bribed my maid to make excuses for me sometimes and I made my way to the city alone. I had to be back in my own bed by morning, but I managed it. I think the stupid girl believed I had a lover,” she said with a bitter smile.
“And that is how you managed to be at the séance the night the Mortlake emeralds were discovered. You pleaded a headache and retired to your room, only to slip out and take the train into London to attend the séance. You returned before morning, pretending as if you’d never been away. Neatly done, I must say. Tell me, did you care for Plum at all?”
“Of course,” she said, and with such an air of matter-of-factness that I believed her. “Once or twice I even wondered what it would be like to give up my plans and become what I only pretended to be—a respectable and eligible member of society. But I could never see it. I could conjure a picture in my mind of Plum, of the house we should live in, of the parties we should give. But never once could I see myself in the picture.”
Her expression was rueful, and against my will, I felt sorry for her. “You might have, if you had given it a chance.”
She laughed at me then, and to my horror, I saw unshed tears shimmering in her eyes. “No, I think not. There is something broken within me. I know that now. I do not want the warmth of domesticity and love. I want the cold satisfaction of knowing I have fulfilled my plans. That is enough.”
“It won’t be if you fail to get the letters to Bismarck,” I pointed out. “I suspect the Chancellor is a rather exacting master with very little patience for incompetence.”
She gave me a nasty look. “Yes, I have considered that.”
I sighed. “Well, what is the plan then?”
She spoke, the words slow and all the more horrifying for the calmness of her tone. “I must get away. To Germany. Bismarck will protect me, of that I have no doubt. I have failed him, but he will be merciful. He must,” she said, perhaps a trifle too insistently. “And I cannot have you running loose to sound the alarm. So you will remain here. I will make one last attempt to secure the letters, and then I will leave.”
“And me?” I asked politely.
“You will stay here.”
She rose then and before I could open my mouth to speak, she was gone, slamming the door of the crypt behind her.
I vaulted to the door, trying the handle, but she had locked it soundly. And I was alone with the dead.
I do not know how many hours I remained there in the dark, locked behind the bronze door, but it was not long before I remembered Brisbane’s remark about the sealed tomb when we had been lured to the subterranean vault by Sullivan. I realised that the air in the crypt could not sustain me. The stone walls and the heavy bronze door admitted not the slightest particle of air. I blew out the single candle, preferring the dark to the sight of those coffins arrayed against the walls. One effigy in particular seemed to be grinning, promising that I should be next. I slid to the floor and wrapped my arms around my knees, one word humming ceaselessly through my brain. Brisbane. I had no notion of when he planned to return to Chapel Street, and when he did, he should find me gone, disappeared with no trace left behind after that terrible scene between us. I could not imagine what his thoughts would be. Mrs. Lawson had not seen me leave with Felicity; the hansom could not be traced. Mrs. Potter could tell him that I had been on the trail of my Swiss cook, but that was a road to nowhere, even if Brisbane thought to enquire of her.
No, there was no hope that Brisbane would find me in time. In time. The words rang against the marble of the crypt, so I knew I had said them aloud. Was I mad then? I know I talked to myself, at first simply to break the awful silence of the place. I had tried screaming, but the shrieks only echoed back to me, and I knew no one would hear them. I searched every inch of the crypt for something, anything—a way out, a tool to pry at the door, a mechanism to open a hidden crypt. I ransacked my own reticule, and found only the tiny box of self-igniting black powder. I knew it would cause a cloud of smoke and spark, but it would take a far more powerful explosion to blow a bronze door from its hinges. I dared not detonate it and take the chance of failure, for if the door did not open I should suffocate myself almost instantly.
I continued to try, running my hands over every shelf, every coffin, every effigy that laughed at me in the darkness. There was nothing. No crack of light shone through the inky blackness of the place, no bright sliver of hope to sustain me. Nothing but the enduring dark, and my own imagination.
The physical symptoms were to be expected. I felt hot and clammy and fatigued, and it was not long before a raging headache took hold of me. The mental aberrations were more unexpected and therefore more disturbing. I saw my mother during those long hours and others not so welcome. I saw my first husband, whose grave lay not far from this place, and I wondered if Brisbane would bury me there. I cried once, in my darkest hour of despair, and then I felt myself grow steadily calmer. Perhaps it was the lack of air that caused me to settle myself; perhaps it was simply that I was preparing myself for what must come. With the last of my ebbing strength, I pulled myself on top of the Kristina’s coffin. The air was marginally fresher than that nearer to the floor, and I arranged myself as comfortably as I could atop the effigy of the late Countess of Mortlake. I lay there and breathed slowly, expecting each inhalation to be my last.
I drifted then, for how many hours I could not guess. I heard voices, but I made no attempt to answer them. I simply lay and let the sound lap over me, washing me out to the calm blue sea that beckoned.
Just as the sea broke over me, there was a shattering light, and I heard a voice louder then, shouting in my ear. Cool fresh air rushed in, and I struggled to sit up.
“For God’s sake, just lie still,” Brisbane ordered, and his voice broke as he said it.
I opened my eyes and Felicity was standing in the doorway, Plum and Morgan Fielding behind her.
“She is alive,” Brisbane called ov
er his shoulder. He slid one arm under my legs and the other under my shoulders, hefting me as if I weighed no more than a child.
“What a lovely dream,” I murmured.
“It isn’t a dream, you daft woman,” he growled in my ear. “I am rescuing you.”
“How wonderful,” I said, and he carried me swiftly out of the crypt.
To my astonishment, I saw that it was morning. The sun was slanted just over the gravestones and drops of dew hung heavy as jewels upon the grass. The air was crisp and intoxicating as wine, and I poked at Brisbane to set me upon my feet. My knees buckled instantly, but he did not move his arm, and I leaned heavily against him, breathing in the blessed sweet air.
“Lady Felicity Mortlake, I will see you charged with the attempted murder of Lady Julia Brisbane, as well as the murder of Agathe LeBrun,” said Morgan Fielding. He looked every inch the government official now. The effete creature of society had been replaced by a stalwart man of action.
She appeared not to hear him. Her face was impassive as marble, and she did not look at Plum. He held his Webley in his hand, and I wondered if he would have the courage to use it against her if it became necessary.
Morgan took charge of the situation. “Mr. March and I will see to it that Lady Felicity is taken into custody, Brisbane. Take your wife home and we will speak later.”
Brisbane agreed, and turned to help me. Just as Morgan reached to take Felicity’s arm, she gave a little step and seemed to totter, crying out. I assumed she must have tripped over a broken bit of gravestone, for she doubled over to grab her ankle. Plum moved to help her, and as he moved, she rose and there came a sudden pop and a flash and Plum fell back with a scream of pain.
“Plum!” I rushed to him, but before I could touch him, Felicity stepped neatly in front of me and pivoted to put my body between hers and the rest of the group. I would have thrown her off, but she clamped her free hand to my shoulder.
“Stay where you are,” she ordered, and I saw then that she held a revolver, a small but lethal thing, and she pointed it at each of the men in turn, holding them at bay.
I started to move, but Brisbane’s voice rang out in command. “Do as she says,” he ordered. “She is desperate.”
“But Plum—” I could not finish the question. It was unthinkable.
“Mr. March is not fatally injured,” Sir Morgan said coolly.
I felt my knees begin to buckle, but Felicity’s fingers tightened on my shoulder, biting hard, and I did not fall.
“Are you certain?”
“Quite,” Sir Morgan assured me. Just then, Plum struggled to his feet, holding his left arm. Blood flowed freely from his sleeve and his face so white I would have thought him dead if he had not risen.
“You bitch,” he said succinctly.
Felicity pointed her revolver at him. “You were in the way. Do not make the same mistake again. Get over there, with Mr. Brisbane and your friend,” she said, gesturing towards Morgan. She gave a nod of satisfaction.
“Now, I am leaving here with Lady Julia. She will be my safe conduct. When I have reached my destination, she will be released unharmed, you have my word.” But I heard the desperation in her voice, and I knew her word was not worth my life. The others knew it, too, for Plum raised his good arm, levelling his revolver at her.
“For God’s sake, hold your fire,” Brisbane ordered hoarsely. “You might hit Julia.”
That much was true. Plum had always been a fairly poor shot, and I did not like my chances with him for my liberator. And Brisbane dared not move, caught as he was with Felicity’s weapon aimed directly at his heart. Morgan said nothing, he merely stood calmly, assessing the situation and waiting for her to reveal her gambit.
Felicity was not so cool as she pretended, for the hand upon my shoulder twitched a little.
“Perhaps I ought to just settle this now,” she said, thinking aloud. “You have the advantage of me in numbers, and I do not much care for the odds.” She cocked the weapon then, and I realised with a shattering roar of rage in my head that she meant to shoot Brisbane. She meant to shoot him, and there was no one to save him but me. I had no choice, and in that space of a heartbeat, my rage rolled away, smothered in the cool conviction that I must act.
I raised my reticule, and as I did, I heard Brisbane cry for me to stop. He had guessed my intention, but Felicity had not, and when I flung the reticule and its little paste-board box of self-igniting gunpowder to the ground, the world erupted in a sheet of smoke and flame. Felicity was blown back against the crypt, her weapon wrenched from her hand, and I was flung backwards.
I could not see what happened to anyone else. I only knew that I was thrown up and then down again, into the wall of the crypt, hitting the stone with an audible crack before falling into the grass, the dew soaking my gown.
Brisbane was at my side in the space of a heartbeat. His clothes were streaked with soot and a long line of blood trickled from his brow. He gathered me onto his lap, touching the warm, sticky blood on my head and hands, demanding that I speak to him.
“I am alive,” I said finally, wondering if it were actually true. “The powder was rather stronger than I anticipated.”
He was holding me so tightly I could not breathe, or perhaps it was that I had cracked a rib or two, for breathing had never seemed such an ordeal before. I called his name and I felt his lips on my face.
“I am here, I am here,” he repeated, chanting the words like a monk at prayer.
I felt broken, like a child’s doll that is no longer wanted and has been flung to the ground. “It hurts,” I murmured.
“I know. We must get you out of here,” he said, and from the carefully schooled expression on his face, I knew all was not well.
“I will be fine,” I promised him. “But I must look a fright.”
“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he said harshly, and I knew he spoke roughly so I would not hear the break in his voice. “I am going to pick you up,” he warned. “Lift your head a little.”
He slid his arm under my neck and another under my legs and as he shifted me, I gave a cry. Something twisted in my abdomen then, a hot knife of pain lancing me inside.
“Julia! What is it?”
I put my hands to my womb just as I felt the first warm gush of blood between my legs. “The baby,” I murmured. And then all went black.
The TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER
You are my true and honourable wife,
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart.
—Julius Caesar
I do not like to think of the following days, for they were dark ones. I lost the child, and from what I was told, it was rather a near thing for me, as well. Brisbane’s dear friend, Mordecai Bent, and my own brother Valerius worked like madmen to save me. At length, Mordecai was able to assure Brisbane that I would live but that I would never be able to conceive another child. Brisbane swore profanely, Mordecai told me, but not at the thought of my barrenness. He was outraged that Mordecai even thought he would care about such a thing when my life was at stake.
But I cared. As little as I had thought I wanted children, the knowledge that I had lost this one—unexpected as it had been—was bitter. I had only begun to suspect in the last few days before the accident, and I reminded myself over and over again that I could hardly mourn a child that had never been truly mine. It helped only a little. I dreamed incessantly of a black-eyed boy that had his father’s tumbled dark locks and musicality and my sharp wit. Waking was little better. My injuries were extensive and painful. I had broken a pair of ribs and there were numerous lacerations and bruises to be nursed from a cracked cheekbone to a fractured bone in my foot. Brisbane came only occasionally to see me, for Mordecai kept me drugged with morphia until I finally threw the bottle away and said I would rather lie awake with the pain than endure any more of that strange twilight of the drug.
I demanded Brisbane and he came to me then, his face haggard, and fresh
silver threading the hair at his temples. He said nothing for a long time, but climbed into bed with me and gathered me so very gently to him. It was only then that I was able to weep, soaking his shirt with my tears as he stroked my hair.
“I am sorry,” I whispered.
“So am I,” he said fiercely. “I failed you.”
I struggled to sit up. He would not let me, but I managed to move my head to look him in the eye. “How can you say it? You saved me. If you had not got there when you did, I would have died. It was my own fault for using that gunpowder without testing it thoroughly,” I said. “But I was so desperately afraid that she was going to shoot you. I had to save you.”
His expression was one of wonderment. “You were trying to save me?”
“Of course. To lose you is impossible.”
“It was not your fault,” he said fiercely. “You acted for the best.”
His eyes were haunted, and I put my hands to his face. “I absolve you. It was not your fault, and you are right. It was not mine. We did the best we could under difficult circumstances. And we are alive to tell the tale.”
He held me close then, as close as he dared for all my bruises and bandages.
“I understand now,” I said, my voice muffled against his shoulder. “I really do.”
“Understand what?”
“What it feels like to see the one person you love most in the world in peril. I never knew it before, not really. And when I saw Felicity aim for your heart, I suddenly felt so very stupid not to have known.”
“Known?”
“How savage it is. There is nothing reasonable or logical about it. You were so right when you said that control deserted you where I was concerned. I could no more have controlled what I did next than I could have flown to the moon. I set off that explosion because I had no thought in my head except to save you. I never counted the danger to myself or anyone else. Only you mattered in that moment. Only you. And I would have done anything to save you. I would have paid any price, committed any sin, sold my very soul to do it.”
The Dark Enquiry (A Lady Julia Grey Novel) Page 32
