A Hymn in the Silence

by Kelley York

  We’ll eat and dress and the cab will return for us right on time—the usual driver who is kind enough to venture outside of the city for those in our little community and do not have their own means of transportation.

  Mr. Foss waits for us at Miss Bennett’s, and he seems to be in a jovial mood despite James and I being too tired for interesting conversation because it really is still too bloody early. But, right, to the train station we go, on the ten-thirty to Chiltern Hills. A trip I would have much rather taken with James alone, because with Foss seated across from us, it means I cannot even lay my head on James’ shoulder and go back to sleep.

  “This is an interesting profession the two of you have stumbled into,” Foss chatters as the train departs the station. “How did you come about it?”

  “We attended a haunted school,” James says. “We found we had a knack for dealing with such things.”

  Foss’ eyes widen. “Fascinating.”

  I bite back a bitter laugh. A knack for it? More like an impetuous tenacity and refusal to give up. And a damned bit of luck, at that. I still get chills when I think back to the sensation of a spirit inside of my body, driving it about like a marionette. To think Miss Bennett willingly invites spirits to do the same to her is unfathomable to me.

  Whisperwood is not a subject I care to get into overmuch. Doing so might bring up the subject of Oscar Frances, and I cannot bear to see the way such a thing makes pain flash so raw and open on James’ face.

  “Perhaps you can fill us in on some of the details of the Brewers’ murders, Mr. Foss?” I ask.

  “Oh. Yes, certainly.” He clears his throat as though preparing to recite from a memorised speech. “The Brewers were a family of horse breeders. Well-known, hard-working. The community is small, so our church consists of quite the mixture of people across all classes. Hugo Brewer had mentioned to some of the other parishioners that something was off, weeks before anything happened. He said the children had spotted people watching them in the woods, but searches yielded nothing.”

  “And the footprints?”

  “Yes. Hugo Brewer encountered them while putting out the laundry one afternoon. He divulged the information to a neighbour and they did a thorough search of the area but found nothing.

  “One day, the neighbours noticed the horses had not been brought in at night, and the farm seemed unnaturally quiet. None of the children mucking about…”

  Children. I know he told us this was a family, but it hadn’t properly clicked in my mind that it meant these children were also dead. My stomach turns uncomfortably. James’ hand, resting upon his knee, twitches, and for half a second, I think he’s going to reach for mine until he remembers himself.

  He asks, “I trust the house itself was searched thoroughly?”

  “Naturally. As I mentioned yesterday, the police have been in and out numerous times.” Foss shakes his head with a sigh, pulling a flask from his coat to take a swig. I wish I’d thought to bring one myself.

  “Signs of a struggle?”

  “Yes. The place is—well, it’s a wreck, if I’m honest.” Some of the colour falls from his face. “Blood everywhere… Something tore into those poor people like starving wolves.”

  James purses his lips. “Do you know if anyone who has been in the house—before or after the murders—has seen anything odd? Heard anything?”

  “Before? Not so much. After, not many civilians have entered. The neighbours who found them, of course. Lord Wakefield and I escorted the police when they came to retrieve the bodies. I don’t recall seeing anything peculiar, but it’s difficult to say. We were rather distracted at the time.”

  “The police needed the escort of a lord?” I ask, eyebrow raising.

  “Well,” Foss takes another pull from his flask and tucks it away, “the land belongs to him, you see.”

  James says, “Ah, was he friendly with the family?”

  “Lord Wakefield is friendly with everyone in the community,” Foss confirms. “The Brewers fell on hard times a few years ago. He purchased the land and lowered their rent so that they could afford to stay.”

  “Very charitable of him,” I murmur. Not unheard of, I suppose, just…unusual. I steal a glance at James.

  Wakefield is a charitable and kind employer, Foss goes on to say. A good father to his daughter, a pillar in the community, and generous with his money. Perhaps I do him a disservice by comparing him to my own parents, who are most certainly not kind nor charitable with…well, anything. It’s difficult for me to imagine.

  The rest of the trip passed with Foss chattering away, and me wishing he’d shut his trap so that I could try to catch some more sleep.

  James, however, is quite adept at filling the silence where I cannot. He knows how much socialising wears me down and never hesitates to step in, allowing me to merely exist. Although I cannot sleep, I close my eyes a few times and allow the hum of their conversation to fall by the wayside.

  Trains are wretched things, as far as I’m concerned. Noisy, crowded, always too hot or too cold. Buckinghamshire is only a few hours away, thankfully. When we arrive, there’s a steady snowfall and it’s as cold as sin. Thankfully, a coach awaits to take us the rest of the way, so we needn’t linger long at the station.

  The Chiltern Hills are beautiful, there’s no denying that. Sprawling hills and countryside with beautiful manor homes of some of the elite, interspersed with small specks of farms and cattle and sheep as far as the eye can see.

  The driveway we pull into ends in one of the most stunning manor houses I’ve seen in my life, and I feel my mouth hanging open as I lean forward to peer out the window in awe. James leans into me, following my gaze, and his whisper is meant just for my ears.

  “We should have asked for more money.”

  “Perhaps we will yet,” I murmur, biting back a smile.

  A footman rushes to open our carriage door once it rolls to a stop, and suddenly I feel a little underdressed for such a lavish home. Thankfully I have some finer clothes packed, but that doesn’t do me any good right now. I step down from the cab, tipping my head back to admire the architecture, snow-capped towers stretching high above our heads. Before I’ve had too much of a chance to take it all in, we’re ushered up the steps and into the foyer of the manor, which is no less grand than the outside. High ceilings and glittering chandeliers, curtains thrown open wide over lean windows to let in as much light as possible. Along with plenty of natural lighting, there are gas lamps lining the walls. This place must be lovely at night.

  “One day, we’re going to live in such a fine place,” James whispers to me, lingering closer than he probably ought to.

  I respond with a noncommittal noise. I miss it. No, I didn’t grow up in a place this grand, but I do miss the luxuries I once had. I miss having the finest clothes and all the books I could want. I miss going to the theatre whenever I pleased and having servants to tend to my meals and baths. More than anything, I miss having a full belly instead of the constant, dull ache of hunger because food is scarce and expensive.

  And there is nothing in me that believes our line of work will ever grant us such fineries. But all it takes is one look at James to remember why I was all right with that exchange.

  Foss strolls in behind us, removing his hat. From the top of the stairs comes a loud, warm voice: “You’ve arrived! I’d not expected you for another few hours but leave it to Albert to be timely.”

  Lord Wakefield descends the stairs; he’s older but quite handsome, in possession of a strong jawline and silvering at his temples, and a disarming smile. He’s wearing a sack coat with only the topmost button fastened to show off a brilliant red waistcoat, the colour of which compliments his pinstripe trousers. The light glints off the chain of his pocket watch. He approaches us with the slick confidence of a man who has everything and knows it. Still, there’s nothing insincere about the cheerfulnes
s he displays as he comes to greet us, scooping up James’ hand in his own and giving it a firm shake.

  “Mr. Spencer, Mr. Esher! I’m positively thrilled you could make it. Welcome to Evenbury Manor.”

  James responds with a brilliant smile all his own. “And you must be the man we’ve heard so much about from Mr. Foss.”

  “Ah, Albert always sings my praises far too highly.” He laughs and turns to give my hand the same shake. I’ll admit, I’m a little thrown by him. He’s very different from what I expected. “Claude Wakefield. My home is your home during your time here. Should you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to let me know. I trust Albert has filled you in on some of our predicament?”

  “He has,” I agree, although my gaze has strayed a bit, catching movement on the stairs.

  A woman has joined us, standing upon the landing, dressed in hues of blue and gold. Her hair is pinned up meticulously, only a few stray honeyed curls are purposely let free to frame her face and tumble down the back of her neck. Everything about her is soft; her cheeks, and the gentle slope of her brows and nose…

  She is, quite honestly, one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  “I hope that we’re able to be of some assistance,” James is saying. Wakefield catches that my attention has wandered. He turns, smiles, and steps aside with a grand sweep of his arm. “Addy, darling! Come and say hello to our guests. Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Adelia.”

  Oh. Mr. Foss said Wakefield had a daughter, and it hadn’t occurred to me she’d be not much younger than us. For whatever reason, I’d envisioned a small child.

  Adelia Wakefield makes her way down the stairs to stand beside her father, who beams proudly. She studies us, her expression somewhere between amused and unreadable, which is intriguing in and of itself. “You must be the ghost hunters.”

  “The Phantom Fighters,” James chirps.

  I elbow him. “That’s not what we call ourselves.”

  He gives a little sniff. “James Spencer, and this is my partner, William Esher.”

  I’m openly staring at Adelia like a bloody fool and even when James says my name, it takes me a moment to realise—yes, right. I’m supposed to introduce myself. I take a step forward and extend my hand to Adelia, aware a second too late that it might be entirely too forward of me to do so. “William Esher. It’s a pleasure, Lady Adelia.”

  Adelia meets my gaze unflinchingly but doesn’t take the offered hand. “A pleasure, I’m certain. But there are those who will feel much better about your arrival than I.”

  “Addy,” Lord Wakefield sighs, a touch of warning in his tone but more exasperation than anything. “Pardon my daughter. I’m afraid she’s a bit sceptical about all of this.”

  My cheeks warm as I withdraw my hand, tearing my eyes away from her face. “Quite all right. As we told Mr. Foss, there may be nothing to these murders that we can assist with.”

  James shifts his weight from one foot to the other and clears his throat a bit forcefully. “No harm in looking, especially if it can put minds at ease.”

  Adelia smiles faintly at that. “Be careful not to get wrapped up in superstition, gentlemen.”

  “It’s not superstition when there’s truth behind it.” I offer her a small smile that I mean to be self-assured and confident, and I fear comes across as nervous and utterly ridiculous instead. However, I can appreciate her scepticism; there are far too many simpler explanations for a great many things besides ghosts.

  “Of course,” she responds, though without any conviction. “Though I’m certain you will have more than your fill of those who cry supernatural.”

  Lord Wakefield chuckles, putting an arm around his daughter and hugging her to his side. “Well, we shall see how your investigation proceeds and what you find, hm? Allow Albert to show you to your rooms. We’ve quite a dinner planned this evening, so I hope you’ve brought your appetites.”

  “I’m told I have an endless appetite,” James titters.

  “He does,” I agree flatly.

  “Glad to hear it.” Lord Wakefield gestures to Foss, who in turn nods to the footman who brought in our trunk. Wakefield arches an eyebrow as the footman hefts the trunk upon his back and begins to cart it upstairs. “Only one piece of luggage between the two of you?”

  “We prefer to travel lightly,” James is quick to say.

  Wakefield only smiles and nods and, thankfully, asks no further probing questions. By his leave, James and I follow Foss and the footman upstairs. He leads us through the vast halls of the manor to the easternmost wing, which appears to consist of mostly guest apartments.

  He opens a door to the left and the footman enters, placing the trunk at the foot of the four-poster bed before silently slipping away. I want to throw myself upon that gorgeous bedspread and bury my face into the plush down pillows. There is nothing about this room I don’t immediately love…except for the fact that James and I won’t be permitted to share it.

  “Your other room is directly across the hall,” Foss says, turning to us with his hands behind his back. “Might there be anything I can do for you gentlemen to help you settle in?”

  “I think a bit of a rest and a quick wash, and we will both feel as good as new,” James says.

  Foss bows deeply. “I will have baths drawn for each of you, if you’d like.”

  “That sounds delightful,” I say. We hadn’t time for a proper bath last night, and I suspect whatever bath they can offer us here will far exceed what we have at home.

  Foss takes his leave, closing the door behind him. The moment James and I are alone, he thumps me on the back of my head.

  I jerk, startled. “What was that for??”

  He laughs. “You know exactly what! I thought you were about to start drooling all over that poor girl and really make a mess.”

  A blush promptly crawls up into my face. “It was nothing. She caught me off-guard, is all.”

  “With what? Her face?”

  Not just her face, but I’ll keep that comment to myself. “No need for jealousy, darling. You’re far prettier than she is,” I offer, lifting a hand to touch his jaw.

  He turns to nip at my fingers. “Uh huh.”

  I draw closer, taking his face in my hands. I don’t get the impression he’s actually jealous, but just in case. “You know I only have eyes for you.”

  A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “She doesn’t seem to think much of us anyway. Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

  “However shall I cope?” I sigh and kiss him, lingering a few lovely seconds, and James leans into it with an eagerness that suggests he’s taking this with good humour. When I pull back, it’s to slip out of my coat.

  “Our rooms are across from one another. You know, perhaps we’ll be able to sneak around after all. I’m always more than happy to try,” James hums, watching me appreciatively.

  As much as I like that idea— “We’ll see. You’re under the assumption the servants aren’t terribly nosy and that we’re capable of being careful enough.”

  While we wait for our baths to be drawn, I open up our trunk to fetch some clean clothes for us both. Upon opening the lid, sat atop the rest of our things, is a familiar bottle. My face warms over.

  “You can’t remember to pack your own bloody socks but you can remember this?” I ask, lifting the jar of oil with a pointed look in his direction.

  The smile he gives is almost sheepish. Almost. “I like to come prepared.”

  There’s a double entendre there, and I decide not to comment on it.

  Before long, the servants have come to inform us our baths are prepared in a room at the end of the hall. And, in fact, the two large, luxurious tubs are not only full of water, but full of water so hot that the steam rolls off it, and I resist the urge to fall into it fully clothed. Back home, we simply haven’t the mea
ns of heating water quickly enough to fill a tub. By the time it’s full, we’re lucky if we have it lukewarm.

  As soon as the servants have left us, I flash a lopsided smile at James and quickly begin to shed my clothes. James quietly laughs at my eagerness, but he’s undressed and in his tub before I am.

  I sink into the water with a low, pleased groan, and drop my head back. How long has it been since we’ve enjoyed such a thing? I’ve half a mind to crawl into James’ tub with him but decide it’s too risky. Instead, I soak up the warmth for a while, and then open my eyes to poke through the generous selection of soaps placed at our tub-sides. I’m tempted to try all of them, honestly, because they all smell lovely.

  James opens his eyes only long enough to cast a glance at me and smile. “Is the trip worth it for the bath alone?”

  “That remains to be seen. The bath combined with a proper dinner just might be worth it but ask me again when we actually begin our work.”

  We fall into a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the sound of me scrubbing vigorously at my body and hair, and then simply enjoying the water until it begins to grow cold. James has long since washed and crawled out of his tub, got into his undergarments and trousers. He alternates between gazing out the window and watching me, permitting me to enjoy myself, and only when I’ve risen does he lean back in his seat with a heavy sigh.

  “Soooo hungry.”

  So am I, actually. We skipped lunch and our breakfast was a meagre one. “Soon,” I promise, stealing a look out the window. Still light out, but it must be approaching dinner. “I suspect we won’t be starting our investigation until tomorrow.”

  “I have something you can investigate before then,” James says, and although I’m not facing him, I know by the suggestive tone of his voice he is undoubtedly wiggling his eyebrows in my direction.

  I towel off quickly and reach for my clean clothes. “I’d rather not push our luck on our first day here, sweetheart.”