Legitimate Lies

by Cosgrove, Julie B;

  Afterwards, I changed into fresh clothes, courtesy of the stash in the armoire, and settled in to read more of the prayer book. The Elizabethan language struck me as elegant and poetic. The words sounded vaguely familiar. It took me back to parochial school chapel time.

  The deeply seeded faith of my youth, once almost starved and withered while barely bursting through the kernel, began to push out of the dirt of my guilt, anger and hidden shame with the guidance of Jake’s prayers. But, I never told him all that I’d tried to bury when it came to my disgrace. Now, maybe it was time to come clean.

  I read out loud the confession prayer. I think I believed God heard, but did He accept my contrition? I hoped so. The prayer book stated if we come with hearty repentance and true faith, we will be forgiven. Well, that was the key, wasn’t it? I had to be more than sorry for what I’d done. I had to have faith my confession meant something and possess a strong desire to repent. Easier said than done.

  A saying from St. John’s Gospel followed the confession: “If any man sin, we have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ, the righteous, and he is the propitiation for our sins.” Propitiation? I would have to find a dictionary and look that word up, but I guess it meant Jesus took on our sins when he died. The words conjured up an image of his emaciated body dangling from a wooden cross, as depicted in the paintings I’d studied in Art History class—ribs showing, eyes pleading upward, face pained and blood dripping—made me shiver. So, I closed the prayer book and paced for a while.

  Another glistening caught my eye again. It definitely came from the gazebo. What on earth?

  Through the leaded panes, the setting sun faded it into the dusk. Must be an optical illusion. Or maybe a piece of broken glass had caught the reflection of one of the last rays. Beer or wine bottle perhaps. It probably was a good place for local teens to sneak some forbidden nectar.

  Yet, the draw towards it became even stronger. Something or someone lured me to that gazebo as if my freedom depended upon me reaching it. I couldn’t ignore the pull it had on my heart.

  Okay. But how do I get to it? There had to be another way out of this house.

  A knock sounded on my door. The knob turned, but the door bumped against the armoire.

  “Are you trying to keep me out again, Jen?”

  Robert. I steeled my nerve. “That’s the plan, Mr. Manning.”

  He laughed. “Be reasonable. You’ll have to come out eventually. Why not for dinner? Cook says it is roast lamb with mint jelly. One of her specialties.”

  I edged to the door. “Not tonight, dear. I have a splitting headache.”

  His voice roughened. “Very well. I can wait this out. I’m a patient man, Jen. Otherwise, I’d snap my fingers and have a few of these guards push through.”

  I honestly hadn’t thought of that. Of course no armoire would stop them. I had better placate him until I had a plan, or some Divine revelation. “In the morning, okay? We’ll talk then. My head really is pounding. I just want to rest tonight.”

  Silence. After a moment his voice filtered through the door, a bit quieter and measured. “Very well. But at least let Jane or Mary bring you food.”

  I really didn’t care for any. “I had sandwiches and scones with Mary earlier.”

  “Really?” His voice edged again.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have revealed the nanny’s liaison. It might put her in more danger. I backtracked. “Yes, she talked me back into my senses.” I paused hoping he didn’t detect the white lie in my tone.

  Robert fell quiet, but I could hear him shift his weight. “Then, as a measure of good faith, why don’t you ease that wardrobe away from the door.”

  Uh, oh. Think fast, Jen. “In the morning, Robert. I’m too spent right now to shove it around anymore.” Another lie, sort of. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed he’d not argue.

  More silence.

  I continued. “I really am exhausted, Robert. I’ve been through a lot and have had very little sleep since arriving in England, how many days ago? Two, three?” Another lie. I’d never slept so much in my life, partially due to jet lag, intermittent exhaustion and drugs.

  He let out a deep sigh. “Okay, I guess that’s true. Goodnight, then. You can ring the bell if you need anything.”

  “I will.”

  His next sentence came out calculated. “Sleep well, my sweet. I’ll personally bring you breakfast in bed.”

  My breath stuck in my throat. Breakfast and what else?

  I waited to exhale until his steps faded. I had to find a way to get to the gazebo tonight.

  * * *

  Over the next hour I paced, took a few bites of food, washed my face, and walked the room again. A feeling—no, a conviction—would not leave my mind. Something in this room held the clue to my escape. I had to find it.

  I sat on the bed and chewed my lip. I scanned the walls, the floors, and the furniture. Then I saw it. In the wall, where the armoire had stood, lay the hole. But, this time something inside it glimmered. Or did the evening shadows play tricks? One way to find out.

  I dashed across the floor and bent towards the opening, extending my hand. I hesitated. Do I dare reach in there? What if I touched spider webs, or worse, a rat? Oohhh. A quiver zipped up my arm.

  I closed my eyes and willed my shaky fingers inside. Something hard brushed my knuckles. I retracted my hand in a gasp. What was that?

  I needed more light to peep into the crevice. The reading lamp by the bed’s cord proved too short. No outlet on the wall by the hole. My eyes panned the room.

  There sat a brass candlestick on the mantle with about three inches of candle left. But where to find matches. On tiptoes, I padded the surface around it. Nothing. I searched through drawers by the bed, the two long ones in the armoire, and the four in the dressing table. Ah, ha. Crammed in the back of one I found a matchbook. I flipped it over. The Spotted Snail? Must be a local pub.

  Inside, I detected a smudged message in pencil. I took it to the bedside lamp and positioned it under the stream of light.

  “Gazebo. 2 a.m. Love always, Barry.”

  Prickles rumbled up my torso. Niamh had escaped to the gazebo. That meant I could.

  But what if her fate became mine as well in the attempt?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  It took five matches before one ignited enough to light the candle. I gently carried the brass holder over, cupping the flame as I walked. Through the flickering glow, the hole appeared to not be very deep, and more importantly, empty of creepy-crawlies. After a long breath, I reached inside. My fingers hit something cool and smooth. Leather. My fingers followed the edges. Rectangular. A book?

  I pulled it out and blew off the dust. The dingy cover, once-white alligator patterned with pink flowers and green scrolling vines, caught my attention. In faded, calligraphy-swirled gold letters it read, “My Diary.”

  It had to have belonged to Niamh. On the side a brass lock prevented snooping. It must have been what glimmered. I grabbed it with my fingernails. Locked. Drat. Just my luck. I rocked back onto my heels. Where would she have hidden the key? I felt inside the hole. Nothing but dust and wood. Thank you, Lord—no dead bugs or a rat.

  Think, Jen. What would be the most likely place for a teenage girl hide the key to her diary? Not many of her things remained in the room. Only a few knick-knacks. It may have been dumped a long time ago.

  I sat at the dressing table and opened the first drawer, and then stretched to feel underneath. Nothing. The next three also revealed no key. Taped inside a book? I fanned the pages of several, flipped through more. Looked for torn seams in the binding. Again, nothing.

  A touch of hunger rumbled in my gut. Maybe food would clear my brain. Half a banana later, my eyes once more scanned the room before landing on the painting. I stopped in mid-chomp. Of course. With a quick swallow, I scrambled to my feet.

  My fingers inched along the back matting. There it lay, wedged in the bottom between the frame and the mat. I picked at it with m
y fingernail until it wiggled free into my hand. A small, golden-colored key, as tarnished as the lock. I pumped my fist. Yes.

  After ingesting another of the scones and the rest of the banana, I settled under the covers and carefully unlocked the diary. A part of me felt like an intruder. Inside emerged the personal thoughts of someone else. I chided myself. She’s dead, Jen. She won’t care. If anything, you’ll discover more about her state of mind. It might give Andrew and the Baroness closure.

  Justified in my actions, I began to skim the entries. The first few resembled the scrawl of a child. The writing started out in print, but a third of the way through, it changed to cursive—first meticulous and deeply embed into the page, as if practicing a new skill, then more upright and rounded with less pressure applied. Sketches of horses in the margins changed to hearts and flowers as the pages progressed. As with any story, I decide to start at the beginning.

  The first page read March 4, 1999.

  Dear Diary,

  Is that how I am supposed to start? I got you today for my eighth birthday. It was a fun party. Daddy let me have it on the lawns. There was a band, and lots of food. Everyone came, of course. We ran up to the gazebo and rolled down the hill. I got grass stains on my new party dress. Mother was mad, but Daddy picked me up and twirled me around. So many presents! Riding boots, two Nintendo games, real pearl earrings from Grandmamma, and my own CD player! I got Brittany Spears and the Backstreet Boys. So cool.

  Niamh

  I could almost hear her childish giggles. Daddy’s little girl. A once wealthy, influential man who lavished upon his princess while his financial world crumbled. Her mother retained perfect protocol and manners. Her grandmother doted on her. The perfect plot for a quintessential English manor novella.

  The growing up of a girl lay in front of me. She’d recorded her hopes and heartaches over ten years in these pages. From dolls to boys. Horses to romance. It was as if a flower bud slowly opened as the years went by. I related to her, having been somewhat naively isolated in parochial schools as well. The tug between mild defiance and the security of propriety screamed through the entries. Her first smoke behind the church as a dare from friends. The initial swig of champagne at a cousin’s wedding in the butler’s pantry with Barry Goodwin, an errand boy from the village. The first kiss at a dance which led to a boy trying to grope down her bra. All Barry again.

  I wanted him to try it. His kisses tingled and our breaths became so hot. I want to marry him someday. But Mother and Daddy would never approve. We talked of running away when I turn 18. He said we’ll meet in the gazebo, like we always do. He’s saving up for a hotel. No quickie in the hay for my girl, he told me. We’ll do it right, and take all night, then wake up in each other’s arms. We won’t go all the way until then so it’s special. I love him so much for that.

  I flipped ahead to the last entry quickly penned in purple ink. June 10th.

  Tonight’s the night. Barry has the bridal suite booked in the hotel in Fromme. I stole a black lace negligee from House of Frasier in Bath when Mother took me shopping for my formal. Her favorite store. That’ll turn him on. I’m all packed. The backpack’s already in the tunnel. We’ll meet at 2 a.m, after the gala ball Daddy has planned here at the house. My coming out, Mother said. What a laugh. I know they can’t afford it. But we must keep up appearances, right? Oh, I’ll come out tonight alright. I ache for his arms, his touch. I want him to do it so much. My thighs tingle for him to be between them. I’ve been doing those exercises from the magazine Shelly slipped me so they don’t cramp up.

  The message on the matchbook now made sense. So, that’s how she got pregnant. Poor girl. In love with the wrong boy. And he played her like a fiddle, as my grandmother used to say. Classic. I’d felt the same way about Robert. How different life would have been if I’d not…

  Wait. I read it again. The tunnel? So there was a secret passage somewhere in the house. But where? My heart thumped harder as I flipped back several pages. Maybe she’d used it before to meet Barry in their rendezvous. Could it lead to the gazebo? That would be quite a distance. But it had gotten her out of the house, which meant I had a chance as well. Unless, of course, they sealed it up after her tragic death. No, I had to think positively. Surely one of these diary entries revealed its location.

  There. An entry six months prior. Barry had told her he’d learned about the tunnel from his grandfather. Once used by bootleggers, it was also used to hide the family heirlooms and heirs in troubled times of war and toppling thrones. It served as a bomb shelter for the estate families to escape the Nazi Blitz Krieg in WWII. It came out into the woods just below the knoll that housed the gazebo.

  She and Barry found the entry in the livery off the kitchen? Did they mean stables? Surely not. Think, Jen, think.

  I racked my brain for mentions of liveries in the English classics I’d loved to read as a teenager. Jane Austen, Elliot, the Bronte sisters. Livery. Yes. Where they stored the uniforms for the butlers and footmen. Right. That meant sneaking into the kitchen quarters, two floors down, without disturbing the household, to find that room.

  The clock said 9:15. Way too early. People might still be up. If I could take a short nap, just a few hours or so, then I’d be fresh enough to try. With candle in hand, I’d find it while everyone slept.

  I slipped the diary back into its hiding place and said a short prayer of thanks.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “Do you need anything, ma’am?” Jane tapped on the door. It made me jump.

  “No, thanks.”

  “But, you missed dinner.”

  I padded barefoot to the armoire-blocked entrance. “No, really. I’m fine. Just tired. Thanks.”

  “I could change your sheets or bring you some hot milk and crackers.”

  Something cautioned me. She may not return alone, or the milk might be drugged. “Thank you, but no. Goodnight, Jane. You go to bed as well.”

  A whisper came back through the door, something like, “I tried, sir.” Then a soft shuffle of steps. Just as I suspected. Someone else had been on the other side of the door. But whether Michael, Robert, or Andrew, I couldn’t say. Still, it made my determination even stronger. I had to find the tunnel tonight.

  Curled into a fetal position on the bed, I clicked off the lamp, and draped my head on my elbow. Sleep came quickly.

  * * *

  I stirred and opened my eyes. Darkness filled the suite except for the glow of a luminous dial of the alarm clock I’d discovered in a drawer. I scooted closer to the bed stand to decipher the old-fashioned hands. Short one at eleven, long a bit past twenty. Better to wait at least another hour before beginning my exploration.

  I stretched my back in sync with a long, leisurely yawn. How easy it would be to scrunch back down under the warm duvet. Maybe a splash of water over my face would awaken me more. And a small bite to eat. I flicked on the bedside lamp and aimed the shade to shine onto the coffee table.

  But, the cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches didn’t look appetizing. The bread had turned hard and the cucumbers wilted. Cream cheese left out too long became toxic, right? A stomach ache would not be optimal at this point, thank you. One pinch told me the scones had become rather stale as well. I shoveled one in anyway, swallowing it with the help of two glasses of water from the bathroom tap.

  My hand pressed the paned windows. Cold. Outside in the darkness, the tree limbs waved. The wind had picked up. I’d have to dress warmer. I added a cardigan to my ensemble and put on three pair of socks—all they’d given me. But how long would that last against the cold and damp grass? I needed something warmer, and waterproof. But what?

  Hair spray. I coated the bottom of the socks with several good sprays and dangled my feet off the bed to dry. To my regret, the lacquer only made them sticky.

  Okay, Jen. So that didn’t work. Cutting up the duvet or the curtains wasn’t an option. I’d need the woolen shawl hanging in the armoire for warmth, though. I made a mental note to take i
t. What else? Something cellophane would be waterproof. I thumbed through the armoire. Nothing. No dry cleaners sacks. Wait. The bureau.

  My lacquered socks pulled across the area rug. I hopped on one foot, then the other, as I tugged the multiple layers back in place with each step. This didn’t go as planned. Besides, I probably sounded like an elephant doing the hokey-pokey to anyone below me. I stopped and listened for footsteps or doors opening and closing. Frozen in place, I craned my ears. Nothing out of the ordinary caught my attention. In fact, the house seemed eerily quiet.

  Walking on the sides of my arches worked the best. I got to the bureau and slowly opened the bottom drawer. There. Sweaters stored in plastic. Two birds with one stone—warmth and waterproofing. When my hands unzipped the bag, a stench of mothballs and lavender sachet permeated my nose. I took out both sweaters and waved them in the air with three sharp shakes. In the glow of the bedside lamp, tiny dust mites floated to the floor.

  “Ah…achooo.” I covered my mouth. That was loud enough to wake the servants. I sat in silence, my ear craned to the door for footsteps. In a few minutes, I breathed deeply again.

  The thickest pullover sweater fit, of course. If I were to resemble Niamh then I had to be the same height and weight. The idea of wearing a dead person’s clothes freaked me out a bit. Why would the family leave them in here and not donate them to charity?

  “Who cares? You have more urgent matters, Jen.” I was talking to myself. Should I be worried? Nah.

  I needed something to cut the plastic and bind it to my feet at the ankles. I hobbled to the bathroom and searched the cabinet. Ah. A first aid kit stocked with adhesive tape and manicure scissors. Perfect.

  With my feet planted on the plastic, I crouched as I cut a wide oval berth around my socks. I gently pulled up the edges to my ankles and wound the tape over them several times. This just might work as long as the plastic didn’t crinkle and rustle too much. I tried it out. Not bad if I moved in slow, flat-footed steps. I grabbed the shawl from the armoire and threw it over my arm. Matchbook in pants pocket. Brass candlestick. Check.