by Emily Larkin
No one moved. After a moment he realized that Georgiana and Lord Dalrymple were waiting for him.
Alexander took a deep breath, crossed the road, and opened the gate. The hinges screeched. He walked up the path. Weeds grew between the flagstones. At the door, he hesitated. The emotion that he felt was reluctance, not curiosity. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to know what had happened to him in this grim, gray house.
Neither Georgiana nor her father said anything. They waited silently for him to make up his mind: knock or turn away.
He was very tempted to turn away.
Alexander blew out his breath, lifted the knocker, and rapped loudly. The sound echoed inside the house. Ten seconds passed. Twenty seconds. Thirty. He heard shuffling footsteps. Someone drew the bolts back and opened the door.
It was a man, small and stooped and elderly. Alexander looked at him uncertainly. Was he a servant?
“Yes?” the old man said, peering up at them, the entrance hall dark and cavernous behind him.
“A woman lived here,” Alexander said. “Twenty-five years ago. She had relatives in Lansallos, and when they died she brought their son to live here.” He paused, feeling the reluctance again. “Do you know who she was?”
The old man took a step closer and stared up at Alexander’s eyes.
Alexander stared back. He saw the man’s disbelief, saw his dawning recognition.
“Charley?” the old man said. “Is it you?” He reached out and touched Alexander’s sleeve, as if he didn’t believe he was real.
“I’m Charley,” Alexander said. “Who are you?”
“Dowrey. John Dowrey.” The old man turned and called back into the house, “It’s Charley, Mariah.” He clutched at Alexander’s sleeve, pulling him inside. “Mariah! It’s Charley! He’s come back!”
Mariah was the old man’s wife. She burst into tears when she saw Alexander and embraced him, sobbing into his silk waistcoat. He hugged her back awkwardly, not knowing what to say.
The old couple fussed over them, Mr. Dowrey finding seats for Georgiana and her father in the sparsely furnished parlor, Mrs. Dowrey dabbing at her face with a threadbare handkerchief, apologizing for having no refreshments to offer. Alexander perched on the sofa and looked around. He saw signs of poverty everywhere. The upholstery was frayed and the carpet worn through. There were no ornaments on the mantelpiece, no paintings on the walls. The few candles were tallow, their mutton-smell lingering even though they were unlit.
Mrs. Dowrey sat alongside Alexander on the sofa, clutching his hand, squeezing it repeatedly as if reassuring herself that he was really there.
“Was it you who brought me here?” Alexander asked her.
“That was Eliza Menhennick. This was her house until she passed away.” Mrs. Dowrey clutched his hand more tightly and said, “Where have you been, Charley? We thought you must be dead.”
“I was adopted by a gentleman. He found me in Exeter.”
“Exeter? However did you get there?”
“I don’t know,” Alexander said. “I was hoping you could tell me. I don’t remember this house or Mrs. Menhennick or anything that happened.”
“Miss Menhennick,” the old lady said. “Eliza never married. She lived in this house her whole life. First with her father, and then by herself.”
“Poor Eliza was quite a recluse,” Mr. Dowrey said. “Until she brought you home. I’ve never seen her as happy as she was those months. She loved you as if you were her own son.”
The words made Alexander’s throat tighten. He cleared it. “Was she my great-aunt?”
Dowrey shook his head. “Eliza’s mother and your father’s grandmother were sisters. She was your . . .” He looked to his wife. “Cousin twice removed?”
Mrs. Dowrey nodded.
“And you?” Alexander asked. “Are we related?”
“By marriage,” Dowrey said. “My mother was a Menhennick.”
Alexander digested this information, and then said, “How long was I here? Do you know?”
The Dowreys looked at each other again. “It was spring when she brought you home,” the old man said. “And winter when she died. December fifth, wasn’t it?”
Mrs. Dowrey nodded.
Six months. He’d lived here for six months. Alexander ran his gaze around the parlor again, trying to see something he recognized, and failed. He looked back at the Dowreys. “If you don’t know how I got to Exeter, can you please tell me what you do know?”
“Precious little,” Mr. Dowrey said. “We were in Plymouth when Eliza died, and by the time we got here she’d been buried. Her abigail was gone and so were you.”
Alexander lifted his eyebrows. “Her abigail took me?”
“Took everything she could lay her hands on. Although no one knows how much that was. Eliza was quite eccentric, poor thing. She used to say she had a fortune hidden in the walls.”
“A fortune?”
Dowrey shrugged. “Maybe she had one, maybe she didn’t. Old Menhennick was wealthy, no denying that, and everything he owned went to Eliza, but how much that was is anyone’s guess. Eliza was sparing with her money. Never went out, hardly spent a groat. Until you came.” He smiled at Alexander. “You brought her back to life, you did, and we were glad to see it. Did her a world of good to have a child in the house.”
“Such a beautiful little boy you were,” Mrs. Dowrey said, squeezing his hand again. “And look how handsome you are now.”
Alexander felt himself blush faintly. “What do you know about the abigail?”
“Her name was Polglaze,” Dowrey said. “She was new. Only been in Eliza’s service a couple of months.”
“Eliza didn’t trust her,” Mrs. Dowrey said. “She was certain Polglaze had been going through her jewelry box. She was going to dismiss her. That’s what she told us the last time we saw her.” Her frail fingers tightened on his hand again. “The last time we saw you.”
“We were so worried about you, Charley,” the old man said, leaning forward in his chair. “We had nightmares thinking what might have happened to you.”
Alexander didn’t tell the Dowreys that he’d been sold to a chimney sweep; instead he said, “I had the best home a person could wish for. Truly.”
“Such a wee thing you were the last time we saw you, and just look at you now, all grown up.” Mrs. Dowrey’s hand strayed to his cuff, touching the expensive fabric. “You look exactly what Eliza wanted you to be: a gentleman.”
“Yes,” Alexander said awkwardly, aware that his cuff had probably cost more than all of Mrs. Dowrey’s clothing put together. He glanced at Georgiana. Where is Miss Menhennick’s fortune? he wanted to ask.
Georgiana met his eyes, and perhaps she read his question on his face, for she said, “It’s possible there is a hiding place in the walls,” and in that moment Alexander knew that Eliza Menhennick’s fortune was somewhere in the house.
Georgiana looked at her father. “Don’t you think, Papa?”
Lord Dalrymple recognized his rôle. “Yes,” he said. “Old houses like this often have hidey holes.”
“Father’s very good at finding them,” Georgiana told the Dowreys. “He found a smugglers’ tunnel only three days ago. I think we should look, don’t you?”
“Yes,” both Dalrymple and Alexander said.
“Look?” Mr. Dowrey glanced at the parlor walls, his expression bewildered. “But . . . where?”
Alexander looked at Georgiana. She was staring at him intently, clearly trying to tell him something. He stared back, trying to decipher her message, and then realized that her hands were moving on her lap. He glanced down, saw her palms press together and then apart, as if she was opening a book.
“The library,” he said. “Does this house have one?”
“Well, yes,” Dowrey said. “But . . . but surely we’d have noticed . . .”
Alexander stood. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”
The library was a large room, and it was completely empty. No books, n
o furniture, not even a carpet on the floor. The shutters were closed, the air cold and stale.
Mr. Dowrey murmured something disjointed and ashamed, and went to open the shutters.
“Poor John lost all his money in ninety-one,” Mrs. Dowrey said, her gnarled fingers twisting together. “That’s why we came here. We didn’t think you’d mind, Charley.”
“Mind?” Alexander said. “Why should I mind?”
“Because this house is yours. Eliza left it to you.”
“To me?” Alexander looked around the library, seeing the tall windows, the empty shelves, the wainscoting. He imagined the Dowreys selling off the books one by one, using the money to buy food, coal, tallow candles.
“The books . . .” The old lady plucked at his sleeve.
He looked down at her and saw that her eyes were anxious, pleading for his understanding.
“I don’t mind that you sold them,” Alexander told her. “Truly, I don’t.” He placed his hand over Mrs. Dowrey’s and smiled at her. “Come, let’s look for this hiding place.” He stepped into the library and studied the two long walls of empty shelves. Where to start? He glanced at Georgiana.
“I hope it’s like Cornwall,” she said. “And that we find something.”
Like Cornwall. He nodded to show that he understood: her father was to mirror her.
“I think I’ll start here,” Georgiana announced, and crossed to the right-hand wall. Which meant that the hiding place was in the left-hand wall. “Do you think it will be behind the wainscoting or the shelves, Papa?”
Lord Dalrymple frowned at the shelves, and then at the wainscoting.
“The shelves, don’t you think?” Georgiana said in a bright, girlish tone that Alexander had never heard her use before.
“Definitely the wainscoting,” Dalrymple said. He gestured Alexander to the left-hand wall.
He’s letting me find it.
Alexander’s heartbeat picked up speed slightly. He positioned himself opposite Georgiana and tried to copy what she was doing, to keep pace with her. The wainscoting was intricate, with small, square panels over beadwork. Alexander pushed at each seam, each panel. How long would it take? There must be hundreds of—
“Oh, pish pash,” Georgiana said. “A splinter.”
Alexander raised his head. Really? So soon?
He glanced at Georgiana, lifting his eyebrows, certain he must be wrong, but she gave a tiny, imperative nod.
“Huh,” Alexander said, under his breath. He turned back and studied the wainscoting. It’s right here in front of me. He pressed everything within reach—the railings, the beadwork, the panels—probing hard with his fingers, pushing . . . and one of the vertical casings gave slightly. He felt a leap of excitement in his chest, and pushed harder.
A section of the wainscoting three foot square pivoted inward, revealing a pitch-black hole.
Alexander recoiled back two steps. It took him a moment to catch his breath, to find his voice. “I’ve found it.”
Someone gave his shoulder a reassuring touch. Lord Dalrymple. “So you have. Well done.”
“Oh, how exciting!” Mrs. Dowrey said, clutching her hands together at her breast.
Lord Dalrymple dropped to a crouch and peered into the hole. “It’s not that deep,” he said. “In fact, I think . . .” He crawled forward, vanishing into the darkness.
Alexander shuddered and looked away.
Georgiana’s hand slipped into his, warm and comforting. Alexander gripped it tightly and managed to smile down at her.
After an endless thirty seconds, Dalrymple emerged from the hole. “I think it extends the length of the library,” he said, standing, dusting off his knees. “It’s narrow, but high. As high as this ceiling, at a guess.”
“I’ll fetch some candles,” Mr. Dowrey said, and hurried from the room.
“To think that Eliza was telling the truth!” Mrs. Dowrey said, her thin face flushed with excitement. “All this time, I never believed it.” She stepped closer to the hole, bent awkwardly, and peered into the darkness. “Oh, how I wish I were younger!” She tried to kneel.
Dalrymple took her arm, helping her.
Mrs. Dowrey peeked into the hole. “Oh, my stars! How dark it is.” Her face, when she looked back at Alexander, was alight with excitement.
Alexander smiled at her, stretching his lips, showing his teeth, trying to mirror her excitement, when all he felt was nausea. “How wide would you say it is?” he asked Dalrymple.
“Maybe three feet.”
Alexander closed his eyes for a moment. Fuck. Three feet was narrow. Almost as narrow as a chimney.
Dalrymple helped Mrs. Dowrey to her feet again.
“I wonder if there’s anything belonging to your parents in there?” Georgiana said.
Alexander glanced at her. Her expression told him that she didn’t wonder; she knew.
He looked back at the hole. His body gave an involuntary shudder. I can’t.
Mr. Dowrey returned, out of breath, three candles and a tinderbox clutched to his chest. He was as excited as his wife. His hands shook when he tried to light the candles.
Dalrymple took over, striking the tinder, lighting the candles. Alexander was grateful for the viscount’s calmness, his competence. It was good that someone was calm here, because he certainly wasn’t.
The viscount took one of the candles and ventured into the hole alone—to check it was safe, he said. He reappeared a minute later without the candle.
“What’s in there?” Georgiana asked eagerly.
“Nothing at this end,” Dalrymple said, on hands and knees, peering out of the hole. “But there are shelves at the far end with a great many things on them. Possibly Miss Menhennick’s fortune. Pass me those last two candles, will you?” He disappeared again.
Mrs. Dowrey was as animated as a young girl, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. “To think that we should find it after all these years!”
Dalrymple returned without the candles. “Who wants to come and see? Mrs. Dowrey?”
“Oh, yes,” the old lady said eagerly. “Come, John!”
Alexander helped them both to their knees and watched them vanish into the hole with Lord Dalrymple. His stomach was tight, his chest tight, his throat tight. God, how could he be so frightened when the Dowreys—frail and elderly—had no fear crawling into that dark space?
“Vic . . .” Georgiana came to stand in front of him. She took his hands and held them in both of hers, his palms pressed together as if he was praying. “It’s all right that you don’t like the dark.”
He shook his head.
“No one thinks any less of you. I don’t. Father doesn’t.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away from her.
“And if you think less of yourself, then you’re a fool!”
Of course he thought less of himself. How could he not?
“Vic, you idiot,” Georgiana said softly. “You saved someone’s life this morning. Or have you forgotten?”
Memory took a moment to come. That cliff seemed a world away and a lifetime ago. Alexander opened his eyes and reluctantly looked back at Georgiana.
She clasped his hands more tightly between hers and stepped closer so that his fingertips touched her collarbone. “I love you, Vic.”
Alexander sighed, and felt some of his tension ease. “I love you, too.”
Georgiana smiled up at him. She released his hands and reached up, pulling his head down, kissing him gently, her lips warm and soft and reassuring, and then stepped back. “There are some things of your parents in there. I’ll bring them out for you. Wait here.”
He stood, frozen, as she crouched. A flash of her smile, a whisper of muslin, and she was gone, swallowed up by darkness.
Alexander squeezed his eyes shut, turned his head away . . . turned it back, and reluctantly opened his eyes again. He stared at the hole. Small. Dark. He felt the familiar terror clenching in his belly, clenching in his throat, and listened to the loud, f
ast beating of his heart.
“Fuck,” he said under his breath. He forced himself to take a step forward, two steps, three, until he was close enough to the wall to touch it.
The hole in the wainscoting gaped at his feet. Faintly, he heard voices. Excited, happy, unafraid voices. Why can’t I do this?
He knelt as stiffly as old Mr. Dowrey had done, counted to ten, and then stuck his head into the hole.
It was dark. Very dark. Very dark and very small.
He wanted to rear back and scramble away on hands and knees; he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stay where he was. “Look, John! Eliza’s jewelry box,” he heard Mrs. Dowrey exclaim. “It wasn’t stolen.”
His eyes were telling him that it wasn’t quite as dark as he’d first thought. Daylight leaked in around him. Candlelight flickered to his right.
“She must have hidden it from Polglaze,” old Mr. Dowrey said.
His ears told him that the space extended high above him and that it was narrow, not much wider than a chimney.
Alexander inhaled a shallow breath, and another one, waiting for his courage. It didn’t come.
I can do this, he told himself, and he crawled into the hole and climbed to his feet, clumsy and hasty, panic leaping in his chest.
There was a moment when he knew he was in a chimney, blind and trapped and suffocating to death. He felt bricks pressing close all around him, tasted soot on his tongue—and then he heard Mr. Dowrey say, “Open it, Mariah. See what’s inside.”
Alexander braced his hands against the walls on either side of him. He fastened on the old man’s voice, clinging to it with all his concentration, his breath wheezing in his throat. It’s not a chimney. It’s not a chimney.
“Oh!” Mrs. Dowrey said. “Her amethysts!”
The taste of soot faded. It became a little easier to breathe.
Yes, it was narrow, yes, it was dark, but there were candlelight and people. He heard Georgiana say, “What a pretty necklace. How lucky she hid it,” and then the low murmur of Lord Dalrymple’s voice, his words too quietly spoken for Alexander to catch.
He fixed his gaze on the pale blur of Georgiana’s muslin gown, inhaled a shallow breath, and took hold of his courage. I can do this. One step. A second step. As slow and shuffling as old Mr. Dowrey, sweating and trembling, his breath coming fast and shallow, his hands braced on the walls on either side of him. It’s not a chimney. It’s not a chimney.
