by C. S. Harris
“But not Emma?”
“Oh, no; if anything, Emma was the most secretive, rage-filled child I’ve ever met. She was fifteen when I first arrived at the academy. That’s an age at which all children are trying to establish who and what they are. Except, children such as Emma have nothing to work with beyond what they invent themselves. They’re adrift, essentially alone in the world. They feel terribly abandoned . . . confused . . . afraid. And angry. Very, very angry.”
“Yet you were able to get through to her.”
Jane Owens gazed down at the sun-sparkled waters beside them, her thoughts obviously troubled and far, far away. “I understood her. I think that’s what was important. Rowena LaMont believes such children should be humble and endlessly grateful. She could never understand that by trying to force Emma to deny and hide her true feelings, she was only making matters worse.”
Sebastian studied the older woman’s intent profile. And he found himself wondering why she had left the academy, and how she had come to be here, in her rose-covered cottage on the banks of the River Ashes Hollow.
“Do you know why Emma went to Ayleswick?” he asked.
“Not for certain, no. But I can guess. She was trying to discover who her parents were. When she was younger—when I first met her—Emma always insisted she didn’t want to know. She said that if they were ashamed of her—if they didn’t want to have anything to do with her—then she didn’t want to know who they were or have anything to do with them.” Again, that sad smile touched her lips. “She used tell the most marvelous stories to the younger children at the school, all about stolen heiresses and lost princesses and children who were switched at birth. I often thought that was the real reason she didn’t want to know the truth—that she preferred her own world of fantasy, where anything was possible. She realized that once she learned the truth, she’d need to give up imagining and accept what might be a very unpalatable reality.”
“So what changed her mind?”
“Maturity, I suppose. Plus, there were so many questions she wanted answered. She wanted to know simple things—like why she had gray eyes, or where her artistic talents came from. But I think there was more to it than that. I think she was desperate to know if her mother ever loved her—if she regretted giving her up. She wanted to know where she belonged, even if the family that should have welcomed her didn’t want her.”
“And she thought she belonged in Ayleswick?”
The older woman looked stricken. “I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“You never knew her family’s name?”
“No. But Rowena LaMont might. She always dealt with a firm of solicitors in Ludlow, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she learned the truth years ago.”
“The Ludlow solicitors also handled Emma’s inheritance?”
A frown line appeared between her brows. “How did you know about that?”
“Lord Seaton told me.”
“Ah.”
“You knew he was in love with her?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Was Emma Chandler in love with him?”
Jane Owens paused beside an old stone bridge that spanned the river. “I believe she was, yes. But . . .”
“But?” prompted Sebastian.
“She was . . . strange with him. I think she was afraid of being hurt.”
“Understandable, given his youth and the marked disparity in their ranks.”
“Yes. But I do believe he was sincere in his feelings for her.”
“Did he ask her to marry him?”
“He did ask her, yes.”
Sebastian thought about the anguished young man he’d first encountered on the church porch. So Seaton had asked Emma Chandler to marry him, yet somehow never managed to work up the courage to tell his mother he’d fallen in love. “And?”
“She told him he needed to give her time to think. I suspect it’s a part of what made her finally decide she wanted to know the truth about who she was. It was as if she couldn’t accept his offer until she knew.”
“She knew the name of the Ludlow solicitors?”
“She did, yes—from when she’d dealt with them over the inheritance. So she went there first.”
“When was this?”
“A month or so ago.”
Sebastian frowned. “Not a fortnight ago?”
“Oh, no, it’s been at least a month or more. I warned her they’d never tell her what she wanted to know, but somehow she managed to get it out of them. I fear she may have bribed one of the clerks.”
“Enterprising.”
“Oh, yes. Emma was an extraordinarily enterprising young woman. Once she determined she wanted to do something, she wasn’t one to let either her fears or societal expectations hold her back.”
“But she didn’t tell you what she’d discovered?”
Miss Owens pressed her templed hands against the lower part of her face. “No. Whatever it was obviously disturbed her. She was gone several days, and when she came back, she was very quiet and thoughtful. And then she left again.”
“When was this?”
“That she left again? A fortnight ago.”
“Did she tell you where she was going that time?”
“No. Although I gather it must have been Ayleswick?”
“Yes,” said Sebastian. Although she had stopped at Ludlow again on the way. She’d registered at the Feathers Inn as Mrs. Emma Chance and then set about assembling a wardrobe appropriate for a woman claiming to have been widowed some six months.
Miss Owens rested her outstretched palms on the top of one of the low stone walls edging the bridge and leaned into her arms. The air smelled of clean running water and blooming heather and sun-warmed earth, and she was silent for a moment, her gaze on the rippling waters flowing beneath them.
Then she looked over at him. “I don’t understand. Why would someone kill her? How could anyone do that? She was so full of life, so passionate, so brilliant and strong. She had her entire life ahead of her—so many dreams and plans, so much to give. And someone took it all away.”
Sebastian found it hard to meet the woman’s pain-filled gaze. “Is there nothing you can tell me—nothing at all—that might help make some sense of what happened to her?”
“No. I can’t think of anything.”
“Would you mind if I looked at her room?”
The request seemed to take her aback. Then she blew a harsh breath out through her nostrils and nodded. “No. I can see it must be done.”
“I would like your assistance.”
She nodded again and pushed away from the bridge.
Chapter 29
Emma Chandler’s chamber was one of two that lay at the top of the cottage’s steep oaken staircase. With whitewashed walls and dormer windows set into a sloping ceiling, it was a pleasant room, the view from the windows looking out across the tumbling river toward the Long Mynd. The furniture was sturdy and plain. But Emma had covered the walls with her own exquisite art. In addition to simple sketches, there were also watercolors and oils, with brooding views of the Long Mynd hanging beside thought-provoking, character-filled faces of the very old.
“She purchased a few items after she came into her inheritance,” said Miss Owens as Sebastian let his gaze drift around the room. “A silver brush and comb set, some new clothes, a trunk—and lots of art supplies, of course. But she was mainly focused on finding a house, something large enough that we could turn into a school. She wanted to stay in the area. It’s a good location for a school, halfway between Ludlow and Shrewsbury.”
“How much did she inherit? Do you know?”
“Ten thousand pounds.”
Sebastian turned to look at her in surprise. He’d been imagining a legacy of several hundred pounds, perhaps, at most. Ten thousand pounds was a substantial sum. “Who do
es she leave it to?”
Miss Owens gave him a blank look. “I’ve no idea. Why? Surely you don’t think her inheritance could be the reason she was killed?”
“It seems unlikely. But I don’t think we can discount it entirely.” He went to scan the titles of a row of books on a shelf mounted on the wall near the window. The volumes were simply bound but well-worn, and he noted works by Blake and Donne, Coleridge and Shakespeare. There was a copy of Hamlet, but when he took it down and turned to the last page, he found the last line intact.
“What are we looking for?” asked Jane Owens, watching him.
Sebastian slipped the book back in place. “Anything that might explain what happened to her.”
She nodded and went to open the top drawer of the small chest beside the bed.
They worked their way quietly around the room. It didn’t take long, for Emma Chandler’s possessions had been few, her habits neat and tidy. It wasn’t until he noticed a pencil sketch of Crispin Seaton tacked up near the window that something occurred to him.
“Did Lord Seaton ever write to Emma?” he asked.
Jane Owens glanced up from her search. “He did, yes. She received a letter from Windermere not long before she left.”
“Have you come across it?”
She shook her head. “No, I haven’t. You think that’s significant?”
“I don’t know.”
Jane Owens was searching a small cupboard built into the wall beside the fireplace when Sebastian noticed a strange charcoal drawing affixed to the inside of the cupboard door. A young girl of perhaps twelve or thirteen stood before a building engulfed by a raging fire, her dark hair loose and flying across her face as the fierce air currents driven by the flames whipped the hem of her dress around her. In her arms she held another child she’d obviously rescued from the fire. A child whose face, he suddenly realized, was identical to her own.
“Emma did that years ago,” said Miss Owens, following his gaze as she straightened. “I think she told me once that she was twelve.”
“It’s amazingly good.”
Jane Owens nodded. “You wouldn’t recognize it, but the burning house is Miss LaMont’s Academy.”
They stood in silence for a moment, studying the troubling and yet powerfully uplifting image.
“She’s rescuing herself,” Sebastian said after a moment.
“Yes. That was Emma.”
Jane Owens closed the cupboard door and leaned back against it. They had discovered nothing.
He said, “Do you know the name of the firm of solicitors in Ludlow?”
“No; I’m sorry. Rowena LaMont could tell you.” She hesitated, then pulled a face and added, “Although if you desire her cooperation, it might be best not to mention our meeting.”
“She didn’t approve of Emma’s decision to join you once she came of age?”
“Miss Lamont and I did not part under the most amiable of circumstances.”
Sebastian studied the schoolteacher’s pinched, tightly held face. “It was over Emma, was it?”
She hesitated, and he thought she meant to deny it. But then she nodded. “Fortunately, a cousin who’d died six months before had left me this cottage and some land I rent to a local farmer. So I had someplace to go. The worst part was leaving Emma.”
“When was this?”
“Two years ago. She asked if she could come to me when she turned twenty-one, and of course I said yes.”
“Did she know then about the inheritance?”
“She knew she would come into something, but she had no idea of the amount.”
“And Miss LaMont never said anything that might suggest who her family are?”
She frowned with thought. “I know Miss LaMont was extraordinarily impressed by them, whoever they are. Unfortunately, it somehow never translated into kindness to Emma. In fact, it was as if Rowena LaMont was determined to punish the child for the parents’ transgression. But she was always extraordinarily tight-lipped about their identity.”
Jane Owens was silent a moment. Then her eyes widened as if with a sudden thought. “Dear God. If that’s why Emma was in Ayleswick, could they have killed her? Her own family?”
Her gaze met Sebastian’s. He knew from the hopeful look in her eyes that she wanted him to tell her she was wrong.
Only, he couldn’t.
Chapter 30
Later that afternoon as the sunlight deepened to a rich golden hue and rooks swooped in to nest in the dense branches of the churchyard’s ancient elms and yews, Hero walked up the hill to Ayleswick’s sprawling vicarage and asked to see the Reverend’s wife.
“My dear Lady Devlin,” exclaimed Agnes Underwood some minutes later, hurrying into the parlor where Hero had been left waiting by the awestruck young housemaid. “My most sincere apologies for not coming sooner. But Bella—silly girl that she is—didn’t have the sense to interrupt when I was speaking to the butcher just now.”
“I do hope you didn’t break off your discussion with him on my account,” said Hero, gently disengaging her hands from Mrs. Underwood’s tenacious grip.
“Oh, it’s nothing, nothing, believe me. Please have a seat, Lady Devlin. I’ve already sent Bella for tea and cakes, so it shan’t be but a moment.” Her hostess settled on an uncomfortable-looking settee and clasped her hands in her lap. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Actually, I was hoping you could tell me more about the two young women who died in the village some ten or fifteen years ago.”
The smile slid off Agnes Underwood’s face. “The young women . . .” She pursed her lips and pulled her chin back against her neck like a turtle drawing into its shell. “Whatever for?”
“You said that at the time of their deaths it was believed the women committed suicide.”
The vicar’s wife clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth with disdain. “There is no greater sin against God than to take one’s own life.”
It was a sentiment that Hero had never been able to understand. How was it worse to take one’s own life than to steal the life of another? At least someone committing suicide had the permission of his or her victim. But she kept that thought to herself, saying simply, “Tell me about them.”
“Well . . . the first was Sybil Moss. Her father is a cottager on Lord Seaton’s estate. Quite the flighty little thing, she was. Beautiful, of course.” Agnes Underwood sniffed contemptuously. She was the kind of woman who considered beauty an outward sign of frivolity and actually saw her own plain features as a mark of her innate superiority. “Gave her notions far above her station, I’m afraid.”
“How old was she?”
“Fifteen or sixteen, I believe.”
“Was she seeing anyone in particular?”
“In particular?” Agnes huffed a scornful laugh. “As to that, I couldn’t say. But she certainly had half the men in the parish trotting after her like dogs after a bitch in heat. And not only the young ones, either, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh?” said Hero encouragingly.
The vicar’s wife leaned forward and dropped her voice. “It was quite the disgusting spectacle. Why, even Lord Seaton was falling all over himself, sniffing around the Moss cottage and—”
She broke off as the young housemaid, Bella, staggered in under a heavy silver tray loaded with teapot, cups and saucers, and plates of small cakes and biscuits.
Hero waited until the tea was poured and Mrs. Underwood passed her a cup before saying casually, “So why did Sybil kill herself?”
The vicar’s wife looked up from stirring her own tea, one arched eyebrow cocked. “Why do you think? Got herself in the family way, of course.”
“And she killed herself over it?” said Hero incredulously. An unmarried gentlewoman who found herself with child faced endless shame and social ruin, while for a housemaid it
could mean instant dismissal followed either by a descent into prostitution or slow starvation and a wretched death. But the consequences were typically not so dire for a simple cottager’s daughter. “Did her father turn her out the house?”
Agnes Underwood shrugged. “Who knows? One assumes so. I mean, why else would she throw herself off the cliffs of Northcott Gorge?”
“There was never any suggestion at the time that someone might have pushed her?”
“Good heavens, no. What makes you ask such a thing?”
“It is possible, isn’t it?”
“No. I mean, who would want to push her?”
“The man who got her with child, perhaps?”
Agnes Underwood fingered her teacup, her features pinched and twitching with the turbulence of her thoughts. But she remained silent.
Hero said, “Nothing came out at the inquest?”
“Of course not. The verdict was felo-de-se, although the Reverend was able to argue successfully that the girl wasn’t in her right mind when she committed the act. He’s very compassionate, you know—some might say too much so. If you ask me, she should have been buried at the crossroads, naked and with a stake driven through her heart. Wicked, wicked thing.”
It was with effort that Hero kept the distaste provoked by her hostess’s remarks off her face. “And the other girl?”
“That was the blacksmith’s daughter, Hannah. Hannah Grant. Drowned herself in the millpond, she did.”
“Was she likewise with child?”
“I assume so.”
“Surely there was an autopsy?”
“No. There was no need. It was quite obvious that the silly girl had drowned, so why waste parish funds? The old Squire was very careful about such things. Parish rates are quite high enough already.”
“So it is possible she could have been murdered as well.”
Agnes Underwood gave another of those humorless laughs. “Dear Lady Devlin, what a thing to suggest.”
“If she wasn’t known to be with child, then why was she thought to have killed herself?”
