Cursed Once More: The Sequel to With This Curse
Page 19
I myself searched until I could no longer stand. When reminded to eat, I tried to do so; I needed my strength, as did the child growing inside me, but I felt too nauseated to eat much. Each bite also reminded me that Atticus might be starving somewhere, trapped or injured, and the thought robbed me of what little appetite I had. I subsisted largely on quantities of strong tea. When told to sleep, I lay down for a time, but I never felt refreshed. One day I emerged from a reverie to find Ann standing behind me working at my corset laces, and I did not know if she was dressing or undressing me, so detached was I from the usual rhythms of daily life.
Thurnley Hall itself came to take on an ominous aspect to me. Until now, if I had sometimes found my surroundings gloomy and timeworn, they nevertheless had held no actual menace. Now that it was the site of my husband’s disappearance and possibly worse, the house’s dark-paneled rooms and shadowy corridors held a sinister aspect. In every corner where darkness pooled I saw a malignant intelligence mocking me with its mysteries. It refused to give up its secrets, so they came to multiply and prey on my mind. The sad little drawing room with its ruined beauty whispered of moldering decay. The echoes of my footsteps through the vast stone vault of the great hall were like malevolent followers hovering just out of sight. At night, when the wan light of candles and lamps made the shadows dart and flicker at the corners of my eyes, I could almost imagine the darkness like a physical presence, a greasy fog that would smear my eyes blind and pour into my lungs until I choked.
I knew that my fancies were born of worry and exhaustion, but that knowledge did not banish them. Lying alone in bed at night, enclosed by the heavy curtains, I recalled how this had once been a cocoon of safety, but without Atticus it was desolate and barren. Lacking the warmth of his presence, it was as cold and comfortless as a bed of thorns on the bleak and windswept moor.
The moor had not escaped our search during this time. Just as men walked in rows through the overgrown meadows seeking a fallen form among the high grasses, so did they tread the slopes with an eye to the tangled growth of heather and gorse and bracken, climbing to rocky promontories and sifting the bushes beneath the cliffs. Many days of wind and rain had stripped the purple blossom, and the once-beautiful vista now seemed blighted and bereft of life. I even went to explore the long-abandoned lead mine on the property, in case Atticus had somehow stumbled into the trench that led to the low, arched opening.
Staring into the stone-lined archway, where I needed a lantern to supplement the thin gray daylight that penetrated only partially into the gloom, I felt my familiar nightmare rush to mind with smothering force. The dread of being trapped underground, of being surrounded on all sides by stone and darkness, made me shut my eyes for a moment and swallow hard, fighting dizziness.
“You needn’t go inside,” came the gentle voice of Mr. Lynch beside me. He had led me here at my insistence, and he stood ready with his own safety lantern. “Why don’t you wait here in the open air?”
I shook my head vigorously, as much to dislodge the nightmare vision from my head as to answer his query. “I must see for myself,” I said, as I had so many times in the past few days. I did not trust any other eyes to be as watchful for Atticus as my own, nor any ears but mine to be so sensitive to the sound of his voice.
As I descended into the trench, my foot dislodged a pebble, and the sound it made as it skittered down the path was so like my nightmare that I had to pause for a moment. This is not your dream, I told myself firmly, and stooped to enter the mine.
To my surprise, there was very little to see. The passage was a few feet wide and led over uneven, rocky ground to a wall where there must have once been a passage leading deeper underground. The opening was quite blocked by stones large and small, packed in tightly to completely seal it off. In the spirit of experiment I set my safety lantern down and tried to tug one of the rocks loose. It might have been set in cement, so firmly was it seated. When I cast the lantern’s light directly on them I could see from the lichen and discoloration of the rocks that they must have gone undisturbed for many years. Clearly no one could have entered here.
“I am sorry to have wasted your time here,” Mr. Lynch said when he joined me. “Old Fowler said that we’d be unlikely to find anything, but I was skeptical.”
“It wasn’t a waste to be able to rule it out,” I said. What was more, it was heartening to learn that for my husband’s sake I could conquer my fears and venture into the landscape of my nightmares.
Indeed, I needed every scrap of encouragement I could glean in these dark days. A telegram from Gravesend had related that Henriette’s illness had spread to nearly the entire household, so the doctor had placed the house under quarantine and no one could come to our aid. No police had arrived; instead we received telegrams regretting their inability to spare men to assist us or promising to send aid when they could. Nor had George and Vivi responded. And as each day had ruled out more places where Atticus might be concealed, the process of elimination felt less reassuring. This latest failure brought home to me that if we did not find signs of him in any of the logical or nearby places, that opened up a dizzying number of possibilities—indeed, endless prospects. How could we comb them all? Each day that passed, moreover, made it less likely that we would find him whole and safe. Sometimes I felt that every minute that ticked by was a malicious conspirator against his welfare.
Startling me out of my gloomy thoughts came a shrill cry. It halted Mr. Lynch, who gripped my arm to draw me to a stop. “Did you hear that?” he exclaimed.
“It sounds like it came from the Hall,” I said.
The cry came again, louder. It sounded like a child screaming out in pain—or fear. “Wait here,” he said, and set out at a run down the path toward the house.
Disregarding his command, I picked up my skirts and ran after him. Even though the voice had not belonged to Atticus, I needed to know what had happened.
I soon lost sight of Mr. Lynch for, weakened as I was by days of little rest or nourishment, I found my pace flagging all too quickly. As I neared the house, the child’s screams were renewed, and I dreaded what I might see.
Some of the searchers were gathering near the ruined wing, I saw, where high on the wreckage a boy of perhaps six years old was awkwardly sprawled. One leg seemed to be trapped amid the rubble, and Mr. Lynch was straining at a great chunk of masonry that must have been the cause of the child’s distress.
“Fowler, hand me up a crowbar, a hammer—something to use as a lever!”
“I’ll help thee,” the older man offered, but Mr. Lynch’s usually mild dark eyes flashed with anger.
“That just increases the danger, don’t you see? If any more of these great blocks of stone are dislodged…”
He did not complete the thought but seized the pickaxe that another man handed up. “You must be very brave,” Mr. Lynch told the boy, whose face had gone the color of paper. “The moment you feel the weight lift off your leg, you must draw away as swiftly as lightning. Can you do that?”
The boy gulped and nodded. My heart constricted in my breast to see the resolve in his round, sunburned face.
“Ready yourself,” Mr. Lynch told him. Then he inserted the point of the pickaxe beneath the block of stone and levered it up a few inches.
The boy scrambled back, his hands clutching at the rubble for purchase, and a warning shout came from below as another block was dislodged and tumbled downward. Old Fowler reached up quickly to seize the child’s arm and draw him to safety, and Mr. Lynch leapt to the ground. But the feared avalanche did not occur, and the gathered men visibly relaxed.
I darted over to the boy. His trouser leg was torn and bloody near the ankle, which was badly scraped and beginning to swell. I caught sight of my uncle among those gathered, and told him, “Summon Mrs. Furness to tend to the boy,” as I crouched down to blot the boy’s tear-stained face with my handkerchief.
“I’ll carry him inside,” Mr. Lynch said. “It will be quicker.”
“Sir, perhaps you’d better carry the little fellow,” Mr. Lynch said quietly to his guardian, who hesitated but bent down to pick up the little boy, who willingly threw his arms around my uncle’s neck. Rather awkwardly, my uncle hoisted him into his arms and started for the house. I started after them at once, but Mr. Lynch, mindful of his effect on the child, followed a few paces behind. I threw him an apologetic look, which was answered with a resigned smile. It was horribly unfair that his good deed should matter less to the boy he had rescued than his appearance.
“What is your name?” I asked the boy as I walked alongside.
“Ben, miss.”
“‘My lady,’” my uncle corrected.
“My lady, then.” The child seemed to be recovering quickly, to judge by his matter-of-fact responses. “My father’s the smith.”
“What were you doing in the ruined part of the Hall? Didn’t you know it’s dangerous?”
“They said I could earn thruppence by lookin’ for the gentleman what’s gone missin’.”
Horrified, I turned on my uncle. “You encouraged children to comb through the ruin?”
He put out a hand placatingly, but the child began to slip from his grasp, so he hastily withdrew it. “I understand your concern, but you will recall that we discussed the very real possibility that your husband might be trapped in the rubble. This very incident shows how easily it might have happened. And children can walk atop the wreckage with less likelihood of dislodging it.”
“It stops now.” I knew that, just as with every other likely location, searchers had visited the ruined wing at least once every day. But I had not known that those searchers included children. “If—if Atticus had been trapped among the wreckage, someone would have heard him calling for help sometime in the past few days,” I forced myself to say. “We can’t risk anyone else injuring themselves like Ben.”
“What about my thruppence?” Ben piped.
“You’ll have it, as well as something to eat, if you let Mrs. Furness see to your leg,” I told him. “And I’ll sew up the tear in your trousers.”
The housekeeper clucked over the lad but assured him that his ankle would be fine. When I related what had happened, she shook her head rebukingly at the boy.
“There was no need to be frightened of Mr. Lynch’s hunch,” she told him. “Having a bent back does not make him a bad man.”
Ben looked at the floor. “It isn’t his hunch that frightens me,” he mumbled.
He might have said more, but Mrs. Furness produced half a meat pasty for him, and he was far more interested in eating than in talking. I set about mending his trousers while the housekeeper tended to his injury, and soon the lad was ready, even eager, to leave.
I was on the point of departing myself when I remembered to ask Mrs. Furness if there had been any letters for me. There was the tiniest of pauses before her response of “No, my lady.”
This made me pensive, and I continued to mull on it when I had retired to my room. The fact that I had not received a proper answer to any of my letters had begun to prey upon my mind. What if letters were being kept from me? It was possible that my mail was being detained, even if it was only to protect me from knowledge that might distress me… but it was more likely that my uncle was acting out of self-protection. Perhaps my own letters were not reaching their intended recipients.
The thought restored to me something of my former vigor, and I resolved to get to the bottom of the matter. The solution to this mystery, at least, might lie within my grasp. Swiftly I wrote another letter to George and Vivi. Then I rang for Ann.
“Please see that this goes out with the next post,” I said. “It is urgent.”
Her eyes were downcast, so I could not read her expression when she replied, “Yes, my lady.”
It was impossible to know whether her demeanor was guilt, fear, or simply her usual shyness. I suppressed an impatient sigh and dismissed her. Then, after waiting what I judged would be a sufficient interval, I opened my door quietly. She was not in sight, but I guessed that she would make at once for the servants’ quarters downstairs, and I darted down the hallway in that direction, moving as silently as I could.
I was just in time to catch sight of her skirt vanishing down the stair. I crept after her as far as I dared go for fear of being seen and halted on the staircase, listening with all my might.
Ann’s soft voice barely reached my ears, too low for me to understand the words. But Mrs. Furness’s reply came clearly. “Thank you, Ann. I’ll see to Lady Telford’s letter.”
Brisk footsteps approached the stair, and I scampered up the steps and slipped around the corner, hoping the housekeeper would not choose the direction in which I had gone. Of course there was no reason to fear being discovered, I told myself. What could she do besides tell my uncle that I had taken to prowling about the servants’ quarters? Nonetheless I breathed a silent sigh of relief when I heard her footsteps recede in the opposite direction. My chance of learning anything useful would be ruined if anyone realized that I was spying on the household staff.
Stealthily I left my hiding place and peered around the corner. Mrs. Furness was just in the act of knocking at a door. The voice that bade her enter was muffled, but I knew it was my uncle’s.
No longer making any attempt at stealth, I strode down the hall and was in time to enter my uncle’s study practically upon the woman’s heels. She gave a start when I said firmly, “Mrs. Furness, my letter, if you please.”
A flush crept into her round cheeks as she reached into her apron pocket and produced the letter I had written so short a time ago. “I’m sorry, my lady,” she said.
“There’s no need for you to apologize,” I said, giving my uncle a hard look. “I’m sure you were just following orders.”
My uncle rose from behind his desk. “See here, my girl, I won’t have you throwing accusations around,” he huffed.
“To my knowledge I have not yet thrown a single one, but I am on the very cusp of hurling a number of them,” I said coolly. “Do you wish for Mrs. Furness to be present for this?”
My uncle gave me a hard look. Then he jerked his head at the housekeeper in a silent command. She withdrew without another word, and my uncle and I stared each other down.
He was the first to give in. “Very well, I’ve your precious letters,” he snapped. Striding back to his desk, he jerked a drawer open. “Take ’em all if you wish.”
Peering into the drawer, I was shocked by what I saw: a stack of correspondence too substantial to be merely from a few days. When I picked through them, I saw that these were all the letters that both Atticus and I had written since our first arrival at Thurnley Hall. “The seals aren’t broken,” I said, all the more mystified. “Why steal them if you weren’t going to read them?”
His head rocked back as if he had smelled something foul. “I’m not a complete blackguard, whatever else I may be,” he exclaimed. “I’d never do something as dishonorable as read your private letters.”
A strange desire to laugh came to me. My uncle was offended at the idea that he might read my letters, when I suspected him of an infinitely worse crime. But at once the impulse died. My suspicion was too horrible to be laughed at.
“You have cut off all my communication beyond this house,” I said, noting letters and telegrams addressed to Atticus and me as well. “It’s a wonder that our friends have not been more alarmed at not having heard from us.”
“I wired your friends in your names,” he admitted. “I said you had decided to travel to Switzerland to visit a charitable institution there.”
“I can only imagine that you must have sent telegrams to retract all of Mr. Lynch’s r
equests for assistance also. The wires saying help was delayed or unavailable must have been your work as well. What can I possibly think except that you have contrived to abduct my husband, and now you are making every effort to cover your tracks?”
He drew himself up as if I had touched his pride again. “I should say not. I had nothing to do with the baron’s disappearance.”
“Then why are you acting like a guilty man?” I demanded. “Why do you not permit me to ask our friends for help? I cannot believe that you are guiltless. My husband clearly discovered something that you could not permit him to make known to the world. You needed to silence him.” I held onto the edge of the desk to steady myself. “Did you kill Atticus? Or did you have him killed?”
He put a hand to his brow and rubbed it hard. “I had nothing to do with your husband’s disappearance,” he repeated. “I’ve no idea where he is.”
He might have been telling the truth, but I knew now that he would split hairs to disavow anything unsavory if he could. I must pay close attention to his choice of words. “You did not say that you don’t know what might have happened to him,” I pointed out.
That seemed to dissolve the last ounce of strength remaining to him. He sank into his chair and buried his head in his hands. “The danger was there,” he said, his voice muffled. “I saw it and I didn’t act. But there is still time for you.” He raised his face to me, and I was startled by the resolve in his bloodshot eyes. “You must leave immediately,” he said.
“What is it you fear for me?” I asked warily.
“Don’t you see? Grigore went missing before the baron did. We know the fool was terrified of your husband, with a superstitious fear beyond all reason. Isn’t it obvious why we haven’t found Lord Telford? Be honest, my girl. Haven’t you known in your heart all along that Grigore must have killed him?”
I lowered myself into a chair. Hearing the words left me more shaken than I would have thought possible. “We… we would have found him.” My lips were dry. “We would have found them.”