But then why had rocks been laid across the dress? Someone had tried to hide the dress, of that she felt certain.
Standing up, Lucy held the garment against herself. It did not quite reach the tops of her boots, suggesting it had been hemmed for a woman of smaller stature than herself. This was surprising, because the woman, asleep beside her, seemed a good inch taller. Perhaps the dress did not belong to the woman after all.
Lucy frowned. The woman had all but acknowledged the dress belonged to her. Had she borrowed it from someone shorter than herself? Or, perhaps, someone unfamiliar with her size had given it to her. Maybe she had even stolen it from someone. Who knew? Everything about the woman was a mystery. Lucy shook the dress impatiently.
Sitting back down, she examined the hem of the skirt. To her surprise, a portion of the hem looked inexpertly crafted, with many thread loops showing. She pulled a candle closer to examine the loops of knotted thread more carefully. The thread was a thicker yarn, and it had not been dyed to match.
Feeling the hemmed cloth closely, Lucy felt something hard underneath. Inserting a fingernail carefully under one of the loops to make a small hole, she withdrew a coin from the hem, which gleamed dully in the low light of the room. Out of habit, she bit the coin. Gold.
Feeling more lumps, she continued to pull at the other threads, revealing coin after coin, until finally there was a stack of fifteen coins in all. All gold. A veritable fortune.
Hearing the woman stir, Lucy swept the coins and the dress back into her pack, questions swirling in her mind. Where had the woman been going? Why did she have a fortune sewn into her dress?
* * *
Throughout the night Lucy found herself staring at the woman. Her slumbers were quite deep now, and she was not snorting and grunting as she had the night before.
Who are you? Erica Nabur? Octavia Belasysse?
And what did that man want with you?
Finally, when it became obvious to Lucy that sleep would remain elusive, she decided to write down the woman’s story for Master Aubrey. She pulled out a few sheets of paper from her pack and sat at the small table, one of the few other pieces of furniture in the room.
Lucy began to write in her painstaking way, her fingers clutched inelegantly about her quill pen. The pen had been a gift from Adam, and for a moment she stared at it, thinking of the sadness she had sensed in his gaze when he had given it to her. Three years ago, when she had first begun to serve as a chambermaid in Master Hargrave’s household, when she had so admired Adam from afar, she never would have dreamed that he would one day come to love her as well. He had always been too honorable to take her as his lover, as other men in his position might have done. Yet sometimes it was hard to imagine a real life with him. That world of gentry belonged to the people she served.
With a sigh, she turned her attention back to the tract. A Tale Most Strange, of a Woman Found near Holborn Bridge, she had begun to write, thinking the title might interest Master Aubrey. For a long while, she stared at the page, the candle on her table burning down. She knew from the notches the candle-maker had cut into the tallow that nearly an hour had passed.
Upon rereading her words, she knew the next lines should describe the woman’s circumstances. Covered with blood, witless and unsure of her surroundings. Or even better, speak of how the woman had been be-deviled and removed of her senses.
Or should it be be-witched? Lucy held the Daimonomageia close to the candle, idly reading through the descriptions again. Such curious explanations they were.
Then she scratched out everything she had just written. Truth be told, she felt a bit ashamed writing about the woman in this way. Even if she were to sign herself as Anonymous, as she had done before, it was hard not to feel a pang, knowing the suffering and misery the woman had experienced. To call her a demon felt unjust, and she knew Dr. Larimer would not be very happy. Of course, on the other hand, if she were to write about the woman, her family might be alerted to her presence, and they might be reunited.
It was this thought she was pondering when Lucy blew out her candle and laid her head down on the table, where she finally drifted off to sleep.
10
A rapid knocking at her bedchamber door woke Lucy the next morning. Although it seemed only a few minutes had passed, Lucy could tell by the light coming through the partially opened shutters that it was far later in the morning than she usually arose.
Before she could even respond, Molly had flung the door open and stood staring at her, taking in her rumpled dress. “You are awake? Why did you not answer when I knocked?”
Lucy looked down at herself, still confused. During the night she must have moved over to the bed, but never bothered to remove her gown. Now she was glad that she was not in her nightdress. She would not like to have looked lazy or indolent to the servant. “What is it?” Lucy asked, smoothing some wayward hairs behind her ear.
“If you please, miss, there are visitors for her.” She nodded at the woman’s bedchamber door. “The master bid me to tell you to come at once.”
“Visitors? Who?” Lucy asked.
Just then, the door between the chambers was flung open. Molly gave a short squeak of surprise and fright, crossing herself in the old way. The ancient sign against deviltry and witchcraft lived on, emerging in times of terror and anxiety, even though England was no longer a papist nation.
For the woman was standing there, her hair streaming wildly about her body, and her eyes once again with that horrible stricken look. “Who is here for me?” she asked.
“I dunno, miss,” Molly said, backing out of the room.
The woman turned to Lucy, clutching at her arm. “What if it is that man again, trying to take me away with him?”
“Then Dr. Larimer will jump on him, Mr. Sheridan will sit on his legs, and Molly will run for the constable,” Lucy said, far more brightly than she felt. “And you will be quite safe. I promise you.”
They could hear loud voices from below. “For now, let me help you freshen up,” Lucy said. With quick fingers, she redid the woman’s hair so that it looked more presentable. Rather than the low loose bun that she herself wore, Lucy pinned the woman’s hair a bit higher on her head, styling it more in the manner of a gentlewoman. The woman kept her eyes closed, averted from the mirror even though it was still covered.
Opening the wardrobe, Lucy brought over a taupe and green morning gown. “Mistress Larimer left you this. Pray, let us be quick.”
After she had been buttoned into the simple but stylish gown, she turned to Lucy. “Am I fair?” she asked.
“Quite fair,” Lucy replied, marveling at the transformation. There was nothing of the wild woman she had just seen. “Like a lady.”
Indeed, with the fine dress, the woman had seemed to naturally stretch out her long swanlike neck and slim arms, taking on a finer form altogether. Something in her manner changed as well, and her prior nervousness gave way to a new haughtiness. She tucked her amulet out of sight. “Lead the way, Lucy. If you would.”
When they reached the drawing room, the woman stood in front of the closed door for a moment. They could hear several voices talking at once. The woman took a deep breath and nodded to Lucy. Understanding what she wanted, Lucy opened the door with a grand flourish as she might have done back in the days when nobles would on occasion visit the magistrate’s household.
The woman pushed past Lucy, and as she entered, there were several shocked cries from around the room.
“Octavia!”
“Daughter!”
Three strangers—one older man and two women—were standing there in the middle of the room, varying expressions of shock on their faces. The two physicians and Mrs. Larimer were off to one side, looking similarly bemused. Another woman, dressed in the subdued tones of a lady’s maid, was standing beside them.
For a moment, after the initial flurry, everyone stood silent, staring at each other. The older of the two women—elegantly turned out, with graying blond
hair—finally regained her senses. “Daughter,” she said at last, swallowing. “You are alive. How can this be?”
“Yes, Octavia, how can this be?” the younger woman echoed. “We had a funeral for you!”
“I knew it!” Mr. Sheridan exclaimed from the side of the room, thumping on the table in triumph. “I was convinced it was you, Octavia! Octavia Belasysse, that is who you are. I knew it all along!”
Dr. Larimer put up his hand. “Let us proceed in a more thoughtful fashion.” He turned to the older woman. “Can you confirm then, Lady Belasysse, that this woman is Octavia Belasysse? Your daughter?”
Lady Belasysse nodded tightly but did not speak. The man, with a great shake of his white hair, began to talk. “Yes, without a doubt, this woman is Octavia Belasysse. My name is Harlan Boteler, and this woman you have been tending to is my niece—the younger child of my only sister, Jane.” He gestured to Lady Belasysse, before pointing to the younger woman. “This is Susan Belasysse, Octavia’s sister-in-law.”
Lucy looked at Susan Belasysse more closely. This was the wife of Henry Belasysse. Her features were not refined in the way of the aristocrats, but rather more bulbous and fleshy. The young woman had pasted two small black patches on her cheek, one by her lip and the other below her right eye, coy bits of spotting that noblewomen had adopted from the French. Lucy remembered what the tract had said of this woman: Though of a very small proportion of beauty, she is said to have much life and vivacity and will soon do her duty by producing an heir. Right now, she looked more anxious than lively.
Dr. Larimer nodded, turning back to his patient. “Can you confirm this?”
“Yes, it is I. Octavia Belasysse,” the woman whispered. Her voice was full of wonder and something else. Fear?
Lucy frowned. Up until this moment the woman had claimed she had no memory of her identity. She crossed her arms.
Catching Lucy’s impatient gesture, the woman—Miss Belasysse—gulped. “It all just came back to me now. Upon seeing my mother.” She looked at the younger woman, who was still gaping at her, as if seeing a specter. “Susan. My brother Henry’s wife,” Miss Belasysse whispered. To Lucy’s surprise, she added, “I can recall your wedding. You had flowers in your hair.” Tears began to slip down her cheeks. “Like a child, you were.”
“Yes, I had flowers in my hair,” Susan Belasysse replied, sounding a bit stilted. She seemed about to say something else, but after Harlan Boteler laid a warning hand on her arm, she fell silent.
Miss Belasysse’s eyes fell on the more drably dressed woman in the corner. “Hetty, I remember you. My mother’s lady’s maid.”
The woman identified as Hetty bobbed her head but did not speak.
“Well, is this not pleasant?” Mrs. Larimer said, with a nervous little titter. “So wonderful to be reunited again.” Her voice trailed off as everyone ignored her.
At last, after an uncomfortable silence, Harlan Boteler stepped forward and kissed Octavia on the cheek. “Niece. I am glad to see that you are well.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” Miss Belasysse replied. Though she allowed him to embrace her, she remained stiff and unyielding.
“Let us get to the heart of the matter,” Lady Belasysse said, folding her arms. “Your uncle Harlan told us you had passed, but clearly that is not so.” She gave her brother a baleful look. “I was certain that the woman we would meet here would be an impostor. And yet here you are, alive. How can you explain this most outrageous fact?”
“I do not know!” Miss Belasysse replied, pressing her hand to her head.
Seeing Octavia Belasysse was starting to sway, Lucy went over to her. Taking her elbow, she murmured, “Let us sit down.”
“Let us all sit down and have a restorative,” Dr. Larimer said.
Mrs. Larimer nodded at Lucy, clearly trying to regain her role as hostess in this odd scene. “If you would, Lucy.”
Lucy began to pass out pewter cups and pour out some red wine that the physician kept inside a small cabinet. An uncomfortable silence again fell over them. Lady Belasysse’s eyes had narrowed as she stared at her daughter, in what looked to be more anger than joy. She clutched the cup tightly in her hand, but she did not take a sip.
“Daughter,” she said again, through clenched teeth. “I demand that you cease this tomfoolery at once and tell us where you have been these last ten months.” Her tone grew harder. “Do not tell me again that you do not remember.”
Octavia Belasysse looked stricken, and her eyes filled with tears. “Mother,” she said. “Oh, Mother!” Then she buried her face in her hands.
“Daughter!” Lady Belasysse said again, in an even colder tone. “Desist with that unseemly caterwauling. Tell us at once where you have been.”
“Mother, I am not lying. Pray, do not ask me to remember! I know something terrible happened to me!” Miss Belasysse gestured at her bandaged wrists and then toward Dr. Larimer in despair. “I can remember you and things from long ago, but I do not remember where I have been this last year. I swear that to be true.”
Fortunately, Dr. Larimer intervened with a bit of an explanation. “As I believe my fellow physician warned you in the letter he sent, your daughter has not been well. She has been afflicted with a condition—”
“The falling sickness,” her mother interrupted, a bit impatiently. “Certainly we are well aware of her affliction. The spells she suffered made her forgetful as a child, that is true. But never did she lose her memory to such a great extent as you described in your letters.” Here she glared at Mr. Sheridan. “Do not ask me to believe that the last ten months have been wiped clean?”
“It is quite true, I can assure you,” Mr. Sheridan said. He seemed outraged by the insinuation. “Why would she have withheld the truth from me? I am, after all, a longtime friend of her brother’s.”
“Yes, I remember you, Mr. Sheridan,” Lady Belasysse said. “Do not suppose that I have suffered from loss of memory myself.”
Mr. Sheridan opened his mouth but then closed it again, as if thinking better of what he was about to say.
Taking advantage of the silence, Lucy spoke quickly. “I do beg your pardon,” she said. “Lady Belasysse, if I may. You asked where your daughter was these past ten months. Could you tell us where you saw her last? Help us to understand why you believed her to be dead?”
Lady Belasysse coldly surveyed Lucy, taking in her cap that was likely askew, her rumpled dress, and her shoes, still caked with mud and ashes from yesterday’s trek through the ruins. “Who might you be?” she asked. And why do you presume to speak to me? Lucy could almost hear her add.
“I have been tending to your daughter these last few days,” Lucy replied evenly.
“And a marvelous job she has been doing, too,” Dr. Larimer said.
Lady Belasysse inclined her head. “I thank you.”
“Let us return, then, to the matter at hand. Lucy’s question is a good one,” Dr. Larimer said. “I must understand the fallacy concerning this woman’s death. You held a funeral for her, for God’s sake. Pray, do explain how this strange miscommunication came about.”
Here, Lady Belasysse gave her brother an affronted look. “Harlan,” she said, “I imagine you could explain this ‘strange miscommunication.’ I am quite hard-pressed to understand it myself.” Her voice rose slightly. “You informed me that my daughter had died in the last bit of sickness that had come from the plague! That you had looked upon her body before she was buried. You seemed so assured of her death, I should like to know how such an odd thing came about.”
They all turned expectantly to Harlan Boteler, who coughed. “About ten months ago, at the request of her father, Sir John Belasysse, I chaperoned Octavia to London from the family home in Lincolnshire. He wanted to see his daughter before he returned to his post in Tangier.”
“I did not wish her to travel to London,” Lady Belasysse explained, with an appealing look to Mrs. Larimer, who nodded in motherly understanding. “I was concerned that her health was worse
ning and that she might injure herself during one of her fits.”
Lucy nodded, too, having seen Miss Belasysse’s fits for herself. The way she thrashed and flailed about, and became so confused after every fit, it was no wonder that a mother might be worried.
“Yet you allowed me to travel to London anyway,” Octavia said pointedly.
Lady Belasysse pursed her lips but did not speak.
Her uncle shrugged. “It was important to your father that he see you before he left for Tangier.”
Octavia crossed her arms. “And where is my father now? Why did he not join you?”
“He returned to his post a short while ago,” Lady Belasysse replied, frowning slightly at her daughter. “Naturally, we will send him word. I did not like to raise his hopes until I had laid eyes on you myself.” She turned back to her brother. “Harlan, if you would continue? I still do not understand the source of this confusion.”
Harlan glanced at his nephew’s wife. “Susan accompanied us as well, with the thought that she would join up with her husband, Henry, at the family’s London residence. Hetty here came along, too, to look after the ladies’ needs.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “We did not realize then that Octavia’s condition had progressed so rapidly. She frequently wandered off, in one of her confused states.”
He touched his sister’s arm. “My dear, I am rather afraid to say that your concern was foremost in my thoughts. When she disappeared, I thought you had foretold the worst.”
“How did her disappearance come about?” Mr. Sheridan demanded. “We still have yet to hear a clear explanation.”
“Yes, do tell,” Miss Belasysse added, with a funny twist of her lips that wasn’t quite a smile. Lucy gave her a quick glance. Did she remember something more than she was letting on?
Susan Belasysse jumped in then. “We three had been invited to dine at the Lord Mayor’s house. However, an hour before a carriage was to pick us up, my dearest sister-in-law informed Hetty that she was planning to take a short walk, just down the street. Naturally, we thought nothing of it, for Hetty was still attending to me. When she did not return, we grew worried.” She glanced at Mr. Boteler.
A Death Along the River Fleet Page 10
