by Darcy Burke
CHAPTER TWELVE
The following evening, Violet rejoined Cook, Mrs. Tumsen and Mr. Roper for another night of card-playing. Although the trio was full of good humor—Mrs. Tumsen was in particularly rare form, since she had spent the afternoon “visiting Ginny”—Violet’s heart was not in the game. Long before midnight, she excused herself and rose to leave. She was almost to the door when the sound of a scraping chair gave her pause.
“Wait, dear, I nearly forgot!” Mrs. Tumsen called out. She fished a small parcel from inside a cloak pocket and hurried to Violet’s side.
As she pressed a small stack of twine-bound missives into Violet’s palm, Mrs. Tumsen’s bloodshot eyes were oddly serious. “It’s yer ... correspondence, miss. Also something else in there ye really oughta see.” Her voice dropped, and her next whiskey-spiced words were faint against Violet’s ear. “I can mind a secret if ye need me to, dear. All of us can.”
Frowning, Violet gave her a quick nod and escaped from the room with her heart beating unaccountably fast. Had Mrs. Tumsen read her petitions? There was nothing to be learned except that she was in the market for a barrister, which Violet had already confided in order to obtain the list of directions in the first place. She had been purposefully vague. So what on earth was Mrs. Tumsen referring to? Had it just been the whiskey talking?
Violet was concentrating so closely on picking apart the knot binding the folded missives together that she nearly bowled over Mr. Waldegrave as he emerged from the catacomb tunnels.
“My apologies,” she stammered in embarrassment. “I didn’t see you there. I was just ... How is Lily?”
“Asleep, thankfully. Gave me plenty of time to study this delightful little read.” He indicated a heavy tome trapped beneath his arm. “And you? How was your evening?”
She tightened her grip on the small stack of folded parchment. “Lovely, thank you.”
“It’s actually good that we ran into each other. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
“Have you?” she asked doubtfully.
“I—” He stared at her for a moment then let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “I deserved that, I suppose. You’re right. I have been distant. Not because I wish to avoid you, understand. Quite the opposite. But I’m trying very hard to be a good ... employer.”
“I know.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “That is who you are. You strive to be a good employer, a good man, a good father—”
“Precisely,” he interrupted vaguely, as if he hadn’t been attending her words. “Which is what I wished to discuss. Do you recall me mentioning having invited the greatest minds in Britain to convene here at Waldegrave Abbey to pursue a cure for acute sunsickness?”
“Oh.” She forced a smile. “Of course.”
What had she expected? That he desired her presence for something other than the improvement of his daughter’s environs?
Even if he were not trying so desperately to be a good man and a good father and a good employer, the chasm between them was separated by more than mere class differences. He required goodness from himself because what he expected from others was nothing short of perfection. He would expect even more from a woman like her. No one would ever take the place of his long-dead angel of a wife, and no imperfect scrap of a girl could ever be good enough for his daughter.
She continued to be amazed every morning she awoke beneath a velvet tester and every month when heavy coins were pressed into her palm. She had no illusions about the impermanence of her stay here at Waldegrave Abbey. Even if she did manage to clear her name, she would never be good enough for him. Even though her foolish heart still longed to try.
“Prepare any questions you might have. The retreat will be upon us before we know.” His voice rang oddly loud among the awkward silence that ensued. “I suppose I ought to get back to my studies. I see you’ve reading material of your own to attend to.”
“What? Yes. These are ... letters.” She flipped open the only sheet not sealed tight with wax, intending to feign some friend or relation had penned amusing anecdotes or inquired about her health.
“So I see. I shall leave you to them. Good night, Miss Smythe.”
But Violet barely heard him. Her veins thrummed with fear. Her shaking fingers were almost too clammy to keep hold of the parchment trembling in her hand.
This was not a response from a London barrister. This was a large, hand-inked Wanted bill, with her wild-eyed likeness staring out from dead center.
Her skin suddenly icy, she stumbled backward against the wall and tried desperately not to panic.
How could she not panic? “WANTED FOR MURDER” screamed right across the top, followed by “VIOLET WHITECHAPEL” and “DANGEROUS FELON—£100 FOR WHEREABOUTS OR CAPTURE.”
She had to get out of here. She had to get out of here now.
No—no, no, no. She couldn’t go anywhere. Not one step. If Mrs. Tumsen had picked this up right here in Shrewsbury, it meant Violet couldn’t so much as peek outside the abbey without risking discovery and capture.
It also meant the Livingstone estate was leaving no stone unturned in all of Britain. She might have left the evil Percy Livingstone for dead, but that hardly meant he wouldn’t have a passel of equally villainous cousins to seek their revenge on a runaway art instructor.
She had to stay hidden. Well hidden. At least until her face wasn’t affixed on lampposts in every town center, for God’s sake. Had she been so arrogant as to question whether servants ever walked off with tortoise-shell betting chips? She ought to have been counting her blessings Mrs. Tumsen hadn’t turned her in for a hundred pound windfall!
Mrs. Tumsen had said she could keep a secret, hadn’t she? Well, good. Violet was a secret who desperately needed to stay well-kept. As long as she stayed cloistered within the abbey for another month or three, no one would be the wiser. She would have plenty of time to save money and organize her defense. Once Mrs. Tumsen confirmed there were no more fliers posted about town, Violet could head to London and clear her name. She just had to lay low until then. No trips, no new faces, no unnecessary risks. Should be simple enough. It wasn’t as if the abbey was a hotbed of social activ—oh no.
“Mr. Waldegrave!” she shouted, her voice cracking in terror as she raced down the hall after him. “Mr. Waldegrave, wait!”
Startled, he jerked to a stop, twisting to stare back at her in surprise. “What is it?”
“The—the meeting,” she blurted between ragged breaths. “All the scientists and thinkers you invited from all over Britain. When do they arrive?”
He regarded her curiously. “Eight, I believe.”
Violet groaned, hoping against hope that she’d misremembered the date. “Eight ... days from now?”
“Eight o’clock. Tomorrow morning.”
***
Alistair had planned to awaken at first light but, in his excitement, skipped the time-wasting act of sleeping entirely. He was bathed, dressed, and glued to the front door long before dawn. Today was the day. He could feel it. If not today then tomorrow, which might as well be today, for surely it was only a matter of hours before a cure was discovered, and if not discovered, then at least invented, which was all the same to Alistair so long as Lillian was finally cured of her cursed sunsickness and—Good Lord, how many pots of tea had he drank?
He needed to settle down. If he could barely keep up with his own racing thoughts, how could he expect anyone else to follow along? He should sit back and wait, maybe have some milk and a biscuit. No, not a biscuit—too much sugar. Maybe some nice plain bread. Or a carrot. Or—
Were those hoof beats? It could be thunder, he supposed, but it also could be hoof beats, and if it were hoof beats and not inclement weather, then one could assume the first of his guests was to arrive at any moment. It was time! They were finally here!
He rushed outside and craned his head toward the wind. Definitely hoof beats. Many horses, in fact. Scads. Multiple carriages might mean one of his guests forbore to pack lightly
, but it could as easily mean that multiple guests were arriving at once. Oh! Inside. Quickly, now, before he was spied all but clapping his hands on the front steps.
Perhaps this was a good opportunity to rouse Miss Smythe. Wait—what was the hour? Half six? No, no, he ought to let her sleep. A bit, anyway. The more brains the merrier but he needed her rested, not sluggish. Or coffee-addled. Not the best mind frame for critical thinking, as he could attest. He really shouldn’t have had that last cup of tea. Although his guests might appreciate some, he supposed. He strode to his office to ring the bell for breakfast service and gather a few key volumes of medical and scientific thought.
“Master?”
“Roper! Did I ring you? I meant to call the kitchen. In any case, that was exceedingly prompt. I’ve scarcely had a moment to collect my wits, much less—”
“Master,” Roper said again, this time with no small amount of empathy and amusement glimmering in his eyes. “Your first guests have arrived.”
“Oh, have they?” Alistair said innocently, peeking over Roper’s shoulder to verify they weren’t right there, right now, witnessing him prattle like a madman. “Which ones?”
His manservant brandished a pair of calling cards. “Doctor Hughes and Mr. Colin Knightly.”
“Splendid. Please show them to their chambers and ring for anything they might need. Let them know I’ll have the kitchen bring refreshments to the dining area for whenever they’re ready.”
“As you wish.”
As Roper left to oversee the guests’ comfort, Alistair replaced the pile of books in his arms back atop his desk. Had he truly been about to force anatomy and disease theory upon his guests before they’d had a single moment’s repose? Not only would there be plenty of time for discussion after breakfast, his guests were, by design, far more knowledgeable in their subjects than Alistair would ever be. He ought not let his enthusiasm and his hubris impede their genius.
In fact, instead of spine-creased tomes and technical drawings, what he should bring to the table would be blank parchment and plenty of ink for note-taking. With the quantity of brilliant insights about to bandied across his dining table, he’d best concentrate on committing every one of them to paper.
“I promise you, Lillian,” he murmured as he gathered his portable secretary and a vial of ink. “This time, I will not disappoint.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By mid-afternoon, Violet was crawling out of her skin.
She hadn’t left the safety of her bedchamber since arriving within its protective walls the night before. The last of the fire’s embers lent the windowless chamber a sensation more of a crypt than a sanctuary. And despite the fragile state of her nerves, for the first time since arriving at Waldegrave Abbey her empty stomach was in danger of consuming itself out of desperation.
For the hundredth time since waking, she pressed her ear to the locked door. Just as before ... nothing. No footsteps, no voices, no indication that she was anything but alone.
None of which meant anything, of course. The abbey was large enough to house the entire population of the Livingstone School for Girls and still have plenty of empty prayer rooms to spare. Most likely, the esteemed guests were offered more distinguished accommodations in another area. But where? And for how long?
Her forehead thumped against the solid wooden door. She had no idea. She couldn’t risk being seen—not if her face was posted on bills from Lancashire to Cornwall—but another day or two without fire, food, or water, and prosecution would be the least of her worries.
She stood there a long moment, listening to the silence and her own uneven breathing. She pushed away from the door and picked her way through the darkness to the bell pull. As a glorified servant herself, ringing for a maid made her feel hypocritical, not special. Particularly since she’d already rung it once this morning, in the hopes of summoning Mrs. Tumsen.
No one had heeded the call.
She warred with herself, then gave the cord a firm tug before she could change her mind. Above all, she had no wish to be seen as the spoiled governess incapable of waiting her turn, but above even that, she’d rather be the obnoxious entitled governess than the incarcerated waif set to hang for murder.
An hour passed. Then another.
Violet’s nerves frayed. This was not like Mrs. Tumsen. This was not like any of the staff at Waldegrave Abbey. Which could only mean that the promised company had in fact arrived, and the servants—sufficient in quantity to keep up the abbey, but bare bones with regard to guests—were currently overwhelmed with preparing meals and heating water for baths and attending to carriages and had not a moment to spare. If they were racing about as frantically as Violet imagined, they weren’t ignoring her at all. More likely, they were all so busy that no one had even been within earshot of the bell when it had rung. Or so many had sounded at once that it had been impossible to discern which summons came from where.
Which meant what? She could not stay locked in her bedchamber until the cabal came to a close. And yet she certainly could not risk showing her face before the guests, despite having promised Mr. Waldegrave to do precisely that.
Lily! Lily was the answer.
The sanctuary was the one place in the entire abbey guaranteed to remain undiscovered by prying eyes, whilst also ensured of being brought fresh food and water throughout. Violet hurried across her room and yanked the mantle from her bed. Folded, it would make a serviceable enough pallet to sleep upon. She’d certainly made do with less. She tossed a nightrail and a fresh morning dress in the center and tied the whole with the rope from the curtain dressing. There. Perfect.
At this hour, she could only assume that Lily had already eaten, but Violet could wait no longer. The only solution was to slip into the kitchen, toss as many provisions as she could into her satchel, and then keep Lily company until every guest had left and the danger of discovery had passed.
Carefully, Violet unlocked her door and waited. No footsteps sounded. Nothing moved. She creaked the door ajar and listened. Silence. She took a deep breath and stepped into the open corridor.
Without a candle to guide her way, the passage was black and thick as India ink. She would have to rely on memory alone ... which, after a lifetime of having survived on her wits, was fortunately still the one thing she could rely on.
As she made her way through the tunnels toward the pantry, she began to draw comfort from the unending darkness. After all, the guests must necessarily be somewhere, and as long as she stayed hidden betwixt unlit corridors, she was likely to remain undetected.
Sconces flourished and noises grew louder as she drew closer to the kitchens. Clinking, clanking, shouted commands and the scent of smoked fish increased the sense of culinary chaos. From the sound of it, all the guests were sequestered in a separate outbuilding. The distance helped facilitate their privacy—and hers—but complicated logistics for the kitchen. The cook staff and scullery maids tripping over each other served as its own distraction, enabling Violet to slip in and slip out without raised brows or unanswerable questions.
Almost.
As she was retying the cord about her satchel, she caught sight of a strange boy in an unfamiliar livery staring from the bustle across the room. Just as their gazes clashed, he turned and dashed down the corridor.
She hesitated only briefly, then gave chase.
She caught up with the boy just as he neared one of the servants’ exits. She tossed her satchel to the floor and leapt into his path, spinning them both until she had him pinned, wide-eyed, against the wall.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “Why are you spying on me?”
“I—I deliver ice,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I saw ye taking bread and cheese.”
“I wasn’t stealing!” She loosened her hold in relief. “I live here.”
“And you eat?” the boy asked in awe.
“Of course I eat. What kind of question is that?”
“I mean ... ” The boy’s voice wobbled
from high to low, and he flushed. “I mean, you live here, and you’re not dressed as a servant, and you eat.”
Violet stared at him.
“Real food,” he added helpfully.
She released him and rubbed at her arms as if his evident madness might spread on contact. “What the devil are you on about?”
“The facts. I’m from Shrewsbury, mum, and I ain’t ever seen your face. All the schoolboys know about Waldegrave Abbey. We know old man Waldegrave’s a vampire and that everyone who lives here and don’t go into the sun is bound to be one, too.”
Violet nearly choked. She wasn’t sure if she was more horrified that an attractive man at most five years her senior had just been referred to as “old man Waldegrave” or that part of the neighboring town believed him a dangerous bloodsucking monster.
“Stuff and nonsense,” she answered, once she’d found her voice. “Vampires do not exist.”
The boy’s skyrocketing eyebrows indicated he was less than convinced.
“Banbury tales.” Violet stepped back from the boy and crossed to the servants’ exit, which had been temporarily propped open for his delivery. “Watch this.” She tugged the door open fully. Sunshine spilled in, warming her skin and half-blinding her in the process. A brisk wind filled the corridor, lifting her curls from her neck and ruffling her skirt. The scent of summer flowers blended oddly with the scent of smoked fish, but she hoped it at least proved her point. “See? I eat bread. I like the sun. I’m not a vampire.”
The boy’s thin hand latched about her wrist, his voice urgent. “Then you’re in danger. Come with me, mum. Get out whilst you can. For if you don’t, you’ll soon be a vampire yourself ... or his next meal.”
She let the door close. “I am not in danger—”
“You’re in mortal danger. You’re a prisoner, mum. He’ll kill you and eat you and maybe not in that order. You’re a canary in a cage. A sheep waiting to be slaughtered. A—”
