The Dark Between

by Sonia Gensler

  Once breakfast was cleared, Kate followed Mrs. Thompson to Summerfield Hall, the oldest building in the college. The lady walked briskly, but as Kate was mostly made of legs, she managed to keep pace.

  Mrs. Thompson paused before the door of the hall and glanced down at Kate. “I fear your dress may not hold together much longer.”

  Kate blushed. “When Mrs. Martineau sacked me, she took back the few clothes she’d given me. I came to her in this very dress.”

  Mrs. Thompson’s expression did not change. “I will search out something more suitable later today. I hope you can manage basic sewing, because you’ll be hemming tonight.”

  They entered the former library in Summerfield Hall to find two young ladies scanning the room with forlorn faces. Though not as untidy as Mr. Thompson’s study, the room contained shelves of books piled in front of other books, and more piled on the floor. Several opened crates cluttered the remaining floor space, catching the ladies’ skirts as they threaded their way between them.

  “Good morning, Miss Freeman and Miss Barrett,” Mrs. Thompson said. “I have brought Kate Poole to assist you with the move.” She paused, turning to Kate. “The plan is to organize the books first and then transport them in batches, so as not to re-create this chaos in our new library. The task will involve unpacking the new bequests”—she gestured at the crates—“which will need to be labeled, inventoried, and placed with the previous acquisitions. Miss Freeman and Miss Barrett will show you what to do. I must return to my office to wrestle with the college accounts.” She nodded at the three of them and, lifting her skirts high to clear the books, swept out of the room.

  Freeman and Barrett were not overly friendly, but as Kate was unaccustomed to warmth, this did not concern her. She spent the morning pulling books from boxes and reading out the titles so that Freeman could enter them in a ledger. The books then went to Barrett, who marked the spines with letters and numbers. When finished, Barrett then put them in the appropriate stack for later transport.

  At midday the two ladies went home to dine—like most students, they did not live in college during the summer holiday—and Kate went to the Gatehouse kitchen for as much mutton stew as she could swallow. The cook beamed to see her appetite, for the summers left her short of eager mouths to feed. Kate decided the only thing that could have improved the meal would have been Billy and Tec sharing it with her, just like the old days in Mrs. Martineau’s kitchen.

  Was Billy safe at Tec’s now? She must contrive a way to visit Castle End without the Thompsons knowing.

  She returned to Summerfield Hall before the others, which gave her time to poke about the room. Against the far wall she found the library’s collection of bound newspapers, heavy volumes stacked haphazardly. They would take time to sort. With some searching, however, she might locate her father’s obituary. Billy had once told her that obituaries provided a gold mine of information to mediums looking to hoodwink their sitters.

  And perhaps, Kate thought, with some luck they also might provide useful details to daughters needing to know more about dead fathers.

  Chapter 7

  Elsie kept to her room, claiming a headache as excuse for not joining Aunt Helena at the luncheon table. She had much work to do, and it must be done quietly.

  First, she retrieved a sober grey dress and fresh underclothes from the wardrobe, all of which she laid out on her traveling trunk for the next morning. Then she pulled her largest drawstring bag from the top drawer. Not much room, but it was all she could allow herself. Everything else must be left behind. One day she might have fine clothes again, when London society recognized his talent, but finery mattered little in comparison to her love for him. For now they could make the most of a simple life.

  Elsie opened her jewelry chest and spilled the contents upon the bed. She fished out the sovereigns, along with a crumpled ten-pound note, and placed them in her smaller coin purse. Then she divided the fine jewelry from the paste and cut glass. The diamond necklace and earrings were gifts from her father, presented on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday. The emerald ring and bracelet were bequests from a favorite great-aunt. She gathered these and a few other valuable items and tied them all within a fine linen handkerchief.

  Each piece would have to be sold, but she didn’t care.

  The coin purse and pouch of jewels went into her bag, along with her necessary toiletries, three clean handkerchiefs, and a spare pair of gloves. She retrieved a sealed bottle of Chlorodyne from her drawer and placed it in the bag. Two bottles remained, but including them would weight her bag overmuch. More could be obtained in London, of course. Elsie had never purchased her own medicine, but she was certain he would know how to procure it.

  She stared longingly at the side table, where her camera sat. Though it was compact, it was still too large to fit in her bag. She must travel light—it would not do to leave the house clutching all her favorite things.

  But …

  The camera case had a strap, didn’t it? She could wear it crossed over her body and still hold her bag. She lifted the strap over her shoulder as an experiment. Yes, she could manage quite well. The familiar feel of the camera at her side only strengthened her resolve.

  With everything sorted and tidied away, one problem remained. How could she leave the house without attracting attention? Sneaking out before dawn wouldn’t work, for she’d never get past the locks on the iron gate without somehow stealing a key—impossible in a household overseen by Aunt Helena.

  The plan required more subtlety than that. And subtle planning was not something at which she excelled.

  Elsie took a breath and concentrated, approaching the matter from a different angle. She knew from the servants that a horse-drawn tram carried passengers back and forth from the station to Christ’s College. She also knew there was an 11:00 train to London, for she’d studied the timetables at King’s Cross when changing trains from Essex. She merely needed to know where and when to catch the tram. The young housemaid—Millie was her name—would be able to tell her and probably wouldn’t suspect a thing. She was sweet and rather dim.

  The problem of how to leave the house still remained.

  Her outing must seem ordinary and innocent. The skinny Poole girl was occupied each day, as was Millie. She couldn’t slip away from her aunt or uncle even if they agreed to go out with her. She counted through each member of the household once more. Was anyone left? Only Asher Beale, and he’d be no help at all.

  On second thought, however—

  A knock at the door startled her. She tucked the drawstring bag under the bed and lay back against the pillow.

  “Come in.”

  Her aunt opened the door. In her arms she carried a bundle of material. “How’s your head, dear?”

  Elsie touched her forehead with the back of her hand. “It’s improving, I think.”

  “Good.” Her aunt walked in and sat upon the chair near the bed. She gazed steadily at Elsie before finally clearing her throat.

  Here it comes, thought Elsie.

  “Your mother didn’t explain in detail why you needed to come to Summerfield, but I gather it had something to do with your art tutor.”

  Elsie looked away.

  “You had … an infatuation with him?”

  “I loved him,” Elsie whispered after a moment.

  “And he returned your affection?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we must determine one thing if you are to remain here at Summerfield. Is it possible you are with child?”

  Elsie blushed, not so much at the boldness of the question but at the memories it evoked. She’d allowed him liberties, and together they’d done wonderful, shameful things that would make her mother faint and her father unlock the gun cabinet. She almost wished she were carrying his child—a link to him that could not fade like memory.

  “I am not with child.”

  “Good.”

  Elsie risked a glance at her. Aunt Helena did not appear sickened
or scornful. Rather, she simply looked relieved … and oddly hopeful.

  “My sister intended your visit to be temporary, but I do urge you to consider staying longer, perhaps as a student of Summerfield College?”

  Elsie flushed with embarrassment. “I’m not clever, Aunt.”

  “Nonsense. You haven’t applied yourself. And I’ve never approved of your father’s refusal to give your education the same attention he gave to that of his sons. Such an absurdly outdated attitude toward female intellect.”

  Elsie sighed. “My episodes unsettle him, I think. After Mother insisted I take the dose, which always makes me slow and sleepy, he just assumed I was dull-witted.”

  “That is unfortunate,” Aunt Helena said softly.

  Elsie hardly knew what to say. She simply didn’t care anymore what her father or mother thought. Soon she would be in London, and her parents wouldn’t suffer the agonies of their loss very long.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you, my dear,” her aunt said briskly. “I really only stopped by to see how you were feeling, and to show you these.” She shook out the material bundled in her arms. One hand held a plain white blouse, the other a brown skirt. “Young Miss Poole’s dress is in a terrible state, so I thought we might take in this old skirt and blouse. Do you think they are too plain?”

  “The girl is certain to be glad of them.”

  Aunt Helena nodded thoughtfully and refolded the garments. “Might you have something that would suit her, Elsie? Something a little nicer for evening functions? I don’t wish her to feel like a servant. You have many dresses, I know. There must be one you don’t favor so much anymore.”

  “I’m sure I have something, Aunt.”

  When her aunt closed the door behind her, Elsie glanced at the wardrobe full of dresses she would never see again. Once she was gone, the girl could have them all.

  Asher had risen from the breakfast table in low spirits, for his plans had come to nothing. He’d imagined Miss Atherton joining him on his tour of Cambridge—she’d only just arrived herself, hadn’t she? Together they could pore over his Baedeker’s Great Britain and search out the most revered colleges and historic sites. He’d lain awake half the night plotting it out.

  But Miss Atherton had been cold and distant throughout breakfast, rising to excuse herself long before everyone else had finished eating. Asher had stood quickly, banging his knee on the table as he did so. Look at me before you go, he’d thought. Just one glance.

  But she’d never turned his way.

  The revised plan involved drowning his sorrows at a public house. Asher had even peered into a promising establishment by the river, but its dark, low-ceilinged interior, the air thick with smoke and laughter, made him feel very young and very American. So instead he wandered along King’s Parade to Trinity Street.

  Having studied his Baedeker’s the night before, he recognized King’s, Clare, and Caius Colleges. He dutifully admired their handsome facades and garden courts, the ornate chapels with their marble floors and medieval sarcophagi. All this luxury made such a contrast to the Puritan plainness of Harvard.

  This had drawn him to Cambridge in the first place—the medieval grandeur of the men’s colleges. He’d had no desire to visit Summerfield. An upstart college for spinsterly bluestockings was the furthest thing from his notion of a worthwhile social call, not to mention the fact that a notorious spook chaser resided there.

  But his uncle had insisted he pay a visit to Oliver Thompson.

  “I don’t share my brother’s fascination for metaphysical research,” Francis Beale had said. “I’d much prefer that phantasms stay in the realm of fiction. However, Oliver Thompson was a Trinity Fellow and remains one of the most learned men I’ve ever met. Both he and your father would be offended if you did not make yourself known to him while in Cambridge. In fact, Thompson is likely to ask you to stay with him at Summerfield College.”

  If only that damnable Poole girl hadn’t ambushed him at the gate, he could have presented his card and left it at that.

  He turned back to Baedeker’s with a sigh, determined to salvage something worthwhile out of this Cambridge visit. As the morning dragged on, however, he found himself walking past buildings that ordinarily would have made him pause. The medieval walls, gardens, and chapels of each college were blurring together so that he could no longer tell them apart. His senses were overwhelmed, and he was starving.

  He purchased a meat pie from a street vendor and sat on a bench near Saint Michael’s Church. The pie filled the gnawing void in his stomach, fortifying him to cross the road and take in the grandeur of Trinity College. This was where Oliver Thompson had taken his degree, as had greater minds like Newton and Bacon. Asher stared at the gate for some time, craning his neck to admire the tall, crenellated towers. Above the heavy wooden doors was a statue of the college’s founder, Henry VIII. What might one have found in his own town of Cambridge, Massachusetts, when King Henry held the throne of England? Meadows and trees?

  Nothing so grand as this.

  He passed through the gate to the Great Court and gaped at its dimensions. As he visited each spot recommended by Baedeker, he paid special attention to the gleaming woodwork in the Tudor chapel, the portraits in the dining hall, and the view of the River Cam from the Wren Library.

  He crossed the river, leaving the ornate buildings behind. Beyond the bridge an avenue of linden trees curved over him like the vaulted ceiling of a cathedral. The branches trembled in the breeze, offering fleeting wafts of a heady fragrance. Asher didn’t consider himself religious, but in that moment something tugged at his heart—a spiritual ache, if one could call it that.

  On either side of the avenue lay a meadow. He veered off the path, avoiding the bees that buzzed through the low-hanging branches, and stepped into the grass. No one tried to stop him. After several paces he paused, looked around, and sank down. If he lay on his back, no one would see him. He placed his hands behind his head and stared at the clouds. Birds trilled in the trees, but otherwise it was peaceful. One might forget that this wide green space stood at the center of a busy town.

  “This could be mine,” he said aloud, closing his eyes.

  When he woke—an hour later, according to his watch—he knew it didn’t matter that Elsie refused to smile at him, that the Thompsons were eccentric, or that his father might actually be proud of him for reaching so high as Trinity College, Cambridge.

  He needed to be part of this place. It had called to him somehow, and he planned to stay and listen.

  After such an epiphany, Asher could only be pleased that Elsie Atherton did smile at him upon his return to Summerfield. She greeted him quite warmly, in fact, and met his gaze more than once during supper.

  As the five of them settled in the sitting room afterward, he noted an unusual animation to her expression. That morning she’d been cold and remote. Now, however, her eyes shone brightly. She did not fidget—nothing so unladylike as that—but when he looked up from his book to steal a glance at her, she seemed attuned to the atmosphere rather than withdrawn from it. He forced himself to look away, feigning indifference.

  “I hope you weren’t expecting to have port and cigars in the dining room, Asher,” said Mr. Thompson. “I suppose it’s what most gentlemen do, but I’ve always preferred to stay near my wife when in my own home.” He and Mrs. Thompson shared a smile.

  “Of course, sir,” Asher mumbled, embarrassed by the display of affection, modest though it was. He turned back to his book, but minutes later he found he’d read the same sentence three times without comprehending it. A sigh broke the silence, and Asher raised his head to find Elsie’s eyes on him.

  “You know, I would so enjoy a visit to the Fitzwilliam Museum,” she said airily.

  Mrs. Thompson looked up from her sewing. “How nice, my dear. They have many treasures.”

  “I was thinking of visiting tomorrow, in fact.”

  Asher noted the furrow on Mrs. Thompson’s brow. Even Kate, who’d bee
n ripping seams on a brown skirt, looked up with interest.

  “If you would wait until Saturday, Elsie, we could all go together,” Mrs. Thompson said. “I’m afraid your uncle and I have too many engagements tomorrow, and Miss Poole has her duties in the library. You ought not go alone.”

  Elsie sighed again. “It’s just that I am feeling much better and would like to see more of the town. All I’ve seen so far are the buildings and garden of Summerfield.”

  Asher chanced a look at her and felt his face grow hot as she boldly returned his gaze. She smiled and turned back to her aunt. “Might Mr. Beale be allowed to accompany me?”

  Mrs. Thompson looked at her husband. “I’m not sure that would be—”

  “Would be what, Aunt?” Elsie’s expression was all innocence. Asher dragged his eyes from her to look at Mrs. Thompson.

  “A young lady accompanied by a young man who is not her brother?” Mrs. Thompson shook her head. “It’s not the done thing.”

  Her husband set his book down. “Is it really so terrible, Helena? Surely it isn’t any worse than two cousins visiting a museum together.”

  “But they are not cousins, dear husband.”

  “And yet we know and trust his father so well, they might as well be. I’ve never known you to be this old-fashioned! They are merely going to a museum.”

  “What would my sister say?” Mrs. Thompson arched an eyebrow for emphasis.

  “I’m sorry, my dear,” Mr. Thompson said, “but your sister is a fusspot. I did not agree to have your niece here so that she could be locked within our walls until we have a spare moment to chaperone her outings.”

  “I suppose it would be nice for our guest to have company as he explores all that Cambridge has to offer,” Mrs. Thompson relented, looking at Asher.

  He smiled in reply.

  “It’s settled, then,” said Mr. Thompson, opening his book once more. “That is, I assume it is amenable to Mr. Beale?”

  “Of course, sir.” Asher knew better than to meet Miss Atherton’s gaze. Nor would he glance at Kate Poole, for he could almost sense the sly look she must be giving him. Instead he pretended to study his book most carefully, all the while rehearsing the clever things he would say to Miss Atherton the next day.