by Sandra Byrd
I left the Mission, carrying not my bag but one that Mother Rachel had loaned me—it was frayed and patched and not at all fashionable; it had most probably been a donation some years past. I walked a few hundred yards, and then stood to the side, pretending to search the bag, but really, I was looking around to see if anyone was following me. I didn’t see anyone.
Good. The disguise was working. That, or Collingsworth had not bothered to have me trailed, assuming he would find anything he needed at Cheyne, now that Winton Park had been long donated and was nearly sold. Perhaps he thought it had been packed and was owned by Thomas now. He’d not dare to trespass then. Would he?
I arrived at Victoria Station, a huge building made of Portland stone now green-washed with moss. I walked briskly through the stone archway and purchased a third class ticket. I could not ride in first, as a maid.
The platform was nearly empty. It was the last train out and by the time I arrived near Winton, it would be fully dark.
The train chugged to a stop and after the passengers had disembarked, I got on. I sat on a bench, which was plainly upholstered in a lightly stained wine-colored cloth. The arched ceilings were white and clean, but did not include any of the flourishes to be seen in the first class carriages; the benches were decidedly firmer, too.
I sat close to a window and pulled my bag close against my chest. A woman and a child had already boarded. Two men came in after me, saw I was alone, and sat on the bench directly across me. More and more people filtered in and soon the train chugged out of the station.
Night began to settle on London’s shoulders like a dusky mantle; I counted the blinking streetlights as we pulled toward Hampshire. Once outside the city the lights grew farther apart till they finally disappeared. The low hum of chatter and a baby crying were the only sounds in my carriage. One of the men who had been sitting across from me came and sat to my left. Within a few seconds the other man came and sat to my right, trapping me between them.
“Fine night, but what’s a young lass like you doin’ out alone?” One of them leaned toward me, and I recoiled, but could not move too far in the other direction lest I bump into his accomplice.
The best answer was none, I decided. A fear, though: What would happen when I got off the train? Would there be a hired cab to take me to Winton?
Could these men be plants? Could the inspector have guessed my intentions?
They tried to speak with me for another minute or two, and I stood and moved up a few seats and across the aisle. They followed me and sat directly across me again.
“Yer goin’ ta hurt our feelings, now,” one said. “I don’t think you want ta do that.”
“Move away,” I said firmly.
“Ooh, a saucy one,” the other laughed. At that moment, a very large man, perhaps ten years older than me, came and sat down next to me.
He was much stronger, much larger, and certainly more intimidating than the two men I had just been trying to fend off.
“I don’t think the lass appreciates your attentions,” he spoke sternly to the men across from me.
“Who are you to tell us?” one man asked. “I don’t remember us signing up to be working for you, my lord.” He laughed.
The man next to me crossed his arms, flexing his considerable muscles in front of them. Even his hands were muscled.
“Shove off,” the other man said, but he and his friend moved away.
I still did not know if this new man was menace or friend. “Thank you,” I said.
He nodded. “My pleasure. I’m a local blacksmith, Erin Mackay. Where are you headed?”
“Winton Park,” I answered. Should I have? There were only a few stops left. He’d know anyway.
“I’m getting off at that stop as well. Are you certain you’re expected?”
“I’ve been sent to pack some personal belongings at the house for the woman who used to own it.” The Cause had, after all, told me to pack my mother’s belongings ahead of the sale, if I liked.
“Ah, Miss Young, then.”
I ducked my head down. Did he know me?
“Yes,” I said. He did not ask me for my name and I was glad.
“Is someone expecting you?” he pressed again.
“The estate manager.” I certainly did not share that he was old, nearly blind, and perhaps demented.
I did not know how much to tell him, but I was now frighteningly aware that I had perhaps made a bad judgment call.
We arrived at the station, and it was, indeed, desolate and dark. A cold, early-autumn wind had blown in with the train and I pulled my borrowed shawl around me. The air smelt of smoke.
“Has there been a fire?” I asked.
The blacksmith nodded. “Some of the fields are being burnt this week. Field pests nesting in the rubble.” He had a friend waiting for him, and after seeing me safely into the hired carriage, he went his way.
We drove through the rutted roads toward Winton Park. The approach looked different at night. Trees wept over the long drive, drooping branches that should have been trimmed in the summer, or the summer before, but hadn’t. The drive had wheel ruts ground into it; dust flew up as the horses carried forth. There had not, apparently, been rain for some time.
The moon was at third quarter. I smiled, wistfully, thinking of Lady Mary’s Sun and Moon gown. That life was gone now.
The house looming before me was black, not a light flickered anywhere within. It looked forbidding. The brick carriage house lurked to the left, the brick kitchens and laundry to the right.
Desolate. If I should scream for help, no one would hear me, once the driver pulled away.
“Are you certain you’re expected?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. Miss Young sent me,” I said. It was the truth.
He nodded warily.
I stepped out of the carriage and swallowed my fear. Davidson would be below stairs; that was some comfort.
“I can manage my own bag,” I said, and paid him well.
He nodded and chucked the horses to turn around and return down the dusty drive.
I took my bag and crossed the bit of drive to the stone stairs that led to the front door. Collingsworth had let me keep my key chain; he had no need of them to enter Cheyne Gardens, had he?
Part of me wished I’d left this for the bright morrow. But the inspector might arrive at any time. I believed he’d dare to.
I had no choice but to press on.
Once inside the house I closed the door, locked it again, and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. I was glad to have been there recently, twice, so I had some sense of the layout of the rooms. I left my bag by the door and decided first to wake Davidson and find some oil lamps, which I knew were stored in the kitchens.
I lit a candle, then walked very slowly, so the wind caused by my movement didn’t put it out. The flame was so small, but it cast monstrous, misshapen shadows on the walls and floor. They followed me. Of course they did.
I called out, “Mr. Davidson? Miss Young has sent me. Mr. Davidson?” I decided I could not do away with my costume yet in case I’d been followed. Davidson might speak up to Lady Lockwood or anyone else and that could filter back to Collingsworth.
The stairs creaked and moaned, and I kept one hand on the wall because the railing was loose and I didn’t want to take a nasty tumble. Once downstairs, I walked all the way to the back, past the bells that would have summoned servants, and around the corner from the beer cellar. Davidson had taken over the steward’s quarters, I knew, for his own. Water dripping from a leaky pipe, hitting concrete, and splattering was the only sound. Silence closed in around me.
The door to the Steward’s Hall was closed. I knocked on it and heard nothing. “Mr. Davidson!” I called out again.
My voice echoed off the cold masonry walls. Davidson . . .
“I’m sorry to disturb!” I called out once more. Once more the faint echo. Disturb . . .
My skin prickled, and I pushed open his door, half wondering if
I’d find the old man’s corpse in there.
But no. The bed was neatly made, and the drawers, when I checked, were empty. He had moved out, no doubt, in advance of the imminent property transfer. I’d arranged for his pension; Lady Lockwood had likely told him he could leave early.
I was alone in Winton Park. No one knew I was here. No one could help.
I stood there for a moment, the weight of the four stories and tens of thousands of square feet closing in around me. In some ways, the darkness terrified me. But to the extent that it hid me to complete my task, I supposed I should be grateful.
Thomas—my heart panged—Lord Lockwood had mentioned that the house would need to be completely set up for gas lighting. Grandmamma, I knew, had not wanted that in her day; she worried that the vapors would kill her in her sleep or poison her guests while they ate. I had to look for the handheld lamps.
I walked the underground passage to the old kitchen; my movement threatened to snuff the candle once more; I wanted to walk quickly and find a lamp, but not so quickly as to put me in blackness.
Then again, if I’m lit up by candle, and someone is here in the dark, they can better see me, but I cannot see them.
The eerie silence followed me. There were no croaking frogs, whose rough hiccups usually came down through the overhead grate that let light and air into the underground passage. I hoped they had not been smoked to death. Once in the kitchen, I did not know which cupboards to look in.
I did not want to open any doors at all. The beetles! But I must.
I cracked one cupboard open and discovered dusty tea in tins and empty sweets containers.
A second door hid cleaning products—dangerously near the food storage. I should have to rectify that.
No, no, it is not my house any longer. I will not rectify anything. I pursed my lips in sorrow. In a way, I was glad to be here by myself. I could say good-bye to the house on my terms, floor by floor, room by room.
A third cabinet revealed a small cache of lamps, matches, and gallons upon gallons of lamp oil. I tried to light the first, and then the second, but the wicks were dry. The third, thankfully, lit. I took it, filled both it and the fourth one, and hurried back to the main house.
Once in the foyer, I wondered, Where should I sleep? If someone should come, would they look for me in a servant’s bed? Or my mother’s? Perhaps it would be better if I did not sleep at all. I will start in on my task immediately. I walked up the stairwell, round and round, like one of the nautilus seashell spirals I’d once seen on display in a museum. I stopped midway up and turned around, flooded with a memory.
• • •
Mamma told me to stay upstairs, that it would upset Grandfather if I attended. I was too young. But what was the sense of being here if I couldn’t enjoy it all?
The music is lovely, and someone might ask me to dance if I look old enough to.
I decided. I slipped on my prettiest dress and then a pair of Mamma’s jeweled slippers. Surely, they made me look of an age to attend a ball!
I stood at the top of the stairs, hiding just out of sight where I could see all but none could see me. The guests have nearly stopped coming. I’ll just walk, stately, down the stairway in mature, thoughtful steps. If only I can keep my toes pressed forward, the shoes will stay on!
But wait. Perhaps I won’t be able to dance with these shoes on after all.
Oh dear. A stair tumble. Now Grandfather is glaring at me. Not Grandmamma, though. Dear Grandmamma.
• • •
In my mind’s eye, I scanned the crowd for Thomas, but I just didn’t remember seeing him. More’s the pity.
I blinked to the present, and returned to my search, I reached the top floor, where the maids would have stayed. I held the lamp in front of me; there was a narrow hallway with a low ceiling, and several rooms off to each side. I walked, the floorboards creaking with each step, and stood in front of the first door.
I put my hand on the knob and held my breath. Why? I did not expect that anyone would be behind it, did I?
No. But I could not shake the foreboding that clung to me like a panicked child.
The room was empty—a stripped bed, an empty dresser. That was all, and it was repeated five times on that floor. There was frantic scurrying in the corner of the last room and I pushed my lamp in that direction. A mouse on his haunches stared at me, as frightened of me as I should have been of him. Instead, I was comforted that some other living being was here with me in this huge house. A fairy rhyme came to mind, and I changed it, just a bit, to suit the situation:
Three blind mice. Three blind mice.
See how they run. See how they run.
They all ran after the viscount’s wife,
Who cut off their tails with a carving knife,
Did you ever see such a sight in your life,
As three blind mice?
I laughed a little, which should have broken some tension, but again, my voice echoed strangely through the room, and it startled me instead. I moved to shut the door and the wind caused by the motion bothered the white curtains in the window; they shivered a ghostly dance.
I slammed the door behind me and quickly walked downstairs for the larger task, the family bedrooms. I began in Grandmother’s wood-paneled room.
The room was still draped; I knew Lady Lockwood would order the furniture completely cleaned; her command to her maid to tidy everything in advance of my, and her, last visit let me know that she cared very much about a well-ordered home.
My pain relented a little. Better Winton goes to someone who thought her beautiful but neglected, and would properly care for her.
I looked through the empty wardrobe; there was nothing. I sat down on the stool in front of the desk. I’d looked through it on my last visit, but this time, I went more slowly.
There was some correspondence, a few sketches of her spaniels. I lifted a photograph. It was of my mother, in costume. And then, in a bottom drawer, playbills for plays in which my mother had appeared. Ticket stubs. Had she attended without Mamma knowing? It seemed so. Mamma had thought she’d never seen her act.
She clearly had, many times, secretly.
I gently stacked the playbills and set them in my bag. I would take these, too. Keep them with Mamma’s costumes. I’d decided I would bring everything I wanted to keep to the costume room, and Lady Lockwood could simply have the contents of that room delivered to me.
While my bag was opened I noticed the tin of biscuits and prised it open. I ate one or two, but the crumbs stuck in my mouth. I did not even know where to find a cup in the house with which I might drink some water.
I finished searching that room. The very late hour plus the prompting of the biscuits made me hungry, but I pressed on. I visited each room in the hall, looking under the beds, shaking the blankets and sending swirls of dust into the air, which wreaked more havoc on my lungs than the London coal belch. The smoke from the neighbor’s burning field was tickling them, too, as well as blinding me to any prying eyes outside of the property.
Were anyone to be looking for me, that is. Then, I couldn’t see them, either.
By the time I made it to Mamma’s adult room, the Tapestry Room, I was tired. I peered through the window. The sky had begun to tint lightly toward dawn, which would soon raise her head. I glanced to the west, toward the kitchens, laundry, and Mamma’s costume room. Then, to the right, toward the carriage house.
Nothing. No light, no person. The silence in the house was deafening. I heard an occasional window shake. A few timbers creaked. But I was alone. Though it frightened me it was, perhaps, best for now.
I sat on the bed, thinking where to search next and, in spite of myself, fell asleep.
I awakened to a noise.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I looked at the watch pinned to my dress. I had nodded off to sleep and, exhausted by the week’s events, had slept for hours; it was late morning the next day.
For a moment I thought I was in Lond
on. I peered out of the window, and the air was hazed with smoke—dreary and gray, thick and woody. I could see flames in the far distance to the east of the house; to the west, the view was clear and calm. I could see, barely, the outline of Darington.
The noise once more! A large metallic twist and then a push of oak. It was the front door—opening! What should I do? If I were to slide a piece of furniture in front of the door the intruder would hear me; I would mark my location and then I might be done for.
I leaned against the bedroom door, ear pressed to it, and tried to hear who might be coming in. I expected the thud of heavy footsteps, but instead, I heard a woman’s light voice. And then a man’s. They sounded familiar to me. I listened to the pitch, unable to discern actual words, and then realized with a startle, I know who that is! It’s Thomas’s brother, Jamie, and his wife, Lisbeth.
I quietly opened my door and their voices did not stop speaking so they must not have heard me. I tiptoed out the Tapestry bedroom and toward the staircase hall. I got as close to it as I could without actually placing a foot on the stairs.
If Ruby could see me now. I eavesdropped. Why were they here?
They must have settled in the Saloon—the largest, grandest, most beautiful of the reception rooms—because it was closest to the staircase hall. I could hear them.
“Your mother will have fits if she knows we are here!” Lisbeth said.
“She’ll not know,” Jamie answered. “No one will know, I promise you. How could she? I have Davidson’s key; the old man is comfortably settled with his daughter in the village. There will be no others arriving till Thomas brings them from London after everything is properly transferred.”
“I suppose so. I do not want to spoil his surprise. Jamie”—Lisbeth’s voice grew soft, and I leaned over the railing to hear—“he will be so eager to see the pleasure on our faces. Will we have our own key? Is this really to be our home?”
I nearly fell over the rail and onto the stairs.
“Yes, my love,” Jamie said. “Darington must be kept for Thomas’s family. This way, he can still be of help to me, and you, my darling, with my . . . afflictions. We’ll be close by but have our own home and family. And he will, too.”
