“I’m tired enough of her snide comments and bold insinuations. I may be fair game, but my sister is not,” my voice rang with finality. “I vow if she says anything else against Alana or Philip or one of the children, I will not be responsible for my actions.”
Gage was silent beside me as we passed through a patch of raspberry bushes. I could see the children had already picked the ones closest to the path, but there were plenty more growing in the tiny glen. They looked ripe and lush. I carefully picked one and popped it into my mouth, savoring the burst of sweetness.
Gage reached out to pick a few more that had been beyond the children’s reach and then followed me down the trail. “Why are you fair game?” he asked suddenly, harking back to my earlier words.
“Well . . .” I stumbled for words to explain myself. “You know that I am. I’m the one who picked the sorry husband, not Alana.”
“But did you choose him?”
I glanced up at Gage as he popped a raspberry into his mouth, and he lifted his eyebrows in query. “No. But I was the one who asked Father to find me a husband of his choosing, so, in a way, I still chose him.”
“No. You depended on your father to select an honorable and suitable man. You trusted his judgment, and it happened to be wrong.”
I frowned, not liking his excessively reasonable tone, or his disparagement of my father. But I did not refute his words, for I could not. And I knew that was what bothered me most. It felt traitorous to harbor such thoughts against my father, to be angry that he had not selected a better man for me. I had relied on him to see to my future care, and he had failed me. It was somehow easier to blame myself for not taking on the responsibility of finding my own spouse and bemoan my inability to stand up to Sir Anthony than to fault my father, who was not even alive to defend himself.
I shook my head. I didn’t want to think about my father and my mixed emotions when it came to him.
“Maybe I’m not fair game,” I reluctantly assented. “But Lady Westlock and the others are not going to stop maligning me regardless.” Feeling the rising tide of frustration, I clenched my hands into fists. “I don’t understand how she can be so cruel.”
“She’s afraid.”
I scoffed. “I know. But a lot of us are afraid. That doesn’t give her the right to lash out at me.”
“Are you afraid, Lady Darby?”
“What kind of question is that?” I said with a scowl. “Of course, I’m afraid. I’m not a fool. Just two days ago someone murdered Lady Godwin, cut her open, and . . .” I swallowed the rest, unwilling to speak the words.
“I only asked because you don’t act like you’re frightened,” he remarked evenly.
I crossed my arms over my chest, protecting the ache I felt there. “Just because someone doesn’t show fear, does not mean they don’t feel it.” I saw him glance at me out of the corner of my eye, but I refused to look at him. “I learned some time ago that displaying fear only makes you weak. Children might be comforted, and young ladies coddled, but no one reassures a grown woman except herself.” I pressed harder against the hollow throbbing. “We all must deal with our shadows the best we can. No one can conquer them for us.”
Gage did not reply, and in fact seemed lost in thought as the path turned northeast. It angled along a rippling creek, swelled from the summer rains, toward the back of Philip’s property. I glanced at the man beside me once or twice, wondering if I had revealed too much about my life with Sir Anthony. Gage seemed content to allow the conversation to lie. I wasn’t sure whether or not to be grateful for this. If he was contemplating my past, I thought I might have liked to set him straight rather than have him inferring meaning from my words. But then I would have to explain more about Sir Anthony’s death and the accusations and trial, and I did not relish such a turn in the discussion. So I kept silent.
The water in the creek tumbled over rocks and swirled in tiny pools, accompanying the sound of our footsteps with its tinkling music. We passed by the spot where on hot summer days I would lean against an ancient ash and dangle my feet in the stream while I sketched. It was a lovely little nook, large enough for two, but I decided not to share such an intimate setting with Gage. The image of us seated side by side under the tree’s boughs made something twist inside me. Besides, he would probably only show Mrs. Cline the location, and the thought of them there together would ruin it for me forever.
“I spoke with Mr. Calvin.”
I glanced over my shoulder at him as we slowly wound our way through a narrow part of the path snaking between the trees and the creek. I forgot he had been questioning Lady Godwin’s other former lover while my sister was forcing me to brave the inquisition in the parlor. “And?”
“I don’t think he did it.”
I paused and waited for him to fall in step with me when the trail widened. “He didn’t sleep with her?”
“Oh, he admitted to that . . . after a good ten minutes of bluster.”
I smiled, imagining the priggish man trying to talk his way out of revealing he’d committed such a sin.
Gage grinned when he saw my humor. “Says it only happened once and he was terribly foxed. I believe he meant to imply that Lady Godwin had taken advantage of him.”
“When did this happen?”
He sighed heavily, already telling me what I needed to know. “May or June. He couldn’t remember the particulars. Either way, it’s too recent for him to be the father of Lady Godwin’s child.”
“But . . .” I hesitated, still sorting out the ramifications of my thought. “It would give him motive if she threatened to reveal their tryst.”
“I can see how he would want to keep it quiet, particularly from his wife and friends, but I do not think he would resort to murder.”
I could not argue with him, for I agreed. Mr. Calvin was pompous and annoying when he pontificated, but he seemed otherwise harmless.
We turned east with the stream and approached the edge of the forest where the trees thinned out to reveal a wide moor filled with heather. The land south of the path sloped upward to a little hillock, affording a beautiful view of the land beyond. It was my second-favorite place to sit and sketch. In fact, I had painted several rather mediocre landscapes from that vantage point. I glanced up the small hill, about to suggest to Gage that he might like to see the view, when something caught my eye. I slowed to a stop, staring up the rise.
The earth here was bare, for too much water drained over the hill from the forest to allow plants to take root. Several large rocks were perched haphazardly across the summit. I sat on the largest of the stones when I made my sketches, so I was quite familiar with their landscape.
A chill crept down my spine, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Lady Darby? Is something wrong?”
I swallowed against the lump of dread caught at the back of my throat. “I . . . I think we should get Philip.”
“Why?”
I looked up into his puzzled face and gathered my courage. “Because one of those rocks has been moved, and I honestly don’t think it was the rain that did it.”
• • •
An hour later, we were back on the hill with Philip and a pair of Cromarty footmen, along with a few shovels and lanterns. I pulled my pelisse tighter around me as the shadows began to lengthen and watched the four men take turns with the shovels. Neither Philip nor Gage had wanted me to tag along, and I had seriously considered listening to them, but in our rush to gather reinforcements, I had not shown Gage which rock had been moved. I knew the hill best. I knew where each stone should rest and how deep they had each settled into the earth. The others did not, not even Philip. So in the end, there had been no choice except for me to join them.
Perched on my sketching rock, I pulled my knees up to my chest as the men tossed
shovelfuls of dirt up out of the three-foot-deep hole they had dug in the earth. The head-sized stone that had covered the spot had been returned to its original position a few feet away so that they could excavate the earth underneath. It was all rather eerie, as if the killer had begun a cairn on the little hillock. That is, if I was correct about what lay underneath.
I dug my fingers into my upper arms and pulled my gaze away from the growing hole. I was sick with dread over what we might find buried there. Fear and revulsion crawled across my skin and underneath my clothing like an insect. Shuddering, I lifted my face to the wind for a breath of fresh air not permeated with the scent of freshly turned earth.
Philip handed his shovel off to Gage and climbed out of the hole. Moving toward me, he swiped the sweat from his brow with the rolled sleeve of his shirt. The men had abandoned their jackets long ago. “This killer is far too intelligent,” he declared, propping his hands on his hips. His face screwed up in frustration. “To bury something in a spot where the soil is so often turned by the runoff from the rain, and place a fresh animal carcass nearby. When the dogs dragged me up here, I thought they smelled the raccoon’s blood. All of this dirt looked as if it had been disturbed recently.” He shook his head. “I should have noticed the rock had been moved.”
“Stop berating yourself,” I told him. “As you said, the murderer was clever. And it looks like he did his best to keep any animals from being able to dig it up.”
“Yes, buried deep and placed a rock over it.”
None of us spoke of what “it” was, but I could tell Gage and Philip suspected the same thing. Our collective sense of horror weighted the air. The footmen may not have known exactly what we were looking for, but they took their cues from Philip and Gage and dug carefully and quietly.
It looked as if another foot or so of dirt had been cleared away when Gage halted the footman beside him and bent down to look at something. I shared a look of mutual dread with Philip before he inched toward the hole.
“There’s something here,” Gage murmured, reaching into the ground.
He slowly lifted the object from the earth, affording me only a brief glimpse of ivory cloth before it was blocked by Philip’s kneeling form. My brother-in-law had ordered me to stay out of the way if something was found. A command that had turned out to be wholly unnecessary, for I didn’t think my legs would have supported me anyway had I tried to approach. I wrapped my arms tighter around my knees. My heart stuck in my throat as I watched their hunched forms.
“This is no ordinary cloth,” Gage murmured. “Look at the pale pink roses embroidered around the edges.”
“It seems to be a lady’s shawl,” Philip said.
Gage’s voice tightened. “And here is a second one.”
The men fell silent, their bodies so still that all the hairs rose on the back of my neck. I knew without their saying anything what they had found. A fierce surge of emotion burned the back of my eyes at the thought of the tiny, helpless infant. I sunk my teeth into my bottom lip in an effort to withhold the sob building at the back of my throat.
I could barely see through the tears pouring down my cheeks as Gage shifted. “She should be placed in the chapel cellar with her mother,” he said quietly.
Philip exchanged some words with him that I did not hear, struggling with my grief as I was. Then he moved to speak with the footmen and searched the hole for anything else.
Gage rose to his feet, his face pale and drawn, and crossed the short distance to me. I swiped at my cheeks and took deep heaving breaths, trying to gain control of myself. All I could think about was how swiftly that baby’s life had ended. Had the infant cried? Had she made any sound at all?
I felt sick and disoriented and angry. Angry that someone could be capable of such savagery. We weren’t dealing with a murderer, but a monster. A sick, twisted human being who waltzed through the halls of Gairloch Castle and dined next to us at the table, and then marched outside to disfigure Lady Godwin and her child. Killing the viscountess would have killed the baby, too. But this fiend wasn’t satisfied with that. He had to viscerally defile motherhood and terrorize the child by wrenching her away from the only warmth she had ever known and burying her alone in the cold, dark ground.
Gage sat next to me, pulling me toward him. I allowed him to cradle my head against his chest while I sobbed. It was an unexpected comfort, and made me weep all the harder for the security and compassion he gave me when the child had been given none.
When my emotions settled, he and Philip guided me between them back down the path toward the castle. Darkness had begun to fall, so Philip lit one of the lamps to show the way while leaving the other for the footmen, who were re-covering the hole. I clutched both of their arms and allowed them to lead me on, resting my head against Gage’s shoulder when it became too heavy for me. At the orangery, he passed the tiny bundle to Philip. Then, with one last troubled glance at me, my brother-in-law set off toward the western hall block and the chapel.
“Come on,” Gage said, wrapping his arm securely around me so that I did not stumble. “Let’s get you inside. I think maybe a hot bath would make you feel better.”
“I don’t want a bath,” I protested, my voice hoarse from the spent emotion. “I don’t want to return to my room.” I couldn’t lie in the dark and allow images of Lady Godwin and her tiny unborn child to play over and over in my mind. That way lay only madness. “My studio,” I insisted before Gage could question me.
“All right,” he agreed, although from the tone of his voice I could tell it had been reluctantly.
Revived by his acquiescence, I pointed him toward the servants’ entrance, hoping to avoid the other guests. The fewer who knew what had been uncovered tonight the better, particularly if the murderer was watching. One look at my distressed features and the dirt staining Gage’s clothing, and the killer would know exactly where we had been and what we had found.
I glanced up at the castle’s looming facade, frightened I would see a pair of eyes staring out at me. I trembled, and Gage wrapped his arm more tightly around me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When we reached my studio, I realized I did not have my key. I groaned. It looked as if I would have to return to my bedchamber after all.
“What’s wrong?” Gage asked.
“It’s locked.” I reached out to twist the handle in illustration and the door swung open.
My mouth dropped open in shock.
Gage stepped closer to peer into the dim interior. “I take it that should not have happened?”
“I always keep it locked. There are volatile chemicals in here. I can’t have people wandering in and knocking something over and setting fire to the castle, or opening bottles and inhaling poisonous fumes. Think of the children.” I could hear the panic building in my voice.
He squeezed my arm gently. “Stay here.”
I watched in trepidation as he inched closer and pushed the door wider. The muted light of gloaming filtered through the large windows, blurring the lines of the furniture, canvases, and easels. He eased one step into the door and reached back under his frock coat to extract a pistol from the waist of his trousers. I wondered if he always carried the weapon. His free hand gestured for me to slide out of view of the door. I considered disobeying, for if I moved, then I wouldn’t be able to see what happened inside, but common sense reasserted itself. He wanted me out of the intruder’s line of sight, and thus out of firing range should they also have a gun.
Gage crept into the room, and I held my breath, listening for sounds of a struggle. In my mind, I pictured the layout of my studio and imagined him moving quietly around the room, weaving through my mess of easels and canvases, both finished and unfinished. There was a crash and I jumped. I heard his faint curse and strained to hear any other sounds. When there was only silence, I began to worry.
Had Gage been attacked by the intruder? Was he injured? Fear gripped my chest in its tight fist, squeezing the breath from my lungs. I glanced down the corridor, trying to decide what I should do. If something had happened to Gage, his attacker likely knew that I was out here waiting for him. Would he harm me as well? Should I run for help?
My limbs tensed, eager to take flight, but I stopped them from moving. If I ran, the intruder would escape without my identifying him. And then who would be blamed for Gage’s injuries or, worse, death?
Me. The only person who was known to have been with him. The person who was already the prime suspect for Lady Godwin’s murder in most minds.
If Gage had been harmed, I could not leave him, nor let his attacker get away. I had to stop him.
I reached up and carefully extracted the ivory comb from my hair. As far as weapons went, it was a rather innocuous choice, but it was the sharpest object I had on hand. A few tendrils of hair fell down around my face, and I blew them aside. Then, taking a deep breath, I took one tentative step toward the doorway, sliding along the wall. My palm was sweaty around the comb, so I gripped it tighter, feeling the bone bite into my skin. When I reached the threshold, I closed my eyes and said a prayer for courage. Leaning forward, I peered around the door frame to see into the room and shrieked.
Gage flinched back and reached out to take a hold of my arms. “Kiera. It’s just me.”
I pressed my hand over my pounding heart and leaned forward to rest my forehead against his chest.
“Are you all right?”
I lifted my head and swatted him. “When I heard the crash, I thought someone had attacked you.”
He smiled softly, clearly not injured by my slap. “Sorry. I tripped over something.” He glanced behind him. “I hope I didn’t damage anything that cannot be replaced.”
I saw the dim outline of a twisted canvas and began to push past him, until I remembered why he had been fumbling around in the dark in the first place. I looked up at him.
The Anatomist's Wife Page 18
