by Anna Bradley
Isabella, for her part, had accepted her new nickname cheerfully enough. The pettishness Cecilia had noticed this morning didn’t seem to be a natural feature of her temperament. She was a touch shy, and anxious from too much turmoil in her young life, but Cecilia saw signs of a sweet, even-tempered child underneath the fussiness. She seemed more apt to smile than frown, to laugh than cry, and she had a sunny, lopsided grin so charming it could melt the coldest of hearts.
The child’s eyes, though, were her most outstanding feature. Such an unusual hazel color, so bright and distinctive there was no overlooking them. They made Cecilia think of Lord Darlington’s eyes. Not the color, as his were blue, but the brightness of them, the way they dominated his every other feature.
The similarity ended there, though. Where Isabella’s eyes sparkled with life, Lord Darlington’s eyes were burdened with shadows and secrets.
Cecilia glanced down into Isabella’s sweet face. The big, hazel eyes had grown heavy as she hummed. “Ah, nearly asleep at last, and not a moment too soon.” A wry smile curved her lips. “The only other ballad I can remember is about a fairy that steals a child away while his mother is picking berries. Not at all the thing, I’m afraid.”
She continued to rock back and forth, Isabella’s warm body limp in her arms. She stroked her soft, golden-brown curls, watching her heavy, black eyelashes until they fluttered closed against her plump cheeks.
Once Isabella was asleep, Cecilia’s gaze wandered over to the cot that had been arranged against the wall on the other side of the fireplace. Amy slept there, on orders of the Marquess of Darlington, who insisted his niece never be left alone.
It was a strange arrangement, but it wasn’t the only strange thing about Darlington Castle. Perhaps whatever secrets Lord Darlington was hiding had addled his brain. A guilty conscience was a burdensome thing, wasn’t it?
What precisely he was guilty of, however, she still couldn’t say. Her subtle attempts to prod the servants for information had come to precisely naught. Lord Darlington had told her his servants didn’t tell tales outside the castle, but Cecilia had assumed they must tell tales to each other.
They didn’t. She’d never seen servants more loyal to their master. None of them had a bad word to say about the Marquess of Darlington. But no one could escape their sins forever, not even a marquess. They were part of him now, the secrets he hid woven into the very stone of these castle walls.
It was simply a matter of uncovering them.
Cecilia snuggled Isabella more securely against her and watched the firelight dance in the grate, the shadows flickering against the stone walls. Soon her eyelids began to grow heavy. She was just drifting off to sleep when the sound of the door opening made her eyes pop open. “Amy?”
The shadowy figure paused in the doorway. “Try again.”
Cecilia jerked upright, her heart quickening into a frantic rhythm under her breastbone. There was only one person at Darlington Castle who had such a deep voice and such broad shoulders, and it wasn’t Amy. “Lord Darlington?”
“What are you doing in my niece’s bedchamber, Cecilia?” Lord Darlington closed the door behind him, shutting the two of them alone together in the dim room. “Where’s Amy?”
Cecilia leapt to her feet with Isabella clutched in her arms. “I beg your—”
“No, don’t beg my pardon,” Lord Darlington grumbled. “You’ve already begged my pardon a half dozen times today. I’m weary of it.”
“Yes, my—”
“No more yes, my lords, or no, my lords either.”
“Very well, my—” Cecilia began, then broke off with a soft gasp. He’d taken a step closer, and he was moving closer yet.
Closer, and closer…
God in heaven, the man was enormous.
She backed up a step, and he paused again. “There’s nowhere for you to go, unless you intend to leap out the window. Do I make you nervous, Cecilia?”
“No, my—”
He raised an eyebrow, and she caught herself just in time. “I, ah…very well. The truth is, you do make me a trifle nervous.”
“The truth. How refreshing.” A grim smile drifted over his lips. “You don’t need to be afraid of me. Not while you’re holding my niece, at least.”
His pitiful attempt at a smile tugged at a raw place in Cecilia’s chest, and in the next breath she found herself rushing to reassure him. “I never said I was afraid. Nothing so drastic as that. Just a little unnerved. I daresay I’ll become used to you soon enough.”
Another grim smile. “I doubt it. Not to worry, though. You won’t be the only woman in Kent who’s alarmed by my presence.” He didn’t give her a chance to respond, but held out his arms for Isabella. “I’ve only come to say goodnight to my niece.”
Cecilia hesitated, but she could hardly refuse to turn Isabella over to her uncle. “She fretted for a bit, but now she’s nearly asleep.” She settled Isabella into Lord Darlington’s arms.
Lord Darlington squeezed into the rocking chair, despite being far too tall for it, and sat with his legs sprawled out before him, Isabella gathered against his chest. He cupped the back of her head with one big hand and waved the other at the chair opposite the one Cecilia had just vacated. “If you’ve decided not to go out the window after all, you may as well sit down.”
Cecilia, whose legs were like jelly from the number of times she’d run up and down the stairs today, and not from Lord Darlington’s sudden appearance, sank gratefully into the chair. But just when she’d drawn a relieved breath, he turned to her expectantly. “Let’s have a lullaby, then.”
“A lullaby?” Cecilia’s mouth fell open. “I don’t know any lullabies, my lord.”
“I heard you singing to Isabella earlier. I assume you were singing her a lullaby?”
“Well, yes…I mean, no, not…” Cecilia bit her lip. “I don’t know any proper lullabies.”
Lord Darlington shrugged. “Sing an improper one, then.”
Cecilia gaped at him. He wanted her to sing an improper song now, in front of him? “But—”
“You are meant to be putting Isabella to bed tonight, are you not?”
“Yes, but—”
“Aren’t lullabies a common enough occurrence at bedtime?”
“I suppose so, but—”
“Well, then.” He waved an imperious hand at her.
Cecilia wracked her brain, but the few sweet lullabies she knew had fled in a panic the moment he demanded one. The only songs she could recall were the drinking or shanty songs the mudlarking urchins used to sing.
Perhaps “Jack Hall” would do? No, that was about a man hanged for burglary. “The Fair Maid of Islington” was a pretty tune, but wasn’t there something in it about a vintner paying a fair maiden five pounds to…
Cecilia’s cheeks went hot. Dear God, she couldn’t sing that.
“The Irish Girl,” then. It was proper enough, if she left off the last verse about drinking whiskey and dangling a lassie on one knee.
She drew a deep breath, and with a muttered prayer, began to sing:
I wish my love was a red rose,
And in the garden grew,
And I to be the gardener;
To her I would be true…
Lord Darlington didn’t look at her, but he went still when she began to sing.
I wish I was a butterfly,
I’d fly to my love’s breast;
I wish I was a linnet,
I’d sing my love to rest.
Cecilia sang through the rest of the verses, leaving off the last one about debauching the lassies. Lord Darlington murmured something to Isabella when the song ended. Isabella stirred, nestled her head against her uncle’s chest, and drifted back to sleep.
Lord Darlington continued to rock quietly, but he was studying Cecilia over the top of Isabella’s downy
head. “Why don’t you know any proper lullabies?”
Maybe she had once, but if anyone ever had sung lullabies to her when she was a child, Cecilia didn’t remember them. “I can’t recall them, I suppose.”
Lord Darlington didn’t appear satisfied with this reply. He opened his mouth, but Cecilia didn’t choose to share anything more, so she rose from the chair before he could speak, and hurried to the window on the other side of the room.
He didn’t speak to her again, but she felt the heat of his gaze on her back, and sought out his reflection in the glass. He was caressing Isabella’s hair, his big palm stroking gently over the girl’s head, the rocking chair squeaking beneath them.
Cecilia kept herself busy on her own side of the room, folding and then refolding Isabella’s clothing and blankets and sneaking looks at Lord Darlington’s reflection. She turned to face him again when he rose from the rocking chair, and watched as he drew the pink silk hangings aside and lay Isabella in her bed, careful not to wake her. “Sleep well, little one.”
He reached for the coverlet and tucked it snugly under Isabella’s chin, and brushed the golden-brown curls back from her forehead. Isabella didn’t wake, but she hummed contentedly in her sleep and nestled closer to her uncle’s stroking hand.
A smile—a real one—curved Lord Darlington’s lips at the girl’s unconscious affection. He waited until Isabella’s breathing became deep and even, then straightened. He looked vaguely surprised when he noticed Cecilia again, as if he’d forgotten she was there. He didn’t speak to her, but he gazed at her so long Cecilia’s heart began to pound.
She cleared her throat. “Good night, Lord Darlington.”
He blinked, then with a little shake of his head he dropped his gaze and strode to the connecting door. “Good night.”
Cecilia stared at his closed door for a while after he left, not sure what to make of him, then returned to the rocking chair to wait for Amy. She must have dozed off, because when she woke, Amy was beside her, gently shaking her shoulder. “Wake up, Cecilia. You can go off to your own bedchamber now. You look right worn out, you do, poor thing.”
Cecilia gave a great yawn, and stretched her aching arms over her head. “It has been rather a long day.” After the debacle in Lord Darlington’s bedchamber this morning, she and Mrs. Briggs had spent the day scouring every corner of the drawing room and entry hall.
“Tomorrow will be another long one.” Amy drew back a corner of the pink silk hangings Lord Darlington had drawn around Isabella’s bed, and peeked inside. “Did she give you any trouble tonight?”
“Not much, no. She’s a dear little thing.”
“You’ve got a natural way with her, that’s certain.” Amy gave her a sly grin. “Not so much with the coal scuttle, though.”
“Oh, hush.” Cecilia huffed, but her lips were twitching. She’d confessed the details of the debacle in Lord Darlington’s bedchamber this morning, and Amy, who was a hearty, high-spirited girl, had nearly laughed herself sick.
All things considered it had been a rather humiliating morning. One good thing had come of it, though. She and Amy had agreed to trade morning and evening tasks. Cecilia would take care of Isabella, and Amy would attend to Lord Darlington. They were both well pleased with the new arrangement.
Amy pulled the coverlet on her cot aside and plumped up her pillow. “It’s a shame you can’t sleep here. It would save us both a good deal of fuss.”
Cecilia hesitated. “It’s an…unusual arrangement, your sleeping here with Isabella, isn’t it? Why does Lord Darlington insist on it?”
Amy shrugged. “He rests easier if he’s near Isabella at night. She’s been in this room for a year or more, even before Lord Darlington ordered the third floor closed. The nursery is too far a distance from his own apartments for his liking.”
“Well, this room is certainly closer,” Cecilia murmured.
Much, much closer. The room was nestled between Lord Darlington’s apartments on one side, and the Marchioness of Darlington’s on the other. It had previously been a shared sitting room, but Lord Darlington had ordered it be made suitable for Isabella and her nursemaid.
The arrangement was irregular, but not necessarily suspicious, as long as it didn’t end with Lord Darlington creeping up to Amy’s cot and holding a pillow over her face.
“I came to Darlington Castle after Lady Darlington passed,” Amy said, “But Mrs. Briggs said as her ladyship liked having Isabella close by her, as well.”
Whatever his servants truly thought of Lord Darlington, they were all in agreement about his late wife. Cassandra, Lady Darlington had, by all accounts, been as lovely and kind a lady as one could hope to find. All the servants, from Mrs. Briggs down to the scullery maid, described her as the sweetest of angels.
An angel called to heaven far too soon.
“To hear Mrs. Briggs tell it,” Amy went on, “Lady Darlington doted on Isabella. She couldn’t have loved that child more if she’d been her own. Treated her like a daughter, she did.”
Cecilia’s eyebrows rose. Amy spoke as if Isabella had no mother aside from her aunt, but no one in the castle had said a word about the child being an orphan. “Where is Isabella’s mother, Amy?”
Amy shook her head. “She’s been gone these six months now. Poor lady said she couldn’t bear to stay here after Lady Darlington passed.”
“Where has she gone?” Cecilia wasn’t willing to let it drop. She didn’t like to push too hard, but subtlety had gotten her nowhere so far. It was only a few short weeks until Lord Darlington’s wedding to Fanny Honeywell. Those days would pass quickly, and Cecilia needed answers before then.
Amy dropped down onto the edge of her cot with a sigh. “She’s in London now, and meant to be marrying the Marquess of Aviemore this spring.”
It was the first time anyone had offered any information at all about Isabella’s mother, Lady Leanora, other than that she’d been wife to Nathanial Rhys, the current Lord Darlington’s elder brother, who’d died three years ago. Cecilia wasn’t certain what had happened to him. She’d gathered it was some sort of accident, but no one in the castle spoke much about either him or his absent wife.
“But why would she leave Isabella behind?” It didn’t make any sense.
Amy glanced at Isabella, then scooted to the edge of the cot and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Mrs. Briggs said Lady Leanora thought Isabella would be better off here with Lord Darlington until she’d settled. There was some talk of her going to the Continent, you see.”
“My goodness,” Cecilia murmured. “It’s all rather unfortunate, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and that’s not the whole of it. A few months after Lady Leanora left, Lord Darlington was obliged to dismiss Isabella’s nursemaid, Mrs. Vernon. The woman stole a gold crucifix that had belonged to Lady Cassandra that was meant to be saved for Isabella.” Amy’s mouth tightened. “Stealing from a child! Can you imagine? And you may be sure it’s no coincidence those dreadful rumors about the Murderous Marquess started just after she left.”
Cecilia gasped. “But that’s awful, Amy!”
“It is,” Amy agreed with a sigh. “First poor Lady Darlington dies, then Isabella’s mother goes away, and then her nursemaid turns out to be a thief. All of them gone, one after the next, just like that.” Amy snapped her fingers.
Cecilia glanced at Isabella, tucked so sweetly into her bed, and a tiny fissure opened in her heart. She was no stranger to tragedy, having lost her parents in a fire when she was four. She only remembered them in broken images, or in traces she caught here and there of familiar scents. She did remember the miserable years she’d spent in London at the Foundling Hospital, and later, trying to dig a living from the muddy depths of the Thames.
If it hadn’t been for Lady Clifford, she’d likely be dead by now. Cecilia was tremendously grateful to her, but as much as she loved Lady Clifford, th
ere’d always been an ache inside her, a blank space where her memories of her parents should have been. She hated to think Isabella was destined to suffer that same emptiness.
Amy tutted. “You get on to bed now, Cecilia. You look done in.”
Cecilia rose unsteadily to her feet. “Yes, all right. Good night, Amy.”
Amy patted her arm. “Good night.”
Cecilia closed the door quietly behind her and made her way down the hallway toward the other side of Lady Darlington’s bedchamber, where her own little room was, her head spinning with a thousand thoughts and questions.
What had happened to Lord Darlington’s elder brother, and why did Lord Darlington refuse to let anyone enter his late wife’s bedchamber?
Today had brought more questions than answers.
Cecilia let out a weary sigh as she stripped off her clothing, hurried into her night rail and dove under the covers, shivering. She couldn’t understand why such a tiny chamber as this should be so unaccountably cold. It was hardly bigger than a closet, but despite her thick coverlet and the blazing fire in the grate, her feet and the tip of her nose were half frozen.
But exhaustion caught up with her despite the cold, and before long her limbs relaxed and her breathing deepened. She was just tumbling off into the oddest dream, where she and Lord Darlington were singing “The Irish Girl” to Isabella, with Cecilia enthroned on Lord Darlington’s knee, when a peculiar sound startled her awake.
It sounded like…scratching? Like fingernails on wood. She struggled up onto one elbow and listened, but all she heard was the crackling of the fire. Cecilia waited, her ears perked for the strange noise, but the silence stretched on, and soon enough she settled back against her pillow. Her eyelids grew heavy once again, but just as she was about to drift off…
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
She opened her eyes and turned her head slowly toward the sound, her heart pounding. It was coming from the other side of the connecting door, the one that led from the lady’s maid’s closet into…
