Lady Jayne Disappears

by Joanna Davidson Politano

  I blinked. We were discussing ants?

  “Do away with the uncles.”

  I spit out a laugh, muscles relaxing, and shook my head. “They are my cousins, actually.” What an odd sort of man.

  “Cousins. That’s the first bit of information I’ve gotten from you.” He held out a roll as if we were seated at a formal table and I had just asked him to pass them.

  “Is he all right?”

  “Gaffney? He isn’t choking anymore, if that’s what you mean.”

  I covered my face with my hands. “I certainly have a talent for mistakes, don’t I? He looked so pitiful when he ran from the room.”

  Adjusting himself on the seat, Mr. Rotherham thought for a moment, ignoring my comment. “He reminds me of a character in another Nathaniel Droll novel.”

  “Simon Long, in Tempest and Trouble.” That had been one of Papa’s fast and furious novels, dictated with clarity and rapid ideas I could barely keep up with. Perhaps Mr. Rotherham’s observation of the two men’s similarities was closer than he would guess. For very likely, the balding little man at dinner had inspired Papa’s fictional character.

  Rotherham glanced at the ceiling as he recalled the words of the book. “‘A man gentle to the point of stupidity, who clung to his wife with a childish obsession.’”

  Not the exact wording, but a decent paraphrase. I reached for a roll as I spoke. “What of Juliette? She sometimes strikes me as Estella, from Dickens’s Great Expectations. A bit cunning and worldly.”

  “You cannot judge someone who is merely a product of circumstances. Nothing they could help—either of them.” His defense slipped out quickly, quietly. As if he’d thought it through before and circled back to that conclusion several times.

  “Both of those women have brains. If you’ve known Juliette for half a day, you’d know she’s well equipped to make her own decisions.”

  His chin jerked, and he frowned. “Whenever I read Great Expectations, I pity Estella. We are all driven by our most important experiences, but Estella never had that privilege. She inherited Miss Havisham’s and was taught—no, brainwashed—to act on them.”

  I studied his face, the shadowed planes that hid such depths. Did he really think of Juliette that way? A helpless victim of her circumstances, as Estella was? “Don’t you find her a bit foolish to let others control her that way?” I bit into the soft roll, relishing the food about to reach my starving belly.

  “She is both controllable and headstrong, neither of which are appealing traits. But Pip saw something of value in the girl, to the point of obsessing over her.”

  I forced down the bite and cleared my throat. Obsessing. Could Rotherham possibly feel that way about Juliette? “Pip seemed to want her wealthy life as much as he wanted her.”

  “Of all the characters, Pip was the most misguided one, working so hard to join the wealthy. He could never possibly fit in, no matter his efforts.”

  Poor Pip, who only wanted to belong somewhere, to someone. I frowned as I finished my bite and swallowed. “All people learn to be the way they are, including the rich. Why couldn’t Pip?” And indeed, why not myself?

  “But you see, he couldn’t have belonged. In his very nature, he was never one of them.”

  My very nature. That’s what was broken, what would never belong. It was not Glenna, not my cold aunt Eudora, not even the demands of society itself. I was the one in disrepair. “Mr. Rotherham, Pip was so alone and unhappy. Is it so terrible of him to want to belong?”

  “Silas. Call me Silas. And no, I suppose it is not entirely terrible.” His warm hand hovered tentatively over mine on the bench, fingertips grazing my skin, ready to pull back if I demanded it, which I did not. I welcomed the comforting touch of this surprising ally.

  Finally he wrapped my hand in his. The contact was solemn, as if born of a deep need to convey his thoughts through both word and touch. “It’s quite all right to not fit in sometimes. It’s desirable, actually.”

  Thoughtful, I reached to the side for another roll, anticipating more of the crusty delight even though I’d filled my belly, but only crumbs remained on the napkin.

  Silas’s quick smile revealed his fleeting dimples again. “You’ve eaten them all. Shall I find you more? Perhaps the braised pudding I saw on the sideboard when I requested the rolls.”

  The thought of braised pudding—or any sort of pudding—tickled my taste buds, but I shook my head. “I am currently full of rolls and deep thoughts. No part of me shall go hungry.”

  He leaned close, still clasping my hand with his. “I do so love asking you questions. I am always rewarded with an answer richer than chocolate.”

  “Tonight, every thought I have slips out before I can think. You have made my tongue glib with your kindness.”

  “Have I?” He smiled serenely, nestling one finger into my fist to loosen it, and placed a little chocolate piece in my palm.

  Chocolate. And a smile richer than fudge.

  “Do not say no, Miss Harcourt. You needn’t ever stand on pretense with me. Let this be a sweet ending to a troublesome night. And I thank you for the conversation.”

  He rose, gaze still on me, and ducked under palm fronds to back out of the tiny space we’d shared. With a backward glance full of warmth through the leaf fingers, he straightened his suit coat on his shoulders and left the room.

  I released my breath as the room stilled in his absence. What a complicated novel character. He was disarming, yet elitist. Serious, yet playful. And any man who could melt my embarrassment and provide me with a momentary sense of self-worth in the face of ridicule from my own family deserved at least a measure of my respect.

  With long, slow strides, Silas meandered through the silent hall with no rush to return to the men. It was only another game of billiards, which would be repeated nearly every night. But that girl’s words hung on him, weighty and rich, and he meant to ponder them alone.

  How did she always do that? No matter what intelligent thought he put forth, she turned it upside down, made him think. He never wanted to leave her presence. In the words of Nathaniel Droll, she “climbed into his head and moved the furniture around.” Dust had settled over his stagnant beliefs, arranged just so in his mind. Yet she made sure they shifted just a little—or fully stood on their heads—every time they talked.

  “Pardon me, sir.” Digory slipped out of the shadows and extended a long envelope with a red wax seal. “This has come for you, sir. I thought it best to wait for a private moment.”

  “Thank you, Digory.”

  How had he not seen the man? The butler blended into Lynhurst as if he’d grown out of the gold-papered walls—just a part of the great house, like the gilded mirror or the ornate doors. The man had likely witnessed a great deal over the years.

  Silas tucked the letter inside his suit coat and rocked back on his heels. “I’ve just come from a pleasant conversation with Miss Harcourt, and I wanted to thank you for the rolls.” Hands in his pockets, Silas focused on remaining casual. “You remember the girl’s father, I imagine, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. Mr. Harcourt was one of the most extraordinary men I’ve had the pleasure of knowing.”

  “It’s a shame he was cut off from this family. All because of a woman.” Drop just a few of the pieces he’d overheard to imply he knew everything, and . . .

  “Aye, the man never knew a stranger. But no one in this house could forget what happened with poor Jayne Windham.”

  Silas blanketed his shock with a placid expression. Who on earth was Jayne Windham?

  I couldn’t face Glenna. Not yet. Anger heated my belly at the thought of that woman. No, not anger—deep embarrassment. I curled into a chair before the windows in an unused drawing room toward the rear of the house with an empty notebook. The writing part of my brain quickly strung together harsh, pointed sentences that would pierce the woman’s bubble with remorse and validate me. If only I had the courage to speak them. How vindicating it would be. Then
I could move forward and stop smoldering over the whole thing.

  While those sharp sentences zinged around my brain, pushing for release, the notebook before me caught my eye. A solution filtered into my mind. Dare I? This installment did need to be completed immediately. Thoughts firing, I fitted a new nib on the pen, hardly believing what I was about to do.

  Shadows moved as the wind blew trees outside the window and my heart sped up. Glancing about to each corner of the room, I saw no one. But why did I feel a terrible presence upon me? Nathaniel Droll had been a hallucination. Nothing real at all. Firming my jaw, I set myself to writing.

  Lady Tabitha Toblerone used confidence like honey, drawing important people into an acquaintanceship whenever she could, since she lacked Lady Jayne’s youth and beauty. And on the night of her masked ball, her own schemes were thwarted when her rival, hidden behind a bejeweled purple mask, radiated beauty only magnified by the costume meant to cover her.

  Corseted to a dangerous degree, Tabitha watched Lady Jayne through squinted eyes that poured malice upon her impossibly exquisite head. Something about this woman was wrong. No one possessed beauty so flawless unless such a blessing was tempered with a life of hardship or lower-class living. Lady Jayne most definitely had a secret, and soon she’d uncover it. That thought alone brought the miserable woman comfort.

  Our poor Lady Toblerone, finally overcome with jealousy, took herself out of the party and hastened down the hall with gentle pat-pats from her slippers. She had only one salvation where Lady Jayne was concerned.

  Fumbling in the near-dark hall outside the kitchen, she slid open the door of the dumbwaiter and plunged her arm into its great cavernous space, the movement as habitual as whisking out orders to her staff. Her fingers found the hidden stash and drew out a handful of golden delight. Peanut brittle. Filling her mouth and chewing, she breathed through her nose and the hard breaths drew sharp pain under her corset. After a few more painful breaths, she performed a feat of fantastic agility to undo a portion of her dress and loosen the stays below. One must always make room for what was important.

  The salty treat excited her senses and calmed her nerves. After consuming the quantity needed to fill her belly and her obsession, she hurried back to her guests.

  With the grace of a born hostess, she descended royally on them, charming smile and perfect posture in place. The gathering sailed smoothly, her daring emerald and lace gown drawing looks of amazement, as she’d intended. Emboldened by the impact she had on her peers, the woman swept from cluster to cluster, giving grand little speeches and even speaking before the entire party.

  And after all this show and pomp, it was her maid who finally informed her, well after the party’s conclusion, that her gown had not been fully closed in the back, her lacy camisole exposed to the world the entire night. Thus her animosity for Lady Jayne swelled to a dangerous level, igniting the dark side of her creativity as a new, more permanent plan swirled and took root. Only one sure way existed to fully cleanse her little corner of the world from the insidious young woman who had invaded it. And now Lady Toblerone reached for this solution in her desperation . . .

  I heaved a sigh as the scene came to a satisfying end and rose, crossing the room to the other windows that overlooked the fountain. Controlling one’s temper was perfectly doable, as long as a girl also knew how to write about the villains in her life and give them their due. For a writer, revenge was best saved for an empty notebook where the pen was, indeed, a mighty weapon against her foes.

  Footfalls in the hall snapped me from my writing trance, heightening my senses. A man’s boots echoed on tile, striding toward my little haven and threatening to intrude upon it. Yet I was the intruder, sneaking into this room into which I had not been invited. Someone must have seen me framed in the window.

  Ducking out of sight, I glanced around for a hiding spot. To the left stood a smaller side door and I exhaled as I sprinted to it on silent feet. As the main doors creaked open, I slipped through the side door and closed it behind me.

  Stealing up the steps to my bedchamber, my heart fluttering with wicked excitement at my escape, I kicked off my little shoes and prepared for bed, splashing my face with water in the washbasin and tying back my long hair. And what adventure will you have for me tomorrow, God?

  After nearly a half hour had passed, a cold realization grabbed me and squeezed. My notebook—I’d left it on the window seat in the drawing room.

  Flinging a pink-and-gold wrap around myself, I darted out of the room and down the stairs. No one used that space. Dust covered every surface. No one would see my misplaced notebook. I repeated these thoughts as I flew toward it, shaking.

  In the desolate room sat my book, opened on the cushions exactly as I’d left it. With a giddy laugh tickling my chest, I snatched the wayward object and paged through it as I headed again for the stairs. Keeping this secret was taking a toll on my nerves. As I thumbed through to see how many pages I’d filled, my eye spotted unfamiliar writing on a lone sheet. I spread the pages open at the spot, curious. The few lines in perfect cursive chilled me to my core.

  At this point, you should be beginning to understand the murder. You need not look further than Lynhurst for the killer, but you’ll have to search carefully and guard yourself well. Keep digging into the past until you have it right. What I really want to say is this: Go and run away—make off now, dear.

  Yours truly,

  Nathaniel Droll

  8

  One unfortunate part about life among the gentry was that those who brimmed with confidence were always the wrong ones to do so.

  ~Nathaniel Droll, Lady Jayne Disappears

  That night, visions carried me through never-ending hallways, passages that disappeared, and a shadowy old man chasing me about the house. I awoke often with anxiety that plunged me in and out of sleep like a drowning woman, until finally I threw back the covers and plunked onto the cool floor. This attempt at sleep would only leave me exhausted and fearful as the dreams multiplied.

  Lighting a tallow candle on the nightstand, I bit back fear and collected the book from the floor where I’d thrown it the night before. Walking to the window with it, I set my candle on the ledge and thumbed through the pages until I found the writing. Tiredness pulled at me, but I knew the writing before me was real. With steady fingers, I ripped the page from the book and slid it between two other notebooks on the shelf.

  So she’d been murdered after all. But who at Lynhurst might be evil enough to kill her? Perhaps Mr. Droll simply wanted me to take the story that direction, to—

  Stop. This was madness. Nathaniel Droll did not exist. Well, except in the wild imagination of a young writer who’d hit her head. I hugged my knees to my chest and glanced about the shadowed room.

  What would Papa do with all this? Upset the plot. When life twisted your gut, dive into your story world and twist the plot. But in my middle-of-the-night frazzled state, I had no idea where to take the next installment.

  The walls are literally filled with stories, Aura Rose. They hide in the cracks until a keen eye slows down long enough to pay attention to them. My overtired brain could nearly hear Papa say those words. How many times since my childhood had he uttered them? As if Lynhurst were the only estate with juicy—

  Then my roving eye saw it. In the pattern of perfectly dovetailed stones, one sat farther out from the wall. Jumping up and dropping my notebook, I ran to it and tugged, digging my fingernails into the dirty crevices around it. In slow jerks it came loose until I could slide it out from its space and push my hand into the dirty cavity. Nothing but settled dirt and chilly stones.

  I replaced the piece of wall but did not give up. Going over that wall in laborious detail, I felt for more hiding spots. Then, ducking behind a vast wall mural, I found another. And in this cavity lay a tin box. I drew it out and flipped open the lid bound to it with rusty hinges to find stacks of letters. Oddly folded scraps of paper and various trinkets and ribbon filled the lit
tle thing.

  Holding the first letter up to the barely cresting sunrise, I gazed upon my own mother’s handwriting for the first time. For it was her name scrawled with fine, feminine cursive at the bottom.

  The worst has happened. Please, my love. Tell me you can fix everything. This is the last note I will be able to leave you here. We must escape immediately if we are to have any chance together.

  I stared at the page, taking steady breaths and absorbing the implications. Their love had been forbidden—so much so that they needed to hide their communication. I picked up the rest of the little missives and read note after note, heart pounding at the words.

  My fear increases nearly as much as my affection for you. They both grip me with a power that threatens to overwhelm. Please tell me my worries are unfounded.

  ~

  Are you growing concerned? I am, but perhaps I am only paranoid. With our moments together so few, I try not to dwell on it, but surely you see the coming threat. Let us hold each other close in our minds when we cannot do it in body.

  ~

  Your heart resides in my chambers, my love, because that is where you left it when we last met. Do not forget to return and claim it.

  ~

  I am bursting with joy as we embark upon this secret journey together. Perhaps one day reality shall dash this all away with its chilly waters, but for now, I shall cherish each precious moment with you and make that my reality.

  ~

  Good morning, sunshine of my heart! Come spill your golden rays on me this day. I will walk about in the garden and hope to see you.

  ~

  Time spent with you is never wasted, even if nothing but conversation is accomplished. Whatever you think of me now, after what we shared yesterday, I want you to know how deeply I delight in the brief moments spent in your company.