“How could you pretend that? The best books draw the curtains back on a person’s life and allow the reader to glimpse each part and understand it fully.”
A smile flickered over his face. “Tell me one of your stories. I’d love to hear it.”
She fidgeted, hands on her knees, then relaxed. “I suppose I could tell you one of the stories heavy on my mind at the moment.” Flicking a glance toward the stables, she settled into a comfortable, wide-eyed, sky-gazing pose as if it were a well-grooved chair she reposed in every day and launched into a story.
“It’s about a little boy. He had a kind, wonderful father but a mother who was not altogether motherly. She all but removed herself from his life, as if she deemed it unworthy as soon as she’d created it.”
He forced a gulp down his throat that was thick with tension. Yes, she possessed that remarkable writing knack—the ability to, in a few sentences, re-create his own experiences as clearly as if she’d been there. Acute self-awareness drove his gaze down toward the polished, pointed toes of his boots, then out over the expanse of fresh green grass.
“The lad grew up, forming himself around the large hole in the center of him. He was, to all observers, whole and healthy. But inside he was deteriorating as quickly and helplessly as his mixed-up household.”
His hand gripped his knee, and he frowned with the intensity of his thoughts. What sort of ghostly creature was this? How could she know that much about his past? He squeezed until his knuckles felt ready to pop out of his skin.
“Finally when he became an adult, the boy stopped aching for the right sort of household and realized he was meant to create his own home one day. He began reaching out to women he thought to marry. Not in the normal way one courts, but with intensity and dire thirst. As if he hardly cared who quenched that thirst, as long as he could drink his fill immediately.”
Is that how she viewed him? Desperate? His jaw hurt from clenching. How soon could he remove himself from her presence? How could he do it gracefully, keeping his thoughts under wraps? It was never his strongest ability.
She trailed on—the young man in her story met a girl and everything changed, but the details were lost to Silas’s fuzzy brain as he processed what he’d already heard.
The story died on Aurelie’s smiling lips as she closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the chair. Allowing a few moments of silence as one would at the end of a piano recital, Silas tensed his muscles until she spoke again.
“A rather dark story, but I’d like to think it will have a happy ending one day.” Her dazzling eyes burst open and met his gaze. “It feels a waste of time to become attached to a story without a nice resolution. I hope it met your expectations. What did you think of it, Mr. Rotherham?”
With a mumbled excuse, he stood, bowed, and moved swiftly toward the house.
Silas’s reaction to Jasper Grupp’s story left my heart raw, but so had the mere telling of it. A dread had also settled into the pit of my stomach at the suddenly tenuous bond with my only ally in the house.
It was not until evening that the ideas for my current novel began to spark again, and I composed the next installment of Lady Jayne Disappears in my mind. I barely spoke at dinner as my characters talked back and forth wildly in my head, clamoring for attention with their clues, both real and false. My thoughtful mood intensified as Juliette played the piano for us all after the meal, her magical touch carrying me into another realm.
Finally at bedtime I hastened to my chamber, prepared to shape and solidify the new ideas. With wind whipping the sheer curtains, I poured the story onto the page, watching the characters unfold as they talked and reacted to one another. I also walked Abigail through debtor’s prison and introduced the readers to a taste of life there, making clear that each person in the prison owed only a minuscule amount of money which would never be repaid, since their imprisonment kept them from working. Later I would show how the jailer ran his prison as a business. My own precious papa had greased the jailer’s palms with some of his book money to keep us fed and living in the tower, lifted away from the disease and squalor of ground cells.
The familiar clock-clock-clock of footsteps below the stairs echoed hours later, sending chills up my arms. Who wandered the halls this late at night? It must be nearing midnight.
Curiosity distracted me. I reread the same sentences many times, trying to dive back into the world of my story, but the bumps and scrapes below pulled me back out. Finally I rose from the chair, pushed my toes into brown day slippers, and snuck down the stairs with a greasy tallow candle clutched in my right hand. The second-floor hallway lay quiet and still, as did the main floor. The noises continued in the distance, as though someone moved through the interior of the house. I followed the sound down a windowed tunnel and into a grand foyer with ivory-handled doors ahead. It was like an entire secret building attached to the house. Had it appeared from nowhere? Perhaps I was losing my sanity. Again I recalled the dusty old man in the hall.
Hesitating only a moment, I pulled one door open and extended my candle into the dim room. A gigantic open space lay beyond, lined with pews and stained-glass windows that cast a prism of moonlit colors. The chapel. At the front another candle glowed, illuminating the bent form of a woman in white.
Aunt Eudora.
The woman touched her candle to several others on a wooden ledge, bringing a soft glow to the ivory room. Peaceful and eerily beautiful, the scene drew me, not allowing me to look away.
When my slipper scuff echoed in the room, the old woman jerked as if coming awake. I sucked in my breath. Pull away. Close the door. Slowly she turned until our eyes met and held.
“Come in, Miss Aurelie Rosette.” Her voice echoed in the chapel.
Propelled forward in automatic obedience, I closed the distance between us and sat on the altar steps beside her. Had she been praying? Without the family around her and stiff, fancy clothes perfecting her posture, she looked tiny and vulnerable.
Her wrinkled hand appeared from under her dressing gown and swollen knuckles grazed my cheek. The too-large eyes rimmed with redness searched mine. “He was never fit for this earth, your father. The world where creditors must be paid, daily tasks completed, and promises fulfilled. He was too far above the mundane tasks that keep life functioning.” The gnarled hand traveled back to my loose hair, gently fingering the strands. “And I suppose you are too.” How different she was here, with a loose braid down her back and emotion clouding her face.
“You loved Papa, didn’t you?”
The weathered cheeks creased back in a smile. “Like my own son.” Emotion tripped her words. “Mother had nine dead babies after me and before your father. When he came, I was fifteen years old. His birth made me not only a sister, but a sort of mother too.”
Yes, that’s how Papa had painted her—the mother who had replaced the one who’d died in his infancy. This soft woman lit by candle glow, draped in a white nightdress with pink ribbon, was the sort of aunt I’d assumed would be greeting me upon my arrival. And here in this midnight meeting of candles and muted stained-glass colors, it seemed impossible that she could be anything else.
“Why did you let him remain there, then?”
The old woman tipped her head and twirled a strand of my hair around her finger. “My child, it is as I said. He was not fit for this world. It was far better to keep him out of it, to keep him from ruining himself with greater sins.”
Chills prickled me. What had he done?
“But you are another matter altogether. Had I known he intended to keep you, to bring you to that place, believe me. Something would have been done.” Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. “I suppose you tell stories, just like he did. He would have taught you that, if he gave you nothing else.”
I nodded. This woman’s suffering tugged at the corners of my bitterness, prompting something akin to forgiveness.
“Tell me a story, won’t you? Calm my old heart.”
My tension
eased. I could tell a story. It’s what I always did in the face of illness, death, all sorts of pain. “All right, then. Have you heard the tale of the duck family of Knoll Pond?” I swept into a fairy tale and wove it together as it came from my mouth. A family of ducks once lived together in a small lake, each with a distinct personality. The story progressed, and the woman’s face relaxed. Her eyes even closed.
But somehow, the sight of her calmness irked me, pulling out the bitterness I had nearly tucked away moments earlier. This woman did not deserve peace and comfort. Did she even understand what she’d done? Did she realize the full weight of her choices? She’d played God, in a way. Chosen our fate. Decided what was best.
The story of the ducks took a decidedly pointed turn as a little gosling was accidentally born into that family. He did not look altogether different at first, just a little. But as he grew, it was obvious this gosling-turned-goose was different. With a long, graceful neck and striking beauty, he did not fit in with the ordinary ducks. They thought this was wrong, especially when other animals laughed at their odd-looking family. “When embarrassment overwhelmed them, they tricked the goose into a hunter’s trap so that he would be taken away and they could return to their peaceful life, coexisting with the other animals of the pond. Their evil hearts—”
The old woman grabbed my wrist with surprising force, squeezing the feeling out of it. Her eyes darted frantically. “I was only trying to protect him. I knew what he’d done—what he’d continue to do if he were released. I couldn’t bear to watch it happen over and over, ruining his life. I should have taught him when he was young, but I spoiled him so! It’s my fault, so I had to protect him.” Gray eyebrows drew together as the woman’s shoulders shook, then her head dropped forward in a posture of utter despair.
I rested a hand on one trembling shoulder. I’d gone too far. What was I doing, trying to exact revenge? Regret bathed my bitter heart, cooling it again. This was the beloved sister Papa had spoken of so warmly. He wouldn’t have wanted this.
Slowly, Aunt Eudora’s head lifted, her gaze going straight to the altar before us. “This is between you and me. And God. You deserve to know about him, but no one else must.” She looked at me. “Do you understand? No one. Especially my grandchildren. They are not wise enough to handle it well.” Her gaze flicked down. “Perhaps I never should have allowed you to stay.”
So many crevices of this story begged to be explored. To be exposed to the light. “What happened to my mother when she disappeared? Did she run away? Did she—”
“It isn’t a story that bears repeating, child.” But as my hope crumbled, Aunt Eudora’s anger melted into the worn lines of pity. “It is best if you do not know the rest. Suffice it to say that you were born, and that’s the only event you need be concerned with.”
She’d died. In childbirth. That explained her hesitance. The realization struck me hard and heavy. But no, it was my father’s story she’d wanted to bury. It was something he had done, and Aunt Eudora felt the need to keep me from that knowledge.
“You might as well have this too.” She unpinned a great teardrop pendant from her shawl. “It was my grandmother’s, and I meant to give it to my brother’s bride one day, to honor her into the family. Clearly, you held the highest place in his heart, so it should belong to you.” It took several tries for her trembling fingers to pin it to my dressing gown. The weight of it, tugging down the fabric, matched the load I carried in my heart. “I truly loved him, you know. Despite . . . everything. You should keep this, and do not sell it, even if you are someday destitute.”
Her words constricted my chest worse than a corset, and remained with me on my walk back upstairs and during an entire night of fitful sleep. The information sparked ideas, new possibilities and outcomes. But it saturated my heart with dread. Wild dreams of Papa filled my troubled sleep, from which I woke over and over again before finally glimpsing the orangey light of early morning through dry lids.
Nelle would understand. That realization poked through my haze in the morning, drawing me from bed. I dressed, bending awkwardly to tighten my borrowed corset rather than call for a chambermaid. My own worn corset had fallen apart in my fingers when I’d scrubbed it in the tub, and it was no wonder. It had seen daily use for more years than I could count on one hand. I resigned myself to Juliette’s borrowed corset, with the rigid bands that constricted my gut. My frame was much slighter than Juliette’s. How did the girl fit into such a piece? Wiggling the laces a bit looser under my chemise and the green-striped dress, I allowed one slow breath into my squeezed lungs and left to find breakfast, and then Nelle.
But it was Juliette who claimed my attention first in the morning room, with a dangerously eager glow to her face. “Aurelie, dear, you must hear my brilliant scheme.”
10
Secrets are like elaborate gifts. They are held close until the proper time, and then they are given with sweet uncertainty and hope.
~Nathaniel Droll, Lady Jayne Disappears
Juliette approached with a presence that commanded me to remain, despite my desire to flee, and took my hands. “I’ve finally decided how you can meet your gentleman. It’ll be a benefit, with all the best of Somerset in attendance. And if you find my match so disagreeable, you’ll find another.” The girl’s marigold-colored dress lit up the already-sunny room, but her smile nearly overpowered it. “Kendrick will have to talk Mother and Father into the idea, but I know they’ll go along. And once they’re in agreement, Grandmama will have to let us do it.”
“I have nothing to wear to such an event. None of my dresses would be finished in time.”
“Do you really think you’ll not have anything to wear? It’ll be my pet project, after my own dress. Besides, it isn’t a ball, it’s a benefit. That makes all the difference when trying to convince Father.”
“Who exactly will this benefit?” I perched on the edge of the settee, balancing a small plate on my knees.
“Why, the poor in Liverpool, of course. We’re sending it to the workhouses.”
“You wish to send money to the poor?” My heart swelled with hope.
“No, silly. Not to the poor themselves. To the ones who run the workhouse. It surely costs an awful lot to feed all those people.”
“Why not send it directly to the people who need money? Or better yet, to pay the debts of men in debtor’s prison, so they are free to work again?”
She focused a pitying gaze on me. “I shan’t call you foolish, since you don’t know any better, but squandering charity on the debtors really is the worst idea. Oh you poor dear, the world just isn’t that way. You’ve some romantic notion of all men being honest workers, if given the chance. But they’re there for a reason, you know.” She leaned forward and patted my knee, but I tensed and wished with painful desperation to yank away from her touch. “There’s so much to teach you about the world. In the meantime, I imagine you in a cornflower-blue dress and a drop-line necklace for the benefit. Or would you prefer a Persian blue? Either way it must be blue, with that lovely hair and skin. And I have it on excellent authority that Alexander dearly loves blue.”
I forced a polite reply. “As long as it sufficiently covers me, I’ll consider it to have done its duty.”
As soon as Juliette sailed out of the room and on to tackle her next project, I relaxed and pushed her from my mind. It was people like her I needed to enlighten with my writing. Thus urged forward in my work, I asked a maid how to find Nelle’s cottage.
Clement stepped up, discarding his plate. “I was about to take a walk there myself. Allow me to escort you. It’s called Florin cottage.”
“I would appreciate the guidance.” I carried a handful of berries and toast into the garden.
In the yard, Clement paused to snatch a few radiantly pink flowers, grasping them in a bunch. I smiled. Did he perhaps have a crush on Nelle? That he frequently made the trek from his house to hers was soon obvious, as he led us quickly along the way.
“You�
�ve traveled this route often, I see.”
“Often enough. I’ve lived here long enough to know all the paths, though.” He strode on without looking around. “Nearly ten years or so.”
I frowned. Only ten years? Did that mean I should cross his entire family off my list of suspects? “Did your family live elsewhere before that?”
“In the city. Only Grandmama and Grandfather lived here with the servants before that. When we came, half of the house had to be uncovered and cleaned for our arrival.”
My mind spun. That removed Glenna, Garamond, and Kendrick. Only Aunt Eudora and Digory remained.
But neither made sense as Lady Jayne’s killer.
As we arrived, the quaint little thatched cottage amidst wildflowers captured my attention. Boxes of flowers lined the windows like long lashes and a stone walkway led to the door. I knocked, but no one answered.
Voices and girlish laughter floated from nearby, and Clement romped around to the back, his long legs carrying him through the grass. Behind the house, white sheets on a clothesline flapped around Nelle, who worked to pin them in place. A small blonde girl of about five or six spun around her, bubbling with laughter. When she spotted the visitors, the girl shrieked with delight and ran to throw her arms around Clement’s skinny legs. The youth took her hand and twirled her around so her little skirt flared. “Good morning, Dolly.”
Nelle straightened and froze, staring at me like a wild animal sighted by a hunter.
“Clem! I’ve learned a new song. Would you like to hear it?” Tucking rumpled hair behind her ear, the girl smiled up at him.
Clement whipped out the flowers he’d brought with a flourish. “Dahlias for the Dahlia.” The girl again exclaimed and caught them up, spinning around with them.
Hand in hand like two playmates, the pair disappeared into the little cottage’s back door, leaving Nelle and me alone.
Lady Jayne Disappears Page 9
