“What about you? Surely with all this talk you have done your share to fight wrongs.”
His eyes twinkled. “I must beg secrecy as well. For other reasons. But I do promise you that I have my own way of righting wrongs I see in this world.” He shifted, draining the last of his tea. “So at least tell me what sin in this world you wish to fight against most ardently.”
That answer was easy. “Debtor’s prison. It’s a terrible way to compound a simple problem. Not to mention the conditions of the prisons. If people knew what really happened inside those walls, it might prompt them to overhaul the entire system.”
“Certainly, it’s a bit overdramatic to throw a man in prison for mere debt, but the crime must be punished. It isn’t as if we still hung the debtors or shipped them off to foreign parts. We simply slap their wrists and take their toys away for a time.”
Haunting images flashed through my mind. Disease that peeled away the skin, desperate hunger for those who had nothing to pay their jailers, and rat-infested cells stuffed with half a dozen people. But he wouldn’t know that. No one on the outside did. Not yet, at least.
“Your eyes tell me you disagree passionately.”
“Most passionately. Mr. Rotherham, have you ever stepped inside a debtor’s prison?”
“I suppose I haven’t, but it isn’t like they are on a remote island. They’re right here in England, all over. I know of them without having to visit one.”
Desperation welled up in me. Desperation to be understood. “Knowing of them is not the same as understanding them. Believe me, you would be appalled at what occurs inside.”
He fingered his teacup, considering me. “This has truly shaped you, hasn’t it? How much of your life did you spend at Shepton Mallet?”
“Every single day of it, up until now.”
I carried the memory of his face, gentle and spellbound, up to my bedchamber as I readied to write again. Perhaps I could re-create that image for my readers in this next installment, if Charles Sterling Clavey happened to grace the page with his presence.
Settling in at my desk with the next notebook, the most prominent words in my head were those my mother had penned to Papa. They haunted me with an eerie fear delicious enough for a novel.
When Lady Jayne moved about the drawing room with the others, her gaze flitted to Charles Sterling Clavey, no matter where he stood. The gentleness in his strong features drew her in a way no other had. Their longing glances and hidden smiles beamed back and forth, gliding over all the oblivious guests filling the space between them. Why her benefactor had forbidden them to speak, she had no idea. But no human limitations could tear them apart any more than she could tear her soul in half.
When the guests drifted away, some retiring to their suites upstairs, Lady Jayne took herself with a measure of secrecy into the yard tinted blue in moonlight, crumpling a piece of paper in her hand. If anyone glanced out the windows, they would see her lilac-colored gown stealing through the dark, but she had to take the risk. She thirsted miserably for the briefest contact with Charles.
Pausing at their willow, the kind tree that had so oft shielded their amorous embraces, she tucked the note into the great gaping hole in its trunk and retrieved the note left for her. With rapid steps, she slipped back to the house and entered through the silent patio doors, her slippers muting all footfall. Charles’s note to her she’d crumpled in her fist, to be enjoyed in the privacy of the south tower where no eyes watched her blush as she savored his words. As she hurried—
I froze. More unfamiliar writing greeted me as I had turned the page, shocking all ideas from my head. It was signed “Nathaniel Droll.”
I slapped the book shut and pivoted on my chair, looking back at the closed door. I’d locked it when I’d left, hadn’t I? Of course. It had become habit to lock it and test its security with each exit. My gaze flew about the room for another entrance. The fireplace? But hot ashes glowed in its mouth.
Thumbing through the pages again, I paused to read Nathaniel Droll’s message to me.
The villain in this story knows how to cover up a vast array of motives. Suspect everyone, consider every possibility. The only thing I know is this: Ghosts are real, and may one never die.
Nathaniel Droll
Ghosts aren’t real.
Ghosts aren’t real.
But Nathaniel Droll was.
13
They found Lady Jayne wise for keeping her secrets so tightly, but she knew in her heart that the real wisdom would be in not having any to keep.
~Nathaniel Droll, Lady Jayne Disappears
Swift feet carried me to Nelle’s cottage that afternoon, where the aura of simplicity and real life banked my nightmares. I’d had to finish writing the installment in the sunny morning room to escape the ghostly aura of my chamber, praying no one walked in. Now I handed her the book with one particular page torn out and tucked away.
“Nelle, have there been any stories of Lynhurst being haunted?”
She smiled, wiping a bread pan before putting it away over her head. “Do you plan to spin them into your fairy tales? But yes, of course there are. What country manor house has no ghost stories? People this wealthy always find it difficult to leave this world completely behind.”
“So you believe they are true?”
Her laughter filled the cottage with silver tones of mirth. “As much as I believe in your fairy tales. The only one that even sounds believable is the old master’s ghost, Lord Pochard. When his daughter Glenna married below her, it broke his heart. They say it killed him within a day. Supposedly he lurks about the place whenever one of his own is about to enter into a terrible marriage with someone below them.”
“Poor Garamond.” I sighed with a smile, my somber mood lifting. “He thought he married above his station.”
Nelle smiled. “The poor man painted himself into that corner.”
Rain sheeted over the vast estate on my return, walling us all indoors for the rest of the day. A moment in the morning room to snatch a luncheon sandwich had trapped me into an afternoon of whist, the entire family seated in chairs of different heights around an oval sofa table. Even Aunt Eudora graced the room with her regal presence. My mind wandered, gaze nipping about the room at the portraits hung about. But surely I would not see the man from the dark hallway among those faces, that awful manifestation of my delusion. He did not exist.
And suddenly, his name rang out on Glenna’s high voice. “Have you read it, Mother?” She swiveled on her high back chair to speak to the older woman framed in the bay window. “Nathaniel Droll is writing about Lynhurst. The south tower. The neglected drawing room. Even the orange grove. There’s no mistaking the setting.”
Must the woman obsess so much about it? I fanned my cards out before my face.
Aunt Eudora grimaced. “If those insipid books really are set here, we’ll rain the law down on poor Nathaniel Droll’s head for making a fool of this family. But until you have proof, I’ll thank you to put aside your superstitious notions.”
“Kendrick, have you read it?”
“Enough to know it’s rubbish.” He lobbed the conversation onto the next person with a dark look not usually worn on his face.
“Aurelie, we should hear your input on the matter.” Glenna discarded and then leaned toward me magnanimously, as if proud of herself for stooping to include the oft-forgotten girl. No matter that it was the last conversation I wanted to be part of. “You are a fresh mind to this household. What do you think of old Nathaniel Droll’s work being set here?”
As if the light of a train had swung directly into my face, I froze. Cards and numbers swam in my vision. What to say? I had to pass the conversation along. Quickly. “I cannot say I’ve ever purchased a single installment of Nathaniel Droll’s fiction.” I dropped a seven onto the growing discard pile and retreated back on my ottoman.
Silas’s gray eyes fixated on my face then. The gaze scorched my neatly packaged deception. The man ran his thumb ove
r his fanned-out cards, contemplating me rather than the game. My jaw tightened, but he remained silent, allowing me to keep my secret. Again, a complicated character.
“Why don’t you read a selection, Mother?” Juliette’s words made my skin cold. “It would be a nice diversion this evening. You have not read us fiction in months.”
“No sense straining your sweet voice, darling pixie.” Garamond patted his wife’s pudgy hand.
“No, it’s a wonderful idea. Digory, bring me the installment from my night table.”
My back stiffened as I hung over the piles of cards on the table, dangling my discard. Would my face give me away as they read? Within one more round of plays, Kendrick won the hand and then rose, adjusting his jacket. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall spend my time in far more valuable ways than allowing my ears to be assaulted by drivel.”
I ducked my head, cheeks burning.
“What on earth is so pressing, Kendrick?” Glenna frowned from her throne in the center.
“Nothing at all.” He fitted his hat on his neatly combed hair. “But I’d rather muck the stables than listen to this.” With a jaunty smile, he departed.
When Digory returned with the requested booklet, the rest of the family dispersed throughout the room with Glenna holding court in the grand wingback by the fireplace where her voice could project across all the listeners. With animation that made the dialogue snap and the characters stand up from the page, Glenna read the installment. It turned my insides in an odd mix of pleasure and anxiousness to hear my own words read aloud. One of my most clever lines brought no reaction from the audience, but a flippant section that had popped into my head in a minute garnered laughter. I forced myself to join in.
Oh, how witty was this Nathaniel Droll.
Only Garamond remained silently watchful from his chair, pondering the words.
“The butler did sound a bit like our Digory,” Clem admitted. “I could see his face as you read that selection.”
“You’re all batty. As if Nathaniel Droll would take an interest in this old family.” Juliette sat back on the sofa, somehow maintaining perfect posture even while lounging.
“I’ll have you know, dear daughter, that once we were a popular name among the—”
“Among the elite in London. Yes, I know, Mother. Once upon a time. But we aren’t in London now, are we?”
The listeners reached no conclusion in the end, each leaving for his bedroom with a closing statement to ponder.
In the wee night hours, I shot up in my bed, aware of a presence in my room. Trees bobbed outside the window, their fingers pointing toward me. I looked about.
“If you wanted them to know you wrote it, why not simply scrawl your own name across the manuscript?” The crater-faced man in the dusty gray suit scowled from the corner chair.
Fear stabbed my chest. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought the point of a pen name was to remain anonymous. Yet here you are, parading before everyone that you are the author. Despicable, I say.” He puffed on his pipe and exhaled great plumes of smoke. “If you’re going to write such drivel, at least take my name off of it.”
“I’ve done my best to hide it from everyone. If they guess . . .”
“It’ll be because you told them, you fool girl.” His puffs intensified. “You had Lynhurst written all over the last installment. You think they won’t guess?”
I sucked in a breath, my stomach rolling over, as the details of the latest piece flitted through my memory. It depicted clear scenes from their recent dinner party, from the brand of wine served to quotes from the toast made by a tipsy Garamond.
“But they can’t possibly—”
He snorted. “Better start running, princess.” His voice suddenly became Jasper’s, oily and low.
Panic rose, choking me. I clutched the blankets to me as moisture gathered on my skin. What had I done?
Seconds later the dream was yanked away, my eyes flicking open to the reality of early morning. Dream. It was a dream. I breathed hard, buried up to my chin in blankets. None of that had been real.
But that warning was.
I lurched onto my side, tugging the blankets with me. What an idiot I was. An utter fool. But what could I do about it now? Nelle had already posted the manuscript.
Restlessness jabbed at me until I rose and penned a letter to the publisher in the harsh red light of early sunrise. I would be most appreciative if you would remove a few details from my latest submission. Then came a list of the telling details. It needed to be posted immediately—in Bristol if possible, where a train would speed it on to London that day, only a single day after the installment Nelle posted would reach them. Rain already dotted the window and dark clouds hovered low. I’d need the carriage.
As I glided past the window and caught my reflection, something moved in the back garden. A person? Yes, definitely. Chills rose on my bare arms. Shrinking back, I shrouded myself in the curtain. But it was only Juliette who moved through the shrubs, obscured by the stone wall around the garden, but clearly visible from my third-floor bedroom.
Juliette never rose this early.
Jasper Grupp’s lanky frame danced past the same shrubs, then caught Juliette up and swung her around. The pair walked along the path, playful touches back and forth, marking them as more than mere acquaintances. Was that a fresh gown, or the one she’d worn yesterday?
Dressing quickly when the chambermaid came to assist and lacing up my ivory half-boots, I gathered my skirts and raced down the stairs. When I’d almost reached the bottom, Juliette pranced through the side door, pulling off her hat with a trail of ribbon.
“Why, good morning, miss early bird.” She radiated like the sunshine that broke through the passing clouds.
“Juliette. I’ve never seen you up this early.”
“Why would I waste this glorious morning in bed?” She twirled, hat in the air, and came to rest before me, face solemn. “I trust you have seen nothing of interest. Nothing that you might mention to the family.” Her cutting glance warned me.
The weight of responsibility settled on my shoulders. Now. This was it. Time to say something about Jasper. “Nothing I’d tell the family. But, Juliette—”
The moment snapped closed as she whipped away with a casual gesture of dismissal. “I hope you’ve nothing planned for next week, because I’ve secured us an invitation to the Naughtons’ dinner party on Wednesday.” She strode through the grand hall and hung her hat on the mirrored rack. “It’ll be a stylish event. They always have the grandest parties.”
“I think I—”
“Oh, do tell me you will go. I’d hate to make excuses after maneuvering the invitations in the first place.”
“Well, no, I will go, but—”
“Oh, good.” She crossed to me and framed my face with her hands, squishing my cheeks a little. “I do so love to dress you up.” A frightening spark lit her eyes.
Sweeping her scarf off her neck and across my face, Juliette ended the conversation. With a few confident clicks of her boots, the girl reached the stairs and jogged up without a backward glance.
The first attempt was a failure. But there’d be others, of that I would make certain. I pivoted away from my cousin’s retreat, guilt hanging heavily about me. Breakfast would help.
The morning room, usually quiet, bustled with servers placing trays and arranging teacups on the sideboard. I’d never come to breakfast quite this early. But there was much to do. I needed to talk with Juliette soon—perhaps I should prepare my speech—and the letter absolutely must be posted to the publisher that day. I’d snatch breakfast to take along.
Grabbing a Danish and an orange, I stepped back into the tunneled front hall, where Digory held out a hat for Silas. Settling it on his dark hair, Silas turned to smile a good-morning.
“Are you traveling to London again?” Perhaps this was a way to get the letter there faster. Pocketing the orange, I slid the envelope out.
&nbs
p; “Just to Glen Cora.”
Close enough. “Would you be willing to post a letter for me?”
“Of course.” He accepted the envelope, fingered the edges, then looked back up at me. “In fact, why don’t you come with me? This trip is, after all, because of you.”
14
Sharing with another soul the pain from your past dilutes its hold over you.
~Nathaniel Droll, Lady Jayne Disappears
“Digory, would you please tell the ladies of the house that I’ve gone out and taken Miss Harcourt with me?”
“Of course, sir.”
He leaned toward me, offering his elbow with an inviting smile. Perhaps a trip would clear my crowded mind and allow me to think. With a nod, I took it and followed him to the front doors and out into the cloudy morning, curiosity swirling. At least the rain had slowed to a misty trickle.
“A bit like our last carriage ride.” His jaunty smile encouraged mine as he took the rear-facing seat.
As I climbed in, my mind ticked through possible destinations for this trip that was “because of me.”
We rode through the hilly landscape, now bright green with fresh precipitation. I clung to the letter in the silence that followed, fingering the red wax seal as my thoughts returned to my own mission. What if this letter didn’t reach the publisher in time? What if confronting Juliette would ruin my chance to stay at Lynhurst? My nervous fingers discarded the letter and picked at the orange peel until the rind lay in bits across my lap. I absently pieced the orange and ate each sliver.
“If it’s all right, we’ll make my stop first and then see about posting your letter in town.”
Anxiousness clawed at me, but I nodded. When the carriage turned off the main road into the village of Glen Cora, waves of homesickness passed over me, temporarily minimizing all thoughts of the letter. Where on earth did he intend to take me? A few more turns down a familiar alley, and the carriage rolled up to Shepton Mallet Prison, the stone-and-metal gates looming before us.
Lady Jayne Disappears Page 12
