She laid the heavy dress across a chair before continuing on her pursuits, which resulted in three more equally elaborate and, in the case of two of them, quite hideous gowns. A green velvet thing with flounces and ruffles and a section that moths had gone to work on replaced the brocade for curtain consideration; the green would better suit the surroundings, Amber thought, and she would not be destroying a dress that was not already damaged.
Below the dresses was more paper and then eight pairs of shoes, including a very nice pair of classic white satin slippers she would insist Suzanne try on. They would serve her well at the next Wednesday night ball. A pair of half boots were also of value due to their solid construction, so long as the wearer could bear boots the color of daffodils.
At the very bottom of the trunk Amber found what looked like an invitation, but turned out to be a dance card for an event titled EverSpring Soiree. She opened it to find that every line was filled, though only a few bore legible names. Amber wondered why a woman of such attention would have removed to Step Cottage at all. Had this woman lived here alone?
The thought stilled her for a moment and her eyes darted to the elaborate dresses now draped around the room. Had Amber not dressed in the finest of fashions and danced every dance at any number of events in London not even a year ago? Though her ball gowns had not been sent with her from London, would it have been such a surprise if they had ended up in storage just as this?
It was with quicker movement and less attentiveness to style and quality that Amber opened the next trunk and sorted its contents: clothing more appropriate for everyday use, the styles of some more modern than others but still outdated. There were shawls and a great variety of mobcaps, the sheer number of which quickened Amber’s eagerness even more.
At the bottom of the trunk, amid a few pairs of practical shoes, Amber found something that quite caught her breath. With a trembling hand, she removed a knitted cap of yellowed yarn not so discolored as to have been in the trunk for long.
Prior to her time in the cottage, Amber had only ever seen such caps for very small infants, but she was now quite familiar with the pattern. She pulled the knitted cap she wore day and night from her own head, then held it side by side with the one she’d found in the trunk. The design was too exact to be coincidental.
Whomever had lived in this cottage previously had found herself needing something to keep her head warm during the long winters.
Chapter 36
Suzanne put on her bonnet in the kitchen Sunday morning, though she left the ribbons undone. She gave Amber a concerned look. “Perhaps I should not go. I am not feeling resolved to it.”
“I am quite resolved,” Amber said as she whipped together the two eggs they had found in the coop that morning. The bounty would allow her to make a cake today. She was of a mind to use some of the apples and carrots from the cellar as she felt sure the flavors would complement one another. “And your blacksmith is coming all the way from town to fetch you so you must go.”
“Amber, you need not cover your feelings at what you have discovered.”
Amber stopped beating the eggs, her stoic façade replaced by an expression of fatigue. She stared into the mottled yellow mixture and let out a long breath. “I do not mean to concern you by hiding my feelings,” she said. “And I will not deny that I would like nothing more than for you to stay—but then I always feel that way.”
Suzanne removed her bonnet and patted the wayward strands that had pulled away from her braided knot. “I shall stay. Mr. Larsen will understand, and I shall simply fetch the gig later in the week.”
Amber shook her head. “You did not let me complete my thoughts. I am also quite eager to receive whatever reports you may find about Constance Sterlington as well as to see that my letter to my parents is posted tomorrow morning.” The woman’s surname—discovered in yet another trunk—was proof that she was a relation to Amber herself: another Miss Sterlington sentenced to Yorkshire to hide a condition that was not to be tolerated. But Amber did not know what exact relation they shared as she had never heard her name in her life. It made her extremely uneasy to think of this woman’s existence being hidden from her by purposeful action.
Suzanne frowned, then almost immediately brightened. “Come with me,” she said, crossing to Amber and putting a hand on her arm. “Whoever she is, we know she was not about the town or I certainly would have heard about her before now. Use this discovery as reason to hide no longer. Not everyone will be so dismissive as those who sent you here.”
The idea of leaving the cottage filled Amber with absolute terror and she shook her head. “As much as I thank you for such encouragement I cannot do it.”
“You can if you shall make the decision for it,” Suzanne said. “Mr. and Mrs. Clawson would welcome you fully and—”
“I will not go and insist you stop asking it of me!” Amber snapped, shocking them both with the strength of her words. They shared a look for a few moments, then Amber turned back to the eggs. “I’m sorry, Suzanne, forgive me,” she said by way of apology, but she did not look up.
“I should not have insisted so strongly, Miss,” Suzanne replied, her tone formal and submissive. They both worked in silence until there was a knock at the door. Suzanne bade Amber good-bye without meeting her eye, and Amber stayed hidden in the kitchen while Suzanne greeted Mr. Larsen and followed him out of the cottage.
Amber went to her room and watched from the window as the carriage, with Sally tethered to the back, disappeared down the drive. It was rare for Amber to revert to her waspish ways, and she felt deep regret for having succumbed to it, yet glad it had stilled Suzanne’s arguments. Suzanne could not possibly understand how much Amber both longed and feared for connection with people. The fear, of course, won out as she could not imagine that anyone could look past her defects. What good would it do to make acquaintances who would then avoid her? Fear her? Judge her?
When Amber returned to the kitchen, she finished mixing the cake and adjusted the coals before putting the pot amid them. Only when the dishes were rinsed and drying did she permit herself to return to the parlor. The contents of the trunks were still strewn about the room. She stirred the fire, added some coal, and turned her attention to the fourth trunk—the smallest one she had opened very last.
While the others were filled with different varieties of clothing, this one had been filled with sketchpads and correspondence and all manner of documents. There was even a small crockery that held a kind of paint in a shade of light brown—face paints. Suzanne had suggested it was to remedy Constance Sterlington’s missing eyebrows. Amber agreed that it was likely, but felt sick knowing someone else had suffered as she had.
Amber had glanced through the papers quickly last night but the emotion of the discovery had eventually sent her to bed with a headache that had lingered through the morning. She had not told Suzanne she was still so afflicted, of course, as she knew it would serve as another reason for Suzanne to stay at the cottage. Despite her dislike of being alone, Amber was glad to have the time to focus on the papers she hoped would put flesh on the bones of understanding Miss Constance Sterlington.
So engaged was she in her research of the prior occupant of Step Cottage that she burned the cake. And the soda bread she attempted for a light supper. Finally, she let the kitchen fire die out and brought a quilt from her bed so as to remain beside the fire in the parlor while she continued to read through the letters and journals that detailed the feelings of young Constance.
The girl had been presented to court at the age of sixteen and enjoyed the attention of many suitors for her first season but refused any number of proposals only to return for a second season the following year. According to her journals, she was simply too amused to trade the entertainment for matrimony. Amber’s chest burned at the similarity to her own feelings.
Constance spoke of balloon ascensions, balls, and visits to Ascot, theaters, and parks that first season. It seemed her company was in high de
mand and her suitors were of high station befitting a Viscount’s daughter. Constance was her father’s sister, Amber’s own aunt, and yet Amber had heard nothing of her before.
The journal entries became less effusive and less frequent during Constance’s second season, until one emotional entry reported that she was being removed to Hampton Grove due to some illness affecting her hair. She was miserable to leave her friends and suitors but shared a greater fear that something was very wrong, something that would not be easily remedied. There was only one entry after that: three sentences explaining that her family had left for London—Amber calculated from the date that it would have been her third season—and Constance was to stay behind.
What shall become of me? How shall I get on?
Why must I be so afflicted?
There was nothing written after that, no mention of when she had come to Step Cottage or how her thoughts and expectations of her future had changed after her illness. If not for her trunks being in storage here, there would be no reason to suspect from the journals and letters that Constance had been here at all—no correspondence between her family, no record of her thoughts of life in Yorkshire.
As the coals cooled and the wind howled, Amber pulled the quilt up to her chin, sure that she could feel Constance’s restless presence. Had Constance ever been reconciled to the life she’d once had? Had she returned to her family? It seemed that if she had left this place she would have taken her things with her. That they remained and no one had ever claimed them caused Amber great unease.
She was therefore eager for any account of Constance Suzanne might be able to gather from town. Amber hoped that Constance had left this place and continued her life elsewhere without the items she’d brought to the cottage. It did not explain why Amber had never heard her name spoken within her family, but perhaps there had been some additional reason that accounted for her situation. The caps found in the trunk made it impossible to hope that her loss of hair wasn’t part of her reason for being here, but it did not mean that it was the only reason.
If Constance Sterlington had in fact recovered, however, regardless of other causes for her removal to Step Cottage, Amber could have hope that she would too. That she could be beautiful again. Confident again. A darling of the Polite World again. And yet even as she attempted to revive her hope, she feared that having gained such perspective on a way of life so different than the one she was raised to expect had changed her so that she would never find joy in the place she had once thought to be the only source of it. She could not imagine trusting people of her station when she knew how fickle their acceptance was, how superficial, how small. She could not imagine spending such time and attention on frivolous things and meaningless conversation.
She gathered the quilt around herself and blew out the candle; she did not need the light to see her way to her room. Once in her bedchamber, she lit the coal she’d put in the grate that afternoon and snuggled under layers of quilts as the flames licked and popped. As she closed her eyes, she said a silent prayer that Suzanne would return tomorrow with hope. She felt more in need of it than ever.
Chapter 37
Suzanne returned late Monday afternoon, shivering and wet from rain that had picked up the last mile. Fortunately the weather didn’t prevent her return as the storm had three weeks earlier or end in disaster as it had on Friday when the gig had slid off the road. Amber had her friend sit in front of the kitchen hearth with a cup of tea while she warmed their dinner and Suzanne began her account of Constance Sterlington.
“She passed away before Mr. Clawson had taken over the parsonage. Two women of the congregation I spoke to knew of her, but had never met her. She did not go to town but instead employed an attendant and a manservant to transact her dealings. Both servants came with her when she arrived at the cottage and returned to London after her passing. They did not travel to town much either, but kept to the cottage.”
“Did you speak to Mr. Dariloo? Mr. Peters?”
“Mr. Peters claims to know only the barest facts about her even though I feel sure he managed the estate while she was here. Perhaps he would be more open to your inquiry than mine.”
Amber had not considered that Mr. Peters would be less forthcoming with a maid and was embarrassed to have put Suzanne in an uncomfortable situation by having her ask. “And Mr. Dariloo?”
Suzanne gave her a hesitant look over the rim of her cup. “Mr. Dariloo lived in this cottage before Miss Constance came. He was removed to his current residence to accommodate her.”
“So he knew her.”
Suzanne nodded. “He interacted with her several times, but not pleasantly. He referred to her as bitter and cross—very disparaging of lower classes and critical of his efforts with the land. She would send him letters through her servants, often calling him to task for not accommodating her in one way or another, or demanding to look at ledgers for the land and then reprimanding him for bothering her with such information.”
“And her hair? Did he know of her condition?”
“He did not say that anything ailed her, rather he believed she’d chosen to live away from society for her own particular reasons, but then seemed very disagreeable to life here. He felt she was a bit . . . touched.”
Miss Constance was not touched. She, like Amber, had been exiled. She had lost her future and prospective happiness and had not had someone such as Suzanne to direct her toward purpose and contentment. It was not difficult for Amber to imagine her first night at the cottage being followed with hundreds just like it if not for Suzanne. How would such anger and resentment not fester and canker a person?
“How long did she live here?” Amber asked.
“Eight years,” Suzanne said. “She came in aught one and died of influenza in aught nine though she was not quite thirty years of age at the time. She is buried in Northallerton. Mr. Dariloo said he could direct us to the grave.”
“Her grave is here?” The Sterlington family had a burial plot outside of Hampton Grove that had been established when the grand house was built. Six generations of Sterlingtons had been buried there, including her father’s brother who was killed in France. They had seen to it that his remains were returned and properly interred with the family—but not Constance’s? Was losing her hair enough to cut Constance off from her family even in death?
The thought ushered in another one that left Amber feeling unsteady on her feet and in her mind. Constance had died here, which meant she had never recovered. She had never returned to society or her family. Amber sat on the kitchen stool beside Suzanne and stared at the stone floor.
“I’m sorry to have been the bearer of such things,” Suzanne said, regret laced through her words.
“It is alright,” Amber said as her own future spread out before her with a brittle detail she wished she could deny. If she did not get well, she would not return to her family. They had not brought Constance back into their fold; they had not even spoken her name. Like Constance, Amber was to be forgotten until some further ailment took her life and sent her to the cemetery in Northallerton too.
“Amber.”
She looked at Suzanne and tried to blink back the tears she had not realized were forming. Without lashes to contain them, there was no barrier preventing the tears from streaming down Amber’s cheeks. Her stomach felt hollow.
“You are not Constance,” Suzanne said. “You do not have to take her same course.”
“I am already on her same course. Constance had a season in London—two of them. She was sent here as I have been and was not accepted back to the family, even for burial. How can I expect anything different except to live and die as she did?”
“Perhaps knowing of her fate can help you avoid it.”
“How?” Amber said, wiping at her eyes. “Nothing has stemmed the loss of my hair and none of it is growing back. If it were simply a wish and a will that would repair me, I would not be here even now.”
“It is not your lack of hair keeping you
to the cottage.”
Amber blinked, confused as she regarded Suzanne’s determined expression. “I don’t understand your meaning. Of course it is my lack of hair.”
Suzanne shook her head. “It is your lack of confidence. It is your fear of being turned away that keeps you here—not your ailment.”
Amber felt anger rising in response to Suzanne’s reprimand and looked past her. The memory of the faces at Carlton House when she’d sat at the bottom of the stairs without her head covering filled her chest with a heat burning of pure fear. It was something Suzanne could not understand any more than Amber could adequately explain it.
“I think I shall retire for the night,” Amber said, unable to abide the discussion any longer. “I mixed the gravy from Saturday night with some potatoes. It’s warming in the pot on the coals. There are a few biscuits left in the tin as well.”
“Stay and eat with me,” Suzanne said.
“I’m afraid I have already eaten my share of biscuits in my anxiousness for your report. I am not hungry.”
Suzanne stood from the table, but did not move. “I am sorry to have upset you, Amber.”
Amber looked at her cautiously, pulled between staying with her friend and running for the solitude of her room. “I know you mean well, but you cannot know my position,” she said, though her honesty made her nervous as she did not want it to sound like a set down. “I cannot risk rejection, Suzanne. I know that may be difficult to understand but . . .” She paused a moment to gather her thoughts. “Already I have lost my family and my society—if not for you I should be entirely alone. To ask for consideration of the people here in Yorkshire would risk further rejection. I cannot endure such a thing again.”
Suzanne regarded her for several moments. “I understand, Amber, and would have you remember one additional thing. I know all of what you have become and have not rejected you.”
A Heart Revealed Page 23
