by Leah Scheier
“Dora!” Someone was calling out my name, but I could not place the sound. It seemed to be a female voice, and, as I tried to focus, the figure of Agatha appeared before me, smiling happily and waving. I wondered if I was hallucinating, but then I noticed Cartwright’s expression, and I realized that he could see her too.
“You’ve found him! How wonderful! I could not rest until I was sure that you were safe,” she chirped.
“Thank you, Agatha, I am very well,” I gasped out. I had forgotten to change my accent, but she did not seem to notice.
“Ah, you don’t look well at all, my dear,” she protested. “And it’s no wonder! Such a difficult thing to have to say, and in such a place!” She shuddered and pulled at her cloak. “Sir, I hope you made it easy for her.”
“I’m sorry—who are you exactly?” Cartwright inquired.
She gave him a confidential pat. “It’s all right, you needn’t worry, sir. Your secret’s safe with me. She’s already told me that you were in love with her.”
I had a brief vision of Agatha’s complacent grin and Peter Cartwright’s startled eyes. Then a wave of nausea hit, and I fell heavily to my knees. Now they were both calling out my name, but I could no longer see them; and finally their voices vanished too and everything went dark.
I DO NOT REMEMBER how I got to London, how I was conveyed to my cousin’s home, or how I got the five-inch scar across my arm. The next two days were filled with chloroform dreams and waking nightmares. I remember only faces, cold compresses, and terrifying words.
“Infectious fever.”
“Surgery.”
“Necrosis.”
“Delirium.”
And finally, “Amputation.”
I remember begging, pleading, crying out for something, trying to bargain with the voices shouting in my head. I remember a sharp steel blade, a pressure on my arm and a searing burn. I remember hearing someone screaming and then realizing that the sound was coming from my lips. I remember a glass bottle, a mask, the smell of chemicals and then darkness, as I slipped smoothly, gratefully into waves of nothing.
WHEN I AWOKE, I did not know where I was. I opened my mouth to call for help, but then I saw the doctor sitting in an armchair near the window and Adelaide hovering by my bedside. When I tried to rise she gently restrained me and placed a cool rag on my brow. I had been ill for three days, she told me, and they had been worried that I would not recover. The doctor had called the surgeon in and they had argued—
My dream came back to me then, the knife, my cry, the pool of blood. A wave of terror choked me, and I was suddenly afraid to know the truth, to see my leaden, useless limb. With my right hand I pulled my blanket back to reveal my left arm, bandaged, swollen—but still whole. The fingers moved, I could still feel them, and shaking, I sank back onto my pillow and whispered my relief.
The doctor had risen from his chair. There was something familiar about his face—the mourning band around his arm; I wondered vaguely if we had met before. “The surgeon thought that we should amputate,” he told me gravely. “I disagreed, and so instead I made a linear incision to relieve the pressure in your arm. It worked, but you will have to wear a bandage for quite some time until the wound heals on its own.”
He may have said more, but I never heard it; my arm was safe. I breathed my thanks and fell asleep.
I woke several hours later to a dark and empty room. My back was sore, and I sat up slowly to stretch my aching muscles. There was a small tray of toast and water by the bed. My throat was parched and I drank gratefully from the pitcher, draining it in seconds. Slowly, I began to feel my energy returning, and after a few minutes I decided to test my strength.
I took a small turn around my bedchamber, first to my writing desk, then to the fireplace, each time pausing for several minutes to catch my breath. It was frightening to note my weakness; several steps exhausted me, a bold trip to the door left me panting and light-headed. Finally, I settled before the dresser mirror and gazed at my reflection. Two large gray eyes stared back at me, their black hollows startling against the whiteness of my skin; my mass of curls fell in a cloud of tangles around my shoulders. It was not so bad, I told myself, and looked away. I was thinner, certainly, and my skin appeared transparent, but I had been prepared for worse. I wrapped myself in my dressing gown, bound my hair, and sat down before the fireplace. It was nearly dark, the fire in the hearth was dying, and I moved closer to it, holding my numb hands to the glowing embers.
Presently I heard a rustling sound outside, and my cousin entered, carrying a tray of bandages and water. She started when she saw me by the fire and hurried over to sit beside me.
“You should have called for me, Dora, I would have helped you! And the coals are nearly cold! I specifically instructed Mary—”
“Never mind,” I told her weakly. “It is rather warm in here.” My voice sounded strange and rasping to my ears.
“How does your hand feel now? The doctor injected morphine for the pain before he left, but I’m afraid it may not have been enough. And it’s time to change your dressing.”
I shrugged and held my arm out to her. “It aches, of course. But I can stand it.”
She shook her head and placed my hand upon her knee, then carefully unpinned the bandage and unwrapped my wound. I winced as the dressing came undone. As the cloth slid back, I could see a fresh and ugly scar cutting through the livid marks of my old burn. It was a cherry streak, from mid-arm to wrist, swollen in the middle and gleaming silver in the fire’s light.
“Dora, I never heard—what happened to your arm? Mr. Cartwright told me that he received an urgent message from Miss Prim indicating that you’d had a little accident and would require a doctor’s care. The two of them conveyed you here, but you were barely lucid by that point.”
I shrugged and looked away. The lies that I had told my cousin were far back in my mind; I was not certain what to say. It was a moment before I recalled Miss Prim at all, for I had quite forgotten the outrageous actor who had posed as my temporary guardian.
“I picked up a hot fire iron by mistake. I should have taken better care of it, I know, but it was just a tiny burn. I ignored it until it became infected.”
“Well, thank goodness it is healing now. The doctor was very grave at first, and I was terrified. I kept thinking that if only I had been with you, none of this would have happened.”
“You know that isn’t true. And anyway, at least it’s over now.”
Adelaide sighed and dipped my bandage in the water bowl. “Yes, it’s over. Mr. Cartwright got my letters back, did you know that? We have nothing left to fear.”
I attempted to look surprised. “Ah, Adelaide, I am so happy for you. And how wonderful of him! How did he do it?”
“I know no more than you, my dear. When he brought you back in that awful state, I was beside myself. At that point we did not speak about my case, of course. The following morning Mr. Cartwright returned and handed me my letters. No explanation, no fee, no answer to my questions. He just inquired after you, and when I told him what the surgeon had recommended, he rushed off and came back an hour later with his own doctor. God bless him, that good man saved your arm, my dear.”
“And Mr. Cartwright?”
“He came back the next day to ask me if I had had a chance to check the letters and make certain that they were all in order. It was rather sweet, I thought, and obviously unnecessary, for I would have written if anything had been missing. I told him that I had already burned the letters.
He shuffled about the place for several minutes, asked me some irrelevant questions, didn’t answer any of mine, and then finally inquired after you.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you were improving. He thanked me quickly and disappeared. I haven’t seen him or Mr. Porter since.” She pinned the corner of the bandage to my sleeve and folded up the edges. “There now, that is done. Back to bed now, Dora. I am off to write a letter to Mother to let her know ab
out your progress.”
“Aunt Ina knows that I’ve been sick?”
“Of course she knows! I couldn’t keep that hidden, could I? But she knows nothing else.”
“Is she coming down to London?”
“No, we will return to Newheath as soon as you are feeling up it. I had planned to stay until the summer, but she thought that you would recover more quickly if you were home. No doubt she’s right.”
“But the Season?”
“It is a shame to miss, I know. But perhaps we’ll make another trip before it ends. And there’s always next year—your first real Season.”
I did not care about the Season, but I did not want to leave the city—not yet. At that moment I was not sure exactly what I wanted, or what I hoped might happen if I stayed on through the summer, but I could not leave just yet. I did not want it to be over. The blackmail scheme, the Hartfield case, my brief beginning as a detective’s assistant—it could not end in teatime in Auntie’s parlor. I did not even know the outcome of the case, and there was no one I could ask about it. Not directly, anyway.
“Adelaide,” I ventured as she folded up the bandages, “has anything interesting happened while I’ve been gone? I’m not tired, truly. I’d love to read the papers for a little while before I go to bed.”
She shook her head and helped me rise. “No papers now. It’s far too late. We can discuss the news at breakfast.”
“Ah, please, cousin, just one tiny rumor, one headline, anything. Something current, something that I haven’t heard yet. You have no idea how bored I’ve been with that Miss Prim. She wouldn’t let me read the news. She said it tarnishes the soul.” I sighed as she led me to my bed. Hopefully, I thought, there had been only one scandal in the papers recently. There was only one that I truly cared about.
Adelaide smiled and pulled the covers back, and her eyes shone with the promise of future gossip. “Well, of course everyone’s been talking about the arrest of Lord Victor, the earl of Hartfield’s son. I believe you were already ill when that scandal broke.”
I endeavored to look shocked. “What was he arrested for?”
“You can’t imagine.”
“Not—not murder?”
She nodded and pursed her lips. “An old murder that has only just now come to light. There is no word yet on the motive or how the authorities discovered it, but the papers have been buzzing with theories and speculations.”
“And his family?”
“Well, his father, the earl, has been most vocal in defending him.”
“Defending him?”
“Well, of course. Naturally, the man defends his son.”
His son. So the officers had not yet spoken to the press about the young man’s history. It was certain to come out eventually at the trial. London society feasted on such lurid details; they would certainly gorge themselves on this aristocratic scandal.
“What about the earl’s family? Have they spoken up in the son’s defense?”
“His stepmother is standing by her husband’s side. There is a sister, too, but she has been under a doctor’s care for much of the last week. They say she is recovering, but she is not yet well enough to talk to anyone. The shock of the arrest was probably too much for her.”
“Ah, of course.”
“Well, does that satisfy you for tonight? Or should I rake through the morning papers for some other heinous crime?”
I smiled and settled back against my pillow. “That is enough for now, I think. I’m just happy that your letters are safe.”
“I am happy that you are safe. You can’t think how worried I have been. I still have no idea how Mr. Porter and Mr. Cartwright managed it.”
“Adelaide—you—you haven’t spoken to Mr. Porter, have you?”
She frowned and shook her head. “My dear, after your display in his office, I think he has no wish to speak to either of us again. Mr. Cartwright has managed all the details. It was lucky for us that he had such a talented assistant.”
“Yes, very lucky. Well, good night, Adelaide.”
“Good night.”
I should have slept quite well that night. I was still tired from my recent fever, and our conversation had laid my final doubts to rest. Lord Victor was in custody, the drama around Hartfield would play out in the courts and in the papers, and my cousin’s letters were now in ashes. I had achieved my purpose, and my journey was now over. And yet I could not rest.
There was one final mystery that I knew I would never solve, a riddle that I had never sought. Why had Peter Cartwright returned to ask about me? I wondered. Was he simply being kind and inquiring after the sick? Or was there some other feeling there?
He had, after all, told me that he “cared about me.” I could not forget that. And yet, whatever his feelings were for me, I realized that they would not matter to anyone in the end. I was not to see him anymore. Even after my coming out into society, after my introduction to the marriage market, I knew that I would have to hide my affection for him. I was expected to marry someone settled and established, a fellow with a decent income and a good name. My family would never consider a young apprentice. Adelaide herself had set me an example with her own choice. She had loved her music tutor but had finally “come to her senses” and married a respectable gentleman with a grand estate. Even Adelaide would not take my part in this.
But still, even if he could never show it, I would have liked to know that Peter was fond of me at least, that he would not forget me when I left the city. It would have meant everything to me then.
I built many theories that night, constructed arguments pro and con, and wrestled with my pride and my imagination. I began ten letters and threw ten letters in the fire. I thought I ought to write to thank you…met a swift demise beneath the coals. I was not feeling particularly thankful, after all. I am returning soon to Newheath…There seemed no point in writing that; he probably assumed that I was going home. My cousin tells me that you asked for me…I tore that one in two before I tossed it to the ground. He must not think that I had talked about him as soon as I awoke.
And so on until morning. The only letter that survived the night was the one that said what I was truly thinking. I know that we will likely never meet again. And I am sorry for it, sorrier than I ever thought I could be.
But when the sun rose, that message was the last to burn. There was no way to send a note like that.
When I left my room and joined my cousin at the breakfast table, my eyes were sore and heavy, but my heart was calm. I had closed this chapter now and would resume my quiet, simple life, and live out my easy destiny. It was for the best, I told myself. What else was I to do? I could not lead two lives, one corseted existence dancing upon shiny ballroom floors and another dark and raw, dangerous and exciting. There was no way to manage that.
At least, I had not yet found a way.
“I AM THINKING of going to Highgate, Dora.” It was the first time Adelaide had suggested a trip since I’d been ill, and I had no doubt that somehow new parasols and boots would be involved in our expedition. We would return to Newheath the next morning, and it would be unthinkable to greet my aunt without some evidence of our trip into the city. And yet my cousin had not dressed for a day of pleasure. Her suit was dark and somber, her hat a quiet charcoal pancake. And she had not the look of a young wife about to pass the day in joyful spending. Her eyes were distant, bothered; her face was drawn and sad.
“What’s in Highgate?” I inquired.
“I want to pay a visit to your grandmother,” she replied after a moment.
I stared at her in mute confusion. Both my grandmothers were dead. My mother’s mother, our common grandmother, was buried near our church in Newheath. My father’s mother, however, Grandmother Joyce, was interred nearby at—
“—Highgate Cemetery?” I exclaimed in disbelief. “But why do you want to go there on the day before we leave?”
“Well,” she replied slowly, “no one has visited Grandmother Joyce’s gr
ave since your father died. I want to make certain that the groundskeepers are tending to it as they ought. You needn’t go if you don’t wish to. I shan’t be long.”
There was something guilty and hesitant about her explanation; she had not met my eyes during our exchange.
“I’ll come along if it’s all the same to you,” I replied indifferently. “I have not left the house in days.”
“Just as you like.” She shrugged, rising from the table. “I’ll have the boy call for our coachman.”
It was for the best, I reflected as I dressed. Hours of clucking over ribbons, tulle, and lace would have been difficult to tolerate that morning. I did not really see the point, in any case; who was I trying to attract? A graveyard would fit my temper better than a shopping trip.
We arrived at Swain’s Lane later that afternoon. As we entered through the archway, I saw her glance hesitantly at me.
“Dora, I thought—perhaps you would like to take a turn about the grounds without me for a little while? I can meet you at Grandmother Joyce’s plot in half an hour.”
“Yes, of course,” I told her. “Take all the time you like. I won’t be far.”
She nodded gratefully and hurried off, and I wended my way across the winding lane to Egyptian Avenue. My grandmother was buried near the parish church of St. Michael, and I headed in that direction. Past the Circle of Lebanon, I discovered a path which led to an overlook, where I could see a great expanse of plots below.
There, several yards away, in a corner by a fallen marble angel, I saw my cousin kneeling by a little gravestone. From where I stood I could not see the name upon the plaque, but her attitude was one of weary grief. She seemed to be clutching something to her chest, and as I watched, she placed the item on the ground. I recognized her jeweled trinket box, the one in which she kept her rings. As she pushed open the clasp, I saw that it was filled with ashes. In a sudden gesture my cousin turned the coffer over, and the dust spilled out onto the tombstone and settled in a gray pall over the humid earth. Slowly she drew her kerchief out and pressed it to her eyes; her head was bowed in quiet meditation. I watched her silently for a while and then withdrew in the direction from which I’d come.
