With one hand fastened around Polly’s arm like a vise, she propelled her through the door.
Polly made a miserable sight. I had never seen so hangdog an expression, even on Atherton, and she stood slumped over as if trying to take up as little space as possible. She darted guilty little glances at me and Roderick.
“Confess?” Roderick said, since I could not.
Polly hesitated, and Narcissa gave her a look that would have made a teeth-gnashing Norse warrior quail and slink away. Polly flinched.
“I’m the one who put something in your drink,” she mumbled, staring at the floor. “It’s because of me that you lost your voice.”
The thought was so senseless that I could only stare at her. It was Roderick who exclaimed, “What the devil, Polly?”
Polly sneaked a look at Narcissa, who gestured imperiously toward her to continue. “It wasn’t meant for you,” my sister said miserably. “It was only meant for Narcissa. But I got the glasses confused, so I had to put the tincture in more than one.”
Narcissa must have seen my bewilderment, for she took it upon herself to explain.
“It seems that your mother gave Polly a time limit,” she said in her rasping voice. “A specified interval of time in which she had to prove she could make good as an actress.”
Roderick made an explosive noise. “So she slipped a dangerous substance into your drink, and my wife’s, so that she could perform in your role? I’ve never heard of anything so cold-bloodedly selfish!”
His voice was increasing to a roar. I didn’t even try to restrain him. I felt a good deal like roaring myself.
Polly was cringing, though I knew he would never lay a finger on her. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone!” she cried. “I just thought that if I could take Narcissa’s place for one performance and prove myself... but it didn’t work out that way at all.”
“That’s an understatement,” Roderick snapped. “If you have repaid Sybil’s generosity toward you by destroying her voice just so that you could give the world’s worst performance of Lady Macduff, so help me, I will—”
“The good news is that Sybil’s voice will probably return,” Narcissa said in that harsh croak that was so unlike her former mellifluous tones. “Polly was able to produce some of the mixture the apothecary prepared, and my doctor determined that its effects are unlikely to be permanent. As you can hear, my voice is already returning. Granted, it isn’t very pretty yet, but it is a tremendous improvement over yesterday. I’m confident that Sybil will experience a similar recovery.”
Even though it was far too soon to celebrate, I could feel a weight being lifted from my shoulders.
Roderick seemed to feel the same. “Thank God for that,” he said in a more subdued voice. “And Polly, you can get down on your knees and give thanks as well. You would not find the world a comfortable place to share with me had you robbed Sybil of her voice permanently.”
Polly nodded, not meeting his eyes, and Narcissa gave a tight little smile.
“Oh, don’t worry, Polly is going to feel the consequences of her actions. For a start, she is certainly not my understudy—or anyone else’s—from this point on.”
That made my sister pout. “Not that I want to be,” she put in sulkily.
Narcissa gave her another of those berserker-suppressing looks. “Though she’s ill suited for the stage, I still need a dresser, and my lady’s maid just gave notice. So Polly will still have a job, even though it isn’t the glamorous one she wanted.”
Astonished, I scribbled on my slate and held it out to her. Are you certain you feel safe with her?
That brittle smile came again. “Oh, don’t worry,” said Narcissa. “Polly and I understand each other, don’t we, Polly? She’ll behave herself. She knows that if I feel the least little bit worried about what she’s up to I can go to the police and tell them about her slipping that nasty little tincture into our drinks.”
Doubtful, I looked from her confident expression to Polly’s subdued one. Despite the gravity of what she had done, I didn’t like to think of my sister being blackmailed into some kind of indentured servitude. Are you content with this, Polly? I wrote.
To my astonishment, upon reading my question she straightened, lifting her chin in that pugnacious posture I knew so well. “Miss Holm is the kindest employer in the world,” she announced. “Not one lady in a thousand would offer me a second chance like this. I’ll get to travel with her, get to take care of her beautiful clothes—it will be so exciting!”
Narcissa may have seen the mixed emotions on my face. “I have to say I’ve come to admire you Ingersoll women,” she said. “Polly seems to be every bit as determined as you to make her way in the world, Sybil. Perhaps with some tutelage she can learn to cloak her ruthlessness with a bit more delicacy and grace.”
Judging from my sister’s expression, she was more inclined than I to take this as a compliment. I didn’t particularly care to be coupled with my selfish sister.
But looking at the two of them side by side, I was struck again by their resemblance. Despite their difference in status and fortune, they were both determined and driven. Narcissa might actually understand Polly better than I did—and might be able to smooth some of her rough edges and teach her how to get along in the world. Above all, she had the advantage of not being Polly’s older sister. That made her good opinion more desirable and her influence more profound.
“I’m glad you’ve worked it out,” said Roderick, sounding a bit bemused. “But Polly, remember it isn’t just Miss Holm you’re accountable to. We don’t know for certain that Sybil’s voice will return. And if it doesn’t—”
Alarm leaped into her eyes, but Narcissa took Polly’s arm. “If it doesn’t,” she said in that discomfiting rasp, “Polly will answer for it. But let’s leave things as they stand for the moment unless you have good reason to alter arrangements.”
“Well, not exactly, but—”
“Excellent. Sybil, I hope you recover soon. Good day to you both.”
And as suddenly as that, they were gone.
Roderick drew his hands through his hair as though it might assist thought. “I think that was good news on the whole,” he said in a bewildered tone, “so why do I feel as though we were just waylaid by a highwayman?”
But all I felt now was elation. Snatching his hands, I led him into an impromptu dance. “I shall get my voice back!” I whispered.
His lingering concerns seemed to vanish then, and a familiar look of mischief came into his eyes. “That gives me very little more time in which to take advantage of your silence,” he mused. “I’ll have to think what devilry I can devise before you’re able to speak your mind once more.”
That made me cease dancing. Folding my arms, I gave him a narrow look. To my mind, he had been quite devilish enough at Martin’s last evening. Granted, Roderick had been following the plan we had devised, but he had improvised more than I had expected. It had certainly worked, but the frustration of being unable to speak for myself was still all too vivid. How would he feel if he were in my place? I fancied he wouldn’t cheerfully endure the sensation of being powerless.
For a moment I considered fetching the slate again and trying to articulate all of this to him. But it seemed that my husband was once again able to read my face, for he reached out to take me in his arms.
“I won’t make a habit of putting words in your mouth,” he promised. “If it’s hurtful to you it isn’t amusing to me. To be honest, though, I don’t think I ever really believed the problem would last.”
When I raised my eyebrows inquiringly, he smiled. It was a knowing, intimate smile, reminding me that this man knew me better than anyone else on earth.
“It’s hard to imagine anything getting the better of you for long,” he said.
Epilogue
Three Sundays later, Roderick and I joined my family for a picnic. My father’s headstone had been completed and set in place, and my mother had sent a note inviting us to j
oin the rest of the family in viewing it.
The weather was beautiful, with a hint of the long-delayed autumn in the air, and we were not the only family to be picnicking in the cemetery that afternoon. Others were taking advantage of the Indian summer to bring basket lunches to enjoy with their departed relatives, and there was a cheerful background music of conversation and children’s laughter.
The monument to my father was of marble. Although my mother had been too proud to let Roderick and me pay for it entirely ourselves, she had consented to let us assist her so that she could afford a headstone that accorded with her standard of what was due to Father. She had chosen the epitaph from the popular Longfellow poem:
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.
I wasn’t sure how suitable the inscription was for my father, but it made me think of Atherton. For both good and ill, he had left the world changed by his presence. I had been fortunate to have him as a substitute father in my younger years, for despite his poor judgment and flaws he had given me the affection and approval that my real father had not. Perhaps eventually the happy memories would become more vivid than the painful ones, both in my mind and the minds of all those whose lives he had touched.
Roderick had expressed surprise when I decided against attempting to make contact with his spirit. It seemed superfluous, though. I knew Atherton had regretted his course of action, and if his spirit was now at rest, I didn’t want to risk disturbing that repose by trying to summon him back to this sphere for a redundant apology. Besides, he was powerless to make amends now.
I fumbled for my handkerchief, and Violet came up beside me and slipped her hand into mine.
“I think it’s quite a handsome headstone,” she said. “Very dignified.”
Her use of this grown-up word tickled my sense of humor, but I kept a straight face. “I agree,” I said. My voice had returned, just as Narcissa had said it would, and the hoarseness had passed. I still felt an instant of relief every time I heard myself speak. “It’s very dignified indeed.”
Less dignified was the spectacle of Mollie’s husband helping Linden fly a kite. “Be careful!” Mollie cried as the boy nearly backed into a headstone.
She and Myrtle were spreading a cloth over the close-cropped grass, and Roderick was helping my mother unpack the baskets. I could hear her breathless little laugh from time to time as he put on his most charming manner for her. Shaking my head, I smiled wryly to myself. I might never be fully accepted into my family, but Roderick surely had been.
My mother confirmed this later, after the cress sandwiches and pickled eggs had been eaten and the cake reduced to a scattering of crumbs. “I’m so pleased you brought Roderick into the family,” she murmured to me. “I think he’s a good influence on you.”
I choked on my lemonade. When I had finished coughing, I said with as much gravity as I could muster, “He has made life much more interesting. And I’m very glad he was able to help with the—the Father situation.”
She nodded, as the breeze played with the black lace lappets extending from her mourning bonnet. From what I could tell, she seemed remarkably contented as a widow. But then, remembering the coolness between her and my father when he was alive, perhaps it wasn’t that remarkable. Perhaps widowhood was actually her preferred state, though that wasn’t something I could ask her.
“Knowing your father is at peace is all I need to be contented,” she said, and then immediately contradicted herself by adding, “if I can just find good situations for Violet and Myrtle... nothing ambitious, of course, but enough to keep them properly fed and clothed until they marry...” She gazed speculatively at the two girls, who had stationed themselves on either side of my husband and were arguing over who could make him the finer daisy chain to wear.
I knew better than to offer to help any more of my relations into a career. I left Mother to her musings and began to collect dishes.
Polly sidled up to me. “I’m glad you have your voice back,” she said.
“I should think you would be,” I said, “considering that Roderick and I would both be visiting the wrath of God upon you if it hadn’t.”
She looked over at Roderick. Oblivious of the two little girls vying for his attention, he was scribbling on a piece of brown paper that the sandwiches had been wrapped in. Probably he had had an idea for his concerto and was jotting it down before it fled his mind. The breeze ruffled his dark curls, and as if he sensed our gaze, he glanced up and smiled.
“He really is extremely good-looking,” Polly said as if this were her own personal discovery. “I noticed it particularly that day when he was scolding me.”
I sighed inwardly. During that last explosive confrontation I knew for a fact she had been too intimidated to assess his charms, but hindsight must have opened her eyes.
“When are you and the troupe leaving for the Continent?” I asked, to change the subject. Once Narcissa had recovered, the revamped Macbeth had become such a hit that she and Treherne had decided to take it on tour. I suspected that they also wished to distance themselves from the unhappiness and misfortune that had dogged the Crystal Palace production.
Polly brightened. “In just over a fortnight,” she said. “I can’t wait to see Paris!”
“See it again, you mean.”
“Oh, it will be very different with Narcissa. She knows all of the chic places to go.”
It had become plain that Polly was never going to be impressed with me, and I might as well accustom myself to that fact. And honestly, if Narcissa was willing to take on the chore of being my sister’s mentor and companion, she was welcome to it. I had a far better companion in adventure, after all, in my husband.
When everything was packed up and he and I were strolling arm in arm toward the gate, I said, “I think we’d best put some distance between you and Mollie.”
His eyebrows rose. “Oh? Have I done something to offend her?”
“On the contrary. Every other female in my family seems to have fallen in love with you, and for her husband’s sake I don’t want Mollie to follow suit.”
Smirking, he straightened his tie. “Can you blame them?”
Perhaps it was not the most appropriate time or place. Probably my mother would scold me later. But at that moment, even though we stood in the middle of the cemetery, I drew my rogue of a husband close and kissed him.
After all, in the city of the dead, there was surely no better solace than seizing life and love—and all of the hope for the future that they betokened.
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Author’s Note
When I decided to take Sybil back to London, I knew I had to find an exciting setting for her adventures. The Crystal Palace and its grounds definitely fulfilled that need. (Incidentally, popular playwright and actor Tom Taylor actually did stage a production of Hamlet there in March of 1873.) Though the glass-and-iron structure was destroyed by fire in 1936, the park still exists, as do the hedge maze and many of the prehistoric animal sculptures, which are now protected as historical works of art. You can learn more about the dinosaurs and their restoration at the Friends of Crystal Palace Dinosaurs website, cpdinosaurs.org. To learn more about the palace itself, I recommend J.R. Piggott’s book Palace of the People: The Crystal Palace at Sydenham, 1854–1936.
In late 2016 one of my vocal cords inexplicably stopped moving. This paralysis rendered my voice at best sporadic and at worst a faint whisper. For the better part of a year I experienced the bizarre effects of being nearly silent, and the emotional impact on me was much more profound than I would have anticipated. When some of my author friends suggested that I put my experience into a book, I knew that, out of all my characters, Sybil would experience a loss of voice most acutely. What she undergoes here is just a glimpse of
the isolating and diminishing effects that the loss of one’s voice can have. Fortunately, surgery has restored my voice to me nearly as it was before, but the experience is one I will not soon forget.
More Mystery and Romance
Don’t miss Sybil’s previous adventures in
Nocturne for a Widow and The Last Serenade
WHEN SYBIL INGRAM LEAVES theatrical life behind to marry an American, she soon finds herself with a haunted house, a murder, and a handsome scoundrel on her hands.
WHEN SYBIL AND RODERICK travel to Paris to rescue his former mistress from a blackmailer, they find themselves mixed up in a murder. Can Sybil’s skills as a medium solve the mystery—and help Roderick finally free himself from the ghosts of his past with Julia?
Follow the adventures of Sybil’s former seamstress, Clara, in
With This Curse,
Winner of the 2015 Daphne du Maurier Award in historical mystery/suspense
CLARA GRAVES WAS ONCE a chambermaid at Gravesend Hall. Now she returns there as the bride of the heir, Atticus Blackwood. But Clara knows that Atticus has hidden motives for marrying her—and when the old baron dies, she fears that the Gravesend Curse has struck again. Includes book club discussion questions.
Sybil and Clara are reunited for the holidays in the short story
“Christmas at Gravesend”
SYBIL AND RODERICK are summoned to Gravesend Hall by Sybil’s old friend Clara, now a baroness. But when there are screams in the night and a mysterious white figure roams the corridors, Clara and Atticus must call on Sybil’s help to solve a mystery and bring a broken family back together.
A Haunting Reprise Page 25
