The Dark Days Club

by Alison Goodman

  “I thought so,” he said.

  Insufferable man. She made a small show of turning away to study the pair on the sofa. Lady Caroline had leaned back against the cushions to watch Lord Byron in a sidelong glance that made heat rush back into Helen’s cheeks. It felt as if she was peeking into the woman’s boudoir.

  “She is infatuated.”

  “Anyone can see that,” Carlston said. “What is in her heart?”

  Helen narrowed her eyes at his sarcasm but turned her attention back to Lady Caroline. She concentrated on the small vivid face, pushing deeper into the tiny flickers of emotion that played behind the surface. “Oh dear,” she whispered.

  “Well?”

  “Lady Caroline is—” Helen stopped, trying to find a way to explain what she saw. “I believe Lady Caroline has abandoned herself to him. Does that make sense?”

  “Go on.”

  “Everything is Lord Byron, and when she is not with him, I think she cannot find the core of who she is. There is so much bright energy in her, so much creative force, but it is being funneled into this all-consuming heat.”

  She looked back at the Earl and found herself pinned by the weight of his scrutiny. “You are correct,” he said, “but you can go deeper than that.”

  Could she? Or more to the point, did she want to probe into such a maelstrom of pain and love? She did not often push beyond a person’s immediate emotional truth into their secrets. It was so much harder to do, taking immense concentration and a level of calm, and it seemed unfair to unearth a person’s darker desires without their knowledge. She focused on the heart-shaped face again, on the tightness beneath the adoration, and the pulsing need embedded in the languorous gaze.

  Helen looked away again. There were some things that were too private. “I fear she is close to some kind of mania.”

  “Yes, very close,” Carlston said. “Caroline is a sad caution against uncontrolled feeling. What about him?”

  Helen watched the poet smile at his love. Before, she had not caught the slight cynicism and disdain within that smile curling the lip and clouding the eyes. But there was no missing the truth now. “He is unafraid of vice, of abandon, but he is afraid of love. He is already tiring of her. Poor, poor lady—she does not know it.” She leaned forward. “Ah, he does not know it yet either. Even so, he is withdrawing from her intensity. He is one of those who must pursue if he is to think himself in love, but she lays herself before him like an offering. In doing so, she drives him from her.”

  She stepped away, suddenly aware of the unseemliness of saying such things to a man who was little more than a stranger. “Perhaps I am seeing more than there is.”

  “No, you are right,” Carlston said. “Now look upon Sir Matthew Ballantyne. What do you see in his heart?”

  There was a strange note in his voice: not quite urgency, but a sharpness that told her this reading was his real interest. What could be so important about old Sir Matthew?

  She focused on the fop’s lined face and watched the flickers of expression. All very easy to read. “He is enraptured by Lord Byron’s words, like all the others.”

  “Don’t waste my time, Lady Helen. We have already ascertained that you can go deeper than that.”

  Helen fought down the unladylike desire to tell him to go to the devil, and concentrated on Sir Matthew again. Amidst the hum of conversation in the room, she gradually found the inner quiet she needed. Yet there was nothing else in the old gentleman’s face. “I cannot find any—” Something flashed across his features. “Wait! There is—oh,” Helen stopped, confused. “Desire,” she whispered.

  “And?” Carlston prompted.

  It took a minute or so of intense scrutiny, but Helen finally caught a glimpse of what lay deep within the man. She recoiled, struggling to find a description of the fleeting moment of truth. “It is like a cold, ravenous hunger, all aimed at Lord Byron.”

  “Yes,” Carlston said. That smile of satisfaction—the one she had seen in the park—was back on his face.

  “But what is it?” Helen demanded, still shocked by what she had seen. “It is so . . . so rapacious. I think Lord Byron is in danger from Sir Matthew.”

  Carlston leaned forward, his expression intent. “What kind of danger?”

  “I don’t know. I saw it only for a moment, and it was so odd,” Helen admitted. She saw a flash of disappointment cross his face. “But it is there,” she insisted. “A malevolent intent toward Lord Byron. Surely, we must warn him!”

  “And what do you propose to say? ‘Forgive the intrusion, Lord Byron, but I have looked into Sir Matthew’s heart and seen a violent and dangerous hunger for your person’?” Carlston shook his head. “He would think you mad or depraved. You and I may be able to see these things, but acting upon them is another matter entirely.”

  “I cannot ignore it,” Helen declared, then belatedly realized what he had said. “You can read expressions as I can?”

  He inclined his head. “Yes.”

  “And you knew the horse would pull up. Please, you must tell me how we know these things. Why we know these things. I have done what you asked. I deserve an answer.”

  “This is not the place to give those answers. It will make more sense if I show you the truth.”

  After all this, he was still not going to tell her anything? At the corner of her eye, she saw Sir Matthew notice the stocky man’s attention, and stiffen with alarm. He quickly made a bow to those around him, backed out of the circle, and retreated through the doorway into the next salon. The stocky man straightened and looked Carlston’s way. Helen saw the Earl give a slight nod—a signal—for the man immediately headed through the doorway too.

  “Show me what?” she asked sharply. “Is it something to do with Sir Matthew? Will Lord Byron be safe? You must—”

  “For now, Sir Matthew and Lord Byron are not your concern, Lady Helen,” he said. “I believe you are attending Vauxhall Gardens on Tuesday, are you not?”

  “Yes, but you promised to tell me—”

  “I promised nothing,” he said. “I will show you what you are at the Gardens. You must wait until then. Did you manage to open your mother’s miniature?”

  She stared at him. What did he mean by what you are? He could not say that and move on as if it were nothing.

  “Did you open your mother’s miniature?” he repeated.

  “Yes,” she snapped, her sense of ill-use peaking fast. “But what do you mean—”

  “Good. Bring it with you on Tuesday.”

  He rose to leave.

  “No!” She grabbed his forearm, then froze, aghast at her awful breach of propriety and the sudden violence that sprang into his eyes. Reflex had instantly clenched his hand into a fist, the muscles beneath her grasp coiling, ready to strike. She snatched her own hand away. “I beg your pardon, Lord Carlston.”

  He had paled beneath his tan. Drawing in a long breath, he uncurled his fist and bowed. “It is I who must beg your pardon, Lady Helen. I have been too long out of decent society.”

  He turned and walked toward the door, his hand held stiffly at his side, fingers spread wide as if to stretch away the bunched savagery within.

  Ten

  Monday, 4 May 1812

  THE NEXT MORNING, Helen sat at her dressing table and stared into the mirror, her fingers pressed into the edges of her eye sockets as if she could feel the truth through her skin and bone.

  I will show you what you are.

  She had woken with that simple seven-word phrase crouched in her mind like a toad. And now, as Darby dressed her hair for prayers and breakfast, it crawled across her thoughts, leaving a poisonous trail of dread.

  What was she?

  And what had she seen in Sir Matthew?

  The cloying mix of sweet lavender and fat in her hair pomade turned her stomach. Across her crown, she felt the gen
tle march of Darby’s fingers as she threaded a navy-blue riband through the construction of topknot and curls.

  “Your ladyship looks awful worried,” Darby ventured.

  “I saw Lord Carlston at the Howards’ last night.” Helen dragged her fingertips across her cheekbones and dug them into the widest point. The pressure seemed to hold back her unease. She met Darby’s anxious eyes in the mirror. “He has admitted to knowing something about my abilities.”

  Darby sent a swift glance across to the hallway door—it was firmly shut; Helen had already checked—then leaned closer. “What did he say?”

  “Not much. He is going to show me something at Vauxhall Gardens. Something about myself.”

  “Oh, my lady, are you really going to follow him into this strangeness? Do you trust him now?”

  “No, of course I don’t.”

  Darby paused in the positioning of a pearl hairpin. “But you must trust him a little to have discussed it so openly with him.” She pushed the pin into the topknot, as if to punctuate her point, then bent to rummage through the box for another.

  Helen sat back, startled. Darby was right. She had already placed a great deal of trust in Lord Carlston. Not only that, but his acknowledgment of her abilities—and the confession of his own—had made her start thinking of him as an ally. Sweet heaven, she should be more wary than that.

  She turned from the mirror. “Darby, he seemed to know we had lost a housemaid.”

  Darby’s attention snapped up from the pin box. “He mentioned Berta?”

  “Not specifically. He just asked if we’d had a sudden change in our household.”

  “It is very strange that he brought up that very subject, don’t you think?” Darby said.

  Helen had to agree. “Still, I got no sense that he knew anything particular about Berta. In fact, it was the opposite.”

  Darby gave her a long searching look. “My lady, this is the man who faced society and denied he had killed his wife, then fled the country. It is obvious that he can dissemble with the best of them. I think he is very dangerous.”

  Helen remembered the violence she had seen in his eyes. “And yet he has abilities similar to mine. What does that say about me?”

  Her maid’s mouth pressed into a thin tight line. Helen nodded. Darby was right again: that question was unanswerable.

  “YOUR UNCLE WISHES to see you, my dear,” Aunt said as Helen entered the breakfast room. “He is in the library.”

  Helen stopped short, her hand still on the door handle. Aunt’s face was tense, and her shoulders, under her green silk shawl, were high and hunched. Uncle had not seemed especially displeased at morning prayers; something must have happened since then. She sucked in a breath. Could he have heard that she’d sat alone with Lord Carlston last night? She had thought it had gone unnoticed, overshadowed by the scandalous behavior of Lord Byron and Lady Caroline. She searched her mind for any other possible misdemeanor. Perhaps the broken lockbox had been discovered—

  “Go to him now, Helen,” Aunt said. “And, my dear, do not gainsay him. His joints are needling him again, and he is in one of his moods.” There was something else she wanted to say, but Helen could see she dared not. With a tight smile, Aunt turned back to The Times, her shoulders hunched even higher.

  Helen’s unease built with each step down to the ground floor. The library door was closed. She stopped before it and smoothed the cream bodice of her morning gown. At least it was a style with a high, modest neckline. One deep, steadying breath, and she knocked.

  “Come.” His voice held the sharp tone of pain. Setting her face into pleasant inquiry, she entered and closed the door.

  “Good morning, Uncle.” She curtsied. “You wished to see me?”

  He sat at his desk in the corner, writing a letter. The scritch of the quill continued, his attention on the paper before him. She stood, waiting. His charcoal kerseymere coat was cut with a high-turned collar, and its height hid his neck, making him look even more bullish and wide-set than usual. Finally he returned the pen to its gilt holder and sprinkled sand across the page, shaking it off with three taps on the mahogany desktop.

  “You have received a letter.” Although she had been waiting for him to speak, the clipped announcement made her jump. He picked up a sheaf of folded pages at his elbow, the sealing wafer already broken. “I have read its contents.”

  “You have read my letter?”

  “Do not give me that defiant eye, girl. I will read any letter that comes into my house, if I so wish.” He unfolded the pages. “It is from that Cransdon slut. I understand from its framing that you wrote to her after her disgraceful behavior came to light.”

  Helen drew back her shoulders. “I did.”

  “And that your aunt condoned this action.”

  Helen pressed her lips together. She would not give up Aunt.

  “I will not be tricked into franking letters to degenerates,” he said. “Your aunt understands that now. Do you?”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “From this moment, you will not have any more communication with that girl. Neither letter nor visit. Do you understand?”

  Helen hesitated for only a moment, but it was enough.

  “Do you understand?” he roared, rising from his chair in one violent motion.

  She stepped back. “Yes, Uncle.”

  He picked up his red-bound Bible and strode toward her. “Swear it on God’s word.” He grabbed her wrist, forcing her palm down flat on the stippled leather cover. “Look at me when you make that vow. I want to see the sincerity in your eyes.”

  She fixed on his yellowed squint, the crush of his dry fingers sending a pulse of pain up her arm. “I swear on God’s word that I will not write to nor see Delia again.”

  “Good.” He lowered the Bible and let go of her hand. She snatched it back, cradling her burning wrist. “I am doing this for your own benefit, Helen. The Cransdon girl is obviously unbalanced.” He lifted the letter, waving it at her in a crackle of condemnation. “My first thought was to immediately burn this piece of iniquity. I was not going to allow you to read it. But I have reconsidered. You should witness with your own eyes and understanding your friend’s sad decline. She is raving. It will be a valuable lesson for you to see the sickness that is created in a young girl’s mind when she engages in licentious and disobedient behavior.”

  Helen took the letter from his hand, locking her pained wrist to stop the pages from shaking. At least she would have a chance to read Delia’s own words. It took her a moment to focus past the blur in her eyes.

  “‘My dear friend,’” she read.

  I cannot tell you how much your letter comforted me on its receipt. I am painfully aware that you must have written in defiance of your uncle’s wishes, and so it is doubly precious, as is your assurance of friendship and support. Although your fine sense of courtesy did not allow you to write any question about that day, I feel I must explain to you how this terrible situation occurred, and why.

  I fell in love, dear Helen. It is as simple and as complicated as that. Mr. Trent was a revelation to me—a man who thought me all that was good and admirable. A man who found my shyness a mark of modesty, and beauty hidden within my plain looks. You know I am not one for self-deception, but here, I think, I allowed the veil of flattery, and perhaps desperation, to cloud my eyes. How I wanted to be the woman that Mr. Trent saw, and how I wanted him to be the respectable, honorable man that his actions seemed to show him to be. My father, however, did not have the same illusions—Mr. Trent had no connections, no money, and, apparently, no prospects. Thus, when he applied for my hand, he was rejected.

  And so, when Mr. Trent suggested we flee to the border and marry, I agreed. Pray, do not be too disgusted. It was a grievously hard decision to make, and my heart was heavy as we boarded the post chaise. Nevertheless, I was a fool in love, and thought, o
nce we had been united under God’s eye, all would be well. It transpires I was just a fool—I did not note our direction until too late. We were not headed for Scotland and marriage, but instead a mean inn in the middle country.

  This is where my account becomes a little strange. My memory of the events is, perhaps, affected by the horror of what occurred, but I swear upon my soul that this is my true recollection.

  Mr. Trent led me inside the inn—with what intention I do not even wish to contemplate—and as we crossed the doorway, he looked back and swore at the sight of four men arriving on horseback. At first I thought it was Papa come to retrieve me, but I saw the faces of the men and did not recognize any of them, although it was plain by their garb and horses that they were gentlemen. Mr. Trent hurried us up a narrow staircase and into a squalid bedchamber, shutting the door and locking it. You can imagine my bewilderment and growing horror. In less time than it took for Mr. Trent to push me upon the bed, a terrible banging shook the door. “Let her go, you fiend!” a man yelled. And that is when Mr. Trent pulled a pistol from his travel bag. I thought for a terrible moment that he was going to shoot me. As the door was broken open by the men, Mr. Trent placed the gun against his temple and pulled the trigger.

  I will not dwell on the physical effect of such an action—you, who have always had such a lively imagination, will need no prompting on that score. But even your mind cannot conjure up the bright flash of light that I saw as well. It was as if Mr. Trent had caught fire, his whole body alight from within. It was gone in an instant, but I swear I saw it. And I swear the men saw it too. He fell to the ground, dead by his own hand, with blistered skin upon his palms. I have dwelled long on this sight—it has been my only subject of thought in those rare hours when I am left alone—and I am convinced that it was the gate of Hell opening to take his soul. A flash of hellfire as his immortal self was dragged below. The men denied seeing such a phenomenon—the blisters, they said, were from the gun. So, I am left clinging to my truth, abandoned by any fellow witness other than a groom who claims he saw it through the second-story window. It is his word and mine—a disgraced woman—against the word of four gentlemen: we must all know the outcome of that contest.