The Gilded Cage (15 page)

My pain, my rage is focused on the sullied watch—a family heirloom that I can never again take pleasure in. I bring my hand back to throw it, but the false drama of the gesture turns my stomach. Resigned, I tuck it away into my pocket, to be fixed another day.

Would John have done this thing? What motive could he possibly have had? I remember George and me passing him in the hall just before the ball—was George's cool nod an affront? Did John think us pretenders to our wealth, jumped-up peasants? George could be too quick and cocky for his own good. Perhaps he said something to anger John—perhaps there was an argument that got out of hand. I press my forehead into my cold hands.

A shadow in the doorway says my name, then steps forward into the thin daylight. It's Elsie. “They want you in the parlor, my lady,” she says, her voice a white whisper. Her face is unreadable through her shock. Whatever she might have felt toward the rumored father of her sister's child, she couldn't have longed for this. I push the thought away. Whether John had ruined a girl and then abandoned her could hardly matter now. He would account for it in a higher court than that of my own mind.

In the parlor I find my cousins and William Simpson. Though Henry has changed into a clean shirtfront, he has offered nothing to Mr. Simpson, who sits quietly in a shirt stained with blood.

Grace's voice is tinged with hysteria. “I never did trust John, and I was always glad to say so. Even before the talk surrounding the incident with that girl, I thought he was a bad apple. Oh, the trials of finding good help!” She threw up her hands in theatrical supplication, and I fight back a tide of contempt. Two men dead, and she talks of the troubles in staffing Walthingham.

Her brother reaches out his arm to both comfort and quiet her. “There is no help in speaking ill of the dead, sister—though I cannot express my pain at my oversight, in letting such a criminal insinuate himself into life at Walthingham Hall. His father was a very decent man, and it was for his sake that I never fired the son. I've long suspected him of stealing from the house, and just yesterday confronted him about it. I'm surprised the man did not sneak away in the night.”

With a jolt, I realize that this must be the confrontation I witnessed as I exited the woods after my run-in with McAllister. John had lied so ably to me when asked about their argument. Had all of our interactions been a lie? I'm mute with shame at the way I was taken in, until I remember something else.

“Henry, the day after the ball I overhead John arguing with two men in our front hall. They were asking to speak with you, but he turned them away.”

“Asking to speak with
me
? Perhaps they meant to uncover some truth about him to me—no doubt the men were contacts of his, blackmailers of some sort. Like falls in with like.”

“Is it possible, sir, that John's death was not an accident?” The cold clarity of Mr. Simpson's voice cuts through the fog of my thoughts.

“McAllister,” I breathe. “He knows the woods better than anyone. And I know that John did not like him.” I blush, hoping no one will ask how I came to possess this knowledge.

Henry mulls this a moment. “It's possible, I suppose. Not likely—I grew up in these woods myself, and I know them just as well as Mr. McAllister. I doubt he could have been near without my detecting him. Though it's true that the man never got on with John
or
his father.”

Mr. Simpson speaks with unexpected force. “Just because a man has been accused of poaching does not mean he would kill someone in cowardly cold blood.”

Before Henry can respond, Mr. Dowling enters the room, trailed by two men. “There's a note,” he says briefly, holding something out to Henry. My heart thumps. Mr. Simpson, sitting beside me, notices my stiffened posture. “Are you all right, Katherine?” he asks. I nod in silence as Henry begins to read the letter aloud.

To all those touched by my sins,

Having done a terrible thing and being regretful for it, I mean to take my own life. The heir of Walthingham Hall, my birthplace and home, came at me in the stables with an accusation that I stole the silver. I did do that crime, but my anger at being found out was such that I committed another: I killed George Randolph with a blow to the head, using the hoofpick I held in my hand. It were not in anger but in fear that I did this, and I cannot live to know my sins another day.

Forgive me, forgive me. May God forgive me.

John Hayes

I rise and move to Henry's shoulder, quickly skimming the letter's contents. It strikes me as wrong in every respect. How could John possibly have managed such writing? I struggle to express myself without giving anything away. “This note is far beyond the abilities of a footman, don't you think?”

Grace looks at me with pity over the back of the couch. In her expression I see that I needn't have hidden my ink-stained dress—Mr. Carrick has told her all. She hooks cold fingers about my arm. “It wouldn't be the first time a man has lied about his abilities,” she murmurs, “to suit the vanities of a young girl.”

I snatch my arm back and glance toward Mr. Simpson, who seems, thankfully, too absorbed in thought to have heard her.

“Perhaps Lady Katherine is right,” he says, his brow puckered with concern. “I believe I've met the man once or twice, and such expression does not sit easily with my understanding of him.”

Henry tuts. “Mr. Simpson, please. Katherine has no need of more fanciful conspiracies to distract her tired mind.”

Mr. Simpson and I spring from our seats simultaneously, but he speaks before I can. “Fanciful conspiracies! Perhaps we should give the lady more credence. It seems she was correct in her belief that her brother's death was foul play.”

Still seated, Henry watches the man with bored eyes. “Perhaps there will come a time when we need the advice of a solicitor on this matter,” he says with acid politeness. “Until then, however, you may keep your opinions to yourself. I shall call for Carrick to show you out.”

I remain standing. “There's no need of Mr. Carrick. I'll see Mr. Simpson to the door myself.”

I stalk out of the room, worrying only that Mr. Dowling may think me impolite. It brings on an unwelcome realization: that Mr. Simpson is made of far better stuff than my own surviving family. He follows me to the front of the house without speaking, his quiet presence steady at my back. At the door, I place my hand lightly on his arm. “Thank you, sir, for speaking on my behalf. I was ready to do so myself, but I'm afraid anger would have made a mess of my meaning.” I look down at the crusted red of his shirtfront, feeling ashamed. “Please allow me to bring you something fresh to wear. You cannot ride out in that shirt.”

He gazes back at me, and I sense that he wants to say something but cannot or will not find the words. After a lingering pause, he speaks. “Thank you, but I am beholden enough to Walthingham as it is. Lady Katherine, I remain at your service. I return to London tomorrow, but please know that I will give you my counsel freely and at any time.”

I can hardly bear to look into the rich blue of his eyes, burning with a passion that belies the spare politeness of his words.

Must he always retreat behind this veil of propriety, through which I'm allowed only the most incomplete glimpses? It makes me want to shake him and his damnable decorum by the shoulders. How would he react if I kissed him the way John kissed me? Would he push me away, or would he respond to my touch, as he did in my dream?

I grow hot with a sudden belief that he can read the thoughts on my face. His last words are oddly loaded.

“I await your instructions, Lady Katherine. If you should have need of me, I tell you again: I will be there to help you at once.” He clasps my ungloved hand briefly in his larger, warm one, before turning to depart.

For a long time after he is gone, I find my mind returning to his last words, and to the gentle pressure of his palm against mine. I drift back to the morning room and gaze up at the painting of my grandfather. In all his time as steward of Walthingham Hall, was there ever such a bloody period as this one? Or was the removal of my father's branch from the family tree the cruelest cut of his era?

I long to return to the first time Mr. Simpson and I stood here in the half-light, when my most serious concern was how high society would take to me. My brother alive, my friendship with Jane fresh and new, and John alive, not a murderer, just a callow footman I need not think of.

In the absence of Jane to talk to, I'm grateful to find Stella in my room, whining beneath the bed.

“Poor thing,” I murmur, coaxing her out. Walthingham smells like blood and horses today, and it must have sent her scurrying. I pull her into my lap and decide that it's time to finally write my letter.

Among the jumble of my writing desk, I find the bright, heedless note I'd begun penning the day after the ball, while my brother's broken body lay less than a mile away. Its blithe, cocky sentiments now fill me with shame. Ripping it into a dozen pieces, I lay out a sheet of fresh paper and begin again.

Dear Aunt Lila and Uncle Edward,

I'm deeply sorry for my silence these past weeks. Though I came here to claim a home and a family, I find that I am more alone than ever. I have many events to recount, but I wish to do so in person. For now, you must know only two things: One, that my brother is dead, a tragedy compounded by its being the result of foul play. Two, that by the time you read this letter, I will be on my way home.…

 

CHAPTER 17

F
OR THE FIRST
time in days I do not dream. When I come to with a thumping heart in the middle of the night, I'm not sure at first what's woken me.

Then, far away, I hear a series of barks, followed by a terrible squeal. Thrusting my arms into the covers, I realize Stella is not beside me.

A moment later, I'm on the landing. I barely recall how I got there, how I threw on a robe and ran headlong into the black of the hall. A sleepy blonde maid is beside me, rubbing her eyes and staring down into the dark pit of the stairs. “Did you hear that sound?” she asks tremulously. Then, seeing to whom she's speaking, she amends herself. “But I'm sure it was nothing, my lady.”

“May I?” I say. She hands me her lantern, then curtsies and melts back into the unlit hall. My bare feet are cold and careful against the marble steps; as I descend I hear voices below, and I see the wavering light of candles.

When I reach the bottom step, the housekeeper's face swims into view, pale beneath her red hair. “You should be abed, my lady. The servants will locate the source of the noise.”

“It was my dog, Mrs. Whiting, I'm sure of it. I want to help them find her; she must be hurt.”

She shakes her head but lets me pass. I move softly in my circle of lamplight. Servants stir in the doorways along my path, though none speak to me. A draft teases my ankles, and instinctively I change course, heading toward the west wing.

Then a shout breaks the hush—sure enough, it comes from the west, where John's body lies. The wing has become a mortuary.

The door in the temporary wall already hangs open, and I move swiftly past the sheeted furniture, following the low hum of voices to a small room at the house's outer edge. When I enter, I see my cousin standing at the window looking down, his form outlined in moonlight. Elsie stands with a knot of other servants near the door, and attempts to catch my sleeve as I pass.

“Lady Katherine…” she breathes.

Henry turns swiftly, his face contorted. “Don't look,” he says. I ignore him, pressing a hand to my mouth to gag the scream I feel gathering strength in my chest.

The window's open, and an icy breeze ghosts around me, lifting tendrils of damp hair from my brow. I grip the sill and look down. There, below the window, lies Stella's small body, still in the silvery light and matted with blood.

“This was not an accident,” I say immediately.

“Her neck is broken,” says Henry briefly. “Someone broke her neck,” he repeats, his voice filled with horror.

“Or some
thing
,” says Elsie, behind me.

Henry turns sharply, fists clenched. “For the last time, there is no Beast of Walthingham.” His eyes are black pools in the lamplight. “And the next person who implies otherwise will be removed from the estate at once, without back wages.”

“Please, someone get my dog,” I say. I can't stop shivering, despite my robe. Henry takes my arm and forces me to a chair, where I sit helplessly, waiting for Stella's body to be brought inside.

Long moments tick by, elastic and immeasurable in the wavering light, with everyone staring at me, waiting to see whether I'll break. I make my hands into tight balls and refuse to meet their eyes. If John began this horror by killing my brother, what does it mean that his own death hasn't stopped it? I think again of the letter he supposedly wrote—and the wavering words he produced in our lesson together.

Finally, the man Henry sent out returns. He looks vaguely familiar—I think he's the estate's smith. My dog is tiny in his arms. “She's bloody, miss,” he says apologetically. “You don't want to hold her with that nice dress.”

“It's just a robe. Give her to me.”

I cradle the cool little body in my arms. She's even smaller in death—a true runt. “Henry,” I say, “McAllister did this. He threatened her, and now he's made good on it. That man killed my dog.”

“That's not possible. He wouldn't dare come closer in than that old lodge, and he certainly couldn't get into the house.”

“I saw someone a few nights ago, standing at the tree line,” I say. “Who else could it be? Who else would be so cruel as to harm a helpless dog?”

“But that wouldn't explain why the window was open.” Mrs. Whiting speaks from the doorway. “I personally check the windows each night, and I'm certain this one was latched and locked when I did my rounds. There's no question but that it was opened from the inside.”