The Gilded Cage (9 page)

“My lady,” he says, his voice low. “I am so very sorry for your loss.” He squeezes my hand gently, then releases it and walks away. But I detect a disturbance in his step, the same confused tremor that runs through me now, carrying some current of lightness into my heart.

I call out his name without thinking, and when he turns I can't imagine what I meant to tell him. “John,” I say. “John. Let me teach you how to read better. I fear you're missing out.” It's all I can think to offer.

“I would like that,” he says, smiling. He drops into a quick bow, then walks back toward the carriage.

My heart beats easier now, until I turn and lock eyes with Grace. She's watching me from the windbreak beside the far church wall, her eyes nearly lost in shadow. She holds my gaze for half a moment, and then turns away, tipping her face up toward the sun. Her closed eyes and drawn mouth give no hint of just how much she saw.

On the ride home, I press my forehead to the cool of the carriage window. Henry contrived somehow to ride with Jane, and now I am squeezed rather uncomfortably across the bench with both Grace and Mr. Dowling. “Of course I'm very pleased with the attendance today, very pleased indeed,” she tells him with great satisfaction, as if George's funeral were no different from any successful ball. She repeats the flattering comments made by her friends, on George and myself, and on her own tasteful mourning clothes. My head hurts to hear it, but Mr. Dowling is a gentleman. He behaves as though her every observation is fascinating and correct.

The house as we approach looks desolate, though the windows are lit. I wonder whether they've closed up George's rooms yet, and what will happen to all his fine new things. Most of his clothing he never got the chance to wear, and the old things have surely been spirited away by Grace and Mr. Carrick to some unvisited corner of the house.

Jane and Henry made better time and are waiting outside for us when we arrive. Her cheeks are flushed, his eyes particularly bright; I wonder what passed between them on the ride. In the flurry of our arrival, I take hold of Henry's arm, letting the rest of them walk ahead of us into the house.

When I'm sure they're out of earshot, I speak to him from the corner of my mouth. “Henry, I
must
talk to you, somewhere I might not upset Jane and Grace.”

He nods slightly and asks no questions, guiding me into an antechamber off the main parlor. The room is cold, and thick with the incongruous scent of hothouse flowers. Grace has ordered them to be placed in every room, and I think I will never love the scent of roses again. Henry, too, wrinkles his nose as I turn to face him.

“Henry, do you believe in the Beast of Walthingham?”

Though he looks surprised, his response is fast and firm. “Absolutely not, Katherine. I regret that the tale was ever spoken of in your presence.”

“Then if there is no Beast,” I persist, “you must listen to me when I say that George's fall was not an accident. I saw his body, Henry, the night after we found him. His forehead was badly cut. If he drowned, there's no reason for him to have such a wound. Something else happened to him—something else made him fall!”

I feel my words getting wilder, but I can't help myself. Henry leads me to a blue brocade sofa, punctuated with hard black buttons. “Katherine, please sit, before you upset yourself.”

It strikes me suddenly that I can't stand the useless furniture of the rich, and I push his arm aside. “I don't want to sit. I want to talk to the magistrate!”

“Mr. Dowling will be happy to speak with you,” Henry says calmly, “but I fear for you, Katherine, in this state. All the roses have gone from your cheeks!”

“I'm not a foolish child,” I say sharply. “You must think more highly of me than that, cousin.”

His face is suddenly grave, all its forced jocularity fled. “You're right, Katherine. You've lost too many loved ones to have the luxury of being childish, and I'm very sorry for it.” He moves to a cabinet of lacquered wood topped with a carved checkerboard. Balanced carefully on his injured leg, he crouches before it. There's a cunning catch somewhere on the cabinet's side; when he presses it, the door swings open, revealing a silver tray cluttered with bottles, some of them conspicuously low.

“I'll fix you something that will knock some heat back into you, at any rate—it worked for me in France; it will work for you in England. So long as you don't share my recipe with anyone—especially my sister.”

Defeated, I drop onto an ornate carved chair to watch him work. The draft he mixes is spiced and syrupy, with an astringent kick that clears my head.

“You learned this recipe on the battlefield, did you?” I say.

“I did. More often than not, our battles were fought against boredom. At times we could almost forget we were at war, passing our time as we did with card games and attempts to keep warm from the inside out.” He ruefully holds up his drink. “Those quiet times never lasted for long, of course—we were always reminded soon enough of why we were there. The luxury of Walthingham seemed a beautiful dream to me, one I longed to return to, but the men I fought alongside became my brothers. I cannot pretend to know what you're feeling now, but I did lose many friends on the battlefield.”

“I'm sorry. I'm not so forgetful as to think I'm the only one who has suffered.”

Henry looks at me, dropping for once his dapper air, his shield of faded gentility. “The war took more from me than I care to admit. Not just friends, but time.” He looks down into his glass, swirling the liquid till it sloshes. “I should be married already, shouldn't I? But it's too late now, I suppose—I've become an old man.”

I think of Jane's flushed cheeks out on the lane, and wonder if I misread their meaning. “You're the same age my father was when he met and married my mother. She was much younger, but they were so in love. You must do as he did: Seize the opportunities life puts before you. For happiness—for love.”

“Your father gave up much for love, it's true.” His tone is still dark, but after a moment he shakes his head slightly, as though driving off sad thoughts, and absently runs a hand down his bad leg—a gesture I've noticed is a habit of his.

“That was your grandfather's favorite chair,” he says, in the tone of a man hoping to change the subject. “Uncomfortable enough to make sitting a penance, but very beautifully made.”

I've never heard my grandfather characterized in any but glowing terms, and my curiosity is piqued.

“He was never quite at ease with being born into riches,” says Henry. “He was, at heart, a self-made man—but one who never got the opportunity to prove it. That is, perhaps, why he liked your Mr. Simpson so much.”

“
My
Mr. Simpson?” I say, too flustered to ask what his connection was with my grandfather.

“I saw you two talking outside of the church,” says Henry, “and it looked as if you were engaged in some kind of quarrel.”

“Certainly not a lovers' quarrel, if that's what you were thinking. Good lord, the man can hardly bear a moment of my company.” I feel my cheeks growing pink in the recollection. “He wished to speak immediately of wills and of my responsibilities to the inheritance, mere minutes after my brother was laid to rest. I found it disrespectful.”

Henry scowls. “The man has always had cheek, but I did not realize he would be so indelicate. Grace and I are your guardians now, and we will do our best to protect you until you've come of age. But, as you say, these are conversations for another time. For now you must be good to yourself. You'll find everything easier to bear once you've had time to recover from this shock.”

I nod slowly, fully aware that he has delicately directed our conversation away from the subject of George's “accident.” When we rejoin the others, we find Grace and Jane playing a listless hand of cards, and Mr. Dowling drowsing with a brandy in front of the fire. Soon Elsie brings in a cold luncheon of meats and preserves. The drink Henry gave me, so bracing at first, now makes me feel hollow and heady. But my nose is still clogged with the scent of dying roses, and I cannot eat a bite.

I bide my time until I can contrive to be alone with Mr. Dowling. I know from the glances the others give me that I look as haunted as I feel, but I cannot rouse myself on their account.

When no opportunity to speak in private with the magistrate arises, I finally stand and stretch. “Mr. Dowling, I wish to have a bit of exercise. Perhaps you would like to accompany me to the library?” Grace looks pleased by this attempt at courtesy, though Henry does not.

As for Mr. Dowling, his eyes light up. “Oh, very good. I'm afraid I did not have nearly enough time with your books on my last visit—such a collection you have here at Walthingham.”

The library is on the second floor, close to our living quarters, and its contents are well chosen and well thumbed, unlike the uncut books Grace keeps for show on the first floor. But I can't take comfort in it now that George is gone—it was his favorite place when he wasn't painting.

“May I, Lady Katherine?” says Mr. Dowling. His hands hover hungrily over the nearest shelf.

“First I must speak with you, sir. I confess I pulled you away for my own purposes.”

His eyes are kind, though he pats the spines of the books with quick regret. We sit in red leather chairs beneath a severe oil painting of a pale-lipped dowager—one of my ancestors, no doubt. Beneath her disapproving stare, I repeat the fears that I laid out for Henry, but in a calmer, practiced tone. I desperately need him to find me credible, but I needn't have bothered.

“My dear, the sooner we move on from this terrible accident, the better. I see that you do not like that word, but an accident it most assuredly was.” He looks down at his hands, clearly regretting what he must say. “Dr. Ebner examined the body, and he is well aware of the wound on your brother's head. It would have been caused by his fleeing horse, or by the stone edging of the bridge. George is buried and at peace, and he would want you to make peace, too.”

I can't believe that he won't even consider my words. “Sir, you are a magistrate, and I must respect your opinion on the matter. But I have a sister's heart. How can I make peace, still believing that someone has done this to my brother?”

“I'm a magistrate, but I'm also a man. I've learned that it's best to let the past be the past, lest you find yourself incapable of going on. My beloved wife perished when Jane was just twelve. She was a brilliant woman. Wonderful.” He removes his spectacles and presses finger and thumb into the corner of his eyes. “I will tell you honestly, Lady Katherine, that the shock of her passing almost overwhelmed me. Made me question my faith in this world. But I pulled through. I had to, for Jane.”

“I'm sorry to make you recount it,” I say. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

He leaves the library, his shoulders slightly stooped. Yes, he knows of loss, but I still believe he's wrong. Dwelling on the past is the only thing keeping me together. I owe my brother that much, even if no one else can see it.

 

CHAPTER 9

A
FTER JANE AND
her father have gone home, after Henry and Grace have urged me into eating a few bites of dinner, after I've washed and undressed, I must face sleep.

Elsie puts me down with a cup of hot milk, nervously plucking at her apron front as I dutifully drink it down. The fuzzy scum of its boiled skin coats my teeth. Under my dressing maid's watch, I slump back into my pillow, feigning readiness for sleep. She turns down the lamp and exits, softly closing the door behind her.

My mind's too dull for thought, too fretful for slumber. I toss in bed until the sheets are hot and twisted, damp against my skin. And when I finally drift away, a nightmare comes, as I knew it would.

I'm in a moving carriage, rattling swiftly down a night-black road. I look ahead—no driver. At first I think I'm alone, until I realize that a dark-haired man is sitting beside me. Without speaking, he takes my hand, then places his mouth on my throat. I shudder with some unnamed emotion as he moves his hands to loosen my dress. I'm wearing my heavy mourning clothes, but they fall away at his touch. Over his shoulder, through half-closed eyes, I see moonlight spilling over the lane ahead of us. The steaming horses are snow white, though it might be a trick of the light.

Then a man stumbles into view. He falls to the ground in front of our carriage, his chest soaked dark with some terrible liquid. It's George, his familiar face twisted with pain. He throws out his hands. His mouth moves silently, calling for us to stop. But I close my eyes, giving in to the man beside me, moving his mouth over mine. Our bodies press in a hot embrace as the carriage wheels shudder over the body of my lost brother.

I wake hot and terrified, fighting against the sheets wound tight around my legs. After a long, panicked moment I remember where I am.

Who was the man beside me?
Not John, with his corn-colored hair. The man had dark hair, curling around his collar. I shudder, feeling the ghost of his fingertips on my skin. Could the chilly, distant lawyer have made it into my dreams? More important, does some part of me believe that I am to blame for my brother's death? I close my eyes, remembering the night of the party. George was long abed when the three men threatened Jane and me, and I know that he was at Walthingham in the morning, because he went out painting the day that he died.

I bolt straight up in bed. The painting! George left the house on his final morning to go paint, but he never came back.

The painting, however, did.

Whoever tucked it back into his room did so to keep us from knowing, a little while longer, that something happened to George. And that person has access to Walthingham Hall.

I think of the hallways and unused corridors, the dusty hive of staircases and servants' quarters and hidden nooks that make up the old estate. A guest from the party could easily have stayed behind; a disgruntled neighbor or former servant could surely slip in. And what of the men I overheard threatening John?