Lady Jayne Disappears Read online

  “I should say not. So many people are closed up, all tucked inside themselves, yet they bloom open in beautiful ways if you would only take interest in them.”

  The flick of his eyebrow hinted at disapproval, driving me deeper back into my seat as my face heated. I had done it again.

  I tipped my head back against the cushioned seat and allowed the carriage to carry me and my heavy thoughts toward a life where this disapproval would be normal fare. “I hope I did not offend you, sir.”

  “It was merely a surprisingly deep answer to what I believed a simple question.”

  “Life is deep, Mr. Rotherham.” Oh so deep. Especially when it is a series of intense moments all piling on top of you, fighting for your urgent attention every day. “Which is why books are such a lifeline. Stepping into the pages of someone else’s story means joining them in their normal life and pretending that you, for one liberating moment, will also become whole and healthy and wonderfully normal by the end.”

  His eyes, lifting into a pleasant crescent shape with his smile, assessed me with the softness of grace. “You’ve managed quite well in the life you were dealt. How were you not mired in sadness every day at a place like that?”

  My first instinct was to inform him that Charles Dickens himself spent several years of his childhood in Marshalsea Debtor’s Prison when his father languished there for numerous debts, for no one could doubt Dickens had made a success of his life in the end. But I merely waved off his comment with a simple reply. “There are many good days that outweigh the bad. And besides, imaginations are transportable. They even follow one into poverty.”

  His face dipped back into the shadows. Laughing? Or disapproving?

  No matter. The stress of the week weighed me down much like the wet dress I wore. We’d only buried Papa days ago. “And might I ask who has the pleasure of escorting me?”

  “I am a family friend staying at Lynhurst for the summer.” He cleared his throat. “They did not feel they could trust so delicate a matter to a servant, no matter how faithful.”

  “I see.” But I did not. What was delicate about the matter of bringing one’s niece home?

  Long, silent moments passed before the carriage paused for an iron gate to grind open. A crest seemed to seal the gates shut. Had we reached our destination so quickly?

  I leaned into the window for a glimpse of the place, but the muted glow of lamplight showed precious little. Three . . . no, four cupolas speared the dark clouds shrouding the roofline. Surely the estate couldn’t be as fanciful and amazing as Papa’s wild stories, but anything less would not have captured the imagination of such a man. Propping myself higher, I strained to see the outline of the fabled Lynhurst Manor through the muggy dark.

  After endless minutes of rolling up the unlit gravel drive, the carriage veered left and halted mere feet from the great house. A large hanging light illuminated an arched stone entryway with double wooden doors not unlike the solid front entrance of the prison. Perhaps I’d feel at home here after all. The mansion’s gray exterior wall extended far outside the little circle of lantern light, into what seemed to be eternity.

  It was true, then. I’d hardly believed Papa’s stories of this place, for what family could live in such wealth while their brother languished in poverty? A mere pittance of their wealth might have freed Papa years ago. Steeling myself against bitterness, I tried to summon an explanation, but could not.

  At least the rain had stopped.

  Mr. Rotherham alighted. As I pushed off the seat, he held up a palm to stop me. “You’d best let me prepare them first, Miss Harcourt.”

  I sank into the seat, the damp feel of my thick skirts beneath me. “Prepare them for what?”

  He paused just outside the carriage, a rare smile flicking over his face. “We all rather believed you to be a collection of bags and trunks.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The solicitor had instructed Lady Pochard to collect the belongings of the distant relative who had died in debtor’s prison.”

  Distant relative? I frowned.

  “You can imagine her surprise when she finds out exactly what this relative’s belongings include.” He shook his hat and replaced it. “Wait here. I’ll return for you when I’ve broken the news to her.”

  “Welcome back, Mr. Rotherham.”

  Silas strode through the double doors held open by the butler, who ushered him into the deeply shadowed hall tinged with lemon freshness on wood-paneled walls. A slight bow, then Digory’s aged hand came out to accept Silas’s coat. The weight of it jerked his arm down, but his face maintained the placid butler mask. “I trust your errand was pleasant.”

  “Pleasant as expected.” He stamped wetness from his shoes and strode through the arched front hall to the drawing room where Lady Pochard waited. How was one to answer these meaningless questions, really? A fine day today, is it not, sir? How was your walk? I trust you are in good health this morning. He should tell them the day was terrible, he had witnessed a murder, and he’d walked to the moon, just to see what they would do.

  What a stark contrast from the girl waiting in the carriage. Everything she said meant something, her sentences plump and juicy with originality. Fresh, and delightfully odd.

  “Good evening, Lady Pochard. I’m surprised to see—”

  “Well, have you fetched them?” Lady Eudora Eustice Pochard huddled in her wheeled chair in the bay of heavily draped windows. The fireplace glowed behind her, giving a soft yet eerie light to this red-and-gold gilded room of her ancestors. Oh yes, he had fetched them. Both trunks . . . as well as the additional piece of “baggage.”

  “Yes, my lady. Every last belonging of a Mr. Harcourt of Shepton Mallet.”

  “He is dead?” Digory’s faithful-butler mask shattered. “No! Mr. Harcourt—”

  A daggered look from Lady Pochard sliced the end off his sentence. The poor man’s Adam’s apple bobbed, wiry hands working at his sides.

  Silas tried again. “As to what I’m to do with—”

  “I’ve told you. All the trunks are to be stowed in the rafters. Unless you have taken it upon yourself to look through the deceased man’s belongings to decide their value is greater than attic fodder.”

  “I have only glimpsed one belonging, my lady, and you will hardly wish to keep it in your attic.” Why did he tiptoe around the truth? It wasn’t as if it was his fault, any of this.

  “Out with it, then.” The woman’s aged mouth puckered. “I’ve no patience for your witticisms, Mr. Rotherham. Speak quickly.”

  He cleared his throat. “A girl, my lady. A young woman of nearly twenty, I’d say.”

  Realization dawned on the old woman’s face in hues of white and ashy gray. “It cannot be.”

  “I brought her here, not knowing what else to do. If you prefer to dismiss her, perhaps I may at least take her to London where she might find more opportunities.” Letting her loose in this area to grab at menial work for pure survival would suck the life out of her. But then, so would bringing her into this house.

  “Isn’t it scandalous enough to have a family member in this predicament in the first place?” The woman couldn’t seem to say the word prison. “I’ll not have you taking the girl anywhere but this very house.” She sat tall in her wheeled chair, as if she were a lady of great beauty, which she was not, at her age. “What has become of her all these years? Who has raised the child?”

  “She seems to have raised herself, if there was any raising done at all. She climbed into the carriage alone with me, as if it were quite natural.”

  “You mean to tell me that this girl has been living with the debtors?” The woman huffed. “What a scandal. I suppose she’s a wild little thing.”

  The bang of the front doors drew everyone’s attention, then the creak of the inner doors. Slap-click, slap-click and then she emerged from the shadows of the hall to stand before them, shining wet hair plastered to her forehead and neck, falling in silky, disheveled tresses over
her shoulders. In the light of the house, Silas drank in the full sight of her, wild and beautiful—huge brown eyes, cheeks cool and fresh like spring, perfect little lips pinched with tension. So this is what the darkness of the carriage had hidden from him.

  “Just as I knew she’d be.” Tears pricked the old servant’s tired eyes. Digory leaned forward beside Silas, his hands clasped, as if he ached to throw his arms about the girl and protect her as he would a baby bird.

  Lady Pochard leaned forward on her cane toward her servant. “Take care of this matter. And Digory”—her eyes pierced her butler with a look, shining with the awareness of all he’d likely witnessed in this great house—“tell her nothing.”

  2

  For Lady Jayne, who possessed both wit and imagination, dead ends were merely an invitation to draw out her tools and carve a door into the wall.

  ~Nathaniel Droll, Lady Jayne Disappears

  Shivers convulsed my damp body as I stood in the doorway of a dim, cavernous room, dripping on the green-checked tile just outside of it. The overly red space had two focal points—the giant white fireplace and the tiny lump of a scowling woman huddled by the windows. Her dress, the most becoming deep jade with black lace, was a waste of beauty on so sour-looking a person.

  “I see you have welcomed yourself into my home,” said the woman with silvery grace, “so I will not repeat the convention.”

  “They left me in the carriage.” I shifted, and water dripped off the hat in my hands.

  “Digory, ring for the chambermaids.” Urgency lit her eyes as water pooled at my feet. “Pull them out of their supper if you must. The girl needs a bath instantly. And rooms. She will need a suite of rooms. What do we have available that is away from the main suites? She’ll, of course, want her privacy.”

  What a diplomatic way of shuffling me off into hiding, away from my own family.

  “Yes, my lady. I’ll ask Mrs. Harper what will be best. Unless . . . unless you wish to give her the south tower rooms.”

  South tower? I bit my lip with hopeful pleasure. There had been a “south tower” in at least two of Papa’s novels, including the unfinished work in progress.

  “No!” A pop of the woman’s cane punctuated her response, and she glared at me, as if assessing whether or not I might fit into a small closet or a crate. “You’d just as well put her in the cold stables as in that old tower. Find her something on the third floor.”

  “I just thought it would be nice to—”

  “What part of ‘no’ was not clear?”

  The man bowed deeply and backed out of the room, one hand under my elbow to hint that I was to leave with him, the other taking a candle. Silas Rotherham had retreated to the room’s deep shadows, head down as if he did not wish to be noticed. I nodded my thanks in his direction, but he did not look up.

  “I almost forgot to ask.” The woman’s voice carried out to us, drawing us back into the room that glowed with firelight and candles. “What’s your name, child?”

  “Aurelie. It’s Aurelie Rosette Harcourt.”

  “Good heavens,” she mumbled, eyes rolling back beneath her lids. “As if he were naming a woodland fairy.” She tugged a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her neck.

  A swift defense boiled up, but I pressed my lips together to keep it at bay. Even if I knew nothing about being a lady, I had the higher ability of being a good and loving human being.

  “All right then, Miss Harcourt. You shall stay for now, and how long your visit continues depends entirely upon you and your conduct. You may leave me now.”

  The servant’s gentle pressure on the back of my arm propelled me toward the darkened hall again into the largest open space that ever could have existed indoors, now illuminated by the butler’s candle. From tiled floor to wainscot-trimmed ceiling two stories above, meticulous designers had decked the space in lavish emerald-green wallpaper and dramatic life-sized paintings. The butler led me to the grand staircase with echoing footsteps, and then together we climbed on plush carpet.

  At the first landing, he pointed with the lit candle. “This is where the family has their rooms. There are fourteen total in this wing.” Several tall doors remained closed. “Ninety-eight total rooms in the house altogether.”

  “Nearly a hundred rooms?” All for one family.

  “Yes, miss. Everything’s in multiples of seven. That being the number of perfection in the Good Book. The whole house was built to reflect the faith, you know.”

  “How interesting.”

  “All except the land. They have 628 acres because the bordering estate refused to sell so much as a grass blade to make it an even 700. But, that’s the Sutherlands. They were born with crowns and tiaras on their heads.”

  Rounding the balcony and climbing another set of steps, we reached a long hall of ivory-white doors steepled at the top with wood trim. The smell made me frown. No, it was not so much a smell as a lack of it. As if real life had been made sterile and fake.

  “The south wing is behind us, toward the back of the house. At the end of the hall is the door to the west wing.” He pointed toward a heavy wood door framed with scrollwork. “You’ll have the grand ballroom and other things there, but they’re hardly used anymore.”

  “I suppose I’m to stay in that wing.”

  “No, miss.” But he smiled. “You’ll be in the main house with the family, just one floor up.” On the third floor, he paused before a white door. “I know Lady Pochard wouldn’t like it, but I’ll settle you into your father’s old room. At least until she finds out.”

  “You know exactly who I am, don’t you? Even though everyone else seems surprised I even exist, you knew.”

  This broke down a loosely constructed wall and his aged face relaxed into a smile. “Yes, child. I know you.” His gentle voice pinched with age touched the same soft spot in my heart that Papa had.

  “Papa loved you when he was here, didn’t he? I’m certain I shall love you too.”

  In turn, he set the candle on a table outside the door and embraced me wholeheartedly, as a humble country farmer might hug his granddaughter.

  Thank you, my Lord, for this single beautiful moment of love and acceptance from someone in this house. Like an embrace directly from you.

  He moved back with a pat to my arm and, once again hooking his finger through the candleholder, pushed open the door to a grand bedchamber slightly stale with disuse. The candle illuminated a canopy bed with a soft sage-colored coverlet, and in the shadows stood a white fireplace and bay windows to the right. Two mauve chairs flanked the windows, either one ready to receive a reader into its embrace.

  “It’s perfect,” I breathed. Not a trace of Papa’s masculinity, but the room seemed to hold an air of his whimsical nature.

  The butler lit a candle on the nightstand and left with the one he’d brought up. “I’ll send around a girl to make the fire. It’ll take the chill out before you climb into bed.”

  “Thank you. Oh, sir.” I touched his shoulder.

  The man turned, candle glow highlighting the angles of his old face. “Digory, please.”

  “Digory.” I smiled. “What’s in the south tower anyway?”

  A smile tugged at one corner of his lip. “Now? Nothing but dust covers and old furniture, I’m afraid. But it’s where we used to keep the guests who the lady thought might benefit from a little more . . . privacy.”

  “Lady Jayne stayed there, did she not?” I dredged out the name of Papa’s latest heroine, and watched the man’s face fall.

  “It’s best you not ask about her, Miss. I say that only out of concern for yourself.”

  With a quick nod, he backed out with his candle and closed the door on my other questions.

  Finally alone, I stripped off my wet garments down to my slightly damp camisole and wrapped a knit blanket from the armoire about myself. If only I could strip away the creepy aura left by the man’s answer about Lady Jayne. What a place this was, full of religion and darkness at the sa
me time. So much was amiss.

  Shivering, I huddled over an ornately carved wood desk and put nib to paper to write the letter that must be dealt with before I allowed myself the luxury of sleep. Despite all the grief and loss of the past week, there was one final death still to occur.

  My Dear Sir,

  I regretfully write to you this 23 day of April to inform you that you must now solve Lady Jayne’s mystery yourself. After completing only 21 of the contracted installments in this work of serial fiction, the man you know as Nathaniel Droll has gone to rest in an early grave, having bled out his last word for your benefit before his beautiful soul departed to heaven. As the contents of this novel’s remaining installments were disclosed to no one, it will be left to your most understanding self, or your kind readers, to guess for yourselves what has become of Lady Jayne.

  Most sincerely yours,

  Nathaniel Droll’s transcriber

  He would have loved the irony of so perfect a cliffhanger.

  When a knock cut through my thoughts, I dropped the pen beside the page and stood to answer it, gripping the wool blanket more tightly about me.

  “Water, miss.” Two young chambermaids, girls of maybe fourteen, shared the burden of a large copper tub supported by ring handles. I opened the door farther, and they carried it to the empty hearth and were followed by another girl laboring under the weight of a cauldron of steaming water. I leaned against the wall, blanket clutched awkwardly around my nearly unclothed body, as a curly-haired maid stooped to create a fire in the cold hearth.

  A steady line of mop-capped girls struggled to carry in water, all so I could wash. Another maid brought a stack of linens, the lace of a white cotton nightdress peeking immodestly from its hiding place between towels and blankets. My guilt was tinged with an eagerness to indulge in the treats laid out before me.

  After the last pot of water had been dumped into the tub, the little maid who had carried it bobbed a curtsey and told me to ring if I needed anything, indicating a delicate coil bell near the door. “Best wait a bit for the bath, ma’am. The water’s all kinds of hot.”