The Gilded Cage Page 12

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

  FOR 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 something,” 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.”

  There’s a cool challenge in her voice, and I’m unsure at whom it’s directed. My own voice is steely in response. “Mrs. Whiting, I have no doubt that man could enter any room of this house if he wished to. This wing is the least secure part of the estate! Stella startled him, and now she’s paid the price.”

  “Mr. McAllister is not a bogeyman, Lady Katherine, capable of popping in and out without consequence,” she responds tartly. “This house is well secured nightly, by myself.”

  “Mrs. Whiting, Katherine is not disparaging your work,” says Henry. “All of us must be vigilant, but now, please return to your beds. I think I need not remind you that what happens at Walthingham Hall is not to be spoken of beyond the estate.”

  As the servants file out, led by a quietly furious Mrs. Whiting, he kneels before me and attempts to ease Stella from my arms. “Katherine, please allow me to take her. I’ll bury her somewhere nice for you—beneath a flowering tree, perhaps. She was your friend; I think you’ll want to visit her sometimes.” His tone is kind but brisk. As with George’s death, Henry wishes to push Stella’s aside, to clean up after it and move on.

  I’m holding her tight to me, still unwilling to give her up, when he grabs my hand tightly. “You don’t deserve this,” he says, his voice grim. “Let me do what I can to make it right.”

  He mistakes my surprised stillness for surrender, and pulls my dog away. When he’s limped softly from the room, moving carefully with his little burden, Elsie moves to my side. “I can sleep in your room tonight, Lady Katherine,” she offers.

  I nod wordlessly. I feel too numb to do anything but accept.

  CHAPTER 18

  POOR ELSIE—OUR heads barely touch our pillows. I keep her awake for hours, helping me pack and sort my things, until the birds below begin to stir and twitter in the first gray light of morning. I’m more determined than ever to put this place,
which has brought me nothing but misery, behind me. At times Elsie’s eyes fill with tears, though she does not try to dissuade me from leaving—I wonder whether she will miss me, or my protection. I can’t imagine she’ll stay in my aunt’s employ for long once I’m gone, but I do not have the energy to feel guilt over this.

  Finally, I lie across my rumpled bed, and Elsie drapes herself over a low chaise to catch an hour of sleep before dawn truly arrives. When I wake, it’s with sandy eyes and a sharp resolve that propels me from my bed, despite the poisonous headache I’m staggering under.

  I leave Elsie where she lies, knowing another maid will catch her there before Mrs. Whiting does, and take the small satchel I’ve filled with my most important effects for my journey. My old blue trunk is packed to the brim with pretty things for Anna and Aunt Lila, and the sturdier of my new clothes for me. The restlessness that’s been coursing through me for days now has shape and purpose. As I walk to the first floor, looking for an early-rising footman to help me with my trunk, I feel as though I’m truly breathing for the first time since before the funeral.

  I regret only that I must leave George’s body behind. I try to take comfort in his immediate affinity for England, though it seems wrong that his body wasn’t laid beside our parents’. My mind is so far ahead, already lingering on the faces of those I’ll be returning to in Virginia, that it’s a shock to come upon Henry pacing in the wan light of the foyer, his face care-lined but his eyes alive with purpose. His bad hip rolls stiffly in its socket as he turns, catching sight of me.

  “You look as though you’re waiting for someone, cousin,” I say.

  “That’s because I am.” His gaze wanders over the satchel hanging from my hand, but he does not speak the question I can see in his eyes. “I haven’t slept, Katherine. My mind was spinning; I couldn’t close my eyes. Forgive me, but I must speak to you about something of great importance, at once.”

  I close my eyes, seeing myself on the coach to Bristol, then, finally, on the next ship home to America. “I share your troubles, Henry. I slept only an hour, and must unburden myself to you as well.”

  His eyes, strangely avid, racing from my eyes, to my mouth, and back again, light up at these words. “Can this be true, Katherine? Could it be we’re haunted by the same thoughts?”

  “I doubt it very much, cousin…” I begin, but to my dismay, he’s already taking my free hand in his, then lowering himself gingerly to one knee.

  The light falls on his tired face, and as he speaks he looks older than I’ve ever seen him. “Katherine Randolph, I have loved you since the moment I saw you. I couldn’t speak sooner without dishonoring the memory of your brother, but I can keep quiet no longer. Would you bless me with your hand in marriage?”

  “Oh! Henry, I…” I can’t think of anything but Jane. This isn’t right at all, and if it weren’t for the genuine supplication in Henry’s face, I would assume they were both pulling some sick ruse on me. I stand in dumb absorption, staring down at him. His fair hair is losing color at the sides, going slowly to silver. When he’s nervous, as he is now, his hands have a fine tremor. And his eyes, which I thought were brown, are actually shot through with green. It gives them a distant look. He’s quite dashing still, and must have cut a swath through the hearts of society women when he was young—before the war. I have never had such an opportunity to study him as I do now, as Henry has always seemed distant to me, moving through the house with an authoritative air, the curdled victory of his military service still hanging on him like a tarnished badge. Before I can speak again, Henry stumbles on, unable to bear my silent scrutiny.

  “These last few weeks have taught me that nothing is certain, that life is sacred—a lesson I knew better once but had nearly forgotten. My sister urged me to wait until you’re a bit older … but why deny ourselves the happiness we can give to each other?” He ends this little speech with a flourish, as though he’s successfully removed the final obstacle to our shared happiness.

  He’s waiting in pained silence for me to reply, but my mind hums, empty. He speaks as though I’ve said yes, as though he’s certain of my love, but I’ve given him no such commitment. And Jane—what of her? They are in love, aren’t they? I’ve seen it with my own eyes. She has told me of their plans.

  “This is very sudden, cousin,” I say faintly.

  With a pained grimace he tries to cover with a smile, he brings himself back to standing. “You know me to be a man of action.” Now, standing over me, he is Henry again, distant and cool. It gives me the power to speak without stumbling.

  “I think,” I say, “that I need time to consider. I would like time to think.”

  Oh, Jane. Poor, poor Jane …

  “Yes, of course.” Again he takes my unresponsive hand. “I see that you are planning on going out today. If you’re traveling to the churchyard to visit your poor brother, I would be happy to accompany you. I would have liked to ask his blessing for my proposal.”

  The way he falls so easily into bluff charm turns me cold. “No,” I lie quickly. “I was planning to see Jane.”

  Does something flicker in his eyes at the sound of her name, or is it my imagination? Certainly his smile does not dim as he presses his mouth gently to my gloved hand. “I await your response, Katherine. Please do not leave me in anticipation for long.”

  In the absence of John, Matt drives me into Bath. Perhaps they won’t make him leave after all—despite Henry’s command, word will get out about John’s death. Between that and rumors of the Beast, many servants will be too frightened even to apply at Walthingham. I allow myself a moment’s dark satisfaction, imagining Grace fumbling through the preparation of her own toilette. Without servants to help her, she’d starve in a week.

  The look on my face tells Matt that I do not wish to speak, and the ride is swift and silent. I look back at the great house just once, remembering how I admired it the first time I saw it. Now it seems to me a house of hidden horrors, an unlooked-for inheritance that turned quickly into a curse.

  The landscape is not nearly as pretty with the snow melted away, and I barely note a twig of it. My lie to Henry quickly became a dreaded errand—I must put off my departure for one more day, to tell my friend of Henry’s proposal. My mind races, recalling her tender words on the frozen lawn just after the ball, and the longing looks I’ve seen pass between them. Surely she could not have imagined his regard for her? Was their romance only in her mind, born of Henry’s easy charm and good humor? He has a courtly way about him that could be misconstrued. I cannot believe him to be so villainous as to give her false hopes—not intentionally.

  All of my apprehensions cannot make our journey any longer than it is, and we arrive sooner than I’d like. I unlatch the door with frozen fingers and step down. In my mind’s eye I imagine Jane at a window above, watching my arrival and anticipating a pleasant afternoon. To stretch this illusion, I make my steps to the door as short and slow as I can, feeling Matt’s curious eyes boring into my back. With a shaky breath, I bring down the door knocker.

  The door is flung open nearly at once by an elderly butler, and I’m shown into the front hall. I keep my head down as I’m announced, watching my boots leave small pools of muck on the entrance carpet.

  Finally, I’m called into the library, a room that smells of leather and pipe smoke and is very clearly the province of Mr. Dowling. He’s quite at his leisure in the middle of it, sitting behind a broad desk. A teacup lies atop a stack of papers close by his hand, surrounded by overlapping brown rings, and a book is splayed open across his great chest. He looks at me kindly over half-glasses.

  “Lady Katherine. It’s wonderful to see you on your feet, child, despite the blow that has once again befallen Walthingham. Jane is visiting friends, but she’ll be back within the hour. You’ll take a nice cup with me while we wait for her.”

  I can’t help but smile at Mr. Dowling, and at the comfort of this cozy room. It speaks clearly of the enforced bachelorhood of the not-so-o
ld widower. Soon I’m warming my hands around a cup of hot English tea, fragrant with bergamot and honey.

  Though he tries to distract me with bits of gossip, even pushing a green-bound volume of poems across the table, recommending that I take it with me when I go, my mood soon moves us both to ruminative silence.

  “Mr. Dowling, I’m a poor companion today,” I say apologetically. “But as we have a moment to speak, I must ask you again about your thoughts on Mr. McAllister. The note John left, it … it seems too easy, too unlikely. He seemed such a simple, good man to me, and McAllister such a menace—we know him to be a thief, and to have great knowledge of the woods about Walthingham—”

  He cuts me off gently, leaning across to take the teacup from my gesturing hand. “I have found, my dear, that the simplest explanations are always the best. You must not look for a scandal when the real answer has already been presented to you.”

  He sighs, settling heavily back into his chair. “McAllister has long been an outsider here—even in the eyes of his own family. He had a wife and child once, but they left him years ago. No one can even say where he lives, now that he no longer has that cottage on the estate.”

  “Don’t you see?” I say. “What kind of man drives away his own wife and child? And does not try to go after them?”

  “I believe he did, actually—he took a leave of absence from your grandfather’s estate for a period of time. When he returned, he was more reclusive than ever. A man like that is a man who knows how to stay hidden. No matter his personal grudges—and I do not doubt that he has them—I don’t believe that he would sacrifice the anonymity he enjoys now. The man lives an animal’s life: solitary, close to the land. He would not endanger what small safeties he’s carved out for himself.”

  From the hall we hear the cheerful clatter of Jane’s approach. Her father’s face flushes with pleasure as she enters—windblown, cheeks pink with cold. I look down at myself, thinner than before and wrapped in my mourning blacks. Jane is vibrant and positively blooming, though she mutes her enthusiasm for my sake, coming forward to take my hands.