The Gilded Cage Page 18

  “Almost there, Lady Katherine.”

  Finally, we break into a clearing just large enough for a single horse to graze. Across the way is a rock wall, with a low entrance carved into its front and darkness yawning beyond.

  I think of my tiny cell at Temperley’s, and the dingy, claustrophobic white of the straitjacket. My forehead feels suddenly damp. “I can’t go in there.”

  “Hold tight to my hand.” He extends it toward me, and I grasp at it and squeeze.

  The smell of smoke is stronger here, and when we bend forward at the cavern entrance I can see that the darkness within is dancing, and laced with color. Once we’ve advanced a few yards, the rock ceiling is high enough for us to stand straight. A few paces more, and the pathway weaves left, leading to a cavern the size of a bedchamber at Walthingham. Near the back is a low, smoky fire, a spitted rabbit slung over it. The shapes of a table, a sofa, a mattress piled with furs swim out of the dim, and I nearly stumble over a slatted wooden chair piled with books.

  Someone squats next to the fire, his head downturned. As we approach, the figure unfolds into a tall man with striking light eyes. I gasp and step behind William. McAllister watches us but does not speak, running rabbit-greasy hands over rough breeches.

  “It’s all right, Katherine,” Mr. Simpson says. “He’s going to help us.”

  “How do you know we can trust him?”

  “I would trust him with anything. You see, Simpson is my mother’s name. But Mr. McAllister is my father.”

  CHAPTER 28

  I LOOK AT THE tall, tousle-haired lawyer, standing straight in his worn black tweed, then at the man behind the fire. His hair’s a gray thatch and his clothes are shabby, and he looks at me even now with a curdled mixture of menace and sharp pride. But I can see a resemblance now, in the dignified way they hold themselves, in the bones of their faces. I breathe in, but I can’t think of what to say.

  McAllister surprises me by speaking first. His voice is different with his son in attendance. It softens and relaxes, and the faint burr of an Irish upbringing warms it. “I was no great family man,” he says, “but it still came as a surprise to me when Mrs. McAllister left. Mrs. Simpson, she called herself after that—her family name. Passed herself off as a widow, I believe. Isn’t that right, boy?”

  Mr. Simpson nods silent assent.

  “It seems a strange thing to me, a terrible thing, to wish for a man’s death like that.” He holds up a hand, as if to quell his son’s protests. “But I see now, and saw it even then, that she had to do it. I was no great family man, as I said, and she did what she had to. William was small when she took him, and I followed after her. I tracked her right to the very boardinghouse where they were hiding. I had the sense not to talk to her right away—they wouldn’t have let her stay, if I’d come running in. But I caught her on her way to church next morning, with little William wrapped up warm in her arms. She was always a good ma.

  “I wished I could remind her of our courting days, but truth is we didn’t really have them. Or I could make promises of being a better man for her, but I didn’t want to tell lies. Sentimentality’s never suited me. So I only asked her if she’d come home with me. I told her we never need talk of it again, and that William would be too small ever to remember. And she pressed my hand and shook her head, and did not say another word to me again. Not ever. And that was the last I saw of my son until he was a man grown, a solicitor working for Crowne & Crowne. You can never say I wasn’t proud, or grateful to Lord Walthingham for all he did for him.”

  “But what did he do?” I ask, watching the man’s sad face through the trailing smoke of his campfire.

  “He was my benefactor,” says William, watching my face. “He took pity on my mother and paid for my boarding school. Then my legal training at the Inns. He also put in a word for me with Crowne & Crowne—they were already his solicitors.”

  McAllister breaks in. “My son looks ashamed now—we McAllisters were never much for giving credit where credit’s due, or for admitting that we had help along the way. Lucky for you, young lady, the boy’s got much of his mother in him, too.”

  William does look flushed, but continues. “I lost my mother to illness two years ago. When she was dying she told me the truth: that my father was alive and working for Walthingham. At the time I knew your grandfather only as the man of the house. It was only in her final days that my mother revealed his part in my advancement, something he had not wished her to do. I came to the house to thank him, and to meet my father.” His eyes meet McAllister’s, briefly.

  “We quickly realized that too much time had passed for ours to be more than a passing acquaintance,” he says, low. I can see that this pains him—shames him, even.

  “It’s all right, William,” his father offers. “I’d rather have a son who faces things honestly than one who flatters with his words. Like that blasted Henry Campion.”

  The change that comes over his features when he speaks Henry’s name is extreme. I see again the hardened, criminal presence that I once imagined stalking the woods of Walthingham.

  “My boy came back looking for a father,” continues McAllister. “And he very nearly found one. Not me, though. Lord Walthingham.”

  “That’s not true—” William protests, but his father cuts him off.

  “Walthingham and my son were men of a similar mind. The master had driven his own son off, as you well know, lady, and that nephew of his was the very picture of his own father: a dissolute, a charmer, a snake with a handsome face, who had married Walthingham’s only sister. Lord Walthingham could never bear the thought of leaving it all to him, though he knew he’d likely have to. But Campion got to thinking that William might be given an inheritance—some small piece that would lessen his own part of the store when your grandfather died. It seemed, though, like it would be many years before that happened. Your grandfather was the halest man that I knew—and the best rider.” McAllister glared and he folded his arms. “Not the sort to fall and snap his neck.”

  His meaning becomes clear to me. “You think there was foul play?”

  The firelight finds the old man’s eyes, and they glow with hooded intelligence. “Henry Campion was broken after the war. Your grandfather saw it and did his best to make a son of him. They rode out together every day. I saw them setting out together one morning, early, though no groom accompanied them. Just before midday, Campion came back saying his horse had thrown a shoe. When Lord Walthingham still hadn’t come back for luncheon, they went looking. Found him deep in the forest with his head stoved in.”

  I feel sick. “Grace never told me about a head injury. She said he died from a broken neck, instantly.”

  McAllister sniffed angrily. “His neck was snapped, that’s right enough, but he hung on for two days, unable to move an inch. Never have I seen a man so pale as your cousin. But he did not grieve—he feared. Feared, I think, that your grandfather would wake, and tell the truth.”

  “The truth,” I breathe. “Sir, do you think that my cousin—did you ever tell the magistrate of your suspicions?”

  “I am not a man to make accusations lightly, but nor do I hold my peace when I have a suspicion that something’s not right. Campion was at the bedside constantly in those two days that your grandfather hung on to his life. But on the second morning, he stepped out long enough to see me—and to tell me that I was to leave Walthingham at once. I know why he did it. You see, I’m the only one who knows the grounds the way he does. I’m the only one who might have seen something—might have seen whatever it was that happened the day your grandfather died. I made no fuss, but set straight out to find William in London. ‘His Lordship’s son might still be alive,’ I told him. ‘In America. If not, he may have heirs of his own, who would be first in line for the estate.’ Anything to keep it out of Campion’s bloody hands. That’s right: My son was the one who tracked you down. Not that he believed me about Campion until now. He inherited his mother’s expectations of goodness.”r />
  He leans forward on his knees, as if this much talk has tired him out. Then he tilts his head up to eye me balefully. “And if I steal an animal from your land from time to time just to keep myself alive, after all my service to your family, I don’t see as you should fault it!”

  William shuffles his feet, embarrassed by this final outburst, but my mind is blooming with all I’ve been told. “Tell me now, please. What did you find in the watch?”

  The watch gleams in the firelight when he pulls it from his pocket. “Here, look. You can see why it no longer worked.” With careful fingers, he opens its back and turns it to show me: an empty cavity where the mechanism should be, and inside it a crumpled scrap of white. “Someone removed the gears and put this in their place.”

  I can tell by the way he dips his head as he hands the note to me that he’s already read it. And who wouldn’t read a message secreted into the back of a broken watch? The words on the page are blotted and misshapen, but their meaning is true:

  To Ladie Kathrin:

  I do belief that “he watches over us all,” yore George, my mother and father, and the Lord Walthingham alike. Yore trust is mistook—I am the one who helped Henry Campion do his teribul deed. He slew George in the wud, and I cam upon him. He gayve me munnie wich could not be eenuf for the sale of my everlasting sole, yet I tuk it to hid the bodie of yore brother. I am sorry beyond messure for wat I did, and feer my lief will not be long. I miss-trust Campion. If you fined this letter it is becus I am done for, and at his hand. Do not trust him. Think of me a litle, and speek a prayr. Do not comend my sole to GOD, becus it is him not you wat will deside my fayt heerafter.

  John Hayes

  To see proof of my suspicions at last, in black-and-white, is too much for me to bear. “My brother,” I cry. “My trusting brother! He was Henry’s cousin; we share blood! Murdering his own family, to feed his own greed—how can it be possible?” The close heat of the cavern combines with my renewed horror, and I feel myself start to swoon. No sooner do my knees dip than William’s arms are around me, and he leads me to a chair.

  “This is a shock, Katherine.” William cups my chin in his hands, forcing me to look at him. “And I pray that you do not lose yourself under the weight of it. But despite what you’ve read, I still counsel caution. This is not proof—he will say we’ve forged it. He has a very old family name at his back, and allies like Dr. Ebner. Even Mr. Dowling seems to have been taken in by your cousin. Henry Campion is cunning and has gotten away with his misdeeds thus far. But”—he holds up a finger—“I think that lately he has gotten careless.”

  “We’ll catch him unaware,” I say. “And if the law can’t make him pay for my brother’s death, I will do it myself.”

  “Don’t be reckless, Katherine,” William says softly. “I promise you, your brother’s death will not go unpunished.”

  I summon the hardness of heart that protected me through the past five nights in a windowless cell. “I’ll get him to talk. But before I do, we’ll need the magistrate.”

  CHAPTER 29

  THE SUN IS just cresting the hills that cup my lands when we first spy Walthingham in the distance. We ride toward it in a rented carriage—I don’t want Henry to recognize the Dowlings’ coach and driver. Jane is beside me, pressing my hand. Her usual good humor has been replaced by a worn sadness, and she seems unable to stop apologizing to me. Her betrayal is so very small, in the face of things, that it’s all I can do to assure her again and again that she is forgiven.

  It’s half past seven in the morning. For the first time since the funeral, I’m dressed in neither black nor gray, but in a blue dress belonging to Jane—too pale for me, but less tight around the hips than it would have been before my stay in Temperley’s. Though Jane’s two maids nearly drowned me in honey-scented water last night, I can still feel the grime of that place on my skin.

  “Are you certain,” Jane says hoarsely, “that you don’t want me to come with you? Perhaps if I speak to him, he will be more likely to confess.”

  Even after all that she’s learned about Henry, I can see that she still cares for him, still dreams that he might be worthy of her affections. It’s hard to kill love so quickly.

  “There’s no need,” I say.

  “But what if Elsie doesn’t play along?” says Jane. “You could be in danger. If my father and William—”

  “She will,” I say. I hope she will.

  I feel George’s presence strongly today, his breath at my shoulder. He would forgive her without question, as many times as she asked. He loved recklessly, lived recklessly, and was cut down by a cowardly and broken man. I send a prayer upward and kiss Jane’s cheek. “My plan depends on my going alone. I won’t leave that place without his confession.”

  For a quarter of an hour, I watch the great husk of Walthingham grow larger in my sight. When we finally reach the drive, Jane is nearly shaking, clutching at my hand. Her fear makes me feel less afraid. I offer her a small smile, then adjust my hat to further obscure my features.

  Mr. Carrick answers my knock. The expression on his face does not make up for my ordeal, but it helps. “Lady … Randolph!” he sputters. “How did you…”

  “Take my things, Carrick. Good God, have you never been taught manners?” I drop my hat and cloak into his arms and walk toward the front parlor. “Send Henry down to meet me at once.”

  I can hear Carrick clattering up the stairs, forgetting to move with his usual air of stately arrogance. I survey the placid room: A fire is low in the hearth, and thick, fanciful tapestries line the walls. In one a unicorn lies in a clearing, tended by a maiden whose hair is woven through with golden threads. Just beyond the clearing is a stitched black beast, watching the girl through the trees. But as I look at the unicorn’s horn, hovering close to her heart, I wonder: Is the beast menacing her, or moving to save her from the unicorn? I will never again be fooled by mere appearances.

  I’m about to check behind the huge curtains on the farthest wall when I hear a footstep at the door. It’s Elsie and she gives me a warm, quick smile before turning and darting away. I know then that she has done her part. Now it is up to me.

  “So, you’ve returned to Walthingham.”

  Henry strides into the room, speaking without preamble or pleasantry. His face is dark above the frothing white of his open collar. He looks me over once, dismissively, before moving to make himself a drink. But he cannot fool me—his hands shake as they play over the crystal decanters. It’s not until he’s had one belt of whiskey, and then another, that he speaks again. His tone is conversational, light. “Have you completed your treatment, cousin? Or have you managed what would be a quite impressive escape?”

  “You were warned about me, Henry—I’m a wildcat. Though I have had help in getting here.”

  He laughs, quite naturally. “From the lawyer, I suppose. It took me longer than it should have to put two and two together. He’s the son of that trash, McAllister, isn’t he? Both of them will pay for their deeds against me before this day is out.”

  His false serenity is beginning to slip, revealing the ugliness below. I seize the opportunity to push him over the edge. “I know what you’ve done, Henry. And I have proof.”

  He begins to walk in my direction, as if to box me against the wall. I step to my right, toward the curtain, keeping the open door in my sight. “And what proof might that be, Katherine? The certificate of insanity? Perfectly sound, and for your own protection. You were mad with grief over your brother’s death.”

  “Give it up, Henry. I have a letter from John. A real letter, not a despicable forgery. It was hidden in the watch that you must have given to him. A cheap piece of ‘evidence,’ and I’ve caught you out with it in the end. But I will offer you more kindness than you offered me: Admit what you’ve done, and I will let you leave my house immediately. You may take nothing, say no good-byes. Just admit what you did to George, and you may leave by that door.”

  “Oh, may I?” He laughs, a
wild and desperate sound. “May I leave the only home I’ve ever known, which stands on a hillside I fought the French to protect? May I leave it now, to an unschooled American orphan who would sell it to the highest bidder? May I make the great name of Walthingham into a pile of dust, and myself into a crippled joke? You give me leave to do this, Katherine?” His voice is rising to a shriek. I will myself not to shrink away.

  “You’re a coward, Henry Campion. My family name is not yours. You dishonor yourself and your people and this land. How did you do it? Did you kill my brother with a rock, the way you did my grandfather?”

  “Ah, you’ve been speaking to McAllister, have you? Your grandfather’s was a mercy killing. He’d gone soft: He was as bad as you. He was likely to have left the estate to that country-born mutt, that lawyer! Nobody who remembers Lord Walthingham now can say a bad word against him, because I killed him before he could destroy his own legacy.”

  My heart thumps. He’s said the magic words—he’s admitted to murder. I should stop now, but I can’t. “And what of my brother?” I say softly. “Was it the same way with him?”

  “Your brother was worthless. An artist and a dreamer, who could barely keep his eyes from the window long enough to learn what was required of him. He thought that learning a few dance steps was enough to call himself Lord Walthingham. He didn’t deserve this place.”

  “He didn’t deserve to die!” I shout.

  “Perhaps not,” says Henry, “but what else could I do? No one but I can protect Walthingham.”

  He shifts toward me, suddenly crafty. “Where is John’s letter now? You’ve got it in your pocket there? Hand it over, and I’ll go quietly. I’ll go to London straightaway. I never meant you harm, Katherine.”