The Gilded Cage Page 4

  “These items need to be locked up,” she says, then lowers her voice to a theatrical whisper as Elsie’s footsteps come tripping down the hall. “No matter how close we may keep them, servants cannot be fully trusted.”

  I wonder if I should tell her now about the fan. She would not approve, I’m sure.

  “Surely we can trust Elsie, Aunt Grace. She’s been here since she was just old enough to work, has she not?”

  “No matter, my dear. More than a few of my late mother’s pieces have gone missing. Not even the most valuable ones, but often the prettiest. That’s how you know it’s a maid’s fingers at work.”

  Arranging her hat more firmly atop her head, she goes to the door. “I’m off to visit a few friends who were not well enough for last night’s ball. If I’m not back by the time you leave for London, I wish you a pleasant trip.”

  She says it in a way that suggests she’s anything but happy I’m going to the city. Grace has repeated several times that she doesn’t think London’s the place for an “impressionable” young girl.

  I glance at the enormous traveling case beside the bed, which Elsie helped me pack. “Thank you,” I say. “I’m well prepared for every eventuality, as you can see.”

  As I settle back down in front of the fire, the clock in the hall strikes nine, and I resolve to give George just one more hour in bed before I wake him myself. We can’t miss the midday coach from Bath if we’re to make the overnight stop in Reading.

  Putting my letter aside, I spend the next hour reading by the fire. We had books on the farm, but nothing like here. The housekeeper, Mrs. Whiting, a sallow older woman with fading red hair, looked suspicious when I asked for a key to the library, but she grudgingly gave it all the same. Most of the volumes I came across were monstrously dull—collections of legal papers, or obscure histories of European culture—but among them I found the novels of Defoe and Scott.

  I’m racing toward the end of Robinson Crusoe when the gilded grandfather clock in the hall strikes ten. Annoyed, I ring for Mr. Carrick to ask if he’s seen George.

  “I believe he’s left for London, my lady,” he says.

  “Left? Without me?”

  “He took breakfast early.”

  “But we’re leaving together,” I say.

  Carrick frowns. “It seems that is not the case. May I help you in any other matter, my lady?”

  When I shake my head, still mulling my brother’s departure, Carrick swiftly takes his leave.

  * * *

  George isn’t in his rooms. The fireplace in his bedchamber is empty, and the room is bathed in a cold gray light that makes me shiver.

  Someone’s walking over my grave, I think, and then close my mind to the thought. It’s an old superstition, and not one that I believe in.

  “Where have you gotten to, George?” I mutter.

  I’m turning back toward the hall when I see the painting on his easel. It stops me midturn and fills me with an uneasy feeling.

  The canvas is large, half-finished, and darker in every way than his usual works. I can see at once that it’s a rendering of Walthingham’s wintry woods. White birches curve from a dark plane of raw ground into a foreboding sky. Shadows gather among the twisted roots of the trees. Though the canvas is dominated by trees, the roots draw the eye. I stand a moment, staring into them, as if I might find something crouching there.

  The swirls of paint still look a little fresh, and I press the back of my thumbnail lightly to its surface. It gives wetly to my touch. Surely yesterday’s work would be drier by now, unless … unless he was out painting this morning. There’s little in this dark canvas that speaks of the blue I spied on his wrist last night—but for a faint daubing right in the top corner, streaked with gray, a window of sky breaking through the gloom.

  My cloak, gloves, and soft boots are laid out in my dressing room, ready for the trip to London. I layer them over my dress, not bothering to call for Elsie. Of course George hasn’t gone without me. Carrick must be mistaken. My brother has never been one for timekeeping, always showing up long after supper had cooled, always vague with his plans. But a sister is not a missed meal—George wouldn’t just leave me behind. I bound down the stairs, Stella at my heels.

  The crisped snow squeaks beneath my heels as I stride toward the stables. I can smell the horses before I see them. The familiar warmth of packed hay and the animals’ big bodies always calms me, and I take a deep breath as I pass through the stable gate. I hear the faint sound of nickering—then, beneath it, something else. A woman’s laughter, teasing and low.

  Peeking around the corner, I see a high bale of sweet, freshly turned hay … and atop it, my dressing maid, her hair falling from its bun and her arms wrapped tight around Matthew, the boy who stables our horses.

  They must hear my gasp, because two faces turn toward me at once, one red and one pale as whey. Matt grabs his discarded hat from the straw, attempts the world’s most sheepish bow, and flees into the nearest stall.

  Elsie, not so quick, can barely meet my eyes as she stands, putting her clothes back into order. I have many long moments to inspect the stitching of my glove before she manages to speak. “Don’t tell your cousin, I beg you,” she whispers. “Or Mrs. Whiting. She’ll send me away at once.”

  The housekeeper is even less tolerant of trespasses in etiquette than Grace is, and I have no doubt that Elsie’s right.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” I say. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  I raise my voice a bit, attempting to sound dignified. “Matthew, I’m traveling to Bath today. If you would, please have the carriage ready as soon as possible.” I notice then that my brother’s horse is not in his stall. “Where’s Croxley?”

  Matthew moves shyly back into view, peering over the stall door.

  “Mr. Randolph must have taken him out. He was gone first thing.”

  First thing? We can’t have gone to bed until one. “I hardly think my brother would have been riding in the freezing cold at dawn,” I say.

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t here, my lady,” he says. “I was polishing boots in the scullery.”

  The last I saw of George, he was tottering up the main staircase, clutching the banister like a man on the deck of a storm-tossed ship. And the last thing we spoke of was the trip to London, of taking it together—surely he could not have forgotten?

  If I hurry, I can make the coach myself. When I catch up with him, my brother will have some explaining to do.

  While Matt prepares the carriage, I walk back to the house to find John. I’ll need a driver, and I’d much prefer it be someone I can talk to.

  I’m halfway back when I see two men standing at the scullery door, speaking with John. There’s something in their manner that makes me pause, then conceal myself in Walthingham’s shadows before advancing. The pair should look comical next to each other—one tall and thin, the other short and nearly as thick around as he is tall—but their appearance does not inspire laughter. I judge them both to be in their forties, dressed in drab civilian suits of brown and black. The short man’s neck overflows his collar, and the thin man has taken off his hat to reveal a bristling shaven head and small ears. They appear to have come on foot, which in these conditions strikes me as very odd indeed.

  I creep closer, trailing my fingers against the rough stone wall.

  “I’ve already told you once, and my answer will not change.” The voice is John’s. “The master of the house isn’t in, and you have no business here until he’s back.”

  “We’ll keep coming back until we get what we came for,” says the tall man, his voice perfectly even.

  “You’ll get exactly what you’re owed,” John replies. “But not while the master is away.”

  He means Henry, I suppose—though my brother is lord of Walthingham Hall in name, he has not yet taken over the running of the estate.

  The tall man eyes John for a long moment. I think of a dog with its hackles up, deciding whether to flee or fight.
Finally he drops his shoulders, then stabs a finger into John’s chest. “Mark my words, man. You will be seeing us again, and sooner than you’d like.” His eyes flick upward toward the house, taking it in, and then he and his silent companion trudge away. I wait until they’ve rounded the corner of the house before walking on. John is rehanging a shelf against the scullery wall, hammer in hand.

  “Don’t worry, they didn’t see you,” he says. His tone is familiar, as it always is when I’m unaccompanied, but there’s something heavy in it today.

  “Who were those men? What did they want with Henry?”

  “Them? They’re nobody you need worry about. Just masons, here to discuss the renovations of the west wing. Though they would do better to start chasing down payment after they’ve completed the job, I think.”

  The story is a likely one, but it strikes me as false. “Indeed,” I say.

  * * *

  In half an hour, the carriage is ready and John is checking over the tackle. Two black mares, sleek and blanketed, toss their heads and snort. John is dressed in a long coat and gloves, with a flat cap pulled down over his ears. I’ve told him I want to visit Jane Dowling—I will not give him the opportunity to dissuade me from chasing my errant brother.

  “You’re sure you’ll be warm enough?” he says as he helps me into the cushioned seats. Grace has insisted I bring two loose fur blankets, and I’m grateful for them.

  “Enough,” I say. “I already feel guilty that you’ll be facing the elements while I’m tucked up in here.”

  “It’s your place,” he says simply.

  The avenue from the front of the house sweeps through the forest, running along high ground. In the dip before the house, below sculpted gardens, lies the lake, glassy and still. Already I’m feeling freer, just moments away from the house and its restrictions. Through the glass at the front, I see John seated above the horses, swaying with the carriage’s motion. Were I to need him, I could summon him by the bell-cord hanging close at hand. My place, indeed.

  The rocking of the carriage has almost lulled me to sleep when a jounce over hard cobbles stirs me. We are descending toward the city. I see through the frosted glass the distant sweep of what must be the Royal Crescent, stately and ordered houses with columned porticoes bathed in sunlight. The snow on the road isn’t too bad, but the clouds above are the color of lead.

  Impulsively, I ring the bell, and John brings the carriage to a halt. Opening the glass panel at his back, he peers down at me. “Everything all right, my lady?”

  I open the carriage door and step out. “Move up,” I say, placing a foot on the mounting board.

  “My lady?”

  I climb up beside him, and he’s forced to shuffle along the seat.

  “I’ve never seen the Royal Crescent before,” I say. “And the view’s much better from up here.”

  He laughs, a happy, unguarded sound. “Your aunt would not approve,” he says.

  “We’d better not tell her, then.”

  With a flick of the reins, the carriage lurches off, down the wide roads leading to Bath. Below us, people are going about their business with their heads down. The snow beneath their feet is churned and dirty, and more falls in fat wet flakes from the sky.

  “You’re very good with the horses,” I say. “Easy with them, I mean.”

  After a beat of silence, he responds. “Yes, I’ve been working with Walthingham’s horses my whole life, like my father before me. It was a good place to grow up.”

  “And now that you’re grown?” I ask. “Will you stay there?”

  “I should think so,” he says. “Until I marry, of course.”

  He sounds so certain of himself that I smile. “Ah, you have someone in mind, then?”

  As soon as I’ve said it, I wonder if it’s a clumsy question.

  “There’s not so much to it. It’s just a matter of finding the right girl,” he says, without looking at me.

  The right girl. If I were still the Katherine I was in Virginia, and John a farmer’s son from Paulstown—what then? Would we be like Elsie and Matt, sneaking off to the stables?

  I flush, suddenly fearful that he can read my thoughts, and sit up straighter. “I mean to stay independent as long as I can,” I say. “I don’t wish to rush into a match.”

  A gaggle of children in scarves and hats cross the road in front of us, and John has to rein in sharply to let them pass. When we’re moving once more, he seems to have lost the thread of our conversation. “We’ll be at the Crescent soon,” he says, nodding ahead.

  “Oh, I must have misspoken. I don’t wish to go to the Crescent.”

  “I thought you wished to visit Miss Dowling, my lady?”

  “No, I won’t bother her so soon after the ball,” I say innocently. “I wish to go to the coaching house, where my brother would have departed from.”

  John frowns, and I know he isn’t fooled. But, tapping the horse smartly with the reins, he does as I say. I am, after all, the lady of Walthingham Hall.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE COACHING HOUSE is called the King’s Head, and it’s a two-story half-timbered building in the center of the city, nestled among shops and stalls.

  I step carefully from the carriage into ice-crusted mud.

  John jumps down at my side. “I’ll come in with you, my lady.”

  “There’s no need,” I reply.

  A steward directs me to a room near the main entrance, where a portly man is filling in a ledger behind a desk. He takes off his cap as I enter.

  “Can I help you, miss?” he says.

  I start to explain my predicament—that I’m looking to find the whereabouts of my brother, that I, too, should have been in the midday coach—when he holds up a meaty hand to interrupt me.

  “The coach couldn’t go today, miss,” he says. “Not with the snow.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Then perhaps my brother went by a different route.”

  “No coaches today at all,” he says. “It would be madness in these conditions.”

  “You’re sure my brother’s horse is not stabled here? His name is Croxley. The horse, that is. A mahogany stallion.”

  He glares at me above his eyeglasses, causing his chins to squash together impressively. “Quite sure, young lady. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He goes back to his ledger, paying me no further mind.

  I leave the room, more troubled than before. If George isn’t in London, where can he be? What if he went out to paint and got lost in the woods? What if his horse slipped and … I shake my head sharply. I won’t let myself get carried away. He’s probably back at the house already, feet up, snug and warm. He’s going to laugh at me when I get home, blue with cold. You should have left a note, I’ll tell him. That will only make him laugh more.

  I’m walking back to my carriage when a man beside a piebald stallion catches my eye. His shoulders are broad beneath a crisp black coat, and the wind has ruffled his dark hair into disarray. He says something I can’t hear to the steward beside him, and they both laugh.

  With a start of recognition, I realize that it’s William Simpson—a man I hardly imagined capable of laughter. Beneath his open coat, he wears a dark suit with a buttoned waistcoat. When our eyes meet, I raise a gloved hand to greet him. His smile falters, and he gazes at me with surprise, and something else. Disappointment? Red color rushes into his pale cheeks as I walk determinedly toward him.

  “Lady Katherine,” he says, with a small bow. “What are you doing here?”

  His tone is faintly accusing.

  “Mr. Simpson. How lovely to see you, too. I was looking for my brother.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “That makes two of us.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Mr. Simpson clutches a document case in one hand, and gestures to the coaching house with the other. “We were supposed to travel together to London,” he says.

  “You were going with him?”

  Mr. Simpson nods briskly. “He wanted someone to find him a
n agent in London, to arrange the sale of his paintings.”

  “George never told me that,” I say, in a more accusing tone than I intended.

  He bristles. “That is between you and your brother,” he says.

  “And why didn’t you say anything last night?” I ask him playfully. “As I recall, we were looking at a painting together at Walthingham Hall.” I want to make him smile again, the way he did for the steward.

  “There was no opportunity,” he says, and judging from his pained expression, I know he is remembering his hurried exit. This isn’t going well at all. “Perhaps you think I’m ill suited to the task?” he persists. “Though I may be just a lawyer, I’m not entirely unschooled in the sale of art.”

  “No, of course not. That isn’t what I—”

  “No matter,” says Mr. Simpson. “The coach was canceled in any case, and Lord Walthingham never arrived. When you see him next, do tell him that I’ll be waiting on him here until the roads clear.”

  He nods to the steward, and walks back toward the coaching house.

  * * *

  The snow thickens as we make our way back through the countryside, and my unhappiness deepens with it. It’s too cold to sit up beside John, and he answers my misery with a tactful silence.

  My anger at George for being so inconsiderate mixes in my mind with frustration at Mr. Simpson’s paranoid sensitivity. He must have a sense of humor, however deeply buried.

  It’s not long before we’re cresting the final ridge before the estate’s borders, and Walthingham’s great facade becomes visible in the distance. Though it’s beautiful, its pale stone and glass illuminated in the dying light, it looks cold. The unlit windows of the upper floors peer at me like empty eyes.

  Suddenly, one of the horses whinnies and the carriage lists sharply to the left. I brace myself against the door as we clatter sideways across the road, finally bumping to a heavy halt against a copse of bare trees.

  “Are you all right back there, my lady?”

  “Yes, I’m fine!” I call. I fumble with the door at my back until it swings open, then climb carefully out. Were it summer, I imagine I could look straight up into an acre of green-golden leaves; as it is, the carriage rests among black brambles clustered around the sturdy trunks of ancient, snow-silvered oaks.