The Deepest Night

Westcliffe took her seat behind the desk. I waited until she gestured at me before sinking into mine.

They were huge wing chairs. I fancied I looked like a cornered elf whenever I was perched in one.

The headmistress stared down at me with narrowed eyes. I pressed my lips into a line and stared back until I realized I shouldn’t. Then I stared at my knees.

“How are you feeling these days, Eleanore?”

I lifted my head, wary. Whatever else I’d been expecting, it wasn’t this.

“Very well, ma’am.”

“And how is your—ah—arm?”

I’d been shot in the arm. I’d been shot in the wing, too, but she couldn’t know about that.

“Doing better, ma’am.”

“The village physician has informed me that your physical recovery appears to be properly on course.”

At least something about me was proper. “Yes, ma’am.”

“It is unfortunate about the scar, but—well! What can one do?”

One can avoid being in the path of a spray of bullets, that’s what.

Mrs. Westcliffe looked away and cleared her throat. She lifted a hand to her immaculate black coif and patted at it fretfully, and I thought, incredulous, Crikey, she’s going to do it. She’s going to boot me out of the school.

Despite what I’d said to Armand, I hadn’t really thought about not coming back next year, and sitting in that overstuffed chair right then, I realized how very much I did want to come back. That however difficult my life had been at Iverson, it was still the closest thing I’d ever had to a home. I wasn’t ready to give that up yet. I’d just thought … somehow it’d all work out. Somehow the magic would keep me here, even with Jesse gone.

The angel clock began to chime.

“I’ll be late to literature, ma’am,” I said hopefully.

“You will be excused,” she replied, curt. “In fact, you will be excused for the remainder of the day. I’ve received a cable from the Duke of Idylling’s personal physician in Bath. It seems His Grace has requested a visit from you.”

Now I was the one who had to clear her throat, because when I’d sucked in my breath I’d inhaled my spit. “Uh—from me?”

“Yes. In addition, it was specified that for sake of the duke’s continued … peace of mind, the visit is to take place at once. There are tickets already reserved for us at the train station in Bournemouth. We must leave immediately.” Westcliffe drummed her nails atop the desk, frowning. “I have struggled to maintain contact with His Grace, I admit. It seems the communication policy of his new … place of residence is rather restrictive. Still, I find the haste of this plan very nearly mysterious, especially since not even one of my letters …”

She trailed off, glanced up, and noticed I was still there. The frown deepened.

“You may cease looking so stupefied, Miss Jones. Did you imagine I’d allow you to see His Grace alone?”

No, actually, I didn’t. Because Reginald, the Duke of Idylling, was locked away in a madhouse, and what I’d imagined was that I’d never have to see him ever again.

Bugger it.

I had been on a train only once before in my life. Once that I recalled, that is. Earlier this year I had traveled third class from London to the town of Bournemouth, which had the station nearest to Iverson, and it had been cramped and stinky and slow and absolutely fantastic, because every hour that passed had put more distance between me and my life at the orphanage. I hadn’t even minded the torturously upright wooden pews they’d called seats.

But I wasn’t traveling third class now. Mrs. Westcliffe and I made our way down the station platform to the first-class compartments, and strange men touched the brims of their hats to us, and a porter took my hand to help me up the steps—which I appreciated, since my skirt hobbled me so severely I had to hitch it to my shins just to climb the first rung. Good thing Westcliffe had gone aboard first.

The first-class seats weren’t merely padded, but padded in real burgundy velveteen. More porters moved up and down the aisle, offering glasses of cold water or ale and doily-lined trays of chocolates and nuts. The handful of other passengers already seated glanced up idly at the headmistress (clearly I was only a schoolgirl, and thus insignificant) but then just continued on with whatever they were doing, chatting or reading or staring out the windows as they (probably) pondered their great gobs of money.

We found our seats. I sat back and closed my eyes, hoping Westcliffe would take it as a sign I was far too weary and delicate for conversation.

No such luck.

The train gave a hard whistle to signal our start, and everything lurched and gradually settled again.

“I do not wish for you to feel apprehension at our upcoming appointment with the duke,” Mrs. Westcliffe said over the rising whine of the wheels.

I opened my eyes. She was gazing not at me but at the wall ahead of us, walnut paneling heavily varnished and a brass plaque that read Mind the Cinders. Beyond our window, the world was slipping by, faster and faster.

“No, ma’am,” I said.

“I realize that on the last occasion you saw him, matters were … extraordinary. His rational mind had retreated beneath the unbearable grief of his eldest son’s demise.” Now she did shoot me a look, sharp and pained. “His Grace is a good man, Eleanore. One who, under ordinary circumstances, would never harm a soul.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do not be afraid of him.”

“No, ma’am,” I said, looking her square in the eyes. “I’m not afraid.”

She returned her gaze to the wall. “I also wish for you to know that I have appreciated your discretion in the matter. Prudence and kindness are the hallmarks of a lady, ones we foster at Iverson with great diligence.”

“Of course,” I agreed, without even a trace of sarcasm.

England past the window glass was green and blue, smeared up close, crystalline in the distance, all trees and cloudless sky.

“A good man,” Westcliffe repeated to herself, very softly, as the train rocked along the tracks.

I couldn’t help but feel for her. She loved the duke, I knew she did. And both of us knew that him loving her back was as impossible as a slum girl turning into a duchess.

Richardson Home. That was the name of the duke’s madhouse. My own had had an equally oblique title, but names are dismal hiding places, really, and there was no getting around what either building actually was.

Richardson turned out to be a peachy-stoned, Georgian sort of prison, with a good long lawn opening up behind its iron gates and a few spindly trees peppering the grounds, but no hedges or ditches or anything but flat grass from here to there.

Again: no place to hide.

We were escorted inside by a burly, broken-nosed man who was obviously not a butler, although he was dressed as one. I noticed Mrs. Westcliffe delivering him a sidelong glance as he accepted our wraps, but all he did was ask our names and then disappear behind a door—also burly, composed of wide oaken planks and steel studs—leaving us standing alone like almswomen in the foyer.

“My!” said Mrs. Westcliffe, but not too loudly.

The foyer was plain stone, unfurnished and chilly; I’d bet those walls were ruddy thick. I hugged my arms over my chest, then rubbed at my cold nose. Westcliffe drew her spine straighter and stared fixedly at the oaken door.

If she was willing it to open, it worked. The man who came out now was nothing at all like the make-believe butler who’d gone in.

“Ladies,” the new man greeted us. He was short and pudgy and nervously blinking, rather like a mouse spotting a pair of cats before him at the last second. But he kept coming forward, and with his very next step the