ivy vines twisting out from the chandelier in its center, listening for noise or a
Two more minutes without hearing the first squeak of a floorboard above me, and I decided to be satisfied. I smiled to myself and had taken two steps toward the bedchamber door before it swung open to reveal Mrs. Reynolds. She stood framed in the doorway, as if she were posing for a portrait, beaded bodice winking in the gaslight, her wrinkled face stony.
We exchanged a long look. I put what I hoped was an expression of apology onto my features and said, “I am so very sorry, Mrs. Reynolds, but I’m afraid I was in search of the WC … forgive me, the … water closet.”
I watched her brows go up, much as they had at dinner, and being rather large and prominent eyebrows, the effect was considerable. “The facilities for your convenience are on the next floor down, Miss Tulman.”
“I am sorry,” I repeated. “I must have misunderstood your maid. And actually, I hope you will not think me rude,” —
I watched the woman’s eyebrows merge with her swooping piles of hair.
“I am quite exhausted from my trip and feeling rather ill.” That part had not even been a lie. “Thank you for an excellent and enjoyable dinner, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“Really, Miss …”
I gave her a small curtsy. “Please do give my regards to Mrs. Hardcastle and the rest of the party.” And I walked right past her, moving as fast down the stairs as my pride would allow. I reached the bottom close to a run, hurried across the foyer, and let myself out the front door. The clock had read twenty-two minutes past eleven.
The streetlamps were out, but the dull yellow light from heavily curtained windows and the moon were sufficient to see the sidewalk. I moved quietly past the glow of Mrs. Reynolds’s drawing room, where the ladies had gathered, and turned the knob of the red door. It did not move. I tried the other, then tried it once more, then rattled the door in its jamb. The doors were locked, and I’d never even thought of bringing a key.
I knocked again. Mary would be on the upper floors, I mused, taking care of Uncle Tully, and if Mr. Babcock was not trying to assist, he was very likely near, to be of help, or perhaps even deservedly asleep. The worry I’d been suppressing all through the ghastly dinner hit me now with full force. I had six, perhaps seven minutes before I was late, and nothing upset my uncle more than not keeping to his clock, if he was not already in a full-blown tantrum. I knocked harder, then ran my fingers all around the doors and the house stones. No bell.
My jaw set. I turned away from the doors and began to walk briskly down the deserted street, my footsteps echoing on the sidewalk, craning my neck through the dark to see where our block of buildings came to an end. There would be a way around to the back, to that bit of garden I’d seen through the upper window, and surely a door.
I counted the silent doorways, so I could do the same to the rear entrances when I circled around, and identify my own door. The cool night air tickled the bare nape of my neck. I’d forgotten my shawl, but I did not even consider going back. Mrs. Reynolds could keep it. My arms crept up, crossing over my chest.
As I passed the fourth door something caught my eye, a movement, slight, and on the other side of the street. I slowed, staring into the blank shadows opposite. The stillness was unbroken, wedges of deep black night cloaking my vision. I walked faster, feet keeping pace with my heartbeat. Never had I been on a city street at night and alone. After the fifth house, I saw it again, a moving silhouette against the murky light of a curtained window, across the street and just a little behind me. I could also now see the cross street at the end of my block of buildings. I turned left around the corner, glancing once over my shoulder, and caught the dark figure of a man slipping quickly across the pavement.
As soon as I was out of sight, I picked up my skirts and ran. I could not see what I was looking for, the entrance to an alley that might run behind the houses, and I had no time to find it. A double doorway was just ahead on my left, one of the doors slightly open, a small beam of light shining onto the street. I ducked inside without slowing my pace, neither knowing nor caring whose house it might be. But in the blur of my running, I saw that I was not in a house; I was in a stone tunnel, one glass-paned oil lamp hanging down from a chain in its middle.
Twelve more running steps and I came out the other end, feet hitting gravel in the moonlight. I could see trees and waving shadows and planting pots, smell the scent of green. Stone walls and curtained windows, muffled light in some of them, rose three and four stories high on every side, lighting the branches and leaves below in wavering patches. I fled for a space to my left, black and sheltered beneath low-hanging limbs, realizing that the garden was a courtyard, shared in the open center of a triangle of connected houses; the stone passage had run right beneath one.
I inched farther beneath the trees, panting, as footsteps rang down the passage, not running, just heavy and deliberate, booted, maybe. Another two steps back and I bumped into the stones of a house, edging as fast as I could along the wall, stepping alternately on soft, squelching ground or leaf-strewn paving stones. I passed one door in the stone wall, and then another.
I crouched down behind a statue in a dark corner where the building changed its shape by thrusting out a wing, clutching at the heavy vines that climbed the house wall. I could see the door I wanted, a little flame of gaslight in a lantern-like frame mounted right beside it. I tried to control my wheezing breath, afraid it could be heard over the fountain that was tinkling somewhere in the courtyard.
The boots stepped along a graveled path, unhurried, and then the man stopped, standing in the light that was flooding from what I thought must be Mrs. Reynolds’s kitchen window. He was thin and slouching, wearing a bright blue vest. My eyes widened, blood beating a thudding rhythm against the prison of my chest. It was the man who had been leaning on the lamppost that morning, watching as I stepped out of the carriage. And he must have been there still when I came out of Mrs. Reynolds’s, waiting in the darkness. Whatever this meant, I could be certain it was not good for me or my uncle.
The man slunk about the garden, poking among the clipped roses, vaulting them with surprising agility when the path did not suit. But always moving closer to me, and to the door I had my eye on. And then a latch clicked and a strip of light, brilliant in the night, reached out, illuminating the man’s shadow for only a moment as he slid behind the pedestal of a statue of Cupid, eyes on the opening door.
The beating in my chest skipped and fluttered. The man was not ten feet away, his statue the twin of mine on a little stone patio, not one obstacle between us. I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t seen me already, and then I remembered the dark brown silk, and thanked heaven for mourning. But if he turned his head — when he turned his head — even a quick glance, I was going to be caught.
Water splashed onto the ground, dishwater or some other such being thrown out of a pan, and then the door — Mrs. Reynolds’s, if all my guesses were correct — shut, and the shaft of light was gone. The man behind the statue rose up warily, eyes still on the just-closed door, and he stepped away from the statue, leaping easily back over the foliage. I let out a slow, silent breath. And I waited.
Leaves crushed in my hands, staining my fingers, and my legs had begun to cramp before I heard the booted footsteps moving back down the stone passage. I rose, surveying the silent darkness, still guarded, wincing as I stretched out my legs. I was not going back the way I had come. I would have to get inside from here, and then the tight place inside me seized, making me gasp. I was terribly late. What was happening to Uncle Tully?
