“Honourable!” His friend snorted. “Julian, that is why you are the gentleman, while I am the buccaneer. I have a suggestion. Why don’t you let me track down the truth about this so-called prior engagement? If you give me the name of the alleged fiancee, I will go and shake the truth out of a clerk or two.”
Julian eyed his friend warily. Gareth’s chequered past had included working as a military spy, and doubtless his methods of interrogation were as unorthodox as the man himself. “What do you mean by ‘shake the truth out’?”
“Oh, I meant that only in a manner of speaking.” The big man grinned. “Come, let me do this for Miss Barchester, at least. I feel terrible for acting the way I did the first time I met her and would like to make amends. I promise to treat the clerks like newborn babes.” Still grinning, he cracked his knuckles.
“In all fairness you should ask Miss Barchester’s permission first. She might not like you interfering in her personal affairs.”
“You’ll vouch for my discretion. ’Tis my profession to investigate matters like this.”
“True enough,” Julian conceded. It would be something at least to have the question of Pip’s betrothal cleared up one way or the other. In the interim, he was still pursuing the matter of Mr. Cazalet’s deadly house fire. He’d managed to question the brigade captain, whose opinion it was that the conflagration had been caused by Mr. Cazalet not positioning the fire screen correctly before going to bed. According to a neighbour, the old man had done that once before and almost burned his house down but for the vigilant neighbour. There was no suspicion of any foul play, and though Julian was outwardly relieved by this, he wanted to question all the neighbours until he was satisfied. “I’ll broach the subject with Nellie,” he said finally.
“It’s Nellie now, is it?” Gareth jested.
Stung, Julian retorted, “It’s Miss Barchester to you.”
“Damnation! Another good man lost from the cause of glorious and perpetual bachelorhood.” Gareth slapped his thigh. “By that mournful look of yours, Miss Barchester has you well and truly by the nutmegs.”
Julian shot his friend a scathing glare. “Mind your tongue, Derringer.”
“I always do.” Unrepentant, the other man clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s forget those vexing females for the moment and go inside. I could murder a jug of ale right now.”
Inside the house Nellie sought the sanctuary of the library. Of all the rooms this was her favourite, as the walls of books formed a cosy cocoon against the outside world. She shut the door softly behind her and moved towards the window seat with some vague hope of stealing a further glimpse of Julian, even though she knew it would do her no good.
From behind a wingback armchair, a newspaper rustled before Elijah Darke stood up. “Good afternoon, Miss Barchester.”
She turned, surprised to see him. At this hour he was usually out seeing to his hospital or visiting patients; rarely did he use the library during the day. “Good day, Dr. Darke.”
“I hope I didn’t startle you.” He folded up the newspaper and tucked it under his arm before advancing towards her. “I saw you taking the air outside. It’s good you’re recovering so well.” He paused, and it seemed he was waiting for her to say something, but she couldn’t fathom what it might be. “Soon you’ll be venturing beyond this house,” Elijah added.
Ah, so he was questioning her about her future plans. “I know I’ve trespassed on your hospitality for too long, and I assure you—”
“No, no, you mistake my meaning entirely. I’m very appreciative of everything you’ve done with Mrs. Tibbet. The meals are as they should be, Mrs. Tibbet is less confused and therefore happier, and the house looks so much better.” He gestured around the room, now clean and tidy thanks to her efforts. “Your labours have not gone unnoticed.”
“Thank you. I dislike being idle.” As her energy had returned, she’d found plenty to occupy herself. With Mrs. Tibbet’s help, she’d begun to give each major room in the house a thorough going-over. Figgs had assisted in moving the heavy furniture, and she was making progress in understanding his lisping speech. She knew the routine of the house, knew the long hours both doctors put in, and was glad to make their lives a little easier.
Elijah continued, “We would be more than happy if you remained here permanently, not just as housekeeper, but as nursing assistant. Your skills would be greatly appreciated.” He cleared his throat. “Naturally you would be well remunerated for your work.”
“Why, I don’t know what to say,” she stuttered in complete surprise. “Such a kind offer…”
“Please, Miss Barchester, you would be doing us a kindness. We need an assistant. Both Julian and I would welcome you joining our eccentric little household if you have the mind to.”
At the mention of Julian’s name Nellie’s gaze flickered downwards. Despite his enigmatic ways, Elijah was a good and loving father to Julian. It was plain to see in their daily interactions, even when they disagreed. She held Elijah in high regard, which made her surreptitious admiration for his son all the more discomfiting, now that Elijah knew of her marital status. If he had seen her walking outside, she hoped to high heaven he hadn’t spotted her spying on Julian. “Thank you,” she murmured in some confusion. “I shall give your offer my utmost consideration.”
“Indeed. No need to rush into a decision.” The elderly man rocked back and forth on his heels, his expression gradually becoming more sombre. “Miss Barchester, there is another matter I must mention. You’ve endured a great many tribulations for such a young woman, and you will have many more trials to face, but I feel you have the necessary strength to cope with them.”
“What do you mean? Is—is there something I’m not aware of? Some dire news?”
“Well…” Elijah adjusted his spectacles on his long, narrow nose. “I’m unsure if it can be classified as dire, but there has been a further development.” He paused, frowning slightly. “Perhaps it would be best if I left you here to absorb it on your own. Yes, that is probably best.” He drew out the newspaper from under his arm and held it out to her. “Second column. Third item down. You have my sympathies, Miss Barchester. I shall be in my examining room should you need me.” After a quick bow, he retreated from the library.
Nellie scanned the folded newspaper and quickly located the article. She read the news item in a matter of seconds, then reread it a dozen times. Finally she sank into an armchair, the newspaper crumpling between her hands.
The article was brief and to the point. A woman’s body had been fished out of the Thames. Her face had been violently mutilated, and that, together with the ravages of the river, had rendered her features unrecognisable. But she had been identified by the rings attached to her fingers. She was Eleanor Ormond, nineteen, wife of Phillip Arthur Ormond of Mayfair.
Her body was shaking, Nellie realised. Relinquishing her death grip on the newspaper, she opened her hands and saw ink smeared across her damp palms. She scrubbed her handkerchief back and forth over her hands until her palms stung. She pinched herself everywhere, her hair, her cheeks, her earlobes, her knees, her thighs. She was alive, she was flesh and blood and beating heart. She existed.
Yet the newspaper said otherwise. To the world, she was dead and gone. Nothing but a hacked and bloated corpse.
She stood and moved to the window to feel the sun, but her skin remained cold and clammy, and when she raised her hand to the light she could barely make out any veins beneath the pale skin. Like the wraiths in the asylum, she was a person who did not exist. A woman buried alive.
A cool zephyr filtered through the cracks around the window and streamed over her face. Well, she might be legally dead, but she was still living flesh and blood. Her heart pumped, her blood flowed, her brain functioned. Holding up her gloved hand, she flexed her mechanical fingers pensively. By now she looked forward to putting on the glove each morning. The artificial digits were an integral part of her; at times she even fancied there was genuine feeling in them and not just wayward tingling in her finger stumps. The old Nellie Barchester would’ve had trouble recognising her today. If she were a ghost, then, just as ghosts did, she could roam about when the sun set. Exposing herself to the harsh light of day was still an ordeal, but she’d been looking at the problem the wrong way. Now that she was a spectre, she could turn her back on the light and instead embrace the shadows.
Chapter Eight
