A Dreadful Splendor (15)

Chapter Seven




Lady Audra Linwood

Diary Entry

Somerset Park, March 1, 1845

Dearest,

Another death has touched Somerset Park. Father was quite affected by Mr. Sutterly’s passing; the blacksmith served our family’s stables for decades. He remarked on what a loyal and skilled worker he was and how hard it will be to replace him. But then he said the real tragedy is that he leaves a son behind, only a few years older than I. And worse still, the only things the boy will inherit from his father are his bills.

The gossip among the staff is rampant! They say Mr. Sutterly had a ferocious gambling habit, and although the parish constable declared the death was a heart attack, it’s the opinion of everyone (unqualified as they may be) that the blacksmith was murdered for the money he’d owed!

Terrified, I ran to Father. When I asked him if there was a murderer in our midst, he patted me on the head and told me not to worry. However, he did say he’d given Mr. Sutterly his assurance that if anything should happen to him, Father would take care of his son. And seeing as the boy is too young to be on his own, Father has declared the boy as his ward, and he will begin living with us next week.

I almost fell over! Father asked if I would mind, which I found quite flattering. Of course, I said we must do all we can to help the orphan. Secretly, I am charmed by the idea of a friend my own age.

I trust you, Dearest, but a flesh-and-blood playmate would help immensely. I have always longed for a sister or even a brother. It would make the Linwood secret that much more enjoyable. I have begun to pin my hopes on the orphan boy. Good heavens, I’ve only realized now that I don’t know his name!

Even as a storm cancelled our riding plans, Father and I passed the afternoon in the library enjoying cake and hot tea as the rain and wind beat against the windows. Grandfather’s portrait kept watch over us, with his usual stern expression. It used to scare me when I was smaller, certain the eyes followed me around the room.

I don’t remember him well; I was very young when he died. Odd, though. When I look at his painted face, there’s a strong notion of his personality. There’s something at the back of my mind, something real. But whenever I linger in that place, trying to grasp for more, a heaviness wraps itself around my heart and I cannot take a breath.

The rain continues, even as I write this. What if this boy doesn’t like me? What if he’s mean and puts snakes in my bed? What if Father ends up loving him more than me? More than once I’ve overheard how different our prospects would be if I had been born a boy, how we wouldn’t have to worry about Somerset.

And there it is, Dearest. The cruel truth of it all. I have comforts at my disposal except for my heavy heart. I love Father, but he is limited in his capacity to show affection. I’ve heard rumors that Grandfather was cold. I’m beginning to believe you need to teach children love just as much as sums and scales on the piano—even the ones who won’t inherit. Especially the ones who won’t inherit.

My apologies. I’m more misery than gratitude today. Such a tragic read already. But who will ever read this, I wonder? Certainly not someone hoping for a happy ending. How odd that I would write that? Have I given up hope already and not yet fourteen?

It will take a miracle to release me from this despair.





Chapter Eight




When we entered his study, Mr. Pemberton glanced up from the desk with an expression of annoyance. Then he stood and gave the bottom of his vest a slight tug.

I tried to reconcile this gentleman before me with the man I’d met the previous night. Gone were the muddy boots and tousled hair. Now he wore a tight necktie with a white shirt and fitted jacket. But the straight back and rigid set of his mouth were the same. However, his eyes were bluer than I remembered.

I noticed he was still wearing the gold ring on his smallest finger. Gold rings were easy to conceal, and they usually fetched a good price. It would likely be worth twice the amount of those silver candlesticks I tried to take last night. It must be of importance to him. But he’d have to remove it for the séance.

“May I present Miss Timmons,” Mr. Lockhart said, coughing.

I stepped forward, partly to take the attention off sickly Mr. Lockhart. “Lord Chadwick, I presume,” I said, holding his stare.

He gave a curt nod. “And you’re the spiritualist brought into my house without my consent,” he replied, the tone of self-importance as sharp as last night.

Heat prickled the back of my neck—I was already on the defensive from my encounter with William. I drew my shoulders back. “If my presence is too upsetting, I can leave at once. I’m sure you have a fine horse I may borrow.” I failed to restrain myself from throwing his own threat back at him. Something unnecessarily risky, considering he could easily change his mind about the police.

Mr. Lockhart let out a nervous chuckle. “I’m sure Miss Timmons means she is hoping her stay at Somerset Park will evoke a sense of peace for all.” He then snuck me a sideways look of confusion.

My wit hardly fazed Mr. Pemberton. He motioned to the chairs, and we all sat. “You may have been subjected to such treatment in London, Miss Timmons,” he said. “But in the country, we are more hospitable to our company.”

“Miss Timmons has a grand following in London,” Mr. Lockhart started, hoping to repair whatever damage I may have done with my boldness. “As I told you last night, few have her credentials. Some of the finest families have benefited from her immeasurable talents.”