A Dreadful Splendor (17)

A tightness curled around my throat, stealing my voice and the last bit of confidence I had upon entering this study. Never mind the village law enforcement, Mr. Lockhart wouldn’t hesitate to send me straight back to my cell in London if he found out about last night. I had to play along with Mr. Pemberton’s plan, even if it meant framing an innocent person.

Then, as if a silent alarm had gone off, Mr. Pemberton started writing again. “I have it all planned out. I will host a party to cel ebrate Audra’s life. There will be food and drink and dancing, and then the séance.”

“Dancing?” I asked, still a bit overwhelmed at my new responsibility of detective. “I don’t know how.”

“Then you should hope no one asks you.” Without missing a beat, he added, “For today I want you to become familiar with the main floor so you can choose a room best suited for the séance. Make a list of items you’ll need.” Then he nodded toward the door, dismissing me.

It was a relief to leave the study and his constant critiques. I was surprised that he didn’t find offense with the way I breathed. He was handsome, that was certain, but his curt manner had tarnished his appearance, making it impossible to see him as anything more than a demanding person who felt entitled to order people at whim. He was less appealing than any other man I’d ever encountered. I couldn’t imagine why Lady Audra would want to marry him.

I paused at the carved angel at the foot of the staircase—maybe she didn’t.

My room was a pleasant escape. Someone had tidied the bed and opened the curtains. The window was open a sliver, enough to allow in the refreshing, crisp breeze. The fireplace was set with neatly arranged kindling, ready to be lit. I remembered how Mrs. Donovan mentioned it last night. The attention to my comfort was unexpected. I wasn’t used to such thoughtfulness.

The doomed schooner over the fireplace was crooked. I went over and touched the bottom corner of the frame and was surprised to find how much pressure it took to right it again. I noticed small details I hadn’t earlier. There were crewmen in the water; the waves were about to take them over. One was still hanging on to the mast near the very top. I swallowed dryly and went to the window, needing fresh air.

I had an impressive view of the property, but as I looked to the ground far below, all I could think about was Audra locked inside her own room. What was her family history of unfortunate deaths? I would have to ask Mr. Lockhart for the full story. As for identifying the guilty party, I merely had to find the person most likely to be affected by my séance. A confession could be brought on by many factors. Fear being one of them.

I retrieved my bag and placed it on the bed. One by one I took out my props, until I found the ghost book at the bottom. As I lifted it, the card from Mrs. Hartford fell out from between the thin slates.

Did you love me?

I had labeled the family as being motivated by greed, but it seemed Mrs. Hartford, at least, had been grieving in earnest. Was she hoping to absolve regret, or an unyielding depression brought on by doubt in her marriage?

I reread the message and pictured her family sitting around the table, eager for the location of a special key, having no idea what she had secretly asked. I remember how she hesitated before slipping in her question. Maybe she was afraid it would be seen and read aloud.

Opening the ghost book to the trick panel, I saw the message I had written inside before the séance.

I am at peace now.

Not entirely the glowing profession of love she was hoping for. A dreariness settled in my gut. I slipped her note back in between the slates and closed it shut.

That matter was all done with, I told myself. I must concentrate on this new task. My very life depended upon it.

You can only depend on yourself, ma petite chérie.

Maman’s warning echoed softly between my ears. At once an image of Notre Dame came to me. My mother rarely spoke of her home, but when I was little, I found a small portrait. I had been playing in her jewelry box, mere trinkets and Mrs. Rinaldo’s bracelets, when I discovered the box had a false bottom.

Tucked inside the secret compartment was a beautiful sketch of Maman when she was a young woman, smiling in a lovely dress and holding a parasol. This version of her appeared to hardly have a care in the world. So different from the Maman that I knew. Behind her, the medieval cathedral filled the background, majestic and statuesque. For the next few nights, I would take it out and stare at it, wishing I could step into that time when Maman was happy and not so tired and worried.

On the fifth night, I worked up enough courage to ask her if we could ever go to Paris. I asked about her pretty clothes and if she lived in a big house with servants. And did she still have the parasol? And would she please take me to Notre Dame so I could imagine Esmeralda and Quasimodo walking beside me?

“Jamais,” she replied, her lips in a hard line. “Never. I can never return. My family have turned their backs on me. I’m dead to them.”

“Do they know about me?” I asked, a spark of hope determined not to burn out.

She tucked her chin, almost shamefully. Then she ripped the sketch from my hands and threw it into the fireplace. Tears filled her eyes. I gasped and ran to our bed, where I hid my face in the pillow, horrified by her reaction and unnerved that I had upset her.

Moments later, her soft steps came close. “You cannot live if you are wishing for the past, ma petite chérie.” Her hand made soothing circles on my back. “That girl in the picture was so silly and naive. She believed love would last forever. She had no idea of the pain that follows. Beware of what your heart tells you, Genevieve. It has the power to make you think you’re invincible. Remember, the only guarantee love brings is heartache. You must lock away the most precious part of your heart, keep that power for yourself. Promise me.”