A Dreadful Splendor (50)

He rose to his full height, a head above me. “You have a short memory, Miss Timmons. You’re the one who came to Somerset, committed to deceiving me.” His eyes took on a fiery intensity. “As with all your other clients, you were going to fool my broken heart with all your grand trickery, weren’t you? Seduce my bereaved soul, while secretly thrilled at the dreadful splendor of it all.”

His words stuck in my ears, echoing cruelly. “You have no idea who I am.”

“Actually, I do. The package that arrived from London the other night was your file from the London police.”

I could have crumpled to the rug. The images came fast and without warning: the screams that filled the house, the crunch of a skull on wood, the pages of The Hunchback of Notre Dame torn free and fluttering down. “You’ve known all along?”

“Tell me what really happened,” he said. I was taken off guard by the undisguised plea in his voice.

I started grabbing candles and tossing them into the bag. I tucked the glass chimney under my arm. “Why should my version matter to you?” I dropped a candle, and it rolled off the table.

“It’s obvious the police are biased.” He picked up the candle and held it out to me. “All I need is the truth from you, and I’ll consider the matter closed.”

The truth was impossible to tell him. “It will never be closed for me.” I took the ghost book and held it against my chest. I hated how the moment had turned to this battle of wills. There was no version that could absolve me completely. “I am here to perform a séance,” I choked out. “That does not entitle you to any part of my life. I hope that is clear.”

Mr. Pemberton wiped a hand down his face and took a step back. I tried to read his expression, but all I saw was a man who had never had to face the gallows.

The memory I had pushed down so many times rushed to the surface. Maman’s face was frozen in a deathly expression, her mouth opened in an unending scream.

With a waterfall’s worth of tears building behind my eyes, I tore out of the library. When I reached my room, my hands were shaking so badly I fumbled with the key several times. I collapsed on the bed, burying my face into the pillow, letting the tears spill out.

After I finished and my breath had returned to normal, I recognized the bitter reality: I couldn’t escape, no matter how far I ran or how many keys I had to lock away secrets. The truth would always wait for me.

I lied for a living, but in all those private gatherings, one thing remained the same—my truth. I craved to belong to a family.

During a séance, when I was the conduit for a loved one, the family would look at me like I was the most important person in their lives. I felt loved. Among all that death was the only time I was truly alive—that was my dreadful splendor.

And that’s what I should have told Mr. Pemberton, but fear kept my mouth shut. I couldn’t reveal too much of myself.

The smile on Constable Rigby’s face lurked under the surface of all my unease.

You can only depend on yourself, ma petite chérie.

I went to the window and looked toward the direction of the cliff. It seemed closer than yesterday. I imagined the next wave sweeping onto the land, creeping closer, and not stopping until it reached my door. Even though the window was closed, the air tasted like salt.





Chapter Thirty-One




Lady Audra

Diary Entry

Somerset Park, January 25, 1852

I am at a loss, Dearest.

I know I should be grateful for Mr. Pemberton’s proposal—and I am, truly. But there is a barrier between us I cannot name, a wall he keeps around himself that I cannot pierce.

More and more I’m aware of subtle changes in the staff. They whisper all the time, their words cutting off abruptly whenever I enter the room. Father tells me I read too many Gothic novels and that my imagination has taken over my senses.

But what of this voice that calls out to him at night? Why does he wander through Somerset, testing the locked doors, determined to go outside? His hollers are enough to wake the dead. It frightens me so.

I worry Mr. Pemberton will call off the engagement if he discovers the true extent of Father’s condition. But for now, wedding preparations have begun. This will be the event of the year, and Father wants everything to be perfect. However, I fear the excitement has taken a toll on his frail health.

Dr. Mayhew wants to send him to an institution, but I refuse. He has been the family physician for decades, but he’s too old now to properly manage Father’s care. When Mr. Pemberton heard of my concerns, he took it upon himself to hire another physician, a friend of his apparently. I was so grateful I burst into tears.

But, even in my state of complete gratitude, Mr. Pemberton only nodded and handed me a handkerchief. How can someone be so unromantic? The only thing he seems to find pleasing is taking a horse to explore the grounds—soon to be his grounds—in solitude.

The other day, he disappeared for hours and returned drenched in mud! He told me he had slipped on his way to the stables. But there was a rip on his sleeve and a stain that looked like blood. I wanted to press him further, but I did not dare! I smiled and watched him from the corner of my eye, noting all his mannerisms.

There is only one reason people lie, and that’s to hide an ugly truth.

What if everything Mr. Pemberton has said has been a lie? I know we are not in love, Dearest, but how can I marry a man who lies to me? I must have Mr. Lockhart investigate his history more thoroughly. Surely, he wouldn’t have invited a man to Somerset—a man whom I will marry—if there was the slightest hint of malice in his past.