A Dreadful Splendor (58)

“Nothing comes easily for me. Maman was the talented one,” I said, tucking my chin. “I am nothing compared to what she could do.” My throat dried up, catching on the last word. The ache was always there, as was the guilt.

Another gust of wind lashed at the walls. I was grateful for the noise it made.

“I’m sorry you lost her,” he said.

“All those years dealing with death, and the thing I fear most is living without her.” I paused. The story of that horrible night was too close to the surface.

He let the silence hang between us. Then he said, “I was think ing about how you said people sometimes make decisions they know will sabotage their own happiness. But, I wonder, if those people delved into why they felt so unworthy, perhaps they’d discover they deserved more.”

It was a sweet sentiment. His hopeful tone had touched something deep inside me. But no matter how pretty his words, the truth remained. I knew exactly what I deserved, and it was the furthest thing from happiness.





Chapter Thirty-Five




Lady Audra Linwood

Diary Entry

Somerset Park, February 27, 1852

Dearest,

My heart is broken, and yet it still beats. Father is dead. I was not there with him. I am too ashamed to write what I was doing and with whom.

In all my time at Somerset, just this one stolen moment of pure and beautiful passion cannot erase all that I’ve done for Father, can it? I pray that his soul will recognize my devotion and grant me forgiveness from heaven.

We buried him in the family crypt next to Mother. I ran my hand over her name and felt as if someone were walking on my grave. Somerset Park will be my home forever, but it might as well be that tomb.

I fear everyone knows my shameful secret. Mr. Pemberton has been more inquisitive than usual, and now it is I who is lying to him. My love has left the manor and my life. I am racked with savage sobs that the staff assume are for Father.

I am in mourning, Dearest—for the loss of my true love. He attended the funeral, and all he could give me was a stiff bow over my hand. Still, the touch between us, even through my glove, was enough to kindle the fire inside me.

I must find a way to go on with only the memory of our stolen night together. It is a curse to have loved so fiercely, and so passionately. Everything else pales in comparison; my life will be a cruel void of emptiness. I must be vigilant, though, for Mr. Pemberton watches me like a hawk.

He has chosen to become interested in the preparations for our wedding. He is always arriving when I least expect him, and he asks such probing questions: how I spent my day, where I went, who I was with. There can only be one reason for his increased curiosity. He suspects I have given my heart to someone else!

I try to answer politely, but his gaze is like steel, hard and unyielding. I used to think his eyes were beautiful, but now they only remind me of the coldest ocean storm. A storm I will be forced to sail the rest of my life. I have an unwavering fear that I will drown in those eyes someday.

I wish he’d never come to Somerset.





Chapter Thirty-Six




I returned to my room in a state of confliction. I was relieved Mr. Pemberton still wanted me for the séance, but there was a nervous energy as well that made me pace the floor. So much so that my boots were practically dry. There were still too many scenarios where I could end up back in a London jail cell. Even if my séance was successful in producing a confession, there was no guarantee Mr. Lockhart would still want to represent me in court. And if he did, I would be putting my very life in his hands. His feeble, gnarled, and dying hands. I shivered at how weakened he’d be . . . or if he’d even still be alive by the time of my trial.

I took off my bonnet and held the tiara up to the candlelight. That was my only guarantee. I opened the top drawer of the vanity and pulled out a petticoat.

A quick rapping at the door interrupted me. “Yes?” I said, wondering if Flora had returned.

There was a click, then the knob turned, and the door began to open. I had been so distracted by my latest conversation with Mr. Pemberton, I’d forgotten to lock it behind me.

“Nightcap, Miss Timmons,” Mrs. Donovan announced, her tone cold and formal as ever.

In a flurry of nerves, I messily wrapped the tiara up and rammed it to the back of the drawer. I whirled around in time to see Mrs. Donovan stepping into the room, carrying a small tray in one hand and a lamp in the other.

I shoved my hips back, closing the drawer.

Mrs. Donovan stood like a grim sentry as she gave the room a critical scan. Her attention paused on the bed. The green blanket from Mr. Pemberton’s room was neatly folded at the bottom.

“Thank you for the tea,” I said. “Although the supper was more than substantial. You didn’t need to tax yourself bringing this to me.”

“A nightcap is not tea,” she corrected, taking the tray to the table where I’d eaten supper earlier. She carefully placed down a steaming teapot and a crystal glass. “Mr. Lockhart is still ill,” she said. “But his nightly hot toddy seems to improve his health. I was worried when Bramwell confirmed you’d missed dinner. We cannot risk you becoming sick.”

She focused on me, then slid her gaze to the top drawer of the vanity. I was certain she could smell the guilt on me.

I kept my stance. “An earlier headache kept me in bed. I am fine now, I assure you.”