A Dreadful Splendor (71)

I hoped the candlelight and a warm meal would lift my spirits.

Spirits.

Ghosts did not exist. It wouldn’t do to have a spiritualist scared of shadows and voices in the dark.

A burst of fierce scratching noises made me jump. This time I was certain the mouse was inside the wardrobe. I gave a growl and grabbed the chamber pot, ready to trap the little nuisance. I flung open the door so quickly a few of the dresses swayed back and forth. But instead of a scampering creature, there was only silence.

I pushed the dresses to the side and scanned the bottom. There was a pile of shavings. No mouse, though. And no mouse hole. I straightened up and stared at the back of the wardrobe, now visible with the clothes pushed to the side. No critter was capable of what I saw.

Thin, jagged letters had been scratched in place: Help me.

The chamber pot dropped to the floor and clattered loudly. I stared at the words, almost feeling splinters in my own fingertips.

With shaking hands, I lit a candle and stared at the tiny flame. What I was considering made no sense, and yet, I had no idea what else to do in that moment.

“Is there anyone who wishes to speak to me?” I whispered. I waited, hearing only the wind outside. I asked the question again, my heart sputtering, for there was only one ghost I desperately wanted to hear from. However, as the next minutes passed in silence, it was painfully obvious my experiment had simply proven what I already knew.

I blew out the candle and cleared the foolish melancholy from my mind. I knew there must be a plausible explanation, but at that moment I wanted nothing more than to leave the room and never return. I slammed the wardrobe shut, then made my way to the drawing room for cocktails.



Miss Gibbons was all brilliance and sparkle in her blue dress and black diamonds. With her shiny hair and porcelain skin, she looked like a life-size version of a doll. I guessed she was not yet thirty, but a soft lifestyle had made it difficult to tell for certain. She was beautiful and wealthy, but the strongest of her talents was shrewd initiative. I had a notion that if she wanted to purchase Somerset, it would be hers before the second course was served. Everything about her caught the glow from the candles, as if she absorbed their very light. The men surrounded her like moths to a flame, listening intently.

Standing at his usual spot by the fireplace, Mr. Pemberton looked very fine in his dinner jacket and white tie. Every time I happened to glance in his direction, he was looking at my corner of the room. He would reply with a questioning frown as if asking if I was all right. I responded with a slight nod and took a sip of my drink. Anything we had to discuss was impossible in the present company. It was better to give him a temporary assurance.

I put my attention on the other men in the room. Mr. Lockhart sat in the chair to Miss Gibbons’s right with the cane at his side. One ruby eye winked. I had the feeling that snake and I could share some secrets.

William was surprisingly dapper and sober. He complimented Miss Gibbons from head to toe. I seethed from across the room, knowing he was breaking Flora’s heart. I wished I knew how to win back her trust.

I sat alone, nursing the cocktail Bramwell had served me al most an hour ago. I couldn’t stop thinking about the message in the wardrobe. It was possible it had been there for a few days, as I hadn’t checked the back since the night I arrived. Then an idea struck me. Mrs. Donovan could have made those marks the day she hung the dresses. There, it was settled. A plausible explanation after all. I just wished the goose bumps on my arms would smooth away.

I looked up, only to catch Mr. Pemberton’s eye again. He must have thought I’d been staring at him the whole time. I turned and asked Bramwell for a refill, hoping I didn’t appear as distressed as I felt.

The only other person who looked more uncomfortable than me was Dr. Barnaby. He’d been regularly checking in on Mrs. Donovan. Mr. Pemberton had made him stay for supper, unwilling to send him back to the village without a proper meal. I could tell from his heavy lids that he would have gladly fallen asleep on the kitchen table, never mind a candlelit dinner.

We traded weary glances as he joined me on the settee.

“How is Mrs. Donovan today?” I asked him. “Is she able to walk yet?” I hoped my face remained neutral, or at least something close to sincerity.

He took a sip of his drink. “She’ll heal from her physical injuries, but the emotional strain will take much longer. Her fear will stay with her for some time, I imagine.”

“Has she spoken any more about the attack?” Not having Flora around had deprived me of the house gossip.

“No.” He shook his head. “She has nothing new to add.”

“But she’s content to stay at Somerset Park?” He frowned at my insistence, and I made a note to ease my manner. I added, “I wonder how she can feel any kind of safety here.”

“Because it’s her home,” he said.

I knew home didn’t always guarantee safety. I pictured myself at Miss Crane’s, feeling the threat of having to join her girls if my séances didn’t bring in enough money. I attempted to deflect the topic. “I meant to ask you about the young girl who had died in the village. Was that Flora’s friend Maisie?”

He finished the last of his drink. “Such a sad case. Despite her youth, the sickness hit her worse. There was a history of poor hearts in her family, I believe. It happened so fast. One moment we were talking, and the next she closed her eyes and died.” He stared at his empty glass. “I suppose it’s the most comfortable way to die: no pain, no fear—just slipping away.”