A Dreadful Splendor (72)

“You were with her all night?”

“Yes, that’s what doctors do, Miss Timmons.” His voice was weary, but he smiled warmly at me.

I smiled back. “Whomever you marry will have to be a remarkably understanding woman.”

His face reddened.

Worried that he suspected I was flirting with him, I stammered something ridiculous about the recent rain. I was saved when Bramwell announced dinner was served.



Through the beet salad and vegetable consommé courses, the talk varied between business and travel. Mr. Pemberton sat at the head of the table with Miss Gibbons on his right and Mr. Lockhart to his left. I mostly stared past William’s shoulder at the window behind him. The darkness was more interesting than Miss Gibbons’s opinions on everything I never cared about.

“You didn’t lie,” she said to Mr. Pemberton. “Somerset and its surrounding grounds are quite spectacular. I can think of several acquaintances who would very much appreciate the opportunity to tempt you with an offer.”

“I’m glad you find it appealing,” he replied.

Mr. Lockhart chuckled into his napkin. “Anyone would be tempted, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they deserve it. A house of this standing needs the consistency of an esteemed linage. It’s been home to the Earl of Chadwick for generations.”

“Are you saying Somerset would be less grand if it belonged to someone without a title?” Miss Gibbons asked. She smiled, but I could hear the sharpness behind her words.

Mr. Lockhart put a hand to his chest apologetically. “I didn’t mean offense. I have a deep fondness for this house, of course. Somerset requires the passionate consistency and devotion only a family line can provide.”

Miss Gibbons turned to Mr. Pemberton. “Are you looking for a buyer or a wife?” She grinned, but there was a calculating quality to her stare.

“Neither, at the moment,” he said over the rim of his wineglass.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Dr. Barnaby wince.

I wished I had faked a headache.

By the time Bramwell and Harry served the stuffed pork loin on a bed of apricots soaked in brandy, most of the topics had been exhausted, and so conversation turned to gossip. I noticed the side servings of Auntie Lil’s mint jelly in crystal dishes.

“What news have you brought us from London?” Mr. Lockhart asked Miss Gibbons. I noticed he hadn’t coughed once this evening. I wondered if wanting to impress a beautiful woman could suppress that reflex.

“Have you heard the recent calamity of the Hartfords’ estate?” she said, reaching for her wine.

The knife slipped from my hand, rattling against the plate.

Mr. Lockhart glanced at me for the briefest of moments. As far as he knew, we were the only ones at the table who were aware of my history with the family. I didn’t dare look Mr. Pemberton’s way. The daughter had called me a common swindler. I thought of Mrs. Hartford’s note she’d slipped into the ghost book.

Did you love me?

I couldn’t imagine spending a lifetime with someone and doubting if they loved me.

We tell them what they want to hear. We tell them enough so that their heart fills in the rest. The heart sees.

Maman would have been upset with how I’d treated them.

“—tore the front room apart.” Miss Gibbons ended the sentence with a laugh.

I took a sip of wine, letting it warm my throat the whole way down. It was a terrible coincidence Miss Gibbons was familiar with the family who’d seen me off to jail.

“And it was all because of that dreadful séance. Imagine! All of them spellbound by the seer. She was discovered to be a fake, but before they took her away, she whispered to my friend that her father’s ghost told them to look in the fireplace.”

My heart grew larger, making it hard to breathe. I imagined it bursting out of my chest, splattering blood all over the finely set table.

“A séance?” William lifted an eyebrow. “How ridiculous they are in London.” The jab was purely for Mr. Pemberton. I tried to crouch lower in my chair.

“Grief can make people vulnerable,” Mr. Pemberton said. His glance alighted in my direction. I dropped my chin at once. Too strong were my insecurities to afford a fake smile his way.

Dr. Barnaby sighed under his breath. His plate was already empty.

“But that is not the end of the tale,” Miss Gibbons continued. “Once my friend told the rest of the family, they started looking. Can you imagine all the soot? Mrs. Hartford almost had a heart attack when Mr. Hartford’s portrait fell off the wall and into all that mess.” She raised her glass. Bramwell was at her side, pouring the last of another bottle.

She smiled at Mr. Pemberton and fluttered her eyelashes with a confidence surely cultivated from a life of privilege. I suspected she didn’t know her teeth were purple from the wine.

After cutting the most insignificant bite of apricot, she said, “Would you believe young Robert was the one who found it?” She paused again, painfully. Waiting for the obvious question.

“Found what?” Dr. Barnaby asked. I wondered if he was interested or trying to hasten the storytelling along. Bramwell slipped in and removed his plate.

Mr. Lockhart smiled at the head butler. “Please let Mrs. Galloway know the meal has been exemplary.”

Miss Gibbons chewed thoughtfully. Then she said, “While everyone else was arguing, Robert took the lamp and stood inside the flue. He’s so skinny he was the only one who could fit. He found a tin box stuck between the bricks. Inside was a key to Mr. Hartford’s safety deposit box at the bank.”