A Dreadful Splendor (78)

When he didn’t reply immediately, I glanced up. He was biting his lip, fighting the shape of a grin. “Fate isn’t independent, Miss Timmons. It’s shaped by our reaction to the world. I could have eluded my responsibility and refused the title of Earl of Chadwick. And take your own situation for example. Here you are, wearing my coat after helping a mare foal. Was it your choices that made this moment possible or events beyond your control?”

The wind whistled around us, rustling a golden wave of hair across his temple. I thought of the fortune-teller’s prophecy.

“My choices are made only with regard to my own self-preservation,” I replied. “Besides, isn’t it tiresome to imagine all our desires and efforts are meaningless in the face of some greater plan?”

“Or perhaps you set yourself on fate’s course through the choices you make.”

“Even if you have the worst luck in the world?” I replied.

“Especially then.”

Now I was the one concealing a smile. “Worrying about fate seems like a luxury meant only for people with too much time on their hands.”

His blue eyes glinted. “A fair point to end this discussion,” he said. “I concede this argument in your favour.” He gave the road to the village one last look before we continued toward the grand house.

“Thank you,” I said. “For letting me experience the foaling. You were right. I’ve been surrounded by death and grief my entire life. It can be isolating—and exhausting. For all the energy that was expended in the stables, the birth brought a lightness. Sometimes I think all that death weakens the spirit. I know it weakens mine.”

I wasn’t sure where that confession came from, and I wished I had stayed quiet. The moment felt spoiled.

Then Mr. Pemberton said, “‘Weak’ is the last word I would use to describe you, Miss Timmons. Death makes people feel powerless, but not you. If you feel any weakness, it’s because you’re carrying the grief of others. It’s that very burden that makes you strong.”

The compliment resonated within me, sinking into my bones. I had forgotten how proud Maman’s work used to make me.

He stopped walking, his hand reaching out to touch my elbow. We were stepping onto a path I had never considered before.

“Thank you,” I said. “I don’t believe anyone has ever phrased it so eloquently.”

“Do not praise me for my choice of words,” he said. “I am only commenting on what I see as the truth.”

I had no word for this place that only we occupied, where the air turned thick and my heartbeat was in my throat. How easy it was to imagine the two of us taking the road to Wrendale. How easy it was to forget whose place I was taking—the reason I was at Somerset Park at all.

When I didn’t reply, he finally said, “Come. I’ve kept you out long enough.” He turned toward the kitchen’s entrance.

My heart and head were a jumble. The security I felt with him seemed so real, but I knew it was only a fleeting illusion. Maman’s voice reached out to me.

The only guarantee love brings is heartache.





Chapter Forty-Eight




I woke in my room later that afternoon, wonderfully rested and motivated. The séance was to take place in two days, and even though it still was not clear who I should target, I wasn’t desperate yet. Even though she wouldn’t be there in person, Mrs. Donovan might be the best scapegoat for my purpose. Her bellowed confession about saving a baby rattled in my mind. Whose baby? I shook the memory away. Knowing the complete truth wasn’t essential for a successful séance.

Yawning, I began to prepare myself for the day. After dressing, I settled in front of the vanity to fix my hair. The drawer looked absurdly empty with only the box of pins, a few garments, and my mended gloves. I ran a hand along Mrs. Donovan’s expert stitching. Her wound was such an odd shape. What weapon could have made such a mark?

Familiarity washed over me. I stared down into the drawer again. When I’d hidden the tiara here, it was deep enough that I’d been able to roll it up in a petticoat. But Audra’s drawer had been so shallow that the thin red box had barely fit inside. In every other regard the two pieces seemed identical.

The sketch of my mother in Paris came to mind—the one I discovered hidden in the secret bottom of her jewelry box. The truth slammed into me like running into the chest of the copper. My eyes slid to the key I’d left on the windowsill last night. I would be paying another visit to Audra’s room.

I ventured down the hallway with the key tucked under my sleeve. There was no one about. When I reached her door, I fished out the key and slipped it in the lock as smooth as a practised dance step. The knob turned easily, without protest, and I was inside Audra’s room with the door closed behind me faster than Joseph eating an entire pastry.

I went directly to the vanity and opened the top drawer all the way. I knew it was much too shallow for a reason. My fingertips reached in and skimmed the sides until I felt a tab near the back. When I pulled it, it lifted, revealing a compartment underneath.

“Aha!” I whispered, victorious. There was nothing but a small leather-bound book. My pulse raced. As with Mr. Hartford’s school medal, no one hides an object of no significance—even if it is only of personal value. I dared to hope as I read the first page.