A Dreadful Splendor (8)
“Thank you, Bramwell,” Mr. Lockhart said tiredly. He turned to me. “I’ll leave you in good hands.” I watched him hobble away with his cane, wishing I could go with him.
A stern woman in a black dress stood off to the side, holding an oil lamp. Her greying hair was secured into a bun so tight it might have been made of iron. She looked down at my boots, and I imagined she was tallying the amount of mud I would track inside. I hoped the lighting was dim enough to hide the frayed edge of my cape. Bramwell then said to me, “Mrs. Donovan will see you to your room.”
The woman’s expression was so hard she could have been one of the statues. I followed her quietly, uncertain if I should reply with a thank-you, worried my voice would echo in the vastness. I took in the grand staircase, looking up at the balcony that ran along the second floor. My fingertips smoothed over the dark walnut railing, enjoying the smell of fresh polish. I had done séances for the wealthy residents of London, but the scale of Somerset Park was unlike any place I’d ever been. I wondered if I should leave a trail of bread crumbs. I could easily turn down the wrong hallway and be lost for years.
As we reached the upper landing, there was the distinct sound from below of someone raising their voice. Mrs. Donovan paused, turning halfway so I was looking at her sharp profile. “His lordship is not happy to have a spiritualist in the manor.”
The argument continued beneath us, muffled by the closed door to the study. I caught the sounds of the first voice, raised and impatient. Then I identified Mr. Lockhart’s calmly hesitant response.
Mrs. Donovan continued, “Mr. Lockhart ventured to London to bring back a police detective. You can imagine how his returning with you instead would be disappointing.”
“You obviously haven’t met many coppers,” I said. “I’ve found most of them are disappointing too.”
Mrs. Donovan clicked her tongue in disapproval, then continued walking down the long hallway. She stopped in front of a door that looked identical to all the others we passed; I doubted I’d be able to find it again on my own. After pulling out a ring of keys, she unlocked the door, then held up the lamp as she went inside.
“My apologies for the staleness of the room, Miss Timmons,” she said, lighting the sconces by the fireplace. Above the mantel was a large painting of a schooner sinking in the stormy waves. The sails were tattered, as if it had been wrecked in battle and lost to the sea. I turned my back on it.
“I would have properly aired it out but for the rainstorm,” she explained. Then she glided across the room to light a candle placed on the bedside table, and I was able to take in my new quarters for the first time.
There was a matching vanity and tall wardrobe with polished brass pulls and cut glass knobs that looked like diamonds. The wallpaper had a dark green background with bouquets of white blooms that looked so real I wondered if they had been painted by hand. Dominating the room was the largest bed I had ever seen. It even had a canopy. Unlike the foyer, this room evoked an elegant but welcoming comfort.
Mrs. Donovan put down the lamp and needlessly smoothed out the plush bedcover. I could tell it was more substantial than anything I’d ever slept in before. “Tomorrow the fog should let up enough,” she said. “I’ll have the room aired out in the daytime and make sure we properly set the fire to warm it for the evening.”
The rain pelted against the glass behind long brocade curtains, trimmed with gold thread and tassels. Even the window covers were more exquisite than any lingerie worn at Miss Crane’s. Considering I was supposed to be in a jail cell, I could handle a little staleness and cold air.
She opened the drawers of the vanity dresser. “I can help you unpack,” she offered.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said, tightening my grip on the handle of my bag. I only had the clothes on my back—no need for the housekeeper to see my candles and ghost book. An image of my tiny room at Miss Crane’s came to mind. I had nothing of any value there, but an extra change of petticoat would have been nice.
Mrs. Donovan’s expression stayed solemn as she made her way to the wardrobe and opened its doors. I could not imagine having enough clothes to fill both it and the dresser. “Mr. Lockhart wrote that we should meet all your needs,” she said. “I believe a few dresses will arrive tomorrow.”
“For me?” I was genuinely surprised. Although Mr. Lockhart had never given me any reason to doubt his sincerity so far, this gesture evoked a sense of gratitude in my heart that was both touching and embarrassing. The tips of my ears warmed under my curls. “That’s kind of him,” I replied, smiling.
Mrs. Donovan’s stern gaze skimmed over me, taking in my outfit. “You are a guest of Somerset Park. You should look like you belong.”
My smile slid away. Still, I took comfort in the consistency of her cruelty.
Picking up the lamp, she motioned to the velvet pull attached to the wall. “Please ring the bell if you need anything.”
“I wouldn’t want to wake anyone,” I said.
She stood by the open door, the darkness of the house behind her an audience of admiring shadows, eager to embrace her. “It would be better to ask for help than wander the manor in the middle of the night.” Then she added, “Sleep well.”
After she left, I pressed my ear up against the door and listened to her footsteps fade. Once I was certain she was gone, I turned and took in the plush bed. I was hardly under the covers before I dozed off, certain I could sleep for a thousand days.