A Dreadful Splendor (96)

There was only one way to prove Mr. Pemberton’s innocence. And I was the only one who knew the truth.

My own words mocked me. My choices are made only with regard to my own self-preservation.

“Damn!” I turned around and made my way through the pantry. Unsurprisingly, I found the door to the wine cellar wide open. I took one of the candles from the wall as I pushed my way through. I winced at the rancid air as I stood at the top of the steps that led to the dungeon. I had vowed never to return, and yet here I was.

“I know you’re down there, Mrs. Donovan,” I hollered. My voice echoed back. “Time to confess.”

The door slammed behind me.

I turned in time to see the serpent’s ruby eye just before it struck.





Chapter Fifty-Six




Despite the rain I had just walked through, the bag of roasted chestnuts I carried were still warm. Each Friday afternoon, Maman sent me out to get a special treat for us to share. However, the weather had been so miserable that I was forced to return earlier than usual.

The cold had permeated my thin cloak. As I climbed the stairs to our room, all I could think about was falling into our small bed and wrapping myself in its blankets. I hoped Maman would let me burn a bit of coal in the grate.

When I rounded the landing, my squeaking boots announced my arrival. There were other noises in Miss Crane’s boardinghouse too, so I began to hum, trying to drown them out.

I tried the doorknob, but it held fast. I silently cursed and adjusted my hand to get a better grip. I was struck with the horrible thought that Maman had gone out and locked the door behind her. I hated spending time in the parlour downstairs. Too many of the guests assumed I was available, and more than once I had come close to getting a black eye from a client who thought I was rejecting his company.

I was about to try the knob again when I heard voices on the other side of the door. Maman’s tone was urgent. The other was gruff and much deeper.

My shivering stopped, but a new coldness crept over me.

I stepped back as the door swung open. A man I had never seen before came out with a jacket over his arm, holding a pair of shoes in his hands. Maman followed, wrapped in her shawl and with only a slip underneath.

“You’re back early, ma petite chérie.” She gave me a quivering smile.

The bag of chestnuts dropped from my hand and hit the floor. A few escaped, rolling across the uneven surface.

“You must be freezing,” she said, taking me by the hand and pulling me into our room. The bed I had been dreaming about crawling into was unmade, the blankets shoved to the bottom. A sour taste sat at the back of my throat.

Maman moved about, talking quickly in both French and English, the way she always did when she was nervous. Her dress was slung over a chair; she took it and pulled it over her head, then went to straighten the bed, all the while still prattling. I couldn’t tell what she was saying over the roar of rushing blood in my ears. I could only make out a few words at a time. “Money . . . he’s the only one . . . so you don’t have to . . .”

She didn’t look at me as she said any of this, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her hair had streaks of grey starting at the temples. The beautiful shawl she had once prized was tattered and threadbare. Her boots sitting by the door were lined with newspaper.

She continued to tidy, assuring all of our few items were neatly in place. I grabbed my copy of The Hunchback of Notre Dame off the bedside table. I didn’t want her touching anything of mine.

When she finally looked at me, her gaze did not hold the fiery spark I was used to. She was defeated, and—something I didn’t recognize at first—shameful.

She sniffed. “I had no choice, ma petite chérie. We cannot live on what the séances pay.”

I looked at the bed. I was sure I could never sleep there again. A horror swept through me as I realized what this meant. Why Maman made me run errands on certain days. How even though we were doing less and less business, Miss Crane still let us keep a room.

Maman took a step closer. “The police are more invasive than ever. We can’t keep pushing our luck! This is my only option to keep our home.”

“How can you call this a home? How can you do this?” I motioned to the bed, unable to say the words.

Her face crumbled. “What I do is not real love, ma petite chérie. I am only comforting someone who is lonely. Not so different from our séances.”

I couldn’t breathe. I had burst into tears, unable to understand the person in front of me. How could she even make such a comparison? I wrenched the door open. “I hate you,” I cried. “And I hate this place! I wish we’d never met Miss Crane.”

She pushed the door shut before I could leave; the slam was so sharp it made me jump back.

“Genevieve! Be quiet.”

I snorted at the absurdity of her request.

Her eyes flashed a warning. “You remember the man who died in this room?”

I nodded, still too angry to allow her the satisfaction of a verbal answer.

“I saw his name in the paper the next day. He was very important—a judge.” Maman leaned closer, her voice an urgent whisper. “I listen when the other girls talk among themselves. They say Miss Crane poisoned him as a favour for the police. That’s the real reason Drusilla didn’t want this room anymore. She worried his ghost was out for revenge. But he’s not the first man to die here. Miss Crane will ally with whoever is willing to pay.”