The Death of Jane Lawrence(20)

“Hello, Mrs. Purl,” Augustine said. His tone was warm, with a faint hint of apology. “There was a misunderstanding with Mr. Lowell. He had Mrs. Lawrence’s things sent here instead of keeping them at the surgery, as I’d intended.”

Mrs. Purl glanced at Jane appraisingly, then smiled at Augustine. “I hardly mind, though your room—”

“She’ll be returning to the surgery after dinner,” he interjected, quickly. “Is the dining room fit for guests?”

“It certainly can be.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

“It’s a special occasion, Dr. Lawrence. I don’t mind.” She curtsied to Jane then, saying, “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lawrence.”

Jane had opened her mouth to respond to the greeting, but Mrs. Purl had already turned away and headed deeper into the building. “Well,” she said after a moment. “She seems—”

“Nice and professional,” Augustine suggested.

“Yes.”

He turned toward her, and finally took both her hands in his, looking into her eyes. The contact was electrifying, lightning coursing through her bones and making her heart seize. She leaned in reflexively.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

“Happy?” Her thoughts were lagging behind, caught up in the sensation of his skin on hers.

“You’re not regretting today, are you?”

“No. No, I’m not regretting it. And yes, I’m happy.”

He smiled. “I’m glad. Well, I would give you a tour, but there’s not much to see, and I think Mrs. Luthbright will want some input on dinner. I could show you to my study here, if you like?”

He let go, began to walk away.

She hurried after him, as if on a lead.

“What about the conservatory?”

“The conservatory?”

“The room on the third floor, with the glass roof.”

Augustine laughed. “Oh, that. It’s a library, not a conservatory. It’s also entirely empty, I’m afraid. Books moved to the seaside house.”

“Perhaps I’ll just wander, then.” At his pained look, she reached out a hand, then let it drop, unsure, to her side. “You don’t have to be embarrassed by this, Augustine. If I’d had a requirement that my husband have a fine, well-kept house, I would have checked that,” she said, hoping it would get a laugh out of him. It didn’t. “Is it unsafe, to wander?”

“It…” He trailed off, thoughtful, then said, “No, Mrs. Purl hasn’t told me of anything like that. But I would feel much better if you didn’t.”

She was pushing too much, she realized, on too many fronts. She schooled herself back to propriety. “I understand. Your study is…?”

“Upstairs,” he said. “Come with me.”

He turned and led her up a staircase, its carpet worn but clean, its banister polished to a serviceable soft finish. The entry hall was two stories tall, with an arched dome of a ceiling. The stairs curled up along its sides, then out into the wings of the house. They turned down the eastern corridor, into a long, wide hallway with bay windows made of the same murky green glass of the library’s roof. The windows let in little light, and Jane could see that the iron girding was in a different pattern in each window. She wanted to slow for a closer look, but Augustine kept moving.

They reached the first corner, where he indicated a door but did not move to open it. “My room, the same as when I was a boy. Extremely boring, I assure you. The study’s just around here, though.”

It was just a few more doors down the hall, and he let her in with a small smile. The room was large, larger than his study at the surgery, and every single wall was covered in bookshelves or cabinets. Many of the bookshelves held not books but more of his collected curiosities: jars of unknown substances, wax models of sores and growths, and more than a few skulls, glowering down at them with empty sockets. Some were human, some were not. The rest of the room was arranged around two long, low couches and a great armchair in front of a cold hearth. A gasolier hung on the opposite side of the room, providing the only illumination.

“It was piped for gas?”

“Yes, about ten years ago, while I was off at university. It’s quite handy in such a large house.” Augustine crossed to the hearth and reached for the wood stacked nearby.

“I can imagine.” She stepped into the center of the room and turned slowly. There was one bank of windows, but they were covered in heavy curtains, the better not to let in a draft. A writing desk was tucked into the far corner and looked largely unused. “You have quite the collection. Have you traveled much?”

“Some,” he said. “But many are either from Great Breltain originally, or I purchased them from travelers.”

“The skulls?” she asked.

He straightened for a moment, looking around at them as if he’d forgotten they existed. “Do they bother you?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I … I’ve never seen them. I mean, I’ve seen drawings, and I’ve seen our cook defleshing a few animal heads, but it’s a little different, looking at a skull and knowing it was once inside a person.” And yet her own curiosity was stirred again, the way it had been when she looked at Mr. Renton’s twisted bowel.