A Murder in Time(136)

But what recourse was open to her? Here, she was a servant. Although she wasn’t familiar with this era’s laws regarding mental disorders, she knew her voice would never be heard over the powerful Duke of Aldridge’s.

Of course, there was another possibility. He might actually believe her. Could she get that lucky?

She thought of her life so far: involuntarily sucked through a vortex, stuck in the nineteenth century, her one friend murdered. No one would consider her lucky. But everyone’s luck had to change sometime.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, fighting panic and waves of nausea, until a soft knock at the door roused her. She glanced up as Molly poked her head in. Her eyes, Kendra noticed, were still red and puffy.

“Oi came ter see if ye need ’elp dressin’, Miss. Are ye ill?”

“I don’t feel so hot.”

“Aye. There’s a chill in the air.”

“No, I mean—forget it.” Kendra slid out of bed, then hesitated, a lump forming in her throat. “I’m sorry, Molly. About . . . about Rose.”

New tears shone in the maid’s eyes. “’Tisn’t yer fault, miss. It’s the bastard ’oo done that to ’er. We’ll catch ’im and ’e’ll ’ang from the gallows. And Oi ’ope ’e rots in ’ell!” She sniffed, and bent down to pluck the dress and spencer that Kendra had discarded on the floor the night before, tossing both on the bed. “The gentry are leavin’ terday,” she said in a quieter tone.

“Yes. I know.” Kendra hastily donned her underwear.

“A funeral needs ter be planned.” The tweeny dashed the tears from her eyes as she opened the wardrobe. “Do ye ’ave a preference for w’ot ye be wearing terday?”

“No.”

Molly brought over a pale lavender gown, and helped Kendra into it. “Oi’ll pin up yer ’air, miss.”

Kendra nearly groaned out loud. Her head ached without having heavy pins stuck in it. “That’s not necessary.”

“’Tis no trouble, miss.”

“Honestly, I don’t—”

“Oi’d like ter do it. For Rose, miss.”

Put like that, Kendra couldn’t deny the tweeny. She sat down on the bed as Molly retrieved the brush and pins.

“She wo’nted ter be a lady’s maid, ye know,” Molly said softly.

“I know.” As the tweeny brushed her hair, her mind flashed to the question Alec had asked last night. Your hairstyle . . . is this typical of women in the future?

“Rose taught me ter do this.” Molly twisted Kendra’s hair into a low coil, and then pushed the long hairpins in place to anchor it. She took a step back to admire her handiwork. “Ye look right proper, miss.”

“Rose would be proud of you, Molly.”

“Thank you, miss.” Blinking back tears, Molly retreated to the other bed, picking up the gown and spencer. She started toward the wardrobe, but paused. “Oh. Ye’re dress ’as got a stain. Oi’ll take it down ter Mrs. Beeton ter scrub it out. Ye’ve picked up a bit of dirt on yere spencer, too. W’ot were ye doing yesterday—?” she broke off, her expression stricken as she remembered what everybody had been doing.

“It’s my laundry,” Kendra said, walking toward her. “You shouldn’t have to do extra work, Molly. I’ll take it to Mrs. Beeton.” She lifted the jacket out of Molly’s hands.

“’Tisn’t any trouble, miss. ‘Tis good to work.” The tweeny was reaching for the clothes, but stopped when she noticed Kendra’s expression. “W’ot is it, miss?”

Kendra’s eyes were on the brownish gray stains. “I’m not sure.” Was she imagining the similarities?

“Miss?” Molly asked uncertainly when the silence lengthened.

Heart pounding, Kendra carefully inspected the smears running across both the gown and the spencer. They looked the same, but it didn’t make sense. “Have I been mistaken?” she wondered, frowning.

“Mistaken ’bout w’ot?”

Kendra came to a decision. She thrust the bundle of material back into Molly’s arms as a sense of urgency came over her. “Do me a favor, Molly. Take these clothes to the Duke and Dr. Munroe. Tell them to compare the stains to the one on April Duprey’s coat.”

The tweeny eyed the smudges dubiously. “W’ot is it?”

Kendra hurriedly slipped on her shoes. “I’m not sure, that’s why I need the Duke to look at it under his microscope. But I think it might be potash.”

“W’ot does that mean?”

Kendra paused at the door as she met the maid’s confused gaze. “It means that I’ve been wrong, Molly. Wrong about everything.”





57

No smoke was curling out of the chimney of the hermit’s hut today. Of course, the abandoned feel of the place meant nothing; the appearance was easily deceptive. And Thomas may have already deceived me, she thought as she approached the door.

Kendra paused to listen intently, but heard nothing but birds trilling from nearby trees and the soft whisper of leaves and grass, stirred by the breeze.

She pounded on the door. “Thomas? Thomas, I need to speak to you!”

Silence.