Lost Among the Living(64)

I narrowly avoided colliding with a dancing couple—the woman had her head angled back, her neck showing, as she laughed at something her partner said—and wobbled in as straight a line as I could muster. My heart pounded. I stood in the spot where I’d seen Frances, but she was not there. There was not even a breath of cold where she’d been.

There was no emergency in the kitchen, no minor incident that would take the family out of the room for this long. Something was happening. The idea that someone had died lodged in my mind, and I could not get rid of it. Someone was dead—someone must be dead. Had Martin collapsed?

I had another glass of champagne in my hand—I had no idea where it had come from. If Martin were dead, it would all be over. It would ruin Dottie, break her. She’d leave this house and never come back, and so would Robert. But Martin was still fighting, I told myself. He hadn’t given in. He had a doctor, and he was trying so hard . . .

I edged around the room and slid out the door. I had to face it. If Martin were dead, if the family was finished and my future erased, I had to know. I had faced worse. I felt panicked and curiously detached, as I had that day in the train station when Alex left, though I was not ill. I walked down the dim corridor in my peacock dress, the empty glass of champagne dangling from my fingers, my heels clicking softly on the floor.

A waiter—one of the staff Dottie had hired for the evening—passed me and gave me a curious look, but did not stop. I reached the staircase and started to descend, my hand gripping the banister. The terrible thing would be happening downstairs, away from the party and the guests. It would be sealed in one of the private rooms, the way terrible things always were.

A maid appeared at the bottom of the stairs. I recognized her—Tildy, her name was, one of Mrs. Bennett’s staff. She looked up at me, and the expression on her blanched face was one of such sheer terror I almost stopped in surprise.

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Don’t.” Whatever it was, I didn’t want to hear it from the maid.

“Mrs. Manders—”

“Please don’t,” I said. “You won’t get in trouble. We never saw each other.” I reached the bottom of the stairs and got my footing. My legs felt too long, too unbalanced. My dress was too short. My heart was beating so hard my breath came shallow. I just wanted it to be over.

Tildy bolted past me and ran up the stairs. I continued down the corridor, which was dark and quiet. Not even the echo of the orchestra could be heard here.

Voices. Low, urgent, unhappy. Dottie’s voice—rising, then coming back under control. Robert’s voice, low and angry. Voices overlapping. I followed them, placing one foot after the other.

They were in the large parlor. The doors were open, and there was Dottie, standing in the middle of the room in her fancy beaded suit. She looked as distressed as I’d ever seen her. Robert stood several feet away, his hands in his pockets, his face pale and angry. Martin sat in a chair near his father’s elbow, leaning heavily on one arm, his face slack and his eyes aglow with painful ecstasy. Cora stood behind him, biting the lipstick off her lips, her hands clenched together.

Martin was not dead. My mind fixed on that fact as my gaze fixed on him and I came toward the doorway. Then I realized what Martin was looking at with such an expression of complex wonderment in his eyes.

There was another figure in the room. A man sat in a chair with his back to me, his features in shadow. The family all stared at him, transfixed.

They did not hear the click of my heels on the floor until I was in the doorway. The air was so dense I could hardly breathe, but I put a hand on the doorframe and kept upright. “What is going on?” I said into the silence.

Dottie’s look of horror mirrored the maid’s. Her gaze caught mine, pierced it. Her narrow shoulders shook as she took a breath. “We were going to prepare you,” she said.

In one motion, the man unwound from his chair and stood, turning to face me. I saw long legs, the familiar set of shoulders. The breath left me. I could not speak.

Alex came forward into the light. Just that small movement pierced me, stabbed me as if someone had thrust an elbow into my gut. His face came out of the shadows and I shattered.

“Jo,” he said.

A low moan came out of me. I gripped the doorframe, my fingers numb. I felt my legs buckling, saw spots dance in front of my eyes. The room spun away. “No,” I said, my voice hoarse to my own ears. I heard a click and saw the empty champagne glass land softly on the floor.

He took another step toward me.

I revulsed in horror, all of my brain and my body rebelling. I stumbled back, wobbling on my heels. “No,” I said again. I backed out of the room and ran down the corridor, a sob in my throat. Voices sounded behind me.

I pulled open the door to the morning room and crossed to the glass terrace doors. There were footsteps behind me now—I knew that long, sure stride, had heard it in my feverish dreams. I kicked off my heels and ran out onto the terrace, my feet shocked against the cold tile.

He was coming after me. Alone. I hurried across the terrace and descended the steps to the garden. When my feet hit the earth, I began to run, ignoring the cold and the hard earth on my soles, ignoring the rustle of my dress and the chilled night air in my throat. I ran through the garden toward the shadows of the trees.

Alex’s stride came behind me. “Jo,” he said, his voice urgent but unhurried. He was catching up with me easily, and he wasn’t even running. “Jo, look at me.”