Jane Steele(77)

The slender ivory packet crackled in my grip, but I made no move to open it; the missive could only be from my solicitors, and if they reported I had no claim on Highgate House, then nothing would change. Alternately, if I did own the property, I already lived here, and the thought of Highgate House without Mr. Thornfield was now as appealing as London sans Clarke.

“Have you a letter, Miss Stone?”

Mr. Singh approached, and his features beneath the wiry sweep of his beard were grave.

“Apparently so. No one ever writes to me, so I’m at a bit of a loss.”

“We missed you this morning at breakfast.”

“I was a trifle unwell.”

“Then I am glad to see you looking hale now. Miss Stone . . .” He hesitated, adjusting the cuff upon his wrist. “Did anything distressing happen last night?”

“I found the mortuary,” I owned. “I’ve no aversion.”

Provided I have ample warning every time Sam Quillfeather pays a call.

“Oh, marvellous—we feared distressing you, and if you don’t mind failing to mention it to Sahjara, we are unsure how she’ll take it. When she is older . . .”

“Of course.”

“And nothing else occurred? Mr. Thornfield is not himself today.”

“Is he all right?” I felt stricken—if he were morose, I was culpable. The next instant I felt glad—if he were affected, hope was not lost.

“Yes,” Mr. Singh replied, but the word was too lengthy for one syllable.

“He told me about the, um. The penance. The gloves.”

“Ah.” A frown formed beneath his nobly hooked nose. “Did he elaborate upon why he abstains?”

I shook my head.

“The Guru contains passages about abnegation—fasting, meditation, the renunciation of wealth, but in my opinion, Miss Stone . . .” He lowered his voice. “Such a profound sacrifice is not required by God. The pair of us made a mistake long ago which led us into terrible circumstances, but Charles—I beg your pardon, Mr. Thornfield—”

“It’s all right. I know you’re not the butler.”

“Do you?” he exclaimed.

“I imagine you’re a sight better as a commander,” I teased.

“Well.” He made a small bow, after which his eyes crinkled in distress once more. “Charles, then, feels so culpable that he denies himself touch as a form of self-mortification. I have not yet directly attempted to prevent him, thinking he needed time more than any other balm—but his heart is wide, and bleeds from many hidden wounds.”

“So often the way, with hearts.”

Brushing a hand over his beard, Mr. Singh passed me, inscrutable, heading towards the front door. I remembered Mrs. Garima Kaur’s early assertion to me that he was good, and was grateful, for I knew no one else in whom I could confide.

“I am for the village to settle our bill with the mortuary workmen. Miss Stone, know that I do not take discussion of Charles’s heart lightly, and forgive me if I’ve overburdened you.”

“You haven’t. He has mine, you know.”

Mr. Sardar Singh lingered even as his hand pulled the ornate brass handle of the door. I could not read his face well in any light, so obscured was it by his beard, but now he was quite masked by the cold glow beyond.

“Yes, I thought he might,” he admitted. “I will charge him to guard it, Miss Stone. On my honour.”

“The Sikh people seem to me very honourable indeed.”

Though wintry gusts pelted us, Mr. Singh paused again, and a look steely as his chakkar sharpened his features. Since my initial conversation with Garima Kaur over his character, he had never frightened me; now, however, a chill shot down my spine which had nothing to do with the freezing draught.

“There you are mistaken. Which is worse, Miss Stone, if you will pardon my crudeness—a rapist or a pimp?”

“I . . . I can hardly answer that.” Crescendos of arctic air whirled into the house. “I should abhor either one.”

“Consider the East India Company the rapists, Miss Stone, and the Sikh ruling class the pimps supplying them.” He pulled his collar up. “Forgive me . . . you’ve no desire for a history lesson. Keep yourself well. Charles and I will not return until tomorrow—he met Inspector Quillfeather at his home some miles distant to raise a glass to the mortuary’s completion, and we both plan to pass the night there. Thank you for being so free with yourself, as you have given me much to consider.”

The door closed, and I watched as the snowflakes turned into teardrops upon the floorboards. Something about this exchange nagged at me—something which I did not understand but felt like awakening in a lightless room with the fanciful certainty that one is not alone.

Soon, I walked upstairs with the unopened letter; it seemed a breathing creature in my hands, and in a way I have always thought that words are alive a little, for they can whisper sweet nothings and roar dragon flame with equal efficiency. After all that had taken place the previous night, I could not even imagine what I wanted it to say, and when I had closed the door to my room, I placed it on the table and stalked about it in circles as if contemplating a chained beast. If I learnt I was not the true mistress of Highgate House, would I prove so spineless as to simply accept Mr. Thornfield’s scruples and live as his lovesick shadow for the rest of my days? If learnt that I was the rightful heir, would I prove so horribly low as to use my power for leverage against his wishes? Both outcomes made me ill; one or the other must inevitably be contained in the envelope, scratching to escape with malicious claws.