chapter 6
I barely slept that night.
Instead, I played the incidents over and over in my head: Rowena’s ghost dripping onto the flagstones, the water running down the walls, Tabitha glaring at me. I’d made her angry and vulnerable and I didn’t need to be told she wouldn’t forgive me for it. I knew girls like Tabitha—I’d been raised by one. She would need some kind of revenge. I didn’t know how to tell her she needn’t bother expending all that effort on my behalf; I was hardly competition. If I could convince her of what she already suspected—that I was beneath her notice—things would be easier for me.
And it was easier to worry about Tabitha than it was to wonder how I was going to keep all of this a secret from my mother. Because although I might not know very much about actual conversations with the dead, I did know my mother. She would have me talking to the deceased members of every influential family in the entire city of London, right down to the queen, if she had her way. I had no wish to pursue this newfound talent for seeing spirits. It was already getting me into trouble, and it had been only two days.
Referring to myself as a medium did nothing for my humor.
I had never really considered that other mediums might truly have psychical experiences. I assumed they used the same tricks we did, with varying degrees of success. But I couldn’t deny, however much I wanted to, that something out of the ordinary was occurring.
I punched at my pillow a few more times before giving it up as a lost cause. Clearly, sleep would remain elusive. I sighed and sat up, reaching for my little book of Tennyson’s verse, but even The Lady of Shalott couldn’t keep my attention. It was too easy to imagine myself in a barge seeing visions and floating to my doom. I tucked the book under my pillow, feeling wild, as if I’d had too many honey cakes.
The moon shone through the windows. I’d left the drapes open as it seemed a shame not to take advantage of the view. My window at home was a quarter the size of this one and showed only a scraggly elm and the bricks of the house next door.
I pulled my shawl around my shoulders and opened the glass door leading out onto a wedge of balcony. The night was warm enough that I was comfortable in my faded nightdress and a mended lace dressing gown that had belonged to my mother. The stars flickered like candles, and the wind was full of roses and larkspur.
I couldn’t ignore the pale glimpse of moon-touched water from where the hills gave way to the manicured lawns of Whitestone Manor.
The bushes rustled beneath my balcony. There was a muffled curse.
“Keep your voice down. Do you want to wake the entire house?”
I knew that tone, bitter, disapproving. Caroline Donovan, Tabitha’s governess.
“Darling, you worry too much.”
I didn’t recognize the second voice, male and all smug condescension. I crouched down so I wouldn’t be seen and peered through the gaps between the stone railings. The ground was cold under my feet.
“Everyone’s asleep,” the man reassured her, sounding vaguely bored. I could see only the cuff of his dark jacket and the gleam of his boots. Caroline was half wedged into the yew bush, staring all around her. What on earth was Tabitha’s governess doing here at this time of the night?
“I don’t know about this,” Caroline murmured.
“It’s too late now,” he said cheerfully.
“Be serious, won’t you?”
“Why bother? You’re serious enough for the both of us.”
“We have to be careful.”
“Did you pull me out here for that? I’ve cards to play and brandy to drink.” The answering silence was strained, brittle. Not that he noticed, apparently. “At least give us a kiss.”
I wasn’t the only one with secrets. I shifted to ease the pressure on my knees and tripped on the ribbon of my dressing gown. I tumbled with a muffled “oof.”
“Did you hear that?” Caroline asked fearfully.
I froze, squeezing my eyes shut as if that would help me be invisible. I pried one eyelid open. From this angle I could see a third person watching them from the privacy of a rose arbor. I only chanced to see him because from this angle, the moonlight gleamed on his silver cravat pin. He scanned the gardens, his face hidden in the shadow cast by his hat.
“Probably nothing,” Caroline’s mysterious beau murmured. “All the same, you should get back.”
They parted without another word, Caroline sneaking away across the lawn, the man easing back inside. After a few moments, I straightened, rubbing my elbow, which was now throbbing as much as my knee.
“Psst.”
I swatted away what I assumed was a fly. But the noise came again, from below me in the shadow-thick gardens. The white roses seemed to glow in the faint moonlight.
“Psst!
I leaned over the railing. “What?”
It was hardly what Juliet might have said to Romeo, or indeed what any well-bred girl might say. I probably ought to have giggled enticingly or shrieked and dove under my blankets.
Instead, I leaned farther and nearly toppled right out.
Colin emerged from behind a decorative hedge shaped like a mermaid. The gardens were as crowded as Covent Garden on market day. He looked as handsome as any young lord, even with the coarse wool of his coat and the calluses that I knew ridged his palms.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” For some reason, saying it made me blush. He grinned.
“Shouldn’t you?”
I almost told him why I couldn’t sleep. I almost told him about the water in my room and about the drowned girl and the way she looked at me: hopefully, pleadingly, demandingly.
But I didn’t.
“Someone will see us,” I said instead. I hated how proper and prim I sounded.
I could have sworn he was disappointed. Since that hardly made sense, I ignored it. He bowed once, mockingly. I turned and sailed back inside, shutting the door pointedly behind me.
I couldn’t say why he seemed to follow me, invading my empty bedroom and my thoughts.
Or why I found it comforting.
I woke up scowling. I scowled through my cup of tea, I scowled when Marjorie brushed my hair, and I even scowled at the sunlight when it fell prettily through the windowpanes onto the carpet.
It was early. Too early.
I scowled all the way down the stairs, at each of the Jasper ancestors in the portrait hall, and even at a potted fern that fluttered across my hem as I passed. The fashion for ferns showed not the slightest inclination of fading if Rosefield was any house to judge by. Large green fronds grasped at me like hands as I marched down to breakfast.
I had just enough sense to pause before entering in order to collect myself. A headache pulsed viciously behind my eyes. I pasted on a polite smile before showing myself. Most of the guests were gathered at the long table. All of the men rose briefly. Frederic grinned. Since I didn’t hear Elizabeth’s customary stifled sigh, she must still be asleep, like any sensible person. One of the guests was a tall man, thin and with a predatory look about him. The effect was underscored by the way he stared, his black eyes peeling back the layers we all wore like shawls in polite society.
Something else about him made me uncomfortable: the silver cravat pin he wore. It was the same man who’d been hiding in the gardens last night, watching Caroline stealing kisses.
But why?
“There you are, darling.” Mother’s voice was decidedly crisp. She eyed me critically over her cup. Her smile was pointed. “Why don’t you have a seat next to your Mr. Trethewey?”
I instantly forgot about the man with the cravat pin and instead blushed violently. One of the ladies cleared her throat sharply.
“Mother,” I whispered. She was being too bold. I could see the censure in Lord Jasper’s sister’s expression and the gleam in Tabitha’s eyes as she sat on Xavier’s other side, smiling prettily at him. I stifled a groan. I had no wish to play the games Mother or Tabitha expected me to play. The headache jabbed at me, mercilessly.
“It would be a pleasure,” Xavier murmured. I could only be grateful his parents were still abed.
“Tell Jasper I miss him.”
I blinked, looking at the guests. No one else seemed to have heard the breathy voice, whispering.
“The locket is under the settee. Vera dropped it there last week.”
I definitely heard that. I lifted a hand to my head, which throbbed mercilessly.
“Can you hear me?”
“And me?”
“Please, answer me!”
There were more voices, all layered on top of one another like a windstorm. I think I might have whimpered. I really didn’t want this to be happening. Seeing spirits was bad enough; hearing them was no better. I clapped my hands over my ears. I had to get out of there.
“Violet,” Mother snapped.
Her voice, at least, was real, and it was sharp enough to cut through the haze of panic. Lord Jasper was staring at me quite intently. I smiled weakly and turned to the sideboard. I just needed to be alone, needed quiet. I was tired, that was all. The chattering and the clinking of silver cutlery frayed at my nerves.
I reached for a plate, waving away the help of a footman. I’d never understood that. Surely I was capable of carrying my own plate, even though I felt tired and awful. I made my way back to the table with my eggs and toast, trying to breathe through the anxiety and the ache in my temples. I wasn’t paying attention to Tabitha.
That was my first mistake.
The second was that when she surreptitiously reached back and yanked on my elbow, I let out a most unbecoming yelp, like a monkey tumbling from a tree.
And third, I dropped my plate.
Or rather, I threw it.
It sailed out of my hand and I could only watch in horror as it proceeded to make its descent. Jam-covered toast turned over once, twice … and landed on Xavier’s shoulder with a most undignified splat. The eggs rained onto the floor and the bacon slid across the pristine white tablecloth, leaving grease stains like skating grooves on an icy pond. There was a shocked silence before the ladies all gasped in unison, as if they’d just been thrown underwater. Mother sent me a glare, and Tabitha’s laughter trilled out, delicate as a mockingbird’s song.
“I’m—” My voice was more of a croak. Why did Tabitha get to sound like a songbird while I imitated a toad? And was it entirely too late to crawl back into bed and refuse to come out?
“I’m terribly sorry,” I finally managed to say as Xavier stood to wipe at his sticky shoulder with a napkin. Tabitha rose as well and all but purred.
“Oh, how dreadfully clumsy,” she said. “I would be simply mortified. I would just die.” She smiled at Xavier. “Let me help you with that.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered again before fleeing the room. I stopped in the empty hallway, pressing my back to the silk-papered wall. Embarrassed, I closed my eyes. At least the pounding in my head had been reduced to a dull ache.
I wish Elizabeth had been there; it might have seemed a little funnier then. I’d probably laugh about it later. I’d laugh harder if I’d managed to smear jam in Tabitha’s ringlets. That, at least, would have been amusing and worth the mortification. When the same event involved the handsome young man who was tentatively courting you, it rather lost some of its humor. I’d never seen Mother’s eyes go so round. Lady Ashford’s forkful of jellied fruit had landed on her plate with a plop, and Frederic’s tea had shot straight out of his nose.
It took me a moment to realize I was giggling. I pressed my fist to my mouth but the giggles wouldn’t be stifled. Tears sprung to my eyes as I struggled to catch my breath. If there was a slight hysterical tint to my laughter, I decided not to notice. Laughing was still preferable to the panic, holding it at bay like an angry dog on a chain.
“Miss Willoughby.”
I was still chortling like a deranged goose. My eyes flew open.
“Miss Willoughby, are you quite well?”
I just laughed harder when I realized it was Lord Jasper himself standing there in front of me, with his white hair and his polished boots. He was smiling quizzically.
“I’m so sorry,” I squeaked. “I ruined your … tablecloth … and …” I kept having to pause, trying to breathe properly. “And … Mr. Trethewey’s … frock coat!”
For some reason it made me laugh even harder. Lord Jasper chuckled as I fought to regain my hopelessly lost demeanor. I wiped at my eyes.
“It can all be cleaned, I assure you,” he said. “And I’m delighted, I must say, to see you haven’t succumbed to a fit of the vapors and taken to your bed as many a young ninny has.”
“Thank you.” I’d always liked Lord Jasper. I liked him even more now. “I must have … tripped.”
“Hmmm.”
“I’m very clumsy,” I assured him cheerfully. That, at least, was the truth.
“You needn’t protect Miss Wentworth,” he said dryly. “I saw the remarkable angle her elbow took as she jostled you.” He arched his brow, motioning for me to walk with him. The thump of his silver-tipped cane was soothing. “She’s had rather a hard time of it.”
I remembered Rowena, her bloated face and the lilies in her hair. It was my turn to make a noncommittal noise. “Mm-hmm.”
“Do be patient with her.” He turned a corner and stopped a few doors down the hall. “I thought you might enjoy the library.”
I couldn’t stop the appreciative gasp. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves, crammed with books of all sizes. He smiled indulgently.
“I knew I sensed in you a fellow bibliophile.”
“Mother doesn’t like me to read as much as I do,” I remarked with a sigh.
He winked. “Then we shan’t tell her, shall we? It will be our secret. Feel free to borrow any of these volumes during your stay at Rosefield.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. A rope of diamonds would have been less precious to me. And then, even though it was dreadfully improper, I stood on the tip of my toes and pressed a light kiss on his weathered cheek. He patted my shoulder gruffly.
I made a slow circle, drinking it all in. The hearth was deep, bracketed with two wide green leather chairs. I could have sworn I saw the shape of a woman, heard the rustle of cloth, the clink of a teacup. I could smell flowers, lemon.
“That was your wife’s favorite chair,” I said softly. “She drank lavender tea and read in it almost every night.”
I didn’t know what made me say it. I cringed when his gaze went heavy and intense. There was sorrow there, and speculation.
“She did,” he confirmed.
I blushed. I felt like a fool, more so than at breakfast. “I shouldn’t have—” I didn’t want him to think I was like my mother.
“What else do you see, child?”
“Nothing. It was only … I smell lemons. I must be tired.”
But he knew that wasn’t it. In fact, Lord Jasper looked as if he’d have dearly liked to press for more details but restrained himself. Why on earth had I prattled on about his dead wife?
“The books on the shelf by the window might be of particular interest to you.”
I nodded, knowing I would have stammered if I’d tried to speak. I felt as if I’d dipped a toe in a narrow river only to find myself swept out to sea. Something else was happening here, but I didn’t know what it was. Only that the undercurrents were strong, dangerous. A person could drown in this particular sea.
When Lord Jasper left, I distracted myself by trailing my fingers over the leather bindings, skimming over the embossed titles. It would take a large dose of control for me not to lug a great big heavy pile of books upstairs to my room. Here was Jane Austen, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Lord Byron. Here was Alice in Wonderland, Frankenstein, King Arthur—friends, every one of them.
I didn’t realize I was no longer alone until there was the sound of a throat being cleared. Xavier stood not three steps away in a new coat, with the chain of his pocket watch hanging just so.
“I apologize for the intrusion, but Lord Jasper said I might find you here.”
“You know very well it is for me to apologize,” I said, returning his smile. “I’m terribly sorry. I had a ghastly headache and, well, I don’t quite know what happened.”
I knew exactly what had happened: wretched Tabitha.
“Think nothing of it,” he said graciously. “I trust you are quite recovered?”
“Yes, thank you.” There was a small silence. I wasn’t certain how to fill it. Elizabeth would have made a jest of some sort and Colin would have made teasing remarks. Xavier, however, probably thought I had delicate and cultivated sensibilities.
“The gardens are lovely this morning,” he said finally, glancing out the window. The roses were fat and still damp with dew. A butterfly floated past. “Would you like to take a stroll?”
His smile was sincere, his blond hair brushed back from a handsome brow. A walk would be lovely, uncomplicated. And it was kind of him to ask me, even after he’d had to wash jam out of his ear. My stomach tingled nervously, pleasantly, when he held out his arm to me. I laid my gloved hand over his cuff, just above his wrist. He smelled of soap and, faintly, strawberry jam. I could get used to the way he looked at me, with admiration.
“Thank you, Mr. Trethewey, a turn about the garden should be lovely.” And he wasn’t likely to slip earthworms down the back of my dress, as Colin had. True, that had been six years ago, but still.
It wasn’t until we passed the window that I noticed the books Lord Jasper had recommended: The Yearbook of Spiritualism for 1871, Spirit Drawings by William M. Wilkinson, History of the Supernatural by William Howitt, as well as pamphlets from numerous psychical and Spiritualist societies.
It made perfect sense. He would assume, given my mother’s interests and his own, that I might be interested as well.
And yet I couldn’t account for the barest of shivers that skittered like a nervous cat over my spine.
Xavier didn’t notice, only led me outside where the swallows were dipping and diving over the hedges. It smelled like roses and rain and we meandered slowly along the path, as if I hadn’t thrown toast at him less than an hour before. I felt a little shy and couldn’t think of anything to say, but his company was pleasant. He guided me carefully around a puddle. We stopped at a stone bench under a hedge of lilac bushes. There was a large fountain with rabbits and herons dipping their stone feet in the cold water. Lily pads drifted in the basin.
Xavier didn’t sit too near or try to kiss me—that would have been terribly ungentlemanly, and he was nothing if not polite. But his hand on the bench was near mine, his gloved finger nearly pressing against mine. The ruffles of my hem waved in the breeze, touching his leg.
“Miss Willoughby, say you’ll join my parents and me for tea,” he finally blurted out. “I’ve told them all about you.”
I licked my lips, my mouth feeling suddenly dry. I wasn’t sure I was ready for this. “Of course.”
His hand closed over mine, gently. I turned my palm up under his. He smiled down at me. I tried to smile back.
“Xavier … that is, Mr. Trethewey …” It was horribly awkward to have to discuss this, but I had no father to do it for me and Mother would lie. And asking Colin was just too mortifying even to contemplate.
“Yes, Violet?”
“I feel I ought to … that is …” I sighed, irritated with myself. There was no sense in having a fit of the vapors over simple facts. “I don’t have a dowry.”
He looked briefly taken aback, but I couldn’t be sure if it was due to what I’d just told him or merely the blunt delivery of it.
“Perhaps you no longer wish for me to take tea with your mother?” I pressed, my spine very straight, my expression as bland and amiable as I could make it, despite the uncomfortable burning beneath my breastbone.
“Oh, Violet!” He clasped my hand to his chest, startling me. “You are quite ten times more beautiful than any other girl in England. Let that be your dowry!”
I felt sure there was a compliment in there somewhere. I couldn’t say why it made me want to do something shocking, like slide down the banister or take off my shoes and itchy stockings and frolic in the fountain under the stone rabbits. I might be the one wearing the stifling corset, but Xavier would be the one to swoon if I did any such thing. He misunderstood my silence and picked a handful of roses for me with an eager smile.
“Violet, Mother expects only a title or else some kind of fashionable coup she can lord over her friends,” he explained. Elizabeth was right about that then. “Your mother is the most famous medium in London right now,” he pointed out proudly. “And no one can deny your beauty.”
That was the second time he mentioned my beauty. I should be flattered. A thorn pricked my thumb through my thin summer gloves.
“Let’s go to them now,” he urged, “so you’ll know you needn’t worry. They’ll love you as I do.”
He was earnest and dashing and I was a horrible girl. I should love him. Or I should at least feel the inclination for it. I felt only a vague sense of indulgence, as if he were a sweet boy. But maybe that was love, a soft slow feeling and not the passionate fiery melodrama of novels. Determined to make this work, I took his arm and we went back toward the house and his mother’s private sitting room.
“Oh, my flowers!” I stopped so abruptly I nearly jerked him off his feet. His fine polished shoes must not have very good tread. He flushed under his collar. “I’ll be right back,” I promised him and turned back.
I didn’t break into an undignified trot until after I’d gone past the hedges and was hidden from his view. The roses lay like a painted silk fan on the bench. I cradled them gently; they really were beautiful and the first I’d received from a boy. I couldn’t help a secret delighted smile as I buried my nose in them, careful to avoid the prickly thorns. They smelled like summer and perfume and sunlight. I’d have to remember to press them in a book when we got home—perhaps in my treasured copy of Jane Eyre, which I’d bought the day after we’d drugged Mrs. Gordon’s hot chocolate. I hadn’t been able to drink hot chocolate since.
I took another deep breath of the roses, determined not to ruin the moment for myself.
I had Colin for that, after all.
“You’ll get a beetle up your nose,” he said. I jumped, dropping one of the roses.
“Colin, for heaven’s sake. Were you hiding in the bushes?” Had he heard my conversation with Xavier? Did it matter?
He dropped down from a low branch of an oak tree where he’d been lounging and looking up at the leaves. “I miss the green,” he said with a shrug. Sometimes I forgot that he hadn’t always lived in London. “And Jasper won’t thank you for stripping his gardens bare,” he pointed out, combing an oak leaf out of his dark hair. He wore his usual trousers and shirt. I’d seen him in them a hundred times before, but after so many starched collar points and cravats, the small vee of his bare throat and chest was distracting.
“They were a gift,” I said.
“Why would an old man—” He cut himself off, standing suddenly as straight as any duke. “Trethewey.”
“Yes,” I replied, refusing to blush. “Aren’t they romantic?”
His jaw clenched. “He’s in love with your pretty face and has no idea who you are, flash bastard that he is.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said stiffly. “Excuse me.”
“Fine, then. Run after your prince.”
I turned on my heel, grinding rose petals under my boots.
“Violet, wait.”
I frowned at him. “I don’t have time to bicker just now.”
“Just be dog wise.”
“Be careful of what?” Surely he couldn’t mean Xavier.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted, frustrated. “But I hear stories from the servants.”
“Stories? About Xavier?” I pressed, doubtfully.
“Aye, about this house and Jasper, even. I don’t think everything is as it seems.”
“Lord Jasper is a kindly old gentleman, not to mention an earl. You can’t be serious.”
“He’s a nice enough bloke, I reckon. But that doesn’t change the facts,” he insisted stubbornly. The dappled light made his blue eyes like water, mysterious and hard to read.
I tilted my head. “You’ve never been the sort to jump at shadows.”
“I’m not jumpy,” he grumbled. “Just cautious. And you should be too.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be careful. I have to go.”
He caught my hand as I turned to go. He wasn’t wearing gloves, of course, and I’d taken mine off so I wouldn’t stain them with the tiny thorn-induced wound on my thumb. “He’s not good enough for you.”
“What?” I stared at him incredulously. “I’d say you have that backward. He’s from a good family. I’m not.” His fingers slid away from mine. A swallow darted past us. “So if you’ll excuse me, I have to go convince his mother that I’m not a desperate fortune hunter with a liar for a mother and a disgusting talent for drugging old ladies.”
“No.”
I frowned. “What do you mean, no? What’s the matter with you?”
He just stepped closer to me, right on my shadow, which had been the only thing between us. His eyes were angry and conflicted but his hands were gentle on my face, wrapping around the back of my neck. He pulled slightly and I stumbled forward. His mouth closed over mine, the kiss sending warmth shooting all the way from my belly down into my knees. His tongue was bold, sliding over mine as if I were strawberry ice cream. I felt devoured, delicious, decadent.
He stopped abruptly, pulling back, his breath ragged.
“I’m not good enough for you either.”