The Vital Principle (16 page)

“Yes. However, there are many odd things in the world. I find it simpler not to worry overmuch about them.” She managed a light tone despite the throbbing in her forehead.

“I see. So it wasn’t some message from the spirit world?”

She forced a laugh. How could she explain what she’d never felt before? Most likely, it was only the result of something she ate during supper. “No. I don’t really believe it was a message from Lord Crowley. Does that disappoint you?”

“One might describe what you saw as contact with the deceased. A manifestation of his fear. Either his fear that he is dead, or his fear of burial.”

“Or, I might simply be telling the truth.”

“This once?”

She sighed and faced him. “Why don’t you say what you mean? You believe I’m a fraud. And now, you’re simply aggravated that I didn’t give you a much-desired opportunity to expose me as such.”

He smiled and clasped his hands behind his back, walking forward a step. “Let’s just say I’m puzzled. Your admirer, Mr. Denham, lent me a volume you may remember,
Spectres of Surrey and Sussex
.”

“What of it?” she asked abruptly, backing away a few steps. When he smiled, part of her recognized again how attractive he was. That lonely part ached to lean against him, rest her head on his shoulder, and close her eyes. Pour out her fears to him and free herself of the unbearable tension.

She wanted to forget everything that had happened at Rosecrest. With sudden despair, she realized she wanted him to understand and trust her. Because sadly, she knew he was a man
she
could have trusted under other circumstances. She wanted to trust him now, if only he would believe her.

“It appears from that book that you and your father were interested in examining unnatural phenomena scientifically. Now, you’re…. Well, you appear to have abandoned your previous interests.”

“Is that how it appears to you? That I simply grew tired of studying unusual events?”

“Perhaps after your father’s death you lost your desire?”

“How kind of you to give me an excuse. But, no.
I
haven’t lost interest. Let’s simply say my acquaintances have. It seems that while they had no objection to my father’s visits and examinations of other-worldly manifestations in their homes, they have no interest in a single female pursuing those same investigations.” She held up a hand to stop him when he stepped forward as if to speak. She didn’t want any unbearable expressions of sympathy or pity. “However, many
were
extremely interested in any talent I might have to entertain them with what I’m sure you must see as an
amusing
charade
.”

“And it is only an entertainment?”

“Of course. All good guests should be entertaining, shouldn’t they? It’s why I’m invited. It’s why I’m here.” She failed to control the slow drip of acid in her voice.

“If you dislike it, why do you continue?”

“What would you have me do, instead?”

“Refuse. Return home.”

“Home?” She laughed bitterly. When he scowled, she laughed all the harder. It was a safe alternative to the tears she refused to shed. The throbbing in her head doubled. Her back felt close to breaking under the weight of her existence. “Shall I do your job for you? Surely if you’d done your research
thoroughly
, you’d have discovered I have no
home
. No fixed abode, in any event.” She waved her arm in an arc encompassing the grand sitting room. “This is how I
live
. My friends and acquaintances invite me to attend their house parties. In return, I provide them with a few harmless diversions. Some guests are good at games of chance, some are amusing conversationalists. I’m neither. I’m invited because my hosts find it interesting to sit around a table late at night in hopes of getting mysterious messages from the spirit realm.”

“But surely—”

“Surely I could find some small apartment somewhere and live quietly as a decent spinster should? True, I have a small income—the remnants of my mother’s dowry—whatever my father left, at any rate. Enough to pay for a few dresses and a modest annuity for my abigail, but that’s all. I doubt I could afford more than a maid once a week if I settled anywhere. Perhaps not even that.”

“Your book—”

She interrupted him, carried away with her frustration and rage at her situation and her helplessness to change it in any meaningful way. “The publisher paid me five pounds for that book. And even at that, I doubt he made a profit. It has never sold more than a hundred copies to my knowledge. My earnings are hardly enough to provide me with a dozen new handkerchiefs and a meager dinner. Or, would you prefer I work for a living? Perhaps become a governess to someone’s unpleasant children?”

There, she had said it.

Perhaps too much, but her exhaustion had dulled the edge of her common sense. All the emotions she suppressed for so many years, all the dissatisfaction, anger, and fear at her uncertain future had come tumbling out. She had spent too many years acting as the polite guest in someone else’s house, performing ridiculous spirit communications simply because she didn’t know what else to do. Or because she found the alternatives untenable.

To her surprise, when she met his eyes she felt as if some of the weight had been lifted from her shoulders. His gaze was warm and sympathetic. Her breath hitched at the sudden flame of a smile lighting his dark eyes and twisting his lips.

“Not all children are unpleasant,” he said.

“Not if they’re your own. Anyone else’s children are another matter, entirely. Particularly, if you’re responsible for the bloody-perfect heir who can do no wrong,” she replied tartly to cover her awareness of him and her sudden feeling of vulnerability.

He chuckled. “Personal experience?”

“I’ve been a guest to the
bon ton
for many years. I’ve talked to the governesses. Their lives are barely tolerable, and then only if they are extremely lucky.”

“I’m not blaming you for your choices.”

“That’s not at all the impression you’ve given me.”

“Then I apologize.” He chuckled again. “You’re not the first person to complain of my tone of voice.”

“Then let me emphasize this: I did
not
kill my host. It would not have ruined me if you had declared in front of God and all his angels that I was a frightful charlatan. In fact, there are several patrons who would have been quite thrilled to have such rumors spread. They don’t pay, after all, so they’ve nothing to lose except a few morsels of food and the use of a guest room. Such slander would have made my future performances all the more titillating with the attendant questions about my abilities. Everyone loves a hint of scandal.” Bitterness scraped her voice raw. She leaned wearily against the table.
Why didn’t he believe her, trust her?
“It’s his death that may ruin me. I sent a note to confirm the arrangements for my next visit to the dowager’s neighbors, just north of here. Lady Edwards sent a reply today. She regrets she must cancel my visit. Do you really think you’re the first to declare me a charlatan? And that I would care if you did?”

While his eyes reflected understanding, his only reply was a quiet apology.

Tired beyond bearing, she swept past him. She paused at the door. “I’d never poison Lord Crowley. Never. No matter what you believe. I’m afraid you need to look for someone else to blame, Mr. Gaunt.”

Drifting upstairs toward her room, Pru’s head pounded so erratically she didn’t really care what Mr. Gaunt thought, or what she revealed to him in her ill-considered outburst. However, she did fear one thing. He obviously needed help to identify whoever had poisoned Lord Crowley or she would not leave Rosecrest as a free woman. The thought deepened her sense of desperation and helplessness.

It looked like it was going to be another long and restless night.

All men by nature desire knowledge
. —Aristotle, 384-322 B.C.

Monday, October 12

After a wretched night, Pru stared out at the dawn with a whirl of complex emotions fogging her mind like a nightmare that refused to dissipate. The feeling of dread stayed with her as she drank her cup of morning chocolate, making it taste burnt and bitter. Even her room felt as dank and musty as a prison cell.

The inquest begins today
.

She performed her ablutions out of habit and tried not to worry, but her mind whirled. Had May known Lord Crowley wanted to divorce her? She must have. Most likely, he hadn’t wanted to marry her in the first place. Perhaps she had threatened to divulge their affair to his mother, which would have caused a great deal of awkwardness.

From her brief acquaintance with him, she knew he hated awkwardness when it affected him. He certainly didn’t mind watching others wrestle with it, however.

Was that enough of a reason for Lord Crowley to take her as a wife? Would he really marry her just to avoid disappointing his mother, or to legitimize his child if May should deliver a son?

Was it possible he loved her?

She shook her head, wishing she really could contact him and obtain a few answers.

Nonetheless, she thought it likely May had twisted Lord Crowley’s arm with something, something he didn’t want his mother to know.

Gazing out the window, she watched a line of pale lilac sky grow behind a jagged edge of trees. They looked like broken teeth, waiting to devour the unwary. The coming day brought no renewal, only a crushing sense of entrapment and despair.

She couldn’t give up, but she felt reluctant to question May. The girl must be desperate, pregnant and alone in a strange house. Or perhaps not quite alone. She was learning to speak and behave properly under the tutelage of an indigent relative of the dowager's, so she had someone to talk to.

Nonetheless, her move to Dower House meant her previous room stood empty until they hired a new girl. This was the time to search her room. Any letters or other evidence of how she convinced Crowley to marry her might be there, unless the maid took everything with her.

But why should she?

She no longer needed whatever she’d used to convince him. Pru weighed this, her hands gripping the windowsill as she stared out at the hostile shadows of the dark woods. She may have already burned whatever she had, but this was unlikely. Maids did not have fireplaces in their room, and there had been a great deal of hubbub during her removal to her new house. In addition, May had been busy pillaging the attic for rich, silk gowns she could salvage. A new wardrobe would have taken her mind off items she no longer required.

Heartened, Pru turned toward the door. The only difficulty was locating May’s room. Pulling on a heavy wrapper and shawl, she quietly made her way to the servant’s stairs, hesitating on the landing. The scent of strong soap permeated the narrow staircase with its plain wooden treads, worn smooth and thin in the center by the tramping of hundreds of feet, shuffling up and down, year after year. A simple passage between areas of work, undeserving of notice unlike the wide, gracefully curved stairway used by the family and guests. Feeling like an intruder, she followed it, spiraling downward toward the lower reaches of the house.

“Excuse me, Miss, do you need something?” A maid approached her as she hesitated near the kitchens. The girl looked about eighteen and despite her dingy, fraying apron and the thin, well-washed fabric of her somber dress, she was almost quivering with life. Her brown eyes flashed to Pru and then strayed over her shoulder.

Behind her, Pru heard a man’s heavy tread. She resisted the urge to turn around. Suddenly, she felt a grin forming at the romantic idea that one of the footmen had come in search of the young maid.

“Yes,” Pru answered. “I’m looking for my abigail, Millie. Have you seen her?”

“Why, yes. But why didn’t you just ring? There weren't no reason to come and try to find her, yourself.”

Pru forced a laugh. “The truth is, I was hoping to find the kitchen and ask for a glass of milk. Then I realized I needed to speak to Millie, as well.”

“Lor’ Miss, I can get you that milk, but Millie’s room is up there.” She pointed to the ceiling. “They put her right under the eaves, they did. May be you'll hap upon her on the stairs.”

“Thank you. I suppose all the maids have rooms in the attics?”

“Most. Leastways Millie and that maid as ran off—that trollop May Allen—has rooms up there.”

“Did you say Miss Allen ran off?”

“Oh, yes. With some lad from the village, they say. Though I can't justly tell as I don't know.”

“Indeed?” That was certainly a convenient misunderstanding to cultivate. “Well, thank you for offering to get my milk, but it really isn’t necessary.”

“Oh, no, Miss. It ‘ud be a privilege.”

“Could you bring it up to my room? I’d appreciate it.”

“Yes, Miss.” She curtseyed and dashed back toward the kitchen.

When Pru turned toward the servants’ stairs, she caught a glimpse of a dark blue coat rounding the corner. At least it wasn’t Mr. Gaunt trailing her. He always seemed to wear black like a good inquisitor.

Rubbing her temple, she glanced unhappily at the steep staircase. The narrow passage remained dark despite the lamp she’d taken from a small shelf in the corridor. The light only reached a few feet ahead of her. As she climbed upward, her tension grew worse with each step. Finally, she had to pause briefly between each stair to breathe. Her heart pounded within the narrow cage of her ribs.

When she reached the attic, she found a shabby corridor lined by rough, wooden doors. She held the lamp above her head and looked around. Most of the doors had simple wooden latches. At least she wouldn’t be reduced to picking the lock on a maid’s door. She walked a few yards, wondering where to start.

Halfway down the hall, she considered calling aloud to wake Millie. Surely, her maid could tell her which room May occupied. Then Pru noticed a lighter rectangle on the floor a few feet away. Stepping forward, she raised the lamp again. One door stood open. The rest were closed.

She strode forward and entered the room with the open door. It was deserted, at least for the moment. Placing the lamp on the dresser, she glanced around. The room was pitifully small, barely six feet by eight. Directly across from the door was a narrow window with one smudged, cracked pane with a corner missing. A draft seeped through, periodically summoning enough energy to ruffle the edge of the thin woolen blanket draped over the bed. Or rather, the cot masquerading as a bed, squatting a mere two feet off the floor. A dresser leaned drunkenly next to the bed and a single, rickety chair stood in the corner under the broken sliver of a mirror.

On either side of the door were pegs holding up a rough cloak, a blue dress and an apron. Pru recognized the gown and apron. May had worn them the night of the spirit session. With any luck, she’d never wear the dreary garments, again.

Where to start? The pathetic room seemed barren of any hiding places. She pulled back the thin mattress but discovered nothing except a fraying web of supporting ropes.

Looking around, the clothes hanging next to the door caught her gaze. She ran her hands over the dress. Excitement surged within her when something crackled within the folds. She pulled back for a moment and then slid her hands more carefully over the rough linen fabric.

Again something rustled. A pair of pockets, perhaps, draped over the hook underneath the dress.

Unhooking the gown, she found two pockets dangling from a thin linen sash. She took the pockets and sat down on the bed, uncomfortably aware that she was intruding upon another woman’s private affairs.

Well, it couldn’t be helped if she hoped to prove her innocence.

Slipping her hand inside one pocket, she pulled out a few stiff sheets of paper, creased and much folded. She flipped them over, suddenly hesitant to read what must surely be private.

She shifted nearer the lamp and studied them. Then she unfolded the first one. Heavy, masculine script crisscrossed the page. She skimmed the strong, bold strokes of the writing before she turned the letter face down on her lap. She took a sharp breath, not having anticipated the rawness of the contents.

Then she slowly picked up the first one again. It began simply enough with “My Love” but rapidly degenerated into lewd detail. At the bottom were the initials “H.C.” written with a huge flourish.

Heat stained her face as she turned them over to examine them more closely. They didn’t improve upon closer acquaintance. They were awful. Her heart thudded as she laughed nervously, trying not to let them disturb her.

After a final read, she shoved the letters through the gap in her skirts and tucked them into her own pocket. Then she carefully hung May’s pockets and gown on the wall peg, again.

With calm thoroughness, she searched through the dusty chest of drawers and upended the chair to make sure nothing was hidden under the seat. There wasn’t another scrap of paper anywhere, not even a religious tract or bible.

The stiff letters in her pocket slapped her thigh as she turned, finally, to leave. Would Lord Crowley have agreed to marry May if she threatened to show his mother his lewd letters? Certainly, he’d been foolish to inscribe his initials at the bottom, or to send them to a woman like May.

What had possessed him to behave so stupidly?

She couldn’t imagine, unless it had been an uncharacteristic and violent bout of love.