Chapter 13
The next morning plodded along much like the first. Mrs. Rawlings continued to assign me various mind-numbing tasks—mending, arranging flowers, and declining social invitations.
But while these chores occupied my hands, they left far too much time for my mind to wander.
What was happening back in London? Had Mr. Drake and Jack made any progress in the case?
Was Ginny worried for me? How was she feeling this late in her pregnancy?
I missed her desperately. Besides my Seasons in London years ago, I had rarely spent much time apart from my best friend. She balanced me, kept me grounded and realistic, and I could feel myself more and more on edge without her steadying influence.
After luncheon, I escaped to my room for a few hours.
I first wrote to Mother, a false, ridiculous letter describing all the delightful diversions she would assume Ginny and I were spoiling ourselves with in London.
I read my letter over several times before signing and sealing it.
Mother would not have the slightest indication that things were not as they seemed. There was no point in worrying her.
I did not bother to write to Father. He would not have read my letter anyway.
Next, I scribbled page after page to Ginny, informing her of everything that had happened since we’d parted and begging for any information she could share with me. I was withering away in my ignorance, trapped so far from the center of it all.
I could only imagine how Mr. Rawlings was managing, with it being his investigation.
Did he feel as helpless and useless as I did?
He’d kept himself shut away with work since we’d arrived, but what precisely did that work entail?
Was he still investigating the murder from afar? Was he receiving updates from London?
I gathered my letters and went in search of him. A servant directed me toward his study, and as I approached the door, my heart ticked a little faster. Silly, I told myself. I had no reason to anticipate seeing him.
Still, when I knocked and heard his deep, commanding voice call out “Come,” a thrill ran through me.
Stupid, foolish attraction.
I stepped inside. Mr. Rawlings sat at a desk in the corner, a great hulking affair no doubt meant to intimidate whoever stood before it. The study itself was rather sparse, functional but with little ornamentation.
He looked up at my entrance, and his pen stilled. “Miss Albright.” He stood. It seemed odd that he should use my false name even here when it was just the two of us. But I supposed one never knew when there were servants about.
“Good afternoon.” I left the door ajar and stepped forward. “I have a letter for Ginny I’d hoped you might post for me.” I’d enfolded Mother’s letter in Ginny’s and asked her to forward it from London so Mother would not wonder why it came from Somerset.
He eyed the letter. “I assume you haven’t given away relevant details of our location or the case.”
“No, I decided against sending the map I drew of our exact route from London,” I quipped.
I thought I might see that muscle in his cheek twitch, like it did when he held back a smile, but he sadly gave me no reaction at all.
“A wise choice,” he said, holding out a hand.
I moved toward him. “The letter, however, is full of rather colorful descriptions, if you are intent on peeking.” I flashed a grin as I handed it across the desk.
He took the letter, our hands not so much as brushing. “I would not dream of invading your privacy so, Miss Albright.”
The man really should just smile and get it over with before his face cracked right down the middle from the stress of holding it back.
“How was your morning?” He sounded rather distracted, asking only to be polite. He glanced back down at his papers on the desk. Had I interrupted some important doing?
I almost made a joke about his mother acting as my taskmaster, but something in the air felt strange. The connection we’d forged yesterday in the water garden had faded, leaving a weak remembrance in its wake.
“Well enough.” I took a step back. “Thank you for posting that.”
Mr. Rawlings looked me in the eye for the first time and opened his mouth as if to say something. Then he pressed his lips together and nodded. “Of course.”
I hurried from the room, my stomach in a twist. Had I imagined everything yesterday? I thought back on our conversation, recalling how he’d deftly pulled my story from me, my deepest secret. How he’d listened and questioned and reacted just right.
I stopped there in the corridor. Had it all been a front? Not a deception, per se, but had he simply treated me like he would have treated someone he interviewed at Bow Street? Seeking details, trying to understand and solve a problem.
That was how it felt anyway. Especially now, after he’d barely acknowledged me in his study.
I gave a huff of a laugh. Well, there it was. He certainly did not feel anything toward me, and I need not waste any more time wondering. I was just a case to him, a duty to fulfill.
I would do well to remember that.
The days passed, each as numbingly slow as the last. I spent my mornings with Mrs. Rawlings, both of us avoiding speaking as much as possible, though she still cast calculating looks my way.
In the afternoons, I escaped to my room or the small library on the main floor, where I was quickly making my way through the limited selection available there.
Clearly, the Rawlings family were not great readers.
I tried to keep hold of my dogged optimism, but it seemed as if my defenses wore away with every passing hour.
It did not help that I barely saw Mr. Rawlings.
He kept to his study, working on heavens only knew what.
When I saw him at dinners, it was in the presence of his mother, which certainly discouraged me from asking him any reaching questions.
He barely glanced at me, resorting to impersonal inquiries and polite observations.
He seemed to be healing well enough, at least. His bruises had begun to fade, and he held his arm less stiffly. I wondered if his mother suspected anything or if it was simply that I watched him so closely that I could see his small improvements.
Four days after I’d asked Mr. Rawlings to mail my letters, I stood at the morning room window, staring out at the gray clouds that hovered forebodingly over Briarstone.
I begged them to rain, to match the blackness of my mood.
Loneliness perched on my doorstep like an unwelcome houseguest, and for the first time since I’d left London, I felt no desire to push it away.
I knew my life was in danger in London, that a murderer was even now searching for me, but at the moment, I could not think of anything so terrible as being right here—alone, abandoned, and utterly defeated.
“Miss Albright.”
Mrs. Rawlings’s voice came from behind as she entered the room. She always said my false name like that, like it was a personal offense to her.
“Yes?” I asked politely. That was the only way I’d survived the last few days, doing what I’d determined to do: pretend her unkindness did not bother me.
“Alexander received a bundle of letters from London.” She held up a thick, folded note. “He asked me to pass this on to you.”
My heart leaped. I hurried across the room and took it from her, not caring if she disapproved of my eagerness. My name—my real name—crossed the front in Ginny’s familiar hand. Drake must have sent it to Mr. Rawlings for her.
“Thank heavens,” I breathed. I returned to the window and sat on the seat nearby, then wasted no time in breaking the seal and unfolding the papers. A smaller note dropped to my lap. I glanced at it but set it aside to read Ginny’s letter.
Dearest Bea,
It has been only two days since you departed, but I have nearly gone mad for worry. Jack assures me that Mr. Rawlings would never allow anything to happen to you, but you know how I always fear the worst. I can only hope that you are safe wherever you are.
I wish I could write with good news, but I have none.
The case has continued as it did before, sprawling and complex and seemingly impossible to pinpoint a clear suspect.
Jack, Mr. Drake, and Mr. Denning have worked all hours of the day and night along with so many other officers, but there have been no truly promising developments.
Mr. Drake has written to Mr. Rawlings with the same news, though undoubtedly with more detail than I can supply you here. We can only continue to hope that a break in the case comes swiftly so you may return.
I can almost hear you demanding to know how I am, even though I am not in any danger whatsoever, but I shall satisfy your imagined questions.
Despite a severe lack of sleep—my reasons are obvious, I think—I am well.
Jack was worried that the shock of Vauxhall might have stressed the baby and insisted on calling a doctor to see to me the day after.
But everything is perfectly fine. I rest when I am able and worry about you in between.
Please write to me soon, Bea. Reassure me that you are well and cared for, and perhaps I might sleep a little easier. Be careful.
All my love,
Ginny
I lowered the letter, fighting tears. To know that someone was thinking of me, missing me, cracked the careful veneer I’d built around myself the last few days. Heavens, how desperately I wished I could embrace her right now! I needed that physical reassurance more than I ever had before.
I looked back at the letter and noticed a postscript through my blurry vision.