Chapter Eight
Neil strode along the corridor towards his study, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt breathless, weak—disordered. The mind he strove so diligently to keep ordered was in chaos. And an ordered mind was, as everyone knew, the secret to an ordered heart.
Catherine used to laugh at me, he thought bleakly. She told me that one day I should fall in love, and it would undo me.
It had sounded like a threat then, and now it sounded like a curse.
He shut the thought away, locking the memory of Catherine behind the door he kept for her in his mind. Thinking of his sister felt like running one’s tongue over the tender place where a tooth had lately been drawn—painful, foolish, irresistible.
He reached the door to his study and paused, one hand on the doorknob, and tried once more to compose himself.
He hadn’t meant to listen. Crossing the Great Hall, he had heard the pianoforte and gone at once towards the sound, intending to put a stop to it.
If Miss Winter were the culprit, he had already resolved to dismiss her.
She disturbed him far too much. It would not do.
Insolent, opinionated, too quick of tongue and too little in awe of him—what right had she to unsettle him so?
You have been alone too long, he told himself grimly. Solitude has turned your brain
I shall invite Aunt Harriet to the house; she will keep me sane—and make me value my solitude all the more when she is gone.
He turned the knob and entered; Green Grow the Rushes still sounding in his head. When he closed his eyes, he saw Miss Winter behind his lids. When he opened them, he saw Simon.
“There you are,” Simon remarked from his perch in the armchair, a glass of Neil’s brandy in hand. “Am I going mad, or did I hear pianoforte music just now?”
“You did,” Neil said grimly. “Miss Winter found her way into Catherine’s morning room and played the instrument there.”
Simon’s eyes widened. “My word. You have not dismissed her, I hope?”
“No. But she has been told to keep out of the room. I believe she understands her fault.” Neil sat heavily in his chair, folding his arms. “She is not, I think, a good fit for this household.”
Simon pursed his lips. “Oh? I was speaking with Jenny Miller in the kitchen yesterday. She tells me Emma adores Miss Winter. Jenny speaks highly of her—and so, in fact, does Mrs Thornton. Even Crawford approves of her, and you know how sparing he is with praise.”
Neil scowled. “You talk to Jenny too often, Simon. I wish you would not.”
A silence fell. “I beg your pardon?” Simon said at last, his tone sharpening. “What do you mean by that?”
Neil cursed himself inwardly. He had spoken too hastily, let temper outrun reason.
Still, better to say it now than later.
“I know you are fond of Jenny,” he said carefully, “but you are a gentleman, Simon. My cousin. You must marry a lady.”
Silence stretched out between them, even longer than before. Simon watched him, tight-lipped. Abruptly, he got to his feet and crossed to the empty fireplace, leaning on the mantelpiece and staring down at nothing.
“Sometimes I do not like you very much at all, Neil,” he said quietly.
Neil flinched, shame rising like smoke. “Simon, I—”
“Let us leave the subject,” Simon interrupted, turning. “We have more pressing matters.”
“Very well,” Neil replied, feeling suddenly small—and cruel. “I had your note. You said there was news.”
“There is. Do you remember what we discussed when Miss Winter first arrived?”
“Of course.”
Simon’s expression smoothed into calm again, all trace of hurt gone behind the practised mask Neil envied.
He, meanwhile, could still hear that wretched tune.
In his mind’s eye, Catherine sat at the pianoforte—escaped from the chamber in which he kept her—and smiled at him.
No, she laughed. At him. And behind her laughter hovered Miss Winter.
“Lord Bramwell grows restless,” Simon said matter-of-factly. “He has raised the bounty and altered the terms. Now he will pay for information regarding Miss Camden’s whereabouts—no longer insisting that it lead to her capture.”
“He grows desperate,” Neil observed.
Simon nodded. “And more dangerous. I need hardly tell you that.”
Neil paced to the window. Outside, the rain fell in torrents.
His cloak, which of course Crawford had taken, was soaking wet, but it had kept the worst of the rain off him.
His hair was damp, and his skin felt cold and fresh.
The rain had followed him inside, and he could almost smell petrichor with every breath.
Good for the flowers, Catherine would say, if he ever complained about the rain. He suspected that Miss Winter felt the same way he did regarding the rain, as it would make her charge restless and unhappy. Emma did not like being cooped up inside—poor little thing.
“What of her father? Did you manage to locate him?” he asked aloud.
“Not precisely. I am told he has fled London—gone into the country. Lord Bramwell likely knows as much as I do, perhaps more.”
“But it is not Thomas Camden he pursues,” Neil murmured, “it is his daughter. Tell me, Simon—do you think he truly loves her? Or is it mere obsession?”
“Not love,” Simon said darkly. “Something else. I believe Miss Camden learned something—something Bramwell cannot afford to have spoken. One of my informants swears it was he who proposed the match, not her father. Marriage would silence her; now that she has escaped, he may find other means to do so.”
A chill traced Neil’s spine. “And yet she fled. She must be brave.”
“Desperate, at least. Which reminds me—this is serious, Neil. You recall Miss Swaddle, the governess with the cow’s eyes?”
“Of course.”
“She was cornered at her new post by a pair of gentlemen asking questions about you and this house. I know because she told me herself.”
Neil spun round. “Gentlemen?”
“Thugs,” Simon corrected. “She described one to me, a fellow with a glass eye and tufts of hair coming out of his ears, about forty. Does he sound familiar?”
“Harry McDonald,” Neil said grimly. “Bramwell’s right hand. But why question governesses who once worked here?”
Simon shrugged. “I cannot tell. Miss Swaddle escaped quickly enough, but she said all the questions concerned you and this place. It was decent of her to warn me—likely she did so from fright. You were right to give her a decent reference.”
“I gave them all decent references,” Neil said absently. “I could not find it in me to hinder their prospects.”
Simon sighed. “Sometimes I cannot make you out. In any case, we may assume Bramwell has already traced Miss Lawless and Mrs Ruthborne. He is desperate, furious, and determined to find Miss Camden—who, by misfortune, now calls herself Miss Winter.”
Neil raked a hand through his hair, pacing again before forcing himself back to the chair. He must think—must keep his head clear.
A flicker of movement on the armchair caught his eye, and his body tensed.
It was only a spider, large and anxious, scurrying down to the floorboards and vanishing through a crack.
Then, for an instant, Catherine sat there—her ghost smiling faintly as she watched it go.
If I were alive, she said, I would be standing on this chair and screaming. Do you recall, Neil? Spiders terrified me, but you would never allow me to crush them. You said it is not fair to kill what we fear.
He swallowed thickly, closing his eyes.
I am trying, Catherine, he thought, trying to steady his reeling thoughts. I am trying to avenge you.
When he looked again, the chair was empty. Ghosts were not real. Catherine was dead, buried beside her husband. Their gravestones were plain—Loving Husband and Father. Loving Wife, Mother, and Sister. The full horror of it all could never fit upon stone.
Simon laid a hand on Neil’s shoulder, making him flinch.
“We’re getting close, Neil,” he murmured, more softly than before.
Neil looked up, wondering if his cousin had forgiven him for his earlier cruelty. He hoped so.
“It does not feel close,” he murmured. “It feels as though we are further away than ever.”
“Bramwell is destined for jail, and almost certainly the noose,” Simon answered, his voice angry and his eyes glimmering.
“He will pay for what he did to James. And he’ll pay for what happened to Catherine, too.
Until then, we must go on as we are. He’s watching us.
This business about Miss Camden–or Miss Winter, if you like–might serve our purpose. ”
Neil’s gaze snapped up to his cousin. “What do you mean?”
“If we let it be known she is nearby,” Simon said evenly, “he will come for her. We could set a trap.”
Neil stiffened. “Use Miss Winter as bait?”
“I suppose—”
“No!”
Neil’s shout echoed around the silent study. He blinked, suddenly disoriented, and realised that he had brought his clenched fist down onto the desk with a resounding bang. The inkwell had been jerked into the air, and there was a growing puddle of ink around it now.
Amazed at himself, he drew a breath.
Simon had gone pale but recovered swiftly. “No, of course not,” he said quietly. “It would be too dangerous. She is almost certainly innocent.”
Neil swallowed his shame. “Forgive me, Simon. But I cannot allow it. And besides,” he hesitated, “she makes Emma happy.”
How would you know? Catherine’s voice whispered in his mind. He saw her as she had been at the end—thin, wasted, her skin translucent. You do not visit her enough, Neil.
He shut his eyes.
When he opened them again, Simon was tactfully turned away. Heaven knew what Neil’s face had shown.
“I know it’s a risk I ought to take,” Neil began, “but—”
“No, cousin. Sometimes the greater duty is to the innocent. I shall continue my investigations. Meanwhile, you might spend time with Miss Winter—find out what she knows.”
Neil sniffed. “I avoid Miss Winter where I can. I intend to continue.”
Simon regarded him for a long, assessing moment, then nodded slowly, as though confirming something to himself.
“As you wish, Neil. As you wish.”