Chapter 48
The Limits of Loyalty
… one half of her should not be always so much wiser than the other half, or always suspecting the other of being worse than it was.
Jane Austen, Persuasion
The trip up the Lansdown road had proved fruitless.
There were some scrapes and tracks about a mile from the racecourse that suggested a carriage might have gone off the road there, but there was nothing that they could follow, or draw any definite conclusions from.
Devon was beside himself. Mr. Goutier was furious, it seemed, with the whole of the world.
And I? Clara asked herself. What am I?
Clara found she didn’t even know.
She had expected to find that Mrs. Lynn was a gold digger.
She had expected to find that the woman’s family connections were inferior and her stories were false.
She had thought she would lay that at her father’s feet.
With Cynthia’s help, she also would be able to whisper it into the ears of those Father esteemed and who could convince him as to the truth of matters if (when) he would not listen to his daughters.
She had expected Mrs. Lynn would gather up her things and leave. Sometime after that, she would marry Devon and that would be the happy ending for her, as well as for her family.
But now Father was dead, and Admiral Walsingham was dead, and Miss Thorne and Mr. Harkness had vanished, Cynthia had retreated into herself, and Elizabeth … what was Elizabeth even doing?
Clara was afraid to find out.
She discovered Cynthia in the room that was called the library.
It was, like the rest of the house, hung with silks and filled with art objects.
But rather than being a place to house a collection of books, this room was reserved for curiosities.
There were a dozen different tables and cabinets, all stuffed with curios and artifacts said to be from far distant lands and times.
But Clara had found a key and opened one to examine a brooch that the label said had belonged to Queen Boudicca.
However, a quick inspection—and a polish with a towel—had showed it to be nothing but glass and tin.
Still, the room had good light and it was generally quiet. Clara could understand why Cynthia had brought her writing desk down from their crowded sitting room. The day had turned oppressive, and at least down here the open windows seemed able to bring in some sort of breeze.
“Have you seen Elizabeth?” Clara asked her sister.
Mourning did not flatter any of them, but on Cynthia it looked particularly poor. The unrelieved black turned her complexion sickly. Laurel had been making a supreme effort with all their hair, but Cynthia’s curls had already started to frizz.
“She’s gone to Miss Summerscale,” said Cynthia without looking up from her writing.
“Now?” cried Clara.
“Have mercy, Clara,” murmured Cynthia. “She’s lost more in this than either of us.”
Clara felt herself gape at her sister.
“Cynthia, what’s happened to you?”
“What do you mean?” But she spoke to her desk, and the half-completed page, not to Clara. She dipped her pen, wiped the nib on the blotter, and added a few more words to her missive.
“I mean it was you who sounded the first warnings about Mrs. Lynn and her influence over Elizabeth, even before we knew she’d gotten her hooks into father!
” Clara strode around to stand in front of the table.
She jerked the pen out of her sister’s hand and dropped it into the inkwell, scattering black droplets across the marquetry.
“It was you who first had the idea to ask Miss Thorne to come help us. Now, when Elizabeth had turned around and begun to lie about what she’s seen, you take her side, as if she’s nothing but a victim in all this! ”
A light sparked in Cynthia’s eyes, and Clara found herself strangely glad to see it. It was better than the dull, dead look that her sister had worn since yesterday.
“That’s because she is a victim. We are all of us victims of this family, and we should hold together because of that, not pull ourselves apart!”
“We have also all made our choices—Elizabeth as well as you and I—and she has chosen to lie about how Father died.”
“She isn’t lying.” Cynthia’s voice was low, as if she did not dare to raise it. Clara could feel the emotion thrumming through her, but could not tell if it was fear or anger.
“She is,” Clara cried. “And you’re supporting her in her lie. Why, Cynthia?”
“She’s only done what she had to and so have I,” said Cynthia flatly. This was Cynthia at her most intractable—all displays of temper were wiped away now, and there was nothing left but the bare stone of her determination. “I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but it is already done.”
I do not accept that. I do not accept this. “Miss Thorne has gone missing, Cynthia.”
Cynthia’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean Miss Thorne has gone missing,” repeated Clara. “So has Mr. Harkness. They were lured away from their inn with a message telling them that Kinsdale’s Pride had been stolen. But the man at the stables says they never arrived there, and no one has seen them since.”
Cynthia swallowed. She swallowed again. She reached out to the letter she’d been working on, and turned it over, so that now only the blank side showed. Clara watched, her heart sinking under the weight of her fear, and her anger.
“It must be some of Mrs. Lynn’s confederates,” said Cynthia. “There was a scheme, you said—”
I have no time for this nonsense! “Where’s Elizabeth gone, Cynthia?”
“I told you.” Cynthia retrieved her pen from the inkwell. “She’s gone to Miss Summerscale.” She wiped the nib carefully. “That is the only answer I have.”
Frustration robbed Clara of all speech. She slammed both hands on the table, rattling the desk and the inkwell, but making no change at all in her sister’s expression. Clara was afraid she might actually scream. She turned on her heel instead, and strode out of the library.
The door swung shut behind her. Clara stopped dead in her tracks, uncertain where to go next, or what to do.
What can I do? She pressed her hands against her face. What can I do?
“Miss?”
Clara looked up. Mrs. Kendricks stood in front of her.
“Is there anything I can do, miss?” asked the housekeeper.
Staring into her anxious eyes, Clara felt an idea blossom inside her. At that same time, she felt her heart break.
“Mrs. Kendricks, I need you to get my sister out of the library.”
“Miss?” she frowned.
“Please, do not ask. Just manage it.”
“Yes, miss.”
The library doors were flanked by a pair of large urns. They were purported to have come from the Summer Palace in Saint Petersburg. Clara suspected they were from the same Somersetshire shop that sold the counterfeit brooch.
They were, however, exactly what was needed now.
Clara could stand behind one, and watch who came and went from the library, without being easily seen herself.
She waited, shifting her weight impatiently, until she saw Mrs. Kendricks and Laurel come bustling up the corridor.
Mrs. Kendricks scratched at the library door, waited for a moment, and then she and Laurel disappeared inside.
Please, please, please, Clara prayed. Please. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be deceiving her, even now, but please. …
The library door opened again. Clara shrank back deeper into her hiding place. Laurel came out, followed by an exceedingly annoyed-looking Cynthia. And then, a heartbeat later, came Mrs. Kendricks.
She carried a letter in her hand.
Clara sucked in a breath. Mrs. Kendricks must have heard, because she stopped, and she stood, watching, as Laurel and Cynthia vanished up the nearest set of stairs.
Then, she turned. Clara stepped out from her little nook.
“Did Cynthia give you that?” she asked.
“She asked for it to be taken by hand to a Miss Summerscale.”
Clara’s heart skipped a beat. “I wouldn’t ask—”
“And if it was normal circumstances, I would never agree,” replied Mrs. Kendricks stiffly. She glanced over her shoulder and then handed Clara the letter.
Clara ducked back into the library with Mrs. Kendricks behind her. The housekeeper needed no urging to keep her eyes on the door. Without hesitation, Clara broke open her sister’s seal. Her eyes skimmed past the direction and the greeting to the body of the letter:
Be ready (she read). Clara is coming and probably his nibs with her. Remember story of elopement.
E. is counting on us both.