Chapter 21 #2
“Well, yes. I’ve lived in Traeger Hall for a year, but before that, he was a nuisance to say the least, and I—”
“But you said you never met your uncle prior to coming to Traeger Hall.”
Waverly bit her tongue. She should have done so much earlier. “I-I, no. I simply said—”
“You’ve always said,” Titus went on, “that you spent your youth in the boarding school, that you knew your aunt had married Leopold Traeger five years prior to your coming to Traeger Hall. But you didn’t meet him until you came to live under their guardianship a year ago.
Now you claim it was before that? Did you meet Leopold before your move to Newton Creek?
” He moved his leg away from hers as if he’d just realized he was touching her and wanted a bit of distance between them.
Waverly’s hands became dotted with perspiration. The unidentified man flashed through her mind’s eye. She couldn’t lie. Not to Titus. She could withhold the truth—she had withheld it—but she couldn’t lie directly to his face. “Yes. Uncle Leopold did visit my boarding school once or twice.”
“Once or twice.” Titus cocked his head. “Which is it, Miss Pembrooke?”
Oh no. The sudden use of her formal name again meant that he was distancing himself further from her. Waverly had done more than made a mistake in coming here tonight. Acting on impulse never proved wise, and here was the evidence. “Twice,” she answered.
Engaging in deceit was ill-advised. But knowing her deceit also affected Titus was a weight she was struggling to bear. If Titus knew—if he learned the full truth—Waverly wanted to believe he’d have mercy. That he would understand. That grace would be offered.
“Twice then,” Titus repeated. He seemed to consider that for a long and dreadful moment. The fire in the fireplace crackled, its glow turning his face a bronze color, darkening his hair, and his eyes appeared more brilliant. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Waverly began to protest, then snapped her mouth shut when Titus’s glare became even more severe.
“I don’t understand why you would not want me to know that your uncle had visited your boarding school.”
“I-I . . .” She fumbled for the right words, a way to explain without explaining.
“Please.” Titus surprised her when he reached for her hands.
Waverly met his eyes, which glistened an icy blue but held something else as well, something that pulsed between Waverly and this man who had refused to confine himself only to the role of undertaker.
“Let me help you. I can only do so if you’re honest with me. ”
“But if you think I’m a liar . . .”
“I never said you were a liar. Don’t insert words where they’ve never been spoken.”
“I-I haven’t been fully honest!” Waverly choked through tears that rose once more. “You don’t understand—”
“I know you haven’t been. So does the constable.
We know you met with a man the night of the murders.
I know something greater than you has bound you to Traeger Hall or you would have left to preserve yourself.
” Titus leaned into her. His hands wrapped around hers in her lap and held them tightly.
Waverly could feel the warmth pulsating between them.
“Tell me,” Titus urged, “because I do not wish to find out I’ve been in error about your integrity—your goodness—this entire time. ”
“I am good—I mean, my intentions have been nothing but good,” Waverly whispered, turning to look into his eyes.
Titus’s knee touched hers again.
“I’m frightened. I know things about my uncle.
” Titus’s expression darkened, and Waverly hurried to continue.
“Please don’t make me tell you everything.
Please! There will be repercussions if I do.
I have been trying to protect . . . I mean, I have hidden the sins of others, and perhaps I am to blame for some of this. ”
“Some of what, Waverly?” Titus pressed.
“My uncle’s death. My aunt’s heartbreak. The secrets. The bell tower . . .” Waverly hesitated. “I was trying to help fix it the night my uncle and aunt were murdered.”
“Fix it?” Understanding washed over Titus’s face. “The unidentified man, was he assisting you?”
She swallowed hard. She supposed that was one way of putting it.
“Waverly . . .” Titus reached over and nudged her chin until she was looking directly at him. “What have you done?”
Waverly
In an interview shortly before her death in 1950; memories from a few days prior to the murders:
I was, in retrospect, probably one of the worst people to have uncovered even one of Uncle Leopold’s secrets.
And there were many secrets. Oh, so many more.
As the days passed, following the bullet through the window and then my uncle’s midnight conversation with me, I grew increasingly unsettled—as did he.
Aunt Cornelia and I both noticed. Uncle Leopold’s agitation was exaggerated. He snapped at us with his words and temperament like a rabid dog. We found him pacing in his office, muttering to himself, and then, when we inquired as to his welfare, he barked and cursed at us to leave him alone.
He demanded that all the draperies and shutters at Traeger Hall be closed.
Daylight was not allowed inside. It was as if he were turning into a vampire and would melt should he encounter the sun.
Personally, I believed a vampire would be easier to deal with.
Easier than a madman who was unpredictable and made at least four visits a day to the bell tower to be sure its rope was readily accessible and could be rung at a moment’s notice.
And yet he didn’t seem to remember that he’d told me, “Don’t ring the bell! ”
His visits thwarted my trips to the bell tower, both to get away from the insanity and to protect my own secrets. I was quite worried that Uncle Leopold might stumble upon what I’d stashed behind a loose brick. I was going to need that, and far sooner than I’d first thought.
It was becoming clear that my uncle wanted me dead.
It was a mutual feeling, I’m sure. It seemed we were in a race to see who would succeed first. If Uncle Leopold wanted me dead for the secrets I knew, then why had he not simply strangled me in my sleep or done away with me on one of my nightly jaunts for milk?
I was certain now that something must be done about Uncle Leopold—for Uncle Leopold, for his own sake.
And the impending arrival of Preston had Aunt Cornelia in a tizzy.
She could hardly continue to bring up her dislike of my uncle’s assistant any more than she could reason with Uncle Leopold to find someone else to do his bidding.
As I climbed the steps of the bell tower, looking over my shoulder to make sure Uncle Leopold didn’t make a sudden appearance and startle me, I pondered what to do.
I had verified he was in his study before heading to the tower.
I had also made certain Aunt Cornelia was resting in her suite of rooms, seeing as I tiptoed past them on my way to the bell tower.
Aveline had brushed by in the hallway, her eyes wide as they always were, looking as though I’d caught her doing something far worse than dusting the paintings.
The outside air drafted through the open belfry and drifted down the stairs.
I shivered but didn’t dare return to my room for a shawl.
Instead, I kept climbing. I needed to ease my mind that it was still where I had placed it.
It was the only proof—the only evidence—that I had.
Uncle Leopold would be furious had he known I was in possession of it, and that it had been given to me out of trust. A trust I was afraid I would be forced to break, and sooner than anyone hoped.
Seeing the brick I had pried loose from its mortar, I hurried to it, working the brick back and forth until it pulled free.
Setting it on a stair, I ducked to look inside .
. . and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw it was still there right where I’d placed it.
I reached inside and grabbed ahold of it, the cool metal matching the cold of my hands.
The chain was made of silver and dangled as I gripped the locket in my palm.
This was no ordinary locket. No. I had a locket of my own—as did many of the girls in the boarding school—with miniatures and portraits of our parents, one on each side.
I often visited my parents that way, keeping their memories alive since they’d passed while I was still young.
At times they didn’t seem at all real to me but more like a dream.
But this locket was quite different, a memento mori of sorts, although death hadn’t yet arrived. When it would, no one knew, but isn’t that the way of things? This was in preparation for that day, and in some ways I was struck by the similarities between Uncle Leopold and the secret in my hand.
I opened the locket. On the left side was a tiny lock of hair the color of chestnut, tied with dark pink embroidery thread. On the right side was a miniature of her.
She was beautiful and had kind eyes. We were the best of friends at the boarding school—until Uncle Leopold ruined everything that day.
He ruined our friendship, our camaraderie, our trust. He ruined our future.
He ruined my hope that one day I would be free of Aunt Cornelia’s insistence that I be locked away in school and no longer her responsibility, that I would be free of the shadow of her new husband.
That day when I left school to come to Traeger Hall, she remained. She remained there because she would never enter Traeger Hall. She didn’t belong at the Hall, not like I did. And yet Uncle Leopold knew of her.
Uncle Leopold knew . . .
As did I.
I slipped the locket back into its hiding place in the bell tower.
It was why Uncle Leopold hated me. Because I knew of her, and because of the locket.
And if circumstances called for it, I was not afraid to use it against Uncle Leopold, while still doing my best to make sure nothing ever touched Louisa.