Chapter 14
Fourteen
Later that day, after Ruby comes for her reading lesson and I’ve had a dreamless nap, Kate and I return to the room full of costumes.
I’m wearing the auburn wig again but otherwise dressed in only my petticoats, shift, and corset, for which Kate gave me another busk—scolding me for my slumping posture.
Afternoon light slants through the windows, warming my skin as she slowly walks around me, inspecting me.
“Who is Mary Jones?” she asks, stopping to fix me with her calculating look.
“A woman.”
“Yes. But what kind of woman? A servant, a well-to-do lady? You must know these things about her.”
“A well-to-do lady. A young widow.” Like Marjorie Blanchard. I shudder, remembering Alice’s words. I heard that when they found her, her throat was torn to shreds, as if some wild beast had gotten to her.
“Good,” Kate says. “Is she Welsh? Jones is usually a Welsh name.”
“I’m not sure I can do a Welsh accent.”
“Can you do any kind of accent?” Kate asks, lifting her brow. “It isn’t vital, but it could help with disguising your voice.”
“My father was Scottish. He was born in Lanarkshire. My sister and I used to imitate his speech.”
“Was.” “Used to.” So much of my life now exists in the past tense. I swallow hard and look away.
“Your eyes are shining, Lillian. You look like you’re about to cry. What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing.” I blink rapidly, avoiding her gaze. “I’m fine.”
“But you aren’t. Every emotion you’re feeling dances across your face. Your eyes are beautiful. But they’re your biggest tell. You must learn to master yourself.” Her fingers grip my jaw, turning my head. “Look at me. Watch me. Very closely.”
I meet her gaze, my breath hitching at the sudden coldness in her eyes. In an instant, all her sly wit, her warmth, everything that makes her Kate vanishes. “What do you think I’m thinking about?” she asks, her voice as frigid as her looks. Low and menacing, and distinctly male.
“I . . . I don’t know.”
She traces one fingertip down my throat and rests it in the hollow between my clavicles. I shiver at her touch, desire and unease tangling together in a confusing knot. “I’m thinking . . . how much I’d like to ravish you.”
Even though Kate ravishing me was all I could think about last night, a visceral fear crawls over my skin, because this person standing in front of me right now is decidedly not Kate.
Nor Varina. Or even Alex. I think she’s acting.
Merely trying to prove her point—to demonstrate her talent for becoming someone else in an instant.
Still, I take two steps back. She smiles at me, but with no kindness.
“You’re all alone with me, Mary Jones. My helpless plaything to toy with, for as long as I like. ”
She stalks toward me, each footstep a staccato beat, her lovely features wolfish and sardonic, as if some dark spirit has overtaken her body.
“No one knows you’re here,” she says, backing me against the wall. “You can scream all you like, but no one will hear you. And once I’m finished with you . . .”
“Stop,” I say, panting. “Please. You’re frightening me.”
In an instant, Kate returns, shedding the wicked persona like a coat falling to the floor. She steps back and I release my breath. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d know it was just an act.”
“I . . . I did,” I stammer. “It’s just that you were so convincing.”
She smiles sheepishly. “I know. I’m good, aren’t I?”
I laugh, nervously, my face aflame. “Very.”
“You must know I would never hurt you.” She reaches for my hand, and I pull away.
“I certainly hope not.”
“I won’t let Winthrop inhabit me again in your presence,” she says. “He’ll be relegated to the stage, where he belongs, tying helpless maidens to railroad tracks.”
“Inhabit.” The word sends a chill through me.
Though her promise is meant to comfort, the tenuous trust between us has narrowed.
She’s frightened me. Badly. I hardly know anything about her.
I’ve been too afraid of seeming rude by asking her too many questions, but even though I owe her a debt of gratitude for saving my life, and for her hospitality, if I’m to stay here, I need to know more about her.
“Where did you learn to do that?” I ask, sheepish. “Become someone else?”
“I’ve been practicing for most of my life, Lillian.”
“Even before you met Lucrezia, then?”
Kate’s head tilts. She regards me calmly, but there’s a wariness behind her eyes.
“Yes. Lucrezia helped me hone my talents. But they’ve always been there.
I grew up in poverty. I spent my earliest years in a workhouse, with my mother.
My imagination saved me back then, I think.
Pretending to be someone else was a fun game, but it also got me out of a few scrapes. ”
That explains why she scoffed when I told her our maid used to gather our eggs. She’s had a difficult life compared to mine, at least in her younger years. My sympathy rises, imagining Kate as a child in some dingy, lightless workhouse.
“Has anyone ever figured out that you aren’t who you claim to be? Do Ruby and Noah know you aren’t really Alexander Mayhew?”
“No. You are the only one I’ve ever revealed my true self to, Lillian, apart from Lucrezia.”
I find it astounding, her ability to shift personas so completely and convincingly. And I’m surprised that she trusts me enough to disclose her biggest secret. Even though she is in the position of power here, it’s still risky.
Kate clears her throat. “Now, Mary. Tell me about your past.”
“My real one? I already have. Most of it, anyway.”
“No, the fictional one. It needs to feel just as true as the other.”
My breathing returns to normal, and I close my eyes, letting a story unspool behind them. “I’m Mary Jones. Aged four and twenty,” I say, broadening my vowels, “from Wishew, Lanarkshire. I was married, but my husband died, three years past.”
“Good. Very good.” Kate laughs. “Almost Glaswegian. I could barely understand you.”
“My mother used to say that very thing to Papa. She was ever telling him to slow down when he spoke to her.”
“All right then. Jones is your married name, but your maiden name is Wallace. Can’t get much more Scottish than that.” Kate grows serious. “Is any of your story true, Lillian? Did you have a husband?”
“No. But I was betrothed for a short time. A very short time.” I look down. “To a naval lieutenant.”
“Was he killed?”
“No.” A whisper of sound comes from behind me.
My skin prickles. I turn away from Kate and see Rebecca’s ghost standing in the open doorway.
She glares at me accusingly. The memory of last night’s horrid dream accosts me.
How dare she intrude on me here, in these waking hours, in this new life I’m making?
Rage simmers beneath my skin. “My sister . . . he fell in love with my sister instead.”
“The one you’re accused of killing.”
“Yes. He took the ring from my finger and gave it to her. Said she needed him more than I did. That she was softer, more suited to his temperament.” I bark a bitter laugh.
“How ridiculous. He’s a soldier. He needed a stalwart, practical wife, who would be able to endure his long absences during times of war.
But Rebecca fawned over him. He didn’t see the value in my strength of character. ”
“So. You were jealous of her. I’m not surprised.”
I stiffen, whirling to face Kate. She gasps.
“What?” I ask.
“You looked like someone else, entirely, just then.”
“I did?”
“Yes. Whatever you were just feeling, Lil, nurture it. That woman . . . is formidable. That woman is someone no one will cross. She’s your Mary Jones.”
While her praise invigorates me, Kate is wrong. I don’t feel jealous of Rebecca anymore. I’m angry. An emotion I’ve never been allowed to feel. Anger that my entire life revolved around Rebecca and her needs. That I was ignored, rejected, and finally made the scapegoat for her death.
Anger, then.
Anger is my key to becoming someone else.