Chapter 16 #2
The wheels kept turning. It was a fishing net winch, dredging the bottom of the sea. It was very dark down there, in the sunless mud. It was full of death, and bones, and…
She sucked in a breath, and fixed her eyes to the window, though she saw nothing but the smear of dust on the glass.
“The reverend did make some good points, if it is…if it’s guilt which holds you back…”
Always shocking, how much saltwater could sting.
“It is not guilt.” She would keep her voice firm, each word hard and smooth as beach pebbles. “I do not remarry because I have no wish to remarry. Alfred is my husband. He was and is the only man I could ever love.”
Tears were salty too. Only one of them reached her lips. Her aunt couldn’t see it, not with her head turned this way to the window, and there was no trace of it in her voice.
“You know me well enough to know I will never marry without love.”
There was no anger in her aunt’s sigh, not even irritation, only a wash of sympathy and sorrow. “I know. I know, my dear. And you know me well enough to know I’ll always hope you are loved, loved steadily and surely for all the years of your life…”
“I am.”
“By more than your family—”
“Alfred loves me. He swore it, and death isn’t going to stop him.” Her finger traced the glass, though the dust was all on the other side and she left no mark. “He’s out there…up there…if I don’t believe that, I have nothing. So that is what I believe.”
The cobbles rattled on, the street as dirty as a thousand men and horses could make it.
A church spire shot up, visible for a moment as they passed a gap between two buildings.
All those spires reached for the sky, to the porcelain whiteness, clouds obscuring what lay above.
But they were grasping dark fingers; all those spires were winter-bare trees, bony as the reverend’s clutch would no doubt be.
It had been a long time since she’d been inside a church and felt anything but hollow.
And she, a parson’s daughter! But in this world of orphans and beaten children and dead men, faith wore thin as smoke.
Sometimes a fell wind blew it away completely.
At times like this, she found her faith in people.
In her aunt, whose indefatigable goodness came from within, not any external force.
Many people did good things, entirely unprompted by reference to greater beings.
Some people, like Lord Cotereigh, did good things without even having good feelings.
He was helping the boy; who knew why? It only mattered that he did.
Now there was a man who wouldn’t blink if she admitted the crime of having lost her faith.
If he judged, it would only be to wonder why she’d taken so long or why she cared at all.
She could rant at him and lose her temper, as she several times had; she could admit that she was bitter and angry and tired, and he’d only smirk and say something worse.
But where would that lead, both of them taking turns at the shovel, digging downwards into the dark?
Her aunt gave up, sighing and sad, and the carriage rolled on.
When they arrived later at Lord Cotereigh’s house, a flustered porter opened the door, and they found something Madelaine had never expected to find in those cool, immaculate environs.
Pandemonium.
Or as good as, in that pristine hallway of beeswax polish and gleaming marble. Servants hurried this way and that, up and down the stairs. Loud voices came from some room further in the house, not angry but urgent.
“…tried the stables, and they swear he ain’t been there—”
“Then try again.” That was Lord Cotereigh. “And ask in the back lanes. Send people to look.”
A murmur, the porter interrupting, informing him of their visitors. A moment later, Lord Cotereigh appeared, striding down the hallway towards them, tugging his waistcoat, his sleeves, as though the frenetic disorder in his house was a contagion he sought to clean himself of.
He bowed, short and efficient. “Lady Pemberthy, Mrs Ardingly.”
“Do we come at a bad time?” No point standing on ceremony and uttering polite nothings. They were past that, surely. “Whatever is the matter?”
The slightest of pauses. “Tom has gone missing.”
Her heart pinched. Her aunt let out a gasp of dismay. Lord Cotereigh’s mouth was pulled tight—he looked annoyed, annoyed at himself, but it was only a mask for the deeper, darker worry hiding in his eyes. He didn’t quite look at her.
“He has run away,” he said as though correcting himself.
“A maid went into his room to tidy it and found him standing at an open window, a mantel clock in his hands. According to her, he flinched, looking guilty, and that was all the evidence she required to set up a cry of thief. She ran for help, fearing, one can only suppose, that the scrawny nine-year-old boy meant her some harm, and Tom has not been seen since.”
“Oh my goodness,” breathed her aunt, “that poor mite!”
“When was this?”
“Fifteen or twenty minutes ago.” Lord Cotereigh looked at her—he looked to her for help, as though she might have the answer.
“Has he left the house?”
“We don’t know. But no one saw him leave.
There were people in the kitchen who ought to have seen if he went out the back, and Joshua, my porter, was near the hallway, though if the boy crept silently past…
” His gaze slid away, bitter and blacker than coffee.
“We both know he is a thief; he may be an expert at sneaking past people or climbing out of windows.”
Her aunt began to protest. Madelaine set her hand on her arm, hushing her gently.
“Right now, we know nothing at all, except that he needs to be found,” she said. “You sent some men to search the streets?”
He nodded but didn’t need to say what they both already knew. If the boy meant to run, there’d be no finding him. He probably knew the streets of London far better than most—knew all the alleyways and secret places. And who could spot one skinny urchin in a class of thousands?
“If you permit it, my aunt and I will help search your house. There are dozens and dozens of rooms in a place this size, and if he’s hiding somewhere…perhaps he might be more likely to reveal himself to one of us than to a servant.”
Unlikely, given how suspicious he’d always been, but it was the only hope she could find. Lord Cotereigh gave a nod, seeing her doubts. Agreeing with them.
They split up, her aunt going the way she was familiar with: towards the sitting room where she’d sat the night of the bath. Madelaine went down the hall towards the Willow Room—would he have returned to somewhere he knew? Lord Cotereigh took the stairs to the floor above.
It was strange to walk alone through Lord Cotereigh’s house. She felt like an intruder, but it was her own curiosity that did that. Impossible not to look around her and take in every detail, softly open each door, wondering what the room would reveal about the man.
Despite her sense of urgency, she went slowly, carefully. Hectic, rushing adults were always unsettling to children, even when all was well. She knew that from her younger brothers, nieces, and nephews. She also knew small boys were capable of hiding in the oddest, most impossible places.
The first door revealed a coat room, with hooks for coats, cloaks, and hats. It smelt of wool and starch and leather. But it smelt of Lord Cotereigh too.
There were several of his greatcoats here, black and dark charcoal and very fine. Near them hung a caped driving coat, gloves still in the pocket. Had he been out this morning…to the park perhaps…come back to this…
She shifted the heavy fabric aside—a small boy could hide under that voluminous cloth.
It must sweep all the way from Lord Cotereigh’s tall shoulder almost to the very floor.
But there was no boy, just the scent, masculine, already familiar, and the lingering sensation of heavy fabric on her fingertips. She withdrew and closed the door.
The next door opened onto a servants’ preparation area, a place to rest tea trays and make tweaks and find cloths and spare glasses… No boy.
Then there was a study, dark and wood panelled, many neat books along the walls—not fiction, but ledgers, accounts, inventories.
A very businesslike room. A pot of pens, stacks of paper, the smell of sealing wax and ink.
The walls above the wainscotting were the deep blue of summer midnight.
Two antique muskets hung crossed on the wall, an even older sword beneath them.
No boy beneath the desk, and nowhere else to hide in here.
The next room was the Willow Room. She paused, holding the handle before she turned it, her memory full for a moment of Lord Cotereigh standing so very close to her on the other side of the door.
He’d looked at her mouth, angry, heated—no, she was the one who’d been angry, and he’d been the one with all the heat.
What a lie.
She’d hummed with it, air stuck stupid in her lungs, hating herself as much as him.
She shook the thought from her head, irritated, and twisted the handle sharply, stepping into the room.
She stopped dead.
There was a man in there. Older, middle aged. His hair had probably once been the tawny colour of damp wheat but was now greying.
It was also uncombed, greasy, and stuck up from too long on a pillow. Indeed, the man was in his nightshirt, his calves and ankles skinny and pale. He had a decanter of amber liquor in his hand and sipped straight from it as though it was tea while he contemplated the wallpaper.
The sound of her entry belatedly caught his attention and he turned—first his head, then his body, his step shuffling and swaying.
Drunk. Very, very drunk.
An odd smile stretched his face: surprised, then amused, then quizzical, then sad.
He was a tall man, and his shoulders said he’d once been strong. The bones of his face were familiar, even if the colouring was not—all that raw chocolate darkness must have come from Lord Cotereigh’s mother. This man, surely his father, had eyes that were watery and grey.
“What a day for ghosts,” the man—the Earl of Arnon—said, as though such things amused him.
“I thought you were her, for a moment. She had a room like this.” He gestured to the wall, the decanter sloshing.
“This willow pattern, very similar, very pretty. Used to sit and write her letters, and I’d come in with my boots all dirty from the garden and smelling like horses, but she didn’t really mind, no matter what she said.
Or I don’t think so. It was a very long time ago and one’s mind…
one’s mind plays tricks. Terrible things, minds. Memories.”
Madelaine dipped her head, making a slight curtsy. It was mainly to give herself time to think, to hide her shock. This was the earl? This was Lord Cotereigh’s father?
All she’d known was that he was a man of retiring habits, especially so since his first wife’s death. He kept himself to himself, they said. She hadn’t even known he was in town.
The first night came back to her, when Lord Cotereigh brought the boy here. The doctor had rushed in, not seeing her in the corner, and he’d been surprised, hadn’t he, not to find the earl?
Lord Cotereigh’s father was sick. The bottle in his hand both cause and symptom.
He would not want me to know… He would hate that I know this…
“My lord,” she said, keeping her voice as natural as she could, “forgive the intrusion. I am looking for a boy, have you seen him? Dark haired, about nine years of age?”
The man laughed and kept on laughing, unease prickling up Madelaine’s neck.
He sipped his drink, still chuckling. “You’re chasing ghosts, too, my dear; they’re everywhere today, aren’t they?
Sebby running around… He passed me on the stairs, you know, such commotion in the house, servants flapping…
And Tait’s usually more discreet than that, doesn’t normally bruise the boy’s face, but he was black and blue… ”
The earl’s face suddenly darkened, his hand white on the bottle.
“Why I ever let them step foot in my house… Devils, both of them, skinning us alive; the boy don’t deserve that, though he makes no complaint of it to me, never complains does Seb, never asks, never speaks…
He’s all shadow and smoke, and he has her eyes, and he hates me with them…
oh…” The man moaned, and sank to his knees, bringing both hands to his face, still holding the bottle.
“Sir… You are not well. I will fetch someone to help you.”
“Help me!” He laughed, sharp and wretched. “He’s all I have of her, and I couldn’t keep him safe! She looks down too, and she judges… There’s no help for me, only hell.”
Madelaine jumped as the door opened hurriedly behind her. Lord Cotereigh stepped in, pale, his face wooden. An older man was with him, dressed like a valet or senior servant.
“Daniels…”
It was the only command he spoke, but the servant nodded and hurried forward, going to the earl and helping him to his feet.
He murmured in his ear, reassuring as a mother helping a sleepwalking child. It spoke of long practice. They left the room.
Madelaine looked at Lord Cotereigh—Sebby, Seb, the boy…
He kept his shoulder to her; couldn’t look at her; she saw the rise and fall of the breath he took.
“My father is…unwell. I apologise for any distress.”
She took a step closer, his back a black monolith, the taut line of his shoulders at her eyeline. He flinched at her touch and walked out of reach.
“The boy is not yet found. I must return to the search.”
“Sir…my lord…”
He walked abruptly away from the hand she raised again to his shoulder. He went to the door.
“Are we…are we not to talk of this?”
“No, Mrs Ardingly, we are not.”