Chapter 5
Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life …
a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain.
—Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
The summerhouse was always in bloom—ferns and orchids, amid rare lotus flowers acquired from overseas. And it was there, beneath the glass-roofed heat, that my love would promise the world.
“I’ll always find a way to be with you, my Maggie.”
“And I, you.” My Teddy. My heart.
“Eat, love,” he said, smiling, offering a quivering sliver of something, perfectly cooked, speared with a golden fork. “To strengthen you.”
My lips parted, and as the juicy tang of fresh-charred meat touched my tongue, I knew.
’Twas the flesh of my brother, Michael.
I woke with a jolt, gasping with terror as the watery light of dawn spilled over my face, forcing the sleep from my eyes.
God blast it! Teddy again. I clutched a fist against my chest to still my heart.
With a scowl, I settled back into the pillow, and froze.
Pillow? There was nary a pillow to be found at the workhouse.
My pulse ignited, and I bolted upright, heart hammering in the hollow of my throat. Where in the blazes?
Eyes wild, I glanced at my surroundings, and the events of the day before flooded back in a rush of bone-weary acceptance. Browne House. Lady Catherine. God above in Heaven and all the saints.
The footman … Cormac. Yes. He’d ushered me up a back stair the night before, by the glow of a sad candle pilfered from the vast kitchen, and I’d promptly fallen into bed.
A damn sight better than any bed I’d ever been lucky to call mine.
I glanced down. It was so large it could sleep my entire family head-to-toe.
Running my hands over the plush, pink duvet, my fingers tingled at the feather-like touch of …
was that satin? My eyes widened. Surely it was.
I’d helped Lady Grace dress often enough to remember the feel of it.
I glanced up, and textured pink wallpaper winked back at me.
There was something old about the room. As if the wallpaper—now pastel—was once vibrant, hints of former brightness darkening grooves around dull yellow birds frozen mid-flight along the walls.
My back ached as I shifted—twenty hours in a carriage would certainly cause an ache—turning to take everything in.
My brow furrowed. It was a child’s room.
A dollhouse stood in one corner. In the other, a rocking contraption styled like a horse.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with shiny, gargoyle-ish dolls bedecked in styles I’d never laid eyes on before. A girl’s room.
To my right, atop a nightstand, a fresh bouquet of snowdrops had been placed in a glass vase, their drooping blooms a weight of snow threatening to slide from their stems. And next to the vase, an ornate incense burner sat, freshly used as if lit the night before.
I frowned. I didn’t remember Cormac lighting any incense, but a deep inhale drew notes of jasmine, and … perhaps lemon? The same scent that had permeated the carriage the day before.
A shiver wound its way up my spine as my ears caught the faint hint of a laugh drifting from my right, beyond the vase, and I snatched the duvet close to my chest before whipping around.
Whatever blood flowed through my body rushed to my toes, leaving me cold and breathless as my eyes searched for its source, but all I found was a large window, the bench below the sill as empty as the rest of the room.
Breathe. It wasn’t like me to fall victim to bouts of fancy.
The frame of the window was old, dark-stained, and cracked, but as my eyes wandered, I squinted. There was something there. In the center of the frame, above the window.
Pulling the duvet tight around my shoulders, I slipped out of bed and padded toward it.
An etching? My brows furrowed as I stared.
Three perfect spirals originating from a singular source—one pointing skyward, one to the east, one to the west. It felt familiar somehow, but also not at all.
And as I stared, an icy draft filtered through the cracks in the window, chilling me to the bone as I slowly reached out to touch the carving.
“Saints!” a voice exclaimed.
I yelped, yanking my hand back into the confines of the duvet as I whirled on my bare heel. I hadn’t heard the door opening.
“Step away from that drafty window at once!” A woman.
A woman wearing the black dress of a housekeeper, hair braided and twisted into two loops that framed a stern face awash with horror.
I swallowed. “Blessed Mother, would ye look at yerself, a-dirtying her ladyship’s duvet.
Step away, I said. Ye’ll catch yer death of cold. ”
Christ Almighty. What if it had all been a dream? What if I’d gone sleepwalking and wound up in some grand house? It would be the barracks for me, and no way back to the workhouse. My eyes widened.
“What was that eejit Cormac thinking? Not waking us to scouse ye of whatever flea-bitten diseases ye carry from that awful place ye came from? We could be dead in our beds afore the Lord’s Day, and ye bringing plague into the house.
” With a final grunt, the woman placed a bucket and floor scrubber upon the slate hearth of the fireplace.
“Come in, Beth, and light the fire afore the girl perish. And then burn the sheets and anything she’s touched. ”
A younger woman—younger than I—entered the room then, her eyes glued to the floor as she quickly did the housekeeper’s bidding.
Another black dress, this one adorned with the white apron of a serving girl.
But in the heartbeat it took to glance at the girl, the housekeeper was on the march. Toward me. I straightened my spine.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. The girl struck a flint over and over—no precious matchbook for the serving staff—waiting for a spark to catch hold of the kindling.
I knew that fear—of performing duties with my overseer present.
As frightening as Lady Grace used to be, the head housekeeper struck terror into the heart.
And this housekeeper was bound to be no different.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. My jaw tightened with each strike, until at last, a familiar fizzle echoed through the room, and relief flooded through my tightening muscles.
I glanced at the girl and spied the ghost of a smile as she snatched the bellows from their hook, triumphant.
“Ye’ll be wanting food, I’m sure,” said the housekeeper, lips pursing as she yanked the duvet from my shoulders.
The wheeze of bellows met my ears, breathing life into the juvenile embers that sparked in the fireplace.
The housekeeper froze, eyes affixed on my filthy gray chemise.
Or rather, affixed on the outline beneath.
A flush stormed from my chest to cheeks, and I thought how nice it must be.
To not go without. To not know what was happening beyond these walls.
To not fear the reaper from one hour to the next.
Crossing my arms across my chest, I glared at the housekeeper.
“Jesus wept,” she breathed. “Yer naught but a corpse.”
“Aye.” My jaw clenched.
She stood frozen a moment more, then her gaze shifted to my face, my hair. “Her ladyship must see something of Wilhelmina in ye, but I’m stretched to find any resemblance, girl. Sure, all we can do is feed ye up for now. Ye can call me Aggie.”
“I’m—” I began, but Aggie held up a hand.
“Yer Lady Wilhelmina,” she said, each word clipped and weighted with the death knell of my former life. “Whoever ye were, it matters not a whit. There’s work to be done. Good work, mind, that will save hundreds of lives. Beth?”
I bit my lower lip as the girl, Beth, hopped to her feet.
“Have the bath brought,” Aggie ordered, glancing over her shoulder. “But ring for it, mind. We’ll both need a scrub and new clothes when we’re done here. Don’t want to spread Lady Wilhelmina’s miasma through the house.”
Lady Wilhelmina. For I was Maggie no more.
“Leave yer garment in that bucket.” Nose crinkled above a disgusted frown, Aggie pointed at the iron bucket that Beth had brought when three other maids had shuffled in with the bath.
Steam rose from the water. It had been so long since I’d washed, never mind washed in hot water, that I had no qualms stripping before this stranger.
Pulling the filthy chemise over my head, I tossed it in the bucket as Aggie undid the bun at the top of my head. I should’ve warned her the minute I saw her reach for the brush, but it took naught but one sweep through my lifeless, stringy hair for her to realize her mistake.
“Saints above,” she muttered, eyes wide as a clump of hair came away in the bristles. “What in the …?”
“’Tis from the hunger,” I offered, as she stared at the strands. I’d long since abandoned my vanity. Doomed it to a time before.
Aggie shook herself and set down the brush. “’Tis a wonder ye’ve anything left atop yer head. I was going to comb ye for lice, but there’s likely naught for them to take hold on. Here. Let me check for fleas.”
With a heavy sigh, I lifted my arms and stood still.
This routine was as familiar to me as my own mother’s embrace, a weekly ritual at the workhouse.
With warm hands, Aggie turned me slowly, inspecting my skin for bites.
Lady Catherine had plucked me a day past lousing, so I doubted Aggie’d find hide nor hair of a telltale welt.
Facing me now, Aggie straightened, eyes drifting to my abdomen. Her brows drew together as she stared, and I closed my eyes.