Chapter 10
The doubts I felt were the first stage of the process of forgetting; but in this place my heart rises up once more and cries out for revenge!
—Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo
That night brought another memory, dreamt in detail like the first. Beware the fog.
Things I’d worked so hard to forget. Things I’d buried deep, brought to mind as morning’s first light filtered through the drapes.
Things that had haunted the very fabric of my being for years, replaying now as Beth helped me dress.
As I broke my fast. As I sat through Lady Catherine’s lessons.
Beware the fog.
That voice. Had the voice brought on the dream—the memory? A warning delivered on a breath of fear?
“You seem piqued,” Lady Catherine noted, as I scratched out Wilhelmina’s signature for the fiftieth time that hour. “Should I send for Dr. Brady?”
“What? Oh, no. Thank you.” Setting down the fountain pen, I brought the heels of my palms to both eyes, blocking out the library for one, glorious moment before drawing a breath to form the sounds of the accent I had to speak in. “Only a restless night, I’m afraid.”
Silence. I lowered my hands to find Lady Catherine’s lips pursed. She wore the same ensemble she wore every day—a man’s shirt tucked into the waist of a floor-length bustle skirt, her trusty pipe clutched in her hand.
“You poor thing.” With a rustle of taffeta and silk, Lady Catherine rose from her chair and strode around the dark wooden desk to where I sat.
With a smile, she brought a hand to my forehead, then glanced at my work.
“No fever. And your script is getting closer to Wilhelmina’s each day.
You should rest. Read in the garden, perhaps?
The air will do you good, and the rain has let up. ”
Tension left my body at those words. There was nothing I’d prefer than to venture beyond the thick stone walls of this old house.
But it was only a matter of time before I’d have to put these lessons into practice.
My pulse raced at my throat. Lady Catherine informed me that she’d received a letter not two days since, from a Dublin solicitor, demanding that Lady Catherine set a date for their inspection.
“Shouldn’t I try singing that melody again?
I fear if I’m asked to entertain, it’ll be certain I’m not who I say I am. ”
“Nonsense. Your health comes first. Besides, we can always still beg the excuse of the grieving widow.” Grinning, Lady Catherine straightened and glanced out the window. “Such a fine day. God knows we won’t see many more until midsummer.”
“But the letter—”
“Hush now. It’s all empty threats and intimidation.
We have time. Besides, your elocution is passing fair, and you could certainly read aloud for company.
” Lady Catherine turned and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“Thank goodness your former mistress took it upon herself to teach you your letters.”
My chest tightened as a slow flush bloomed across my cheeks, and I frowned. The past was the past, and the future loomed ahead.
“Perhaps … you had that nightmare again?” asked Lady Catherine. “However you are feeling—whatever emotions it stirred up—you should mull them over. Confront them.”
I stiffened. “Oh no, Mama. I’m perfectly fine. I assure you.”
The gentle hand on my shoulder suddenly tightened as Lady Catherine’s fingers dug into my skin.
“You must confront them,” she hissed, jerking me around to face her.
My palms went slick as I pursed my lips.
These strange outbursts were few and far between, but I’d quickly learned to agree, to say whatever it was she wanted to hear.
To bow and scrape like the nothing I was—a terrible mimic wearing fine clothing.
“Yes, Mama,” I whispered, gathering courage to meet her gaze. My heart raced in my chest as I forced myself to glance at her—eyes swallowed by darkness, frown lines etched deep, face contorted with anger that distorted her features ’til I wasn’t sure I was looking at Lady Catherine at all.
Whipping out her other hand, she grabbed my second shoulder and gave a hearty shake.
“It’s for your own good. For your vengeance,” she hissed, before glancing over her shoulder. “Will you please be quiet!”
Pulse racing, my eyes slid beyond her hunched form, but—once again—naught was there. A chill gripped my very soul as I wondered if her ladyship was afflicted with delusion. Isolated as she was, here on the edge of the world, it wouldn’t surprise me at all.
Her grip loosened, and she took a deep breath as she turned back to face me.
“What I meant to say was, oft times, we allow wounds to fester, until all that’s left is hatred so bold, we are consumed by thoughts of vengeance, dear.
” Lady Catherine released me and straightened.
Her eyes were bright, the darks of them so wide they swallowed the dark blue ring around her pupils.
A shiver ran up my spine, sending a flash of ice to my core.
“You needn’t worry, Mama,” I replied. Steady.
On Lady Grace’s worst days, I’d always maintained composure, and I would do so now.
If this woman was afflicted, I would do all in my power to soothe her, for my future depended on her favor.
“The only revenge I seek is that of which I informed you: to have a place of my own and land to sustain me. That’s my vengeance, Mama. Naught else.”
A shudder ran over Lady Catherine’s shoulders, and she shook herself before clutching the charm at her throat. I watched as she closed her eyes, as her chest heaved. And as her eyelids popped open, a bright smile lit up her face, melting all trace of anger from her features.
“And you shall have it. I’ll have Mistress Lynch bring you a tisane this evening. A sleeping draught to help keep any dreams at bay. That should help. Oh, and I’ll have the soothing herbs added to the incense in your room.”
Pursing my lips, I fought against the hammering of my pulse and rose. “Thank you, Mama. I’ll take your sound advice and get some air.”
“Good.” With a nod, Lady Catherine made her way around the desk, opened the top drawer, and pulled out the key to the attic.
I knew it on sight now. Not only from its intricate design, but from the length of lilac ribbon looped through the ring.
“I have a few things to attend to, so this works out perfectly.”
“In the attic?” I asked, eyeing the key as she slipped it into her skirt pocket.
Lady Catherine paused, then brought her strange, dilated gaze to mine. “That, my dear, is none of your concern.”
And without another word, she swept past me, through the library, and out the door.
As the voice of the feminine presence—the same one who whispered from the shadows when I awoke from my fainting spell—reverberated through my mind.
Maggie, you must set me free.
Breathing the salt-tinged air was exactly what the doctor ordered. But despite the clear sky, with sunbeams beating down to erase any evidence of the rain that had plagued us since my arrival, I couldn’t help but pull my shawl tightly around my shoulders.
Something about Lady Catherine’s mercurial demeanor sent a coil of dread to my gut. It was as if she weren’t quite there sometimes. Overtaken, perhaps. An illness of the mind was one thing … but then what of the spirit? Was it the “woman in white” Lady Catherine had once mentioned?
With a heavy sigh, I rounded the front of Browne House, my borrowed shoes crunching on crushed stone as I strode beneath the bower that led to the walled gardens. It was quite possible that a spirit was trapped in the house. Perhaps the real Wilhelmina. My chest tightened.
Mam had once told me that when the dead passed, it was best to say your goodbyes quickly and tell them to pass on, to rest in peace. That sometimes when grief overtakes the living, the dead cannot move on, and become stuck, affixed next to the grieving loved one who refused to let them go.
A mother’s grief … that I understood all too well.
I shook my head—brushing away the macabre—and glanced about.
I’d never actually been to the gardens, but I assumed they’d be no different from the well-kept lawns and regimented rose beds of the Moore-Vandeleur’s walled garden.
My brows arched as my eyes swept over the ancient beauty of dappled gray stone—weather-washed and bird-stained pillars covered with climbing roses.
There were no straight lines here, and the pillars stood in a proud circle, a sundial in their center.
The lawns were curved—in need of a cut, but not completely overgrown—and interspersed throughout were wild beds of foxglove, butterfly bushes, betony, fuchsia, red valerian, crocus, hydrangea, roses, and—my God—thousands of the beautiful white trumpet flowers that always found their way to my room.
There was no rhyme nor reason to the planting. As if the seeds simply grew where they fell, a cacophony of color that would have sent Lady Grace screeching to the gardener.
But the gardens of Browne House boasted naught but nature and lusciousness—everything a garden should be.
I smiled, and strode forward, noting the gardener’s cottage in the back right corner.
It was partially hidden behind five-feet-high hydrangea bushes—blue and pink and white blooms of a size I never thought possible.
Each bloom spanned the width of a dinner plate, almost consuming the gardener’s path, and I wondered how they were able to move their equipment in and out of the pretty storage shed.
I’m sure that even if I hadn’t been cooped up within the walls of Browne House for months, I still would’ve thought this the grandest place in the world.
“Afternoon, Miss,” a voice called, and I whirled on my heel as my heart nearly jumped up my throat.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I exclaimed, eyes narrowing as I homed in on the intruder. “Mr. O’Dea! You gave me a right fright.”