Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
Death Comes Calling
The following morning, I came down late to breakfast, the night’s thoughts still pressing on me.
Lydia Gray’s words had followed me into sleep and back again, circling the same questions.
What had she seen that others had not? What would happen once her verse was published?
And the more troubling one, What price would she pay?
The household hummed with its usual morning life. Crockery touched china. A maid laughed somewhere beyond the door. The world, it seemed, had chosen normalcy.
Miriam was already at the table, spectacles perched low upon her nose as she scanned a letter. She looked up at once. “You look as though sleep and you quarreled.”
“I believe sleep won,” I said, taking my seat. “It simply left me no rest in victory.”
“That sounds like a poet’s complaint. Miss Gray would approve.”
The mention of Lydia sent a flicker through me, though I kept my tone even. “She was to deliver her poem yesterday.”
Miriam folded her letter. “Then let us hope the editors possess the necessary courage to publish it.”
I reached for the teapot. The scent of oolong tea rose, steadying, familiar. My hands poured without spilling, though my thoughts felt less certain. “Do we have plans today?” I asked, grasping for ordinary matters.
“Mrs. Hartley is calling at eleven regarding the charitable sewing circle. And you promised Mrs. Wilmot you would review the subscription list for the lending library.” She paused. “Or we could postpone both if your mind is elsewhere.”
“No,” I said. “Work is often the cure for overthinking.”
A sudden burst of motion drew our attention.
Linnet entered the room with the unselfconscious brightness of someone who had not spent the night wrestling ghosts, holding an envelope aloft like a trophy. She came to my side and thrust the letter toward me. “Lord Charles,” she signed.
I took the note and broke the seal. The handwriting was bold, almost impatient.
“He requests the pleasure of your company for a drive in the Park this afternoon at three, should the weather prove agreeable,” I signed.
Miriam’s brows rose. “The young man wastes no time.”
Linnet clasped her hands. Hopeful for my approval, no doubt.
I turned to Miriam, the arbiter of propriety. “What do you think?”
Miriam regarded us both thoughtfully. “A drive in daylight, in Hyde Park, in an open carriage, is entirely proper. Provided a maid accompanies Linnet.”
Linnet made a face at the word maid.
“Non-negotiable,” Miriam said.
I handed back the letter. “You may go, Linnie. But take shawls. The wind near the Serpentine has teeth.”
She beamed and crossed to the sideboard, practically skipping along the way.
For a moment I let myself watch her as she returned with toast, poured herself a cup of tea. The ease of her movement, the lightness in her expression. Life continued.
Perhaps Lydia’s fears were exaggerated. Perhaps—
My gaze fell upon the morning papers lying beside the silver pot. I reached for The Times. The notice was small. Easily overlooked among shipping reports and parliamentary proceedings.
WOMAN KILLED IN BLOOMSBURY STREET ACCIDENT
Miss Lydia Gray, aged 52, was struck by a horse-drawn carriage yesterday afternoon while crossing Gower Street. Witnesses report she stepped into the road suddenly. She died at the scene. Authorities have called the incident accidental.
The words blurred. The teacup slipped from my hand, its contents spilling across the table.
Linnet startled, half-rose. “Lark?” she signed.
I could not speak. I folded the paper once, sharply, as though the motion might contain what it held.
Linnet touched my sleeve, eyes wide.
“It is nothing you need concern yourself with,” I signed carefully as I spoke, forcing steadiness into my voice. “A sad notice only. Why don’t you see whether Cook has those seed cakes you like? And tell Bexley Lord Charles will call for you at three.”
She hesitated, searching my face.
I smiled. It felt like porcelain—smooth and brittle. “Go on.”
She nodded and slipped from the room, though she glanced back once before the door closed behind her.
Only then did I draw breath.
Miriam reached across the table and took the paper from my hand. She read without comment, but the line of her mouth hardened.
“An accident,” she said at last.
“No.” The word came sharp as glass. “She was on her way to the periodical office. She was resolved. Clear-headed. She would not have wandered into the road like a distracted child.”
“People misjudge horses,” Miriam said gently.
“People do,” I agreed. “Lydia Gray did not.” The certainty in my voice startled even me.
Miriam studied my face. “What did she tell you yesterday?”
“That someone had begun asking questions about her past. That a man had taken an interest in her movements.” My throat tightened. “She gave me something to keep safe.”
Understanding dawned slowly in Miriam’s eyes. “You think she was pushed.”
“I think she was removed.”
The words lay between us, heavy and inevitable.
Miriam folded the newspaper with deliberate care. “Lark, if that is true, you stand very near to whatever frightened her.”
“I know.”
“And you mean to involve yourself.”
“I already am involved.”
She held my gaze a long moment. Then she said nothing further—which frightened me more than protest would have.
All that day the house felt subtly altered. The same footsteps moved through the corridors, the same doors opened and closed, yet an undercurrent ran beneath it all—the sense of being observed from somewhere just out of sight.
The notebook lay in the drawer of my desk. I did not open it. I did not need to. Its presence was enough.
At quarter to three, Bexley appeared at the morning room door. “Lord Charles, my lady.”
Of course he had come a few minutes before the hour promised.
I set down the letter I had not truly been reading and rose, smoothing my skirts before stepping into the hall. Lord Charles stood near the entrance table, hat in hand, speaking quietly with Bexley. He turned as I approached and bowed.
“Lady Larkspur.”
“Lord Charles. You are punctual.”
“I try never to keep a lady waiting.”
“I shall send for my sister. A maid will accompany her.”
He inclined his head, stepping aside as I gave the instruction.
Moments later Linnet descended the staircase, bonnet tied, gloves on, the maid following with shawl and reticule. My sister’s expression shone with anticipation, so open and unguarded that it caught at me unexpectedly.
I adjusted the ribbon at her bonnet, though it sat perfectly well. Something to do with my hands. “You will remain in the Park,” I signed.
She nodded, already half turned toward the door.
Lord Charles watched the exchange with polite curiosity. I lifted my eyes to him and held his gaze a moment longer than courtesy required. “Take care of her,” I said quietly.
Something in my tone must have reached him. The lightness left his expression. He bowed again, more formally. “You have my word.”
Linnet slipped her arm through his, buoyant as sunlight itself. Bexley opened the door, and together they descended the front steps to the waiting carriage.
I remained where I was, watching until the vehicle turned the corner and vanished from sight.
Only then did I let the smile leave my face.
That night, after the house had gone still, I lit a single candle at my desk and opened the notebook. The writing was dense, layered with crossings-out and symbols, names abbreviated, dates circled—a record of what Lydia had witnessed.
A soft movement made me look up.
Linnet stood in the doorway, wrapped in her dressing gown, her hair loose about her shoulders. She came to my side and looked down at the open pages, frowning.
“What is that?” she signed.
“Lydia Gray’s notebook. She asked me to keep it safe.”
A shadow crossed her face. “Lord Charles told me a carriage struck her.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “She is dead.”
She glanced once more at the notebook. “Hard to read.”
I nodded.
“What will you do with it?”
The right thing would have been to hand it to a family member. But if Lydia had family, she had never mentioned them. I had the feeling she was alone in the world. She had given it to me, and that was a responsibility I would not take lightly.
“Try to decipher it,” I answered.
Her brow wrinkled. “Decipher?” She did not understand the word.
“Figure out what she’s written.”
“Why?”
“Because she would want me to.”
Linnet studied me carefully. “You think she was killed.”
I should have known she would see it. She was always watching, always reading the truth beneath what people said.
“I do.”
“Because of what’s in that notebook.”
I nodded.
She reached into her robe and produced her sketchbook. She placed it on the desk and turned the pages until she found what she wanted.
The first drawing showed Lydia at my salon, chin lifted, hand raised mid-recitation.
Beneath it was another. Lydia leaving the house.
And behind her, across the street, half obscured by a lamppost, a man standing watch.
Only a few strokes defined him. But the posture was unmistakable. Still. Waiting.
“When did you draw this?” I asked.
“Tuesday afternoon,” she signed.
“Did he come closer?”
She shook her head.
My pulse beat hard in my ears.
Lydia had not stepped blindly into the street. She had been thrust into the path of that carriage.
I drew Linnet close, pressing my cheek to her hair.
I wanted to tell her she was safe, that there was nothing to fear.
But I knew safety had become a fragile thing.
Whoever killed Lydia would somehow gain entry into her lodgings so he could search through her belongings for what she had written.
Whatever they found would not be enough. I had what they were looking for.
After Linnet returned to her room, I glanced once more at the notebook. Lydia Gray had placed her life’s work into my keeping. They may have silenced her. But they had not silenced what she knew.
I turned the page and began to read.