Chapter 18
Eighteen
Agnes sat in her apothecary, one hand holding the iron key and one hand running along her lips.
The touch and taste of Harry’s kiss still lingered.
The memory of how his mustache tickled her nose as they kissed would never leave her.
She had kissed him. Part of her wondered if another widow would feel guilty, but she could not bring herself to feel such a thing.
Richard had helped her stop cowering from a man’s touch.
He had made her happy. With him, she had felt secure enough to indulge in life’s comforts and pleasures.
But regardless of the friendship they’d built, desire never grew.
Despite his best assurances, Agnes always doubted whether she was good enough to earn the romantic love of a husband.
Duncan was entranced with Nora, and Edith’s various lovers had always been obsessed.
On some days, she thought it was the mismatch of their age.
Maybe a younger husband would have grown fonder of her.
Other days she thought it was due to her odd interests, her hours spent tucked away in the attic.
Perhaps men preferred social women who entertained in the drawing room.
Then there were days where she examined her own body nude before the mirror, looking for deficiencies.
If her hips were smaller, her breasts fuller, maybe she would be able to tempt him.
But this was different. Harry emboldened her.
She had never foreseen that she would be the type of woman who would initiate intimacies.
In her daydreams, she always imagined herself a passive, but welcoming, recipient when a faceless man laid his lips on hers.
If she hadn’t been the one to kiss him, though, she would’ve been driven mad.
Harry would have made her wait forever, and she didn’t have the time.
Aside from his ongoing battle with his nerves, Harry was too polite of a man.
While that had made her feel safe with him, she knew her status as a widow gave him pause.
But she’d also known his feelings for her extended beyond friendship, even enough to speak of her with admiration to a stranger.
And in his conversation with Nora, he hadn’t denied his desire to court her.
He merely stated it was improper. But the tea leaves had told her their time was now.
What could come of this? Her husband had passed not even a month ago.
Yet, even if Richard were alive, he would have not objected.
Her happiness had always been a priority for him.
He had even offered his help in finding a more romantic, passionate partnership with someone else.
Their marriage had not been for love, but companionship.
With a new determination, Agnes picked up the mysterious key and headed downstairs.
She had already searched Richard’s bedchamber and dressing room from top to bottom.
If today’s search proved fruitless, she would call in Louisa.
But Agnes knew that the medium was overwhelmed with the ghostly problems of other people in the city, not to mention her newborn son and her horrid husband.
She hesitated outside the door to Richard’s study. During their marriage, he had often spent his days here. She rarely entered the room even though he would have welcomed her. There just had never been much of a need. They had both thrived in their solitude.
Upon entering, the energy felt different. Where it had been flat in the bedchamber since she had found the key, here it felt alive. The air buzzed around her arms, and her ears responded, attuned to a chorus she couldn’t hear.
This was it. Agnes began a methodical search from one corner of the room to the other. She searched around the legs of the armchair, over each section of paneling, and behind each ornament displayed on the shelves.
Bits of plaster crumbled to the floor as she poked and prodded every bump or crevice in the walls. No brick went unchecked, no drawer unopened. And then she reached the bookshelves.
She stood back, hands on her hips, daunted by the monumental task ahead of her.
Richard had been an avid reader, a lover of poetry, and of books in general.
He’d always admired their binding, the embossed covers, and even the quality of papers inside.
Richard had noticed things others didn’t about books, and his collection spoke to his obsession. Hundreds of books lined the shelves.
It would take days, if not weeks, to remove each book and carefully inspect it page by page to make sure nothing was hidden inside.
Charles’s men surely would force their way in by then.
She could enlist the help of Kitty, but then she would have to explain more about the origins of the key than she wanted to share.
But then she saw it, embossed on the spine of a gray leather book. The same profile of a man from the head of the key. There was no title. She pulled the book to take a closer look, but it did not slide out. It only tipped forward from the top. She felt a click and continued to pull.
The bookcase shifted. This had to be what she was searching for. She swung the shelf open and stepped around to see what it had concealed.
She had heard of hidden rooms before, especially in old homes, either to safekeep valuables or provide passage for the servants. Instead, there was a wall. Just a wall of brick. Disappointment slammed into her.
Bram’s bell jingled from behind. When she had last checked on him, he had been in the kitchen whining for the leftover kippers from breakfast. Now he entered the study and ran straight to the wall. He scratched at the bricks with his front paws.
She bent down to calm the frantic feline, and her shoulder nudged the wall. The brick gave under the slight force. It was not as solid as she expected. Agnes pushed on the wall with both hands, and it rocked back and forth a fraction of an inch. Another disguised door.
Bram continued his scratching, now accompanied with wailing, eager to get through. She let her fingers glide over the bricks. The bookcase blocked the light from the window in the study, casting shadows over the wall.
Just as she was about to retrieve an oil lamp, her fingers caught in a small dip. She traced the rigid edge. It wasn’t a dip, but a carved hole. A keyhole.
Agnes fumbled through her pockets with shaking hands. The key fit perfectly into the lock. She turned it, and a click resounded through the study. The wall moved back, now freed from the mechanism. She pushed it with her whole body.
It was lighter than a brick wall should be, and she tumbled into the hideaway. From the floor, she scanned the room.
Large, complicated equipment on massive work tables dominated the center of the room, a maze of black iron wheels, cylinders, and plates. Rolls of leather and stacks of paper were carefully arranged on another. The sheer amount of material indicated this was no casual hobby.
Agnes had known that Richard had an interest in printing, as he often kept her informed of new techniques, but she thought it stemmed from his interest in books. He had never told her that he had tried his hand at the craft, nor that he had amassed such an assortment of tools.
It was troubling that he would hide this from her. The two of them had often enjoyed discussion of their knowledgeable pursuits over their shared meals. What more had her dearest friend hidden from her? She scanned the other side of the room.
It was a cozy space, as though someone had set up a whole life in one corner.
A bed with a nightstand at its side and a trunk at the foot was set against the wall.
Two chairs with a small tea table between them sat across from it.
It was a close replica of the drawing room where she and Richard had spent their mornings for six years.
A green velvet rug sat in the space between the furniture, partitioning this little world from the rest of the room.
A home within their home. It was intimate, yet Agnes had no inclination that it existed, or why.
Had someone been living there? She knew that Richard slept in his own bed.
She had heard his valet wake him each day.
She eyed the trunk. In a place as secret as this, certainly the trunk would be locked.
But she tried anyway, and it opened without resistance.
Inside were men’s clothes, clothes she recognized easily.
They were not the clothes of Richard. They were Oscar’s.
Oscar had spent most of his time at the steward’s cottage in Skelton, or so Agnes thought, coming to York a few hours each week to update Richard on the tenants and estate. He hadn’t stayed here, had he?
Agnes sat in front of the trunk and tried to absorb all that was around her. All of the clues she needed were right here, of that she was certain. None of it made sense to her now, but if she contemplated it long enough, put the pieces together, she could figure it out.
She shuffled to the head of the bed and examined the nightstand. A miniature of Richard as a young man sat on the top. If someone had been sleeping here, the portrait would have been the last thing he had seen at night before closing his eyes.
The drawer in the nightstand was also unlocked, and it slid open easily.
Letters sprang from the overfull drawer.
She tenderly picked up the top letter with the familiar scrawl on the front.
Written in Richard’s hand, it read “To my darling, Oscar.” She looked at the other letters on the top of the pile.
“To my love, Oscar.” “To my soul, Oscar.”
Richard and Oscar had been friends long before Agnes had become Lady Skelton. They had met as young men, and Richard had employed Oscar as the Skelton steward for decades. On his days in York, Oscar often dined with them and joined them in the drawing room sitting beside Richard on the settee.