Descent Into Dust (17 page)

I laughed as well, without paying much attention to what was being said. Mr. Hess had given me plenty to mull over, and the faint buzz of some disturbance, stronger than disquiet but lying just under fear, hummed in my head.

My frequent visits to the third floor had made a friend of Miss Harris, and thereby I gained myself an ally in keeping my eye on Henrietta’s condition. After playing checkers or paper dolls with Henrietta, I typically concluded by sitting with Miss Harris in the little nursery kitchen, munching on lemon biscuits from her secret tin and drinking tea while we chatted. Henrietta seemed the pleasant, happy child I had always known her to be; I could not have asked for more assurance that all was well with her. But I knew it was not.

Victoria was gone. I searched the schoolroom from stem to stern and found nothing. And when I mentioned Victoria’s absence to Henrietta, she grew quiet and lowered her eyes. No
amount of clever cajoling on my part would get her to confide anything to me.

Of the shadow I had seen, I spied nothing more, not even a hint. If I asked Henrietta where her friend Marius had gone, she would simply say, “He is sleeping,” and nothing more. Yet my mind was not at ease.

One afternoon, we were sorting through the puppet box while Miss Harris was having some time to herself. “Let us select a Henrietta,” I suggested. I pulled out the pretty one, with long, painted eyelashes and blond curls.

“And Emma,” she said eagerly, rifling through the options. The one she chose made us laugh. It was rather silly-looking, with wide eyes and very red lips. “She’s the next prettiest,” Henrietta explained.

I waited until she’d chosen a second, a male puppet, whom she named Joseph, after the master gardener who always produced a sweet from his pocket for Henrietta. “Joseph is her friend,” she said, pairing off her two puppets.

I, in turn, fished out an older puppet, with a chipped and faded painted face. “And let us make this one Marius.”

Immediately, she grew guarded. Doleful eyes flashed to mine. “I don’t wish to play with Marius.”

“But he is your friend, too, isn’t he?”

Her brow furrowed. “I can not talk about him. He is gone now.”

“But he is not a secret, love. Not any longer,” I said as I carried the puppets over to the theater. “I know all about Marius. I’ve even seen him. Remember, when you were talking to him up at The Sanctuary?”

She nodded, solemn and watchful. Following me to the the
ater, she knelt and quietly arranged her puppets. I saw by the square set of her shoulders, the ramrod-straight posture of her back, that her body was gripped with great tension.

With her gaze firmly on the Marius doll I’d chosen, she spoke softly. “He told me you cannot see him.”

“But I did. And I saw him again, just a few days ago,” I said gently, arranging my skirts as I joined her on the floor. “He was walking with you and Miss Harris in the garden.”

She jerked her head up, and my heart plummeted at the look in her eyes. She was terrified. Dropping the puppets, she shot to her feet. She nearly collided with Miss Harris, who was entering just at that moment, as she dashed out of the room before I could react.

The nurse gazed at me in puzzlement, a bit cross with me, I noticed. I understood. We were all protective of Hen, especially these days. Biting down hard on my bottom lip to keep it from trembling, I simply shrugged.

Mrs. Bedford accompanied me on a visit to the village. The pair of us set out by open trap from Dulwich Manor down the road with which I had some familiarity. We passed Sarum Saint Martin’s; I shivered to see the high iron gates of the churchyard to which I had followed Mr. Fox, and a pang speared my sternum to think of him.

The weather was drizzly with that sharp-edged damp that permeates the month of March. I was bundled in a winter wool, which warded off the worst of the cloying air as we rode down the country road toward the village. The road wove through fields where the large sarcen stones of the Great Stone Serpent were cast about the landscape like some gigantic child’s playing blocks. It was so peculiar to see them peppered in among the
living, with cottages in the foreground and farm animals grazing unimpressed in their shadow. Somehow, the contrast only increased their splendor and mystery. Two worlds, the old and the new, existing together.

Two worlds. The living and the dead meet here on the lay line of Saint Michael. Mr. Hess had told me that.

Once we arrived in the village, Mrs. Bedford suggested we share a comforting cup of tea in the inn. The gas jets were ablaze in the common room, and a fire had been lit in the massive hearth to banish the gray damp from the air. I sent word to Uncle Peter’s rooms that I was awaiting him, and could he join us at his earliest convenience? He appeared not long after, immaculately dressed and beaming with pleasure to see me.

“You are just in time for our second pot,” I told him after accepting a kiss on each cheek. He bowed to Mrs. Bedford.

“Ah, English tea. There is nothing like it in all the Continent.” He surveyed the tray with relish, wasting no time in helping himself from the assortment of sandwiches and biscuits arrayed before us.

Mrs. Bedford did not linger after we’d taken our meal. “I am most anxious to visit my friend Mary Linden. Her daughter, Margaret, is ill,” she explained.

“Let me walk you,” I said, rising with her. She protested, but I assured her it was no trouble, and went with her the short distance to her friend’s home.

“I trust the child is not too ill,” I ventured. I was concerned, and she sensed it.

She patted my hand. “It is a strange malaise, but not this wretched plague, I am sure. Probably no more than a common ailment of childhood. The ague, I suspect.” She suddenly waved, and I spied a woman in the door with a small child in her arms.
The little girl, probably four years of age, had a solemn face with large eyes and a cascade of dark curls.

“I hope she gets well soon,” I murmured as Mrs. Bedford joined her friend. I hurried back to the inn to Uncle Peter, who was waiting for me.

“Well, then,” he said when I was situated at the table again. He reached a hand across the table to touch his fingers to mine. “Am I correct to assume you are here to speak with me about what you mentioned before?” he asked in his thick accent. His expression was sad but kind. “You wish to talk of Laura.”

“I must know about my mother.” I braced myself. I was used to being met with resistance, and I was prepared for it now. “I realize it is a difficult subject, but I’ve waited a very long time to ask someone who knew her to tell me the truth of what happened. And I need to know now more than ever what it was that killed her and what her madness was like. Do not spare me.”

His eyes flickered with doubt, and I drew myself up, ready to meet any objection head-on. “I am not a child any longer. I am a woman now set upon my own path in life. I no longer need to be protected.”

He regarded me for a moment, then sighed. “This is true enough.”

“You and my father were friends for many years. You knew my mother.”

“I was half in love with her myself.” He smiled, making the statement benign. “It was the same with every man who knew her. It was difficult not to adore Laura. It was not only her beauty. There are beautiful women all over this world—I should know, I’ve traveled much of it. But Laura, she was special. There was light in her…” He trailed off. Nodding,
he then brought himself back with a renewed smile. “And she loved your father. Very much.”

The lump in my throat had risen fast. Suddenly it was too large to allow me to speak. I swallowed, but it would not move.

“They were very happy, you know.” Uncle Peter’s smile was of a man lost in the past, and I saw the love shining from his face.

I found my voice. “How long did they have before she became ill?”

“A few years, that is all. But it was enough, I think. Stephen—your father—he never regretted anything. Perhaps that is the first thing you should be told. When she became ill, he did not feel sorry for himself. He did not despair.”

I had never really considered my father in this. I don’t know why this was. Perhaps, drawing a conclusion from how he’d looked at me, the watchfulness and tension I’d imagined in his gaze, I had seen him only as a sentinel, an emotionless witness to my mother’s suffering. Of course, I had never before known how much they’d meant to each other.

“He was true to her, even when the madness was at its worst.” He stopped here, taking in a long, labored breath. “And before. This I believe.”

“What do you mean, before?”

“Before your mother fell ill. Her illness was provoked, you see.” He shook his head, as if remembering still made him angry. “A baronet’s daughter named Astrid Laforge had made her debut that season. As her parents traveled in the same social circles as Stephen and Laura, she was at every dinner party, every dance. Ah, but she was a fiendish little fox, for she was jealous of your mother. Everyone could see how she pitted her
youthful beauty against Laura’s more cultured air of loveliness. Your mother was beloved by her friends, and the little fox could not stand it. She wished to be the one all admired, and a very thinly disguised rivalry emerged.” His jaw worked. “And Astrid had a passion for your father, Emma.”

I heard the dark undertone, saw the hardening glint in his eyes, and my heart did a queer leap. I had the first inkling of how difficult it was going to be to hear this tale I’d waited so long to hear.

“Laura laughed over it at first, thinking Astrid silly. She dismissed her. We all did. I can see, in my mind, the way she’d smile when Astrid would ply her wiles on Stephen; I am sure they laughed about it in private. Her eyes would shine with humor when they caught mine, as if to say, ‘Are you enjoying her little show?’ Ah, her eyes. They were an extraordinary color, a very unique shade of blue. Really violet, in certain light. It was a haunting effect…” Uncle Peter trailed off momentarily, then resumed. “Your mother knew her appeal, and she was confident in the love she and Stephen shared. But Astrid was clever, and when she saw she could not lure Stephen into her bed, she did something diabolical. She ingeniously planted seeds of uncertainty in the mind of her rival.”

“What do you mean?”

“For example, she would make certain to be noticed coming out of a room moments after Stephen had emerged, and she’d look flushed, acting uncomfortable at having been spotted, as if…well, you get the idea. It was all very subtle, but effective. Soon rumors started to circulate.”

“And my mother began to doubt my father,” I said, knowing this had to be what happened.

Uncle Peter spread out his hands helplessly. “Laura began to listen to the doubts Astrid put into her head. No doubt Astrid delighted when she saw how the seeds slowly unwound, claiming Laura’s thoughts and becoming an obsession.”

“Did my father not deny it?”

“That was the entire trouble, darling. Your father made a terrible mistake. He knew himself to be a man of honor. He was too proud to answer for his fidelity. When Laura needed him most to defend himself, he stood on principle and refused to speak to her on the matter.”

I knew my father to be proud. He had a temper, and it was not hot or passionate. When angered, he went cold, remote, aloof. I had been frozen by that frigid blast myself. How devastating it must have been to a woman hungry for reassurance. “So it was jealousy that destroyed her mind?”

“No, no, my dear. This was only the beginning. You see…Laura changed then. She withdrew, became melancholy and secretive. I grew concerned for her, and for Stephen, whose stubbornness I feared would destroy him. They went different ways, each wrapped up in their resentments. Laura became very active tending to various charity work, and when illness struck in the village, she worked tirelessly to help the afflicted. I often thought it was her way to forget how miserable she was.”

“And my father?”

“Stephen began to travel. But when Laura fell ill, it all ended abruptly. Give your dear father credit, my child—he realized his bull-headed ways and flew back to Castleton House at once. Laura was struck by the same illness she had fought in others. Stephen, contrite and riddled with guilt, never left her side.”

I spoke in a whisper. “This illness…”

He seemed surprised by my somberness, then shook his head, waving an expressive hand. “No, no, my dear. This was the first time. She recovered. It was a little while later that she—”

“Describe it to me,” I asked abruptly.

I told myself I was being foolish. Villages were afflicted with contagions all the time. There could be no connection to the otherworldly plague now raging in this very hamlet.

Uncle Peter blinked. “Very well. I recall it began with Laura becoming very, very weak. And so pale. She was listless to the point where she barely responded to anyone. We did not suspect any insanity then. Stephen—My God, he was a man possessed. All the others who had sickened from the illness had died, but he refused to let her go. He sat with her, in the dark room, for she could tolerate no light, every hour of the day and all through the night. He thought he had lost her. It was what we both believed.”

It sounded similar to the wasting disease, but I was no doctor. “Were you there with him then?”

“I was glad to be helping when I could. The few times Stephen dozed or left her to see to his own needs, I was the only one he trusted to stay with her. She was never without the one or other of us at her side. When she began to slowly revive, she…Lord, child, it pains me to tell all of this ugly business.”

My throat constricted, for there were tears in his eyes. “That was when the madness came?”

He forced himself to go on. “It will not do you good to know this, but she suffered. She understood she was going mad. The way she spoke, the things she said. Her ranting was vile. I…” His voice, creaking on this last, seemed to fail him. He was
silent, and very still for a long time. Then, he said, “To witness this was…it was a terrible thing.”

To my horror, he suddenly appeared old to me, and I felt the weight of my selfishness in putting him through so much. Still, I had to ask my final question, almost against my will, and in a voice so quiet he could pretend he did not hear me, I said, “Did she ever love me?”