Whispers from the Shadows (41 page)

“Still in my trunk, I think. I had no time to read yesterday. No doubt on the bottom, so I can get it. You should—”

“No bother, sweet. You stay right where you are.” One stride brought him to her trunk, the soft morning light catching on the lid as he raised it. He dug through, tossing her dressing gown at her and earning a laugh when it landed on her head. She pulled her arms through the light fabric as he continued to sift through her things. “There we are.” Yet he frowned.

Gwyneth lifted her brows when he merely set the tome upon the floor and bent down to examine the outside of her trunk, one hand still within it. “What is it?”

Rather than answer her, he tipped the thing backward a few inches and ran his hand along the underside. Dropping it back to the floor, he turned to her. “Do you realize this has a false bottom? There must be a compartment under the main one, though there are certainly no drawers.”

“A hidden compartment? But…” Her eyes went wide as Mrs. Wesley's words drifted back to her.
Our trunks have a hidden drawer for to keep it. You've no worries, love.
“Oh, I am a dunce! Mrs. Wesley mentioned that their trunks had such a thing, but I never even thought to look for one in mine. Perhaps that is where Papa put a letter to me.”

And had the Wesleys not left before she thought to even wonder about a letter, they surely could have reminded her of that.

Thad glanced at the trunk again and then at the clock. “I would help you with it, but—”

“I know.” She tossed aside the bedclothes and hopped out, too excited now for lounging. “You must hurry, Thad. I will see if I can get it, and if not, you can help me after evening drills. It has waited this long.”

“I suppose so.” He drew her close, kissed her once more, and then headed for the door. “Ten o'clock at the bank.” Pausing with a crooked grin, he made the sign for
I love you
.

She repeated the gesture. Wished, as he hovered one moment longer, that every instant could be as sweet. Then he straightened out his smile and slipped through the door.

It clicked shut behind him, and Gwyneth turned slowly toward her trunk. Anticipation gnawed at her stomach at the thought that somewhere in the bottom of it could rest words written in her father's hand. Something to help them make sense of Uncle Gates's role in this war, of what he had intended Thad to do other than keep her safe.

But she had gone through the trunk time and again. It had sat empty for months, but for a few art supplies, and when she got those out she had never once noticed anything unusual in the bottom. No latches or catches or hinges. How, then, was she to discover the secrets it held, short of breaking the thing open? And she couldn't do that either, lest such violence injure whatever might wait within.

She would be reasonable and go about this logically. Still, her hands shook as she picked up her Bible from the floor. The familiar leather under her fingers spoke reassurance into her heart. This would be her first step—spending time with the Lord and asking for His guidance. She settled back on the bed and opened the book to where she had left off two days before, in the fifth chapter of Ephesians. Hard as it was to keep her mind focused, she read and reread until the words penetrated.

Ye were sometimes darkness, but now are ye light in the Lord: walk as children of light…See then that ye walk circumspectly, not as fools, but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil.

Her eyes slid closed. Oh, how long she had been in darkness, living with it always a veil over her eyes. Clouding her memory and making a mystery of what ought to be clear. Fear, always fear at her heels. But her Lord and Savior had made a light of her. He reflected His own brilliance off the mirror of her being, and now she need only point herself where He wanted her to shine.

And that last bit—these days were certainly evil. War and hatred, vengeance and greed at every turn. Did the Lord really expect them to redeem the times? What a humbling thought. That the redemption of an entire generation rested on those who were faithful to Him. That without them, there would be no redemption.

“Help me, my Lord and my God,” she whispered into the still morning. “Help me to walk circumspectly, to be wise. To be in this world what You want me to be. And help me, please, to find my father's wisdom.”

Her first step was to dress, her next to find places in Thad's wardrobe for all of her belongings. He had made space for her, but there had been no time yesterday to fill them. Now she straightened and arranged, trying to make her things at home without displacing his. That done, she turned to the trunk.

She ran her hands all along the exterior, the interior, the bottom and sides. Nothing. She tried poking and prodding each piece of
metal to no avail. She turned it this way and that, tried the key at half and quarter turns, and stood up with a huff, glad that Rosie chose that moment to call her down to breakfast. The elder Lanes had already left for the day to do what they could in the city, so she stewed over her solitary meal, Rosie too busy in the kitchen to join her.

Soon she stood in their room again, staring at the confounding thing. 'Twas not some complicated device, merely a wooden box. Why did it refuse to give up its secrets? Nothing but strips of wood, metal fastenings, and the brocade lining meant to protect her…

“Ah!” She fell to her knees and jabbed a thumbnail under one of the tacks holding the lining in place, then another and another until the bottom section was free. Lifting it out, a smile touched her lips at the circular hole it revealed, just large enough to fit a fingertip in. Which was all she needed to do to tug up on the plank of wood and remove it too.

Almost afraid to look inside lest she find nothing but empty space, Gwyneth paused, closed her eyes, and drew in a long breath. And then she prayed, yet again, that the Lord would help them find the truth they so desperately needed.

When she opened her eyes and looked down, her breath caught. Not empty. And not, as she had feared too, filled with nothing but more coin. To be sure, there was a bag that matched the ones Mrs. Wesley had thrust into her hands that terrible day at the end of June, but her attention was snagged by the unfolded paper resting on the top of other, bound stacks.

Her hand shook as she reached for it, tears blurring her vision at that elegant, quick hand she knew so well. She had to blink and blink again before the ink stopped waving through her tears.

Gwyneth swiped at her eyes, but new tears took the place of that which she wiped away. Fumbling for her handkerchief, she shook her head. Dear Papa. He had known her uncle would kill him. And she had stood there that last morning with him wondering if he had gone mad, questioning his decisions and insisting that anything that took her away from him could not be right.

She drew in a shaky breath and looked down at the letter again, her gaze falling now on the postscript at the bottom.

She set the single page down and picked up the packet with her initials. Fingering the twine, she stared at that sheet of paper with nothing but
G.F.
upon it. Gwyneth Fairchild. A name she had scarcely used since coming here, but for in this house. Not for shame of him, but to protect her and his memory from whatever evil pursued them. A name she no longer even carried. Could Papa have anticipated when he scratched out that
F
that it would someday be an
L
? That she would be, by the time she read it, Gwyneth Lane?

Sniffling, she pulled loose the bow and removed the twine, setting it and the cover sheet aside. And then she frowned. The first piece of paper was no letter, no document, just a drawing she had done two years ago while he was still in France, right after Mama had fallen ill. She had asked Gwyneth to draw her something whimsical, a scene viewed through a keyhole. But the scene had been cut out and lay there separately, leaving only the drawing of the wood grain and lock intact.

Her brows pulled together. Why would Mama cut it out so? Carefully, yes, but still. Had she been planning some clever way of displaying it? No—she had sent it to Papa, Gwyneth remembered now. That was why she had asked for it. For it to be a reminder to
him that if he peeked ahead, he would see a view of something other than the war in Europe, one with children dancing in gardens and Mama sitting there watching.

She flipped it over and saw that Papa had written a date upon the back, along with a second one, two weeks after the first. Odd.

The rest of the stack was equally baffling. Letters to Mama he had written over the years, but none from her to him—wouldn't those have been the ones he kept? More of Gwyneth's drawings, most of them intact but a few others with sections cut out and dates upon the back. A copy of his will, which she hadn't the heart or clarity of mind to read through right then.

Shaking her head, she put that stack down and picked up the two for Thad. She would take them down to his desk in his study. But when she pushed to her feet, the top bundle slid, the twine gave way, and she let out a small scream as she envisioned the entire stack flying free. Grabbing at it, she managed to keep all but the first two sheets in order.

Those two leaves went fluttering, the second one catching a draft from the open window and dancing before her for a moment, light winking at her through another cutout. She caught it up, tempted to frown at yet another sheet with an open design in the center of it. But the writing scratched on this one made her breath catch.

Master mask. Copy to T.L. following letter of Jan. 12

Letter of January…gasping, she bounced to her feet and flew down the stairs, her aim Thad's study. This, she knew, was where he kept the letter from her father. The one dated the twelfth of January. He had told her that any time she wanted to read it again, she had only to ask and he would unlock…

“Blast.” She tried the drawers of his desk, but all were secured. And the chime of the clock on the mantel made her spin around with wide eyes. How had two hours flown by already? She was late for her rendezvous with him; she certainly hadn't the time to search for a key. Which he likely carried on his person anyway, knowing him.

Well, then. She would find her husband first and then they could solve this puzzle together. The mask still in hand, she turned on silent slippers and left the study to go down the hall and out the door.

And straight into the arms never meant to hold her, with the
mocking smile of her worst enemy right behind.

Thirty

G
wyneth! My darling.” Arthur pulled her tight against him, not caring that they were on a public street with her uncle and Scrubs as an audience. The relief, the utter joy that pounded through him overcame any other thoughts.

Until he realized, when she pulled free, that she was as stiff as a saber, and her wide eyes were latched, unblinking, upon her uncle.

Gates brushed him aside and embraced her next, though she looked just as unyielding in his arms. Shock, perhaps? That would explain the glaze over her eyes. “My darling girl. You cannot know how good it is to see you safe and well. We feared the worst.”

“You…” She must indeed be shocked, the way her words seemed to have escaped her. She swallowed, shook her head, and stepped away, her gaze flicking to Scrubs before going back to Arthur. “What are you doing here?”

Caution cast the slightest shadow on Arthur's joy. He reached for her hands, but she took another step back. She had a crumpled piece of paper in her grip, and her face had gone so pale…

Well, she certainly hadn't known they were looking for her and had likely given up on anyone searching her out. Arthur smiled and let his hands fall to his sides. “We have been seeking endlessly for you, my love.”

“We?” Those luminous eyes stared at him in utter disbelief.

Understandable. So far as she was aware, he scarcely knew her uncle. “Indeed. After—oh. My darling, we have bad news.” He looked over to Gates.

The man's expression was softer than he had ever seen it as he reached out and clasped her arm. “About your father.”

She swallowed and tried again to pull away, but Gates held fast to her fisted hand, the one with the paper in it. “I know.” Her voice quaked a bit but was otherwise strong. “The news made it here eventually.”

How Arthur ached to draw her near again, to assure her that despite probably thinking herself abandoned, they had never, for one moment, given up on finding her. “I am so sorry. We looked everywhere for you, all over England and the Continent. Your uncle and I pooled our resources, and when I told him a lad at the docks had spotted you—”

“You?” A host of emotions flew through her eyes, too fleet of foot for him to follow. When they came to a rest, her face had gone blank again. She shook her head. “I don't understand. Why would you go to such trouble?”