Parting the Veil by Paulette Kennedy
CHAPTER 17
Eliza sat tucked inside the bay window of the morning room as Shirley bustled about, clearing the breakfast dishes and doing the dusting. She’d concealed Ada’s diary between the covers of a dog-eared copy of Sense and Sensibility. It felt good having a secret—something decadent to keep for herself. If Malcolm was going to have secrets, she could have some too, after all. She opened the journal’s crinkled, fragile pages and read.
August 18th, 1873
Jennie adores parties. She pulls me out to every ball and soirée until my ears ring from the noise. I have been introduced to so many bachelors this Season I can no longer tell a duke from a baronet. They’re all ‘my lord’ or ‘your grace’ or sir this-or-that and I cannot keep up! Jennie is the most devoted of companions, and I am grateful. Being an American, she isn’t as stodgy as the sassenach girls, and she’s so lovely to look at, with flashing dark eyes.
I have been presented to the queen, and met the crown prince, Bertie. He’s quite a flirt. He wants to have me come to Marlborough House for one of his famous parties. I have heard they turn into bacchanals as the night creeps into the wee hours. It all sounds positively scandalous.
As for suitors, there’s a viscount who seems fond of me. He owns a country manor in Hampshire, and a fine townhouse in Hyde Park. I met him on the Isle of Wight on the same day Jennie met her beau. He’s quite old—at least forty—although it would relieve Papa’s burdens to see me engaged to such a grounded and mature man, especially during my first Season. Living in Hampshire would mean I’d be close to the sea, which would make me happy. I do not think myself suited for life in London. Things move much too quickly, and the skies are ever blackened with soot.
I will be journeying home to Scotland soon for hunting season. I shall be chuffed to be back at Brynmoor, cozied up by the fire with my dogs after a good run in the gorse.
September 4th, 1873
Lord Havenwood proposed before I left London. I’ve a pretty ring—a wee pearl. Papa is pleased to see me engaged. I have no thought as to how I will fare with the delicate matters of marriage. I wish Mama were alive to speak to me of such things. My intended has yet to even kiss me. In some ways I feel I shall be more his daughter than his wife, which seems rather fine by me.
Jennie keeps asking if he’s taken liberties, which makes me blush. I often feel set apart from the other girls in London—as if I am an outsider, looking in. They’re always going on about their wedding nights, and while I’m curious, I do dread it. I pray my husband will be merciful and tender.
Eliza fiddled with the pearl ring Malcolm had given her, twisting the narrow band. Why hadn’t he told her he’d given her his mother’s ring? If he and his mother were so close, wouldn’t that be something he’d share? Ada’s journal was only creating more questions. Though her vision was strained from reading the childish, messy scribble of words written on the tiny pages, Eliza adjusted her spectacles and read on, eager to learn more about her predecessor.
December 31st, 1873
It is my favorite night of the year—our annual ghillies ball at Brynmoor! Papa has declared it fancy dress, and I’m keen to wear my Cherubino costume. I’ve been working on it all month. It’s rather more comfortable than the stiff party taffetas I have to wear in London. I may well shock the elders, but it’s all in good fun. Lord Havenwood won’t be attending, as he’s away on business of some sort, so I shall dance with whomever wants to turn me out in the reels, whether they be larder boy, prince, or shepherd. I don’t fancy loud parties—but o! how I love our ghillies.
Eliza read on, delighting in the little sketch Ada had drawn in the margins, showing a Christmas tree and a pair of hounds reclining by a stone hearth. Malcolm had gotten his artistic talent from his mother.
She turned the page. Several of the leaves had been ripped from the journal, their jagged remnants deckled against the binding. The next entry was very short:
April 20th, 1874
I am married.
The clock in the foyer chimed twice. Eliza shut Sense and Sensibility and tucked the little journal into her apron pocket. It was time to meet Lydia for tea.
“Clarence proposed. We’re to be wed at Christmastime.” Lydia extended her hand. A heart-shaped ruby on a slender gold band glinted on her finger.
“Oh, Lyddie, I’m so delighted! We must start planning.”
Lydia shook her head. “It will only be a small affair—at the chapel. Clarence has his heart set on a proper church wedding. He’s promised he won’t have me convert, so long as I agree to baptize our children Anglican. I’ve agreed.”
“You confessed your faith?”
“Of course, Liza. As well as everything else. He’s quite open, my Clarence. And you can’t very well base a marriage on lies, can you?” Lydia sat across from Eliza and took a drink of her tea. Her eyes darted to the carpet at Eliza’s feet, her brow creasing. “What’s that, on the floor?”
Ada’s diary lay there, its embossed cover gleaming in the afternoon light slanting through the window. Eliza reached down to pick it up, flipping her thumb through the pages. “It’s my mother-in-law’s old diary. It must have fallen out of my pocket when I sat down.”
“How intriguing. Where did you find it?”
“It’s the strangest thing,” Eliza said. “Last night, I was reading in my room when I heard a tapping sound. I never found the source, but this diary came tumbling out of my armoire. It must have been shaken loose by the racket.”
“Tapping, you said? Was there any rhyme or reason to it?”
“It came in a series of three, as if someone were walking about and pausing to rap thrice before moving on and doing it again. It happened at least five times.”
Lydia’s brows knit together in concern. “Have you seen anything? Heard anything else or felt strange sensations of any kind?”
“Not especially. Nothing but the house settling, as all houses do. Creaking doors and such. Malcolm said it’s only the pipes clanging through my walls, but it sounded . . . intelligent.”
Lydia held out her hand. “Can I see the diary?”
Eliza bridled. “Why?”
Lydia tilted her head, fixing Eliza with an annoyed expression. “You know why.”
Eliza reluctantly handed the book over. Lydia took it and sat back in her chair, closing her eyes. A distressed frown crossed her face, and within just a few seconds, she gasped and dropped the diary as if it were a hot coal. It landed on the carpet with a muted thunk.
“What? What did you see?” Eliza asked, her hand darting out to retrieve the little book.
Lydia pushed her fingers against her forehead. “Blood. Fire. Rage. I didn’t want to go any further. The person who wrote this was deeply distressed.”
“Everyone I’ve met but Sarah says the same—that she was mad.”
A humorless smile twisted Lydia’s lips. “That’s not the worst of it. I’ve tried to warn you. You need to be careful. Protect yourself with charms and pray the Rosary every day without fail.”
A shiver ran through Eliza. “Are you talking about ghosts?”
“It could be more. Perhaps it’s only the spirits of the deceased, but it might be something worse.” Lydia reached out and grasped Eliza’s wrist tightly, pressing in with her fingertips, and then let go. The impressions left by her fingers remained on Eliza’s wrist, glowing whiter than the skin around them. “When something traumatic happens, it leaves a mark. That energy—that blackness and anger—remains in a place the same way a bruise lingers long after an injury. Whatever happened in that house, the evil created by it may still be there, Liza.”