Parting the Veil by Paulette Kennedy
CHAPTER 29
Eliza peered out her window through branches furred with hoarfrost. A ragged chill ached through her wool stockings, cramping her toes. Shirley knelt before the grate, humming to herself as she stoked the embers, but the meager fire did little to dispel the cold as Eliza dressed. It now felt like true winter, even though they were only a fortnight into October. Eliza had spent the three days since Malcolm’s departure watching the shadows grow long across the floor as the sunlit hours grew shorter. Even her favorite books were no longer a distraction. She’d been too consumed with thoughts of malevolent spirits and Lydia’s warnings to concentrate on anything else.
The truth was, for all her protestations otherwise, Freddie’s story had rattled her. His distress as he relayed his account of the accident had been enough to demonstrate his honesty. Whatever happened in the south wing, it had frightened him terribly. It was one thing to have spirits that played at games. It was quite another to know it was done with malicious intent.
That evening, Eliza took her solitary dinner early, then went up to her rooms. She was settling down for the night, doing her mending by the fireplace in her chambers, when a creaking sound, as if a door were slowly being opened, sounded from the other side of the wall. She paused, listening. The unmistakable sound of footsteps came down the hallway. Eliza glanced at the mantelpiece. The clock read eleven. She rose and went to her door, peering out. The shadow of the winged seraph at the foot of the main staircase loomed like a great dragon over the gallery leading to Malcolm’s chambers. There was no one about that she could see.
Perhaps it had only been Turner, tending to his last few chores before going to bed. Yes, that was all. Surely. Eliza slowly closed the door. She settled back into her chair and picked up her sewing. Her hands shook slightly as she strained to keep her stitches in a steady row.
There it was again. Footsteps.
She put her work to the side and rushed to the door like a bloodhound with its nose to the ground. The sound was further away now—the distant clicking of heeled shoes on marble flooring. The ballroom. Eliza went into the hallway and crossed the gallery to the ballroom’s entrance, her heartbeat jumping in her throat. She put her ear to the door and listened. The tapping was dainty—delicate. The footsteps of a woman.
“Shirley, is that you?” Eliza called, her voice wavering. The footsteps stopped immediately. But no voice answered in reply.
Eliza closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. She flung the door open wide and then stepped back as if she were expecting a ghostly cavalry to come charging through with swords drawn. She cautiously peeked over the threshold. The room was empty apart from the decorations for their abandoned ghillies ball, the plaid bunting shrouding the corners. The wet scent of fallen leaves wafted through the room, as if carried on an invisible breeze. “Hello?” she questioned. “Shirley?”
The distant sound of footsteps came again. On the floor, just visible in the wan light from the windows, a faint tracery of damp footprints led to the doors to the south wing. Eliza raced across the room, nearly slipping in her haste. “Shirley, are you in there?” She shook the doorknob and twisted it. Locked. As usual. She ran her hands along the edges of the molding, feeling for anything that might indicate a weakness she could use to her advantage. The wood was as smooth as vellum, the joining solid. She tried the latch again, but the lock held fast.
“This is ridiculous. I’m finding my way in here, one way or another.”
She went back to her room and rifled through her writing desk until she found her pearl-handled letter opener, its edge as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. She flew back to the doors and wedged the pointed tip into the lock’s opening. She leaned on the handle as she worked the letter opener in a circle, trying desperately to engage the lock’s tumbler. After going through various maneuvers, she gave up, groaning in frustration. A locked door was not going to keep her out for long. Someone was in there. Someone corporeal enough to leave footprints on the floor.
She had the momentary thought of going through the windows from the outside, as only two of them had been replaced during construction. But that was risky. If she injured herself, no one would know until it was too late. She needed a better plan. One that Malcolm would never find out about.
Eliza was helping Shirley clean the larder when she decided to bring up the matter of the keys. “His lordship didn’t happen to have a copy of the house keys made for you, did he, Shirley?”
“He did. Mr. Turner has his set and I’ve one, too.”
A frisson of excitement ran through Eliza. “Is Turner here?”
“Nae, mum. He’s gone to the village for the weekly errands.”
“After we’ve finished the larder, let’s go into the south wing and freshen it up a bit. I’m sure it’s still a mess from when the workers were here. With winter coming on early, I’d like to at least cover the broken windows.”
Shirley stopped her scrubbing and slowly turned. “His lordship told me we weren’t to go into that part of the house, m’lady. He said it weren’t safe.”
“Malcolm doesn’t think my crossing a mud puddle is safe, Shirley. I’ve learned not to listen to my husband on every account, especially when he isn’t here.”
Eliza stood before the doors to the south wing, going through every key on Shirley’s chatelaine, twisting and turning from left to right. When she became frustrated, Shirley tried them herself, huffing and puffing with the effort. “I’m sorry, m’lady, but none of these are a fit.”
Eliza sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Do you think any of these would fit the downstairs entrance?”
“Nae, mum. The locks are cut just the same. We can ask Mr. Turner for his if it’s so important.”
The house keys were always in Turner’s possession, either buckled to his waistcoat or locked in the desk in his room. The loyal butler was kind and deferent, but Eliza had the sneaking suspicion he relayed all her activities to Malcolm. “No, no we can’t do that. I’ve another idea.”
“I’d figured as much, canny as ye are.”
Eliza gave a sly grin. “I know you’re sweet on Turner. I can see it when you look at him.”
“And here I thought I was doin’ a better job of hidin’ it. He’s right charming, after all.”
“I’ll tell you a little secret,” Eliza whispered, pulling Shirley down the hall. “I’ve caught him looking at you when you’re unaware. I’ve a feeling, with a little encouragement, he could be persuaded to confess his longing for you.”
Shirley’s round little cheeks turned scarlet beneath her curls. “And this late in life! The very thought of it.”
“Why not? You’re not too old, and neither is Turner. Now, I’ve found his lordship’s cache of Oban whisky, which I know you’re fond of.”
“Indeed, it sets the senses to tingling, doesn’t it?”
“I can certainly tell when his lordship has had it,” Eliza said, smiling slyly. “He paws at me like a jungle cat.”
“Goodness me.”
“After dinner, you and Turner can go into the library. You’ll put some music on—perhaps something French to set a mood—and I’ll pour the liquor.”
“Sounds lovely,” Shirley said. “I’ve not played the coy hen for many a year. I’ll have to practice.”
“The only thing I’ll ask is that you swap your keys for Mr. Turner’s. Do you think you can manage that?”
“That won’t be any problem at all, m’lady. They look exactly alike, apart from the one key. He won’t likely ken the difference.”
“And I can trust you never to breathe a word of this to his lordship, or Mr. Turner?”
“You can, mum.”
“Good. After you’ve finished with your little tryst, come upstairs and rap on my door. You can pass me the keys. That’s all you’ll need to do.”
“Aye, are ye sure, then? Rather late to be doin’ the dustin’ is all, m’lady.”
“Yes, but I’ve always been a bit of a night owl.”
Eliza poured the amber whisky into two glasses and handed one to Turner and the other to Shirley. Shirley had dressed for the occasion, wearing a purple silk kimono over a simple lavender dress, her auburn hair piled high. Turner, still in his livery, perched on the edge of his chair as if he’d soon be called into action. He was avoiding looking at Shirley. Eliza was growing ever more confident his reticence was proof of his ardor.
As Jenny Lind crooned from the gramophone, Eliza poured herself a finger of whisky and knocked it back in one swallow. They obviously needed a bit more help. “Doesn’t Mrs. Duncan look fetching tonight, Turner?”
“I wouldn’t know, mum. Wouldn’t be polite to say so, even if I were to think it.”
“Turner, you’re certainly entitled to give your opinion. Besides, if we’re to run this household well while my husband is away, it starts with harmony between the two most important people in the house.”
“M’lady, I’m quite unsure what you’re talking about,” Turner said, fidgeting in his chair.
“It’s just that, with all these years working beneath the same roof, Mr. Turner, I barely know ye,” Shirley said. “I’m keen to be your friend.”
“Well then.” Eliza clapped her hands together and stood. “The two of you should enjoy your whisky and get to know one another—I’m sure you have much more in common than you realize. I’m going to put myself to bed and read for a bit.”
Eliza ducked around the corner. She stood listening as Shirley began recounting stories of her youth in Aberdeen. In a few moments, Turner began to chuckle, and there was the sloshing of more liquor being poured.
“You little minx.” Eliza smirked. She crept up the stairs to her room on catlike feet.
After an hour or so, she heard the telltale squeak of the floorboards outside her room. She put down her novel and slid into her bed slippers. “Come in, Shirley.”
Shirley poked her head in the door. “He’s out like a light, mum. I dinnae think he’ll wake ’til morning.” She shook the keys in her hands.
“How was it?”
“Oh, it was delightful. Mr. Turner is right charming once he lets off his airs. He’ll nae likely remember it tomorrow, but we had a wonderful conversation.”
“Nothing more?” Eliza asked, arching her brow as she took the keys.
Shirley giggled. “Not yet at any rate, but perhaps in time. Are ye sure ye won’t be needin’ me to go with ye tonight, mum? It’s nae entirely safe.”
“It’s best if I do this alone, to keep his lordship from blaming you should he ever find out what we were up to while he was gone. I’ll be fine, Shirley.”
“Och. I’ll not say a word to his lordship, but I won’t be takin’ any of the blame if things go pear-shaped, ye strong-willed lass.” She gave Eliza’s hand an awkward pat, then ambled down the hallway, weaving a bit as she walked.
Eliza waited, listening to the house creak and settle. Content that all were asleep who should be, she lit one of the Tilley lanterns Malcolm had placed in each bedroom for emergencies and crept to the ballroom. She muffled the clanking of the keys in the folds of her nightdress and stood her lantern on the floor to work by. The jumping flame illuminated the portraits of Malcolm’s ancestors, creating the unsettling feeling of being watched.
She went through each key in an ordered fashion, eliminating them one by one. After four tries, she found it—a bronze key with a carved, crown-shaped fob at its base. The lock engaged with a satisfying click and turned. The door swung open. Eliza drew in a steadying breath to push past her fear, lifted her lantern, and stepped inside.