Parting the Veil by Paulette Kennedy
CHAPTER 33
Eliza woke the next morning, the sheets tangled around her, the waxen odor of extinguished candles wafting through the room. She was naked, her nightdress heaped on the floor beside the bed. She shivered at the memory of her nightmare. Though it had only been a dream, it felt all too shameful and real.
Her head rang like a gong. She pushed the heels of her hands against her eyes to quell the throbbing, then stood on shaky legs. Her stomach turned and she hastily rushed to her washbasin, but as she’d slept through dinner, nothing came up but water.
Shirley rapped on the door. “Mum, I’ve a warm toffee pudding downstairs. I’m dreadful worried you’re not eating enough.”
Her stomach lurched at the mention of food. “I’ll be down shortly, Shirley. I’m feeling a bit unwell this morning.”
Eliza put on a simple day dress made of silver-gray wool, then went downstairs on leaden feet. She hadn’t even bothered to brush her hair.
Turner was in the morning room, filling a dish with almonds on the sideboard.
“Mr. Turner, have you heard from his lordship?”
“No, my lady. But that isn’t at all unusual when he’s in London. Politics in a time of war is a full-time endeavor. Our men over there are struggling, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, but I received a letter from Lord Eastleigh yesterday. He claims he’s only seen Malcolm at the Lords once. And I had an awful dream last night. I could have sworn Malcolm was in my chambers.” Eliza shuddered. “And then he turned into a gigantic serpent and tried to devour me. It was horrid.”
Two bright spots of red appeared on Turner’s wrinkled cheeks. “How strange.”
“I’ve been more than a little troubled by sleeplessness and horrid dreams lately. They’ve the feeling of portents—bad omens. If you know something I don’t, Mr. Turner, you must tell me. I haven’t heard a word from Malcolm, and you must at least know where he’s lodging.” Eliza crumpled her napkin in her hand, her voice rising. “Is he in trouble or hurt? I feel as if I’m the last to know anything about my husband, when I should be the first!”
Just then, as if she’d been summoned by the fervor in Eliza’s voice, Shirley swung through from the kitchen. She and Turner exchanged a look. “Now, dinnae fash your head, ye wee dove.” Shirley patted her shoulders and poured more tea into her cup. “His lordship is only right busy, that’s all. Now, have some pudding. All’s well, I promise.”
“You should get out for a bit, m’lady,” Turner offered dismissively. “See your friends. Have your mind on other things. It’s no good for a soul to be cooped up inside all the time. As soon as I’ve heard a hint of a word from London, I will pass it directly to you. I can assure you of that.” With a crisp about-face, he left the room, Shirley trailing him.
Eliza slumped in her chair. Whatever they were keeping from her, she wasn’t going to find out anything by asking questions.
“We should have a séance!” Polly clapped her hands together and beamed across the checked tablecloth. “On All Hallows’ Eve!”
Having grown tired of the gloom inside the house and her pointless worrying over Malcolm, Eliza had taken Turner’s advice and invited Polly and Sarah to dinner out at the Rose. The little pub was bustling with activity, the farmers’ purses fat with their harvest profits. Eager to help the villagers escape the grim news from the foreign front, the barkeeps were generous with their pours, and bawdy jokes were in abundance. The air was clouded with a warm, pleasant fug, scented with tobacco and wood fire as a band pounded out a jig, making the wooden tables bounce with the beat.
“If we’re to have a séance, then you must play medium, Miss Whitby! Or should I say Mrs. O’Riordan?” Sarah smirked. She was dressed in a tailored suit and a felt derby adorned with a jaunty quail feather, handsome as any swell.
“We’re not yet betrothed.”
“Yet,” Eliza teased. “Polly, I am so very happy for you.”
“Save your celebrations. Papa may well forbid it. I still have to write to him.”
“Then you’ll do the same as Eliza and elope. He can’t very well steam home from India in time to stop you,” Sarah said. “Besides, you’re as good as living together with him staying in your guest house. It’s not as much of a well-kept secret as you think. You should hear her brag about Freddie’s kisses, Eliza. I’ve heard he’s kissed more than her pretty rosebud mouth.”
Polly turned scarlet. “Oh, do hush up, Sarah!”
“I’d wager he’s not as good at pleasing your quim as I am, though.” She leaned back in her chair and took a drag off her cheroot.
“You go too far!” Polly exclaimed.
Sarah grinned. “Polly pretends to be demure, but I brought her first paroxysm.”
Polly’s mouth formed an O, and she crossed her arms over her bosom. “Sa-rah! Please!”
“Yes, as I recall, that’s exactly what you said.”
“We have had far too much ale, ladies,” Eliza said, laughing. Her head was growing lighter by the moment with drink, but she hadn’t felt this carefree in weeks.
“Back to your ghosts,” Sarah said. “Who do you think is haunting you?”
Eliza shook her head. “I’m not sure. But I’m certain at least one of the spirits is female. There’s a lady’s maid no one seems keen to talk about—a woman named Beatrice. As for the other, the bad one, Lydia thinks it may be old Lord Havenwood. Or a demon.”
“Ah, I remember Bea. She was always kind. I believe she went back to Guernsey to get married. I think one of your ghosts is Gabriel. Pulling your covers off at night and such. Sounds like something he would do. He would have fancied you.” Sarah gazed at her through half-lidded eyes. “He was keen for a ginger cat.”
“I found his funerary portrait the other day, tucked into a book. It startled me.”
“Fastest wake in all of Hampshire, that one,” Sarah said, taking another draw off her cigarette. “Straight to the tomb after an hour. People implied it was because Malcolm murdered him before the fire even happened and he didn’t want people staring at the corpse too long. Not a hair was singed on his head.”
“It was likely the smoke that killed him. I suppose a funeral was a lot for Malcolm to manage on his own. I’ve buried my family. It’s something you’re only halfway present for.” An image of her parents’ wake flew through her memory, their coffins raised on crepe-shrouded plinths in the front parlor of Anaquitas, white lily petals against their jaundiced, swollen skin. She shuddered, eager to turn the conversation away from funerals and murder and back to ghosts. “Won’t Freddie be concerned about your being in the same house as the ghost that toppled him, Polly?”
“Freddie may not want to set foot inside your house ever again, but my curiosity must be satisfied. What he won’t know, he can’t forbid.” Polly smacked her palms down on the table. “It’s settled, then. An All Hallows’ séance. We’ll get soused on rum punch and consult the spirits.”