Parting the Veil by Paulette Kennedy

CHAPTER 35

Eliza was no longer sleeping. Instead of retiring to her chambers in the evenings, she remained on the chesterfield in the library until she heard Shirley’s door open at five in the morning, her eyes bared to every flitter of movement. Once the house was bustling with activity, she could finally rest, but her sleep was far from restorative. Her skin had lost its characteristic flush and her fingers trembled from exhaustion. Even her appetite had become abysmal—the tea tray Shirley brought for her hours earlier, stacked with squares of her favorite shortbread, remained untouched. Every bite of food she took in lately seemed to turn to ash in her mouth.

The séance had stoked even more questions. Who were the spirits they’d spoken to? One seemed to have clearly been old Havenwood. Was the other the mysterious Beatrice? Or someone else?

The sonorous chime of the doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Shortly, Turner appeared in the library, presenting an envelope on a silver tray. Eliza recognized Lydia’s looping, graceful hand right away. Taking note of the address and the fineness of the paper (Lydia’s mother had married well, it would seem), she tore the seal carefully and read.

Dearest Liza,

I have arrived unscathed and in good health. The passage was a bit choppy, although we experienced no delays. Maman Justine met me at the port with her husband, George Fontaine. He’s a railway engineer and very kind. They’ve a lovely home with green shutters in Uptown, near the park. Best of all, I have a brother and sister! Margot is fifteen and a bit spoilt and headstrong, like you. Hugo is twelve and so quiet I hardly know he’s about. I must admit, a piece of my soul has moved back in place. I do miss you, though. Terribly.

How is Sherbourne House? Pray, tell me you’ve gone there, at least while Malcolm is away. I do worry so. Have you heard news from London? The papers are saying the war in Africa isn’t going well, although there is much more sympathy for the Boers’ plight here, as you can imagine. I expect the soldiers will be returning to England soon. I’m going to volunteer at Charity while here, to insure my skills will not founder. I mean to improve in surgical assistance and midwifery, so that upon my return I will be primed to begin my work with Clarence anew—and I will return after the year turns, I promise you, sister. Have faith! Ask after Clarence for me, would you? And please write soon.

All my love,

Lyddie

Eliza wasted no time in replying. She rushed to her room, took out her finest stationery, and wrote.

Cher Lyddie,

I miss you. A thousand times a day I think of you! Sarah and Polly are fine company, but they could never replace your fond governance over me. It seems you are more settled having gone, and that is no small thing. I am happy for you, even if, selfishly, I wish you were here at my side.

I have not heard from Malcolm. Not a single telegram or letter. I am more than a little concerned by this, but Turner says this is not unusual when he is away. I will remain optimistic and try not to worry.

Sherbourne House is in good order under Mr. Mason’s care, although I have not left the manor. Things are as quiet as a church at Havenwood. There has been no activity from the spirits, and I am safe. Please do not be angry with me for staying, sister. It is my duty, as mistress of this house, to remain in my husband’s absence. As he continually reminds me, I am a viscountess now, and must act as such. Please write again . . . your letters are sustenance.

I love you,

Liza

Eliza sealed the envelope. Lying to her sister was no easy thing, but it was much more readily done in writing than in person, where Lydia could search out a falsehood in every glance and gesture Eliza made. At least she’d told half the truth.

Eliza bundled up in her fur muffler and cape, then walked the short distance to the post road, where the postal office stood like a stalwart little fortress among a zigzagging maze of telegraph wires. Inside, she was greeted with a blast of warm air, and Nigel sorting mail at the counter. He was wearing a smart new uniform, with a gleaming badge on his breast.

“Good afternoon, Nigel,” Eliza said. “You’ve gotten a promotion, I see.”

“Yes, m’lady. Assistant Branch Postmaster Phelps now, it is. I’m looking to hire a boy to help with deliveries, as I’m needed here in office. I’m fifteen now, you know.” Nigel smiled, sending her thoughts once more to Albert, who would have been about the same age, had he lived.

“Well, Mr. Phelps, congratulations.”

“I see you’ve a letter to send?” he asked. Eliza offered the envelope. Nigel glanced at the address. “To America! I hardly ever get to use that stamp.” He placed it to the side with a stack of mail, then reached into a cubby behind the counter. “You’ve saved me a trip down the road, mum. A wire came through from your husband a few moments ago.”

“Oh, what good news!” Finally. Eliza took the telegram from Nigel and opened it with shaky fingers. To her disappointment, it contained only two lines of text:

Will return Nov 6 (stop) Send Turner to Winchester Station that morning (stop) War is going poorly and I am weary (stop)—Malcolm

Malcolm was coming home! Her relief tempered the momentary irritation she felt at his lack of endearments. He was safe and well, and that went a long way toward lifting her bad humor. But it meant she only had a few more days to freely investigate the strange happenings in the house. She had to hurry.

When she got back to Havenwood Manor, sending Turner and Shirley into a flurry of preparations for their master’s return, Eliza went directly to her room. She took the hollowed-out book she’d found in Ada’s room and sat on the edge of the bed, holding it in her upturned palms. She closed her eyes, hoping for a psychic impression. Nothing but dizziness and a wave of nausea coursed through her. Unlike Lydia, divination wasn’t one of her gifts.

She took out the items within the book, laying aside the macabre image of Gabriel and flipping it over so she wouldn’t have to look upon it again. She picked up the locket and ran her fingertips over the front. It was heavy and well made, with its inlay of plaited dark hair woven into a flat herringbone pattern, a heart-shaped medallion made of polished silver at its center. She pushed the clasp, and it sprung open with a click. Inside there was a portrait, not of Gabriel—as she’d expected—but another man. He wore a derby, its brim tilted, the crisp line of his jaw accented by a high, starched collar. His full lips held an easy smile.

Eliza turned over the locket. Engraved on its back was an inscription:

Mon coeur est à toi, pour toujours.My heart is yours, for always.

Eliza’s weariness was replaced with sudden excitement. This wasn’t memento mori at all, but a love token. Had this man been Ada’s lover?

She closed the locket and picked up the book again. Shook it. Nothing. But some pages seemed thicker than others, especially toward the back, past the clever hand-cut cubby. She ran her fingers along the binding, her thumb flicking through the pages near the end. Her intuition proved right; instead of Henry James’s words, thin pieces of onionskin tracing paper adhered to the original pages and flyleaf, their surface figured with letters. The lines were printed neatly, without break or punctuation. Eliza smiled.

It was a code. Now this she could manage.

She rushed to her escritoire and gently prized the vellum from the book’s pages using her letter opener. She pulled out her notebook, hurriedly flicking past her other notes. Within an hour, she’d deciphered the crowded, encoded writing. The letters corresponded to the alphabet, in reverse. Only, instead of English, the words were written in French. Her excitement growing by the moment, she translated the messages. They were love letters—erotic, intense, gloriously descriptive love letters.

I think of you, spread across the whiteness of your bed on those long summer days when the great house grew quiet and still around us, your body an invitation for my lips to kiss. How I long to ply you through your cries, your eloquent whimpers of pleasure maddening me to my own end. Are you touching yourself now? Are you remembering how well I loved you as you read these words? Hasten to me once more, my darling, when the harvest is done.—M

How I long for you, my sweetest love. The taste of your lips. The feel of your soft breasts and the press of your hips against my own. Our love is pure. Do not let them keep us apart. They will not. You are my only joy—a need that courses through me, demanding satisfaction. What torture it is to be kept from you!—M

I went to Winchester, as always, but you did not come. I waited in our little room at the top of the stairs as the hours grew long and my patience grew short. I waited until my obligations to this hellish life forced me to leave. Have you abandoned me altogether? I am lost. If you do not come to me soon—I cannot fathom what I should become capable of in my grief!—M

Eliza drew in a shallow breath. The pieces were falling into place at last. Her intuition had been correct. She opened the locket and traced the picture of the man in the derby hat with her fingertip. If this mysterious “M” was indeed Ada’s secret lover, these concealed love letters could be proof of a motive for murder.