The Winter Garden

by Kara Jorgensen

  Reaching behind her, she unfastened the buttons of her gown and let it slip from her shoulders. Before her eyes could take in what had changed since the Samhain ball, they fell on the series of light green bruises no bigger than peas on the flesh of her upper arm. Emmeline swallowed hard. Lord Rose hadn’t meant to hurt her. In the moment, he simply lost himself. She had crossed him after all, but it was an accident. He even lost sleep for it and wrote a letter of apology, so he must be sorry. If he doesn’t kill you first. With a sharp bang, her fist collided with the tabletop. There was no way he could be right. She had known Lord Rose for years while he had only just met him. Alastair couldn’t possibly— But the look in his eyes when he seized her. Her body tensed at the image of his face twisted with rage and his eyes ablaze like the end of a cigarette. All she wanted to do was a reading for Lord Montagu to put his mind at ease. Why would he deny his brother a reading?

  Emmeline’s heart quickened and every muscle locked. She had mentioned Katherine Waters. What would she have seen if she read Katherine’s necklace again? Would she have seen those eyes burning into her and his mouth curled into a snarl ready to tear his brother’s fiancée apart? Maybe that was why he tried to stop Alexander that afternoon in the Spiritualist society when he crashed through the door and made a scene. He couldn’t let a real medium get her hands on Katherine’s jewelry or he would be caught, and that was why he threatened her when she suggested trying again.

  Could it really be true? Her eyes burned as she set aside the letter and covered her face. Lord Rose and Miss Waters were always together when they came to Oxford for parties or dinners. They would dance, and when they weren’t, she was always at his side. At the Samhain ball, she was surprised to find—

  “Oh, God,” she whimpered with tears scalding her eyes and slipping down her cheeks as her body shook with silent sobs. How had she not realized it sooner? Henrietta Wren had been on his arm the night her mother was burned alive in their house. They weren’t just Spiritualists, they were the women he was courting, but what reason was there to kill Miss Wren or Miss Waters besides that they had hung at his arm? It didn’t matter why. He hadn’t made it to the meeting with the queen, and Immanuel was right. If Lord Rose killed Katherine and Henrietta, did that mean he was the one who gave Immanuel his deformity?

  Those days in captivity had been ticked away by the ritual of Immanuel’s screams of pain at their invisible captor’s hand. All along it had been him. She had been locked away where he could keep an eye on her but where she could never identify him. Her lungs convulsed against her ribs as she let out a ragged cry. He killed her mother. The vision from the crown flashed before her eyes. Lord Rose in his red devil costume had carried her away as her mother and home burned. He had manipulated her the entire time. He had been there at the Thames. He had been there on Samhain. He had witnessed every death and dealt it without a qualm. Emmeline’s lips and face twitched as each breath came quicker and harder than the last until she let out a wail and swept her arm across the tabletop, sending everything off with it.

  “Emmeline, are you all right?” her aunt called through the door.

  She pawed at her eyes and steadied her breathing. “Yes, Aunt Eliza. I thought I saw a spider. Everything is fine.”

  In the stillness, she listened to Eliza Hawthorne’s footsteps taper away until she descended the steps. Turning her gaze to the mirror, Emmeline’s eyes widened in horror. Her hair stood out from her face in wild tangles of inky black while her eyes sharpened with rage, losing their owl-like innocence with the monstrous tinge of red. This creature standing in her undergarments throwing a fit was not her. In a matter of moments, he had reduced her to the same inhuman state she found Immanuel in, and he never had to lift a finger. Lord Rose was a force of destruction she wasn’t prepared for.

  Quietly padding across the floor, she retrieved the letter and envelope which had scattered when she lost control. But how was she to respond? If she didn’t say anything or rejected his offer, he would surely know something was wrong, and being discovered could only end badly for her. How could she be around him knowing he killed her mother? Emmeline squeezed her eyes against the pain, but when she opened them, they fell upon the monogram of his seal. The serpent had seduced her into believing he would get her what she needed: power, position, a husband. At what cost had she nearly given herself utterly to him? Holding her arms, she sat on the edge of her bed and hid the letter in the bottom drawer of her nightstand.

  Immanuel would know what to do. He knew about Lord Rose before she had any inkling of his other side and he knew how their lives were intertwined. A part of her wanted to tear Lord Rose apart, but that course of action would get her nowhere. Surely, Immanuel would know what she could do to avenge her mother and take down the man who destroyed her life. Pulling on a rumbled nightgown and dressing gown from her traveling bag, she crept into the hallway and softly rapped on Immanuel’s door. After a few seconds, the door squealed open, and Immanuel Winter stood before her with a new top hat and a brush in his hands. His blue and brown eyes widened upon seeing her.

  “What happened?” he gasped as he put his Christmas present aside and stooped down to look at her face. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” She drew in a tremulous breath and shut her eyes again when the words refused to budge. Opening her mouth, only a sob came out before she cried, “He killed my mother.”

  Emmeline covered her face as soft, mewling cries broke from her lips but were muffled by her hands. Her body shook against her will. It wasn’t right for her to be blubbering in front of him, yet it was beyond her control. A gentle hand settled on her back and drew her closer until her damp forehead rested against the fabric of his waistcoat. In Immanuel’s loose grasp, she stiffened at the intimacy of the gesture, but there was no guile or ulterior motive when his hands moved up and down her back in an attempt to sooth her. He quietly shushed her and allowed her to cry into his chest.

  “I am so sorry, Miss Jardine. I never meant to drag you and your family into anything like this.”

  Nodding, she steadied her breath and stepped out of his arms. “We need to do something. We cannot let him get away with this. Maybe Uncle James and Aunt Eliza will help us.”

  “He already knows.”

  “And he isn’t doing anything?”

  Immanuel put his finger over his lips to silence her as a door below opened and shut. “He does not think we will be believed since we have no real proof.”

  “I refuse to let him get away with it. He killed my mother, he killed Katherine and Henrietta, and he nearly killed you, too,” she blurted in a harsh whisper as she wiped at her eyes.

  “There is nothing we can do tonight, but I have been thinking about how we can go about proving our case. Tomorrow, I am going to Adam Fenice’s house to ask him for his help. Would you like to accompany me?”

  “Who would be my chaperone? I can’t just be in the company of two young men alone.”

  “His sister will be home, so she could act as your chaperone instead of Mrs. Hawthorne. That way we can speak freely. I will send a letter right now to Adam and see if we can arrange for Miss Fenice to walk with us to Baker Street.”

  As Immanuel turned to enter his room, Emmeline caught his sleeve. “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome, Miss Jardine.” He smiled weakly. “I would hope you would do the same for me.”

  Chapter Thirty-One:

  A Woman’s Finesse

  It seemed like such a good idea the night before. Emmeline steadied her breath and straightened her back as she waited on the steps of Lord Rose's Mayfair home beside her aunt. Be brave. Heroines must always be brave, she repeated to herself. Was Cleopatra afraid when she plotted against Octavian? Did Portia cower when she testified against her father? No, they did what they had to no matter the danger. Lord Rose couldn't know what they were up to, and it was her job to remain charming and affable.

  Before she left, Immanuel had reminded her that as long as she was with Eli
za, she was safe. He was too busy keeping up appearances to strike in front of someone. After what she realized only days before, she couldn't be sure of that. If she let on that she knew what he did, they would all pay dearly for her misstep. Emmeline tightened her grip on Eliza’s arm. While she and Immanuel shared the ability to return from the dead, her aunt did not.

  Sitting around the Fenice's kitchen table with bottomless pots of tea, they drew out the first phase of their plan. Nothing could be done until they had evidence of Lord Rose's involvement, and while she was inside, she hoped to sneak away. Originally, Mr. Fenice and Immanuel had intended to somehow break into the house, but even before seeing the sheer Grecian façade, she knew it was stupid idea. Immanuel was barely able to stand, let alone climb, and Mr. Fenice would have surely not gone unnoticed with his distinctive hair. No, this part of the plan needed a woman's finesse, but how she would slip away was still a mystery, even to her.

  She glanced down the street. Somewhere in the city, Immanuel and Mr. Fenice were breaking into the house that had been their prison. Miss Fenice’s fiancée had made a list of the Marquess of Montagu’s properties from his late-father’s records. There was only one within walking distance of Wimpole Street, and with Lord Rose occupied with their meeting, they only had to worry about the neighbors alerting the police. Emmeline recited a silent prayer to her mother and hoped she would keep them all safe.

  Her heart sputtered as the front door opened, but luckily it was only one of the footmen. As he hung their coats and took their calling card to Lord Rose, she attempted to take a deep breath but was hampered by her corset. Her eyes traveled over the dark wallpaper and heavy wooden furniture. Each surface seemed wrought and worked into an arabesque or Grecian line, and much like her own home in Oxford, it was sumptuous with gilded knickknacks and an ebony angel holding a torch aloft on the newel post of the stairs.

  “Lord Rose will see you in the drawing room,” the footman announced before leading them past the stairs and into the rear of the house.

  Why did they have to leave the safety of the front rooms? If something went wrong in the parlor, she could run out onto the street, but in the drawing room, there was no easy source of escape. The breath caught in her throat. Standing before the fire was Alastair Rose. In the crystal ashtray beside him a cigarette still smoldered, and for a second, she felt the heat of it on the back of her arm again. For the first time she noticed the thick knuckles of his hand and the power in the veins that popped and rolled as he gnashed out the butt with a final twist. Lord Rose turned, his penetrating predator eyes flickering before fading into rehearsed hospitality. She glanced at Eliza, but she hadn’t noticed.

  “Mrs. Hawthorne, Miss Jardine, I am so glad you could come,” he said as he motioned for them to take a seat. “I must apologize for sending you such a hurried invitation, but I wanted to ensure we spoke before your husband— He has discussed the project with you, hasn’t he?”

  “Of course,” Eliza Hawthorne replied as a servant carried in a tray loaded with tea and cakes. “Dr. Hawthorne and I do not have any secrets.”

  Obviously you do, or you would not have brought me here, Emmeline thought as she took the cup offered to her. It had been hard to feign surprise after Immanuel told her about her grandfather’s contract with the queen to revive her dead husband and how her uncle had inherited it after his death. Her aunt had revealed much less, only stating the prince consort wasn’t really dead and that her uncle and Lord Rose were involved in returning him to health.

  “Miss Jardine, are you feeling well? You are very subdued today.”

  She didn’t have to look up to know his eyes were boring into her. Could he see her hand shaking as she placed her cup and saucer down? “I’m sorry. I am simply overwhelmed by the possibility of meeting the queen. What will I say? How should I dress? What will be expected of me?”

  The corner of his lip curved into a smile. “There is no need to fret, Miss Jardine. I have your best interest at heart. Now, I promise this will be brief.”

  Emmeline held her breath as he began outlining the duties that would be required of her. It would be nothing more than reading one of the Prince Consort’s belongings and confirming to Her Majesty that all was well. She had to act, she had to get away before he finished otherwise the trip would be an utter waste and she would have nothing to help convict him. Her eyes trailed to the cup of tea her aunt was refilling while still listening to Alastair Rose. Picking it up, she watched the steam rise from its rim. It might burn, but it would be worth it. With a lurch, Emmeline sent the cup spilling into her lap and onto the carpet. She yelped as the liquid seeped into the layers of her periwinkle gown.

  “My dress!” she cried, jumping up from her seat and turning away from her aunt and Lord Rose to keep them from seeing her spread the stain further with her handkerchief. “It’s ruined!”

  “Let me help you.”

  “No,” Emmeline pushed her aunt’s hand away, “I’m fine. Lord Rose, may I use your powder room?”

  “Of course.” He pulled the bell cord, and within moments, the same footman who took their coats reappeared. “Joseph, please show Miss Jardine to the powder room.”

  Following close behind the tall young man, the knot in Emmeline’s chest loosened as they climbed the steps. Her eyes darted over each door, trying to discern which would yield what she needed. The footman opened a door at the end of the hall for her and withdrew a towel from the neighboring closet. She gratefully took it, but he lingered outside the door.

  The footman wasn’t much older than she was, so she stared up at him through her lashes and whispered with a smile, “Joseph, was it? Joseph, thank you for assisting me, but you needn’t wait for me. I am sure you have much more important things to do, and I can find my own way back.”

  With a nod, Joseph disappeared down the stairs. Turning on the tap, Emmeline wet the cloth and blotted her dress. The stain wouldn’t come out anyway, but she knew she had to make a show of it. Carefully closing the door behind her, she tiptoed down the hall and opened the first door. The curtains were drawn across the windows, casting the room in near darkness with the sallow rain pattering beyond the panes, but there was no mistaking Lord Rose’s bedroom. Emmeline’s pulse quickened. At one time she would have given anything to be beneath the dark, silken canopy of the Gothic bed, yet now she was ashamed of those forbidden feelings. How could she have ever been in love with the man who killed her mother? She quietly shut the door and darted over to his dresser. Opening each drawer in succession, she found nothing but clothing and books, which she quickly put back when she realized what they were. Where else could he hide something?

  Looking up into the mirror, her eyes fell on an armoire tucked behind the heavy canopy. With a soft click, the door swung open to reveal a hodgepodge of equipment and clothing. Heavy sweaters with leather pads for climbing hung beside his red devil costume, and sitting below them was a pair of worn climbing stilts, a wooden chest, and a strange contraption. It was the size of sewing machine but resembled a set of metal lungs. Tugging the cord at the top, Emmeline pulled the rubber-coated wire until a plate with spikes slid into her hand. She turned it over in the dim light. As she brought it closer, she stifled a gasp. The end was tipped in blood. It had to be the device he used, the one she saw Immanuel killed with. If only it was small enough to take with her, at least then she could ensure no one else would be harmed by it. After returning the trigger to its proper place, she lifted the lid of the chest.

  The box was divided into sixteen cubicles with nine empty slots. Carefully lifting a jar out of its cubby, she stared into it. At first it seemed empty, but something shimmered within. Her hand grew warm as the wisp of blue light drew closer. It flattened against the edge, and before Emmeline’s eyes appeared the ragged form of a woman. Through her thin face and the dark outline of her curly hair, she could make out Lord Rose’s bed, but there was no mistaking that it was Katherine Waters. Her wide, colorless eyes seemed to be staring through her
when finally they locked onto hers. Goosebumps swept over her arms and neck as Katherine’s lips moved to form words she couldn’t understand even though their meaning was clear. Release me. Emmeline stared down at the lid. She could tear it open and let her out, but he would surely notice and know exactly who did it. As she moved to return Katherine’s vessel to its place, something caught the light.

  Reaching in, Emmeline pulled out a ring with a purple stone. It had to have belonged to her. She slipped it onto her finger. If she couldn’t take the jars or the machine, she could at least bring back Katherine’s ring. After placing Katherine back into the ossuary, she lifted each jar in turn to see if anything was hidden beneath them, but when she reached an empty slot, she found a familiar vial on a chain. The empty glass was decorated with gold and silver leaves curling up its length before reaching the cap where it was engraved in Latin.

  Emmeline froze as a board creaked outside the door. The light filtering in from the hall was broken by two thick legs. She looked into the armoire, but it was too full for her to climb in. Soundlessly closing the doors, she flattened against the wall behind the curtain and slid to the floor as the knob jiggled in its plate. Her heart pounded as she wiggled under the low frame of the bed, silencing her squeaks of panic by biting her lip. Light streamed in front of the bed when the door finally opened and the man walked in. She flinched with each heavy step while he lumbered only inches from her face, moving past the bed and over to the armoire. The breath hitched in her throat as he threw back the bed-curtains and then the drapes. He knew someone was in there. Covering her eyes with her arm, she held her breath and waited. The man opened drawers and doors, circling the bed until finally his heavy tread retreated out the door. For a long moment, Emmeline lay in the silence, waiting for the tattoo of her heart to slow. Sliding out on her belly, she stood and brushed the dust from her hair and dress. With trembling fingers, Emmeline opened the top of her gown and slipped Immanuel’s amulet over her neck before buttoning it.