“Yes. Through my father by marriage,” Robert supplied, sweating from the heat of the kitchen. “Please, no need to curtsey, madam.”
“Some food? You must be famished after your journey.”
Before Robert could answer, the golden-haired girl—he recalled her name was Grace—called out, “You’re really here with Hugh?”
How familiar they were, calling his cousin by his Christian name like they’d known him intimately, instead of as their employer.
“I fear it is true—Hugh de Bonne has passed and I have arrived bearing his mortal remains,” Robert answered in his most professional tones. “I regret bringing these sorrowful tidings.”
Owen said, “That’s what Miss Isabelle said your brother wrote. She was so upset she locked herself in her room for a full day.”
“Are you to take possession of Weald House then?” Mrs. Chilvers asked, wary.
“No, no. Miss Lowell was chosen as Mr. de Bonne’s heir,” Robert reassured. “I’m only cousin to Mr. de Bonne through marriage—I never had the privilege of meeting him in this life. That said, I pray I can fulfill his last wishes as he desired.”
“Aren’t you fancy?” Grace rejoined.
A collective giggle ran around the table. Robert’s cheeks prickled with warmth. This was no lecture hall in Oxford with scholars, or parlor in Belgravia crowded with the bereaved. Even so, he could tell this was a house in mourning as surely as if he’d come across a crape bow on the door. He’d seen enough during his employment to recognize the signs: the disarray, the hushed tones, the excited yet lackadaisical servants, as though the house were trapped beneath a stilled clock.
“Come now, Mr. Highstead,” Mrs. Chilvers said. “No need to share words intended for another’s ear. I’ll take you to Miss Isabelle.” She gathered a candle from the mantel. “I suppose there’s no point putting off bad news.”
* * *
Like Mary at his brother’s house only a day earlier, Mrs. Chilvers moved with a surprising haste despite her bulk. Propelled forward by the anemic glow of her candle, Virgil the dog followed them, his claws clipping on the dulled wood floor.
“So strange to think of Mr. Hugh’s coffin down in the stable,” she said. “I must admit I was staggered when I heard you’d be bringing him here from London. ’ Tis a far way to travel.”
“Not as far as Mr. de Bonne has come,” Robert said. As they passed through a labyrinth of darkened corridors, he inhaled the scent of mold, took in shadowy corners cloaked in neglect. One long wall caved with moisture, its plaster crumbling beneath the weight of gravity. Perhaps Weald House would be shown to better advantage under daylight.
“Mr. de Bonne passed in Geneva,” he added.
“So your brother wrote. A heart attack in his bath, no less. Bathing can be so dangerous.” She pointed down a passageway lined with crimson velvet curtains. “This way, sir.”
As they walked, Robert made out that the estate was oriented around what had probably been a one-room farmhouse; this room had metamorphosed into the kitchen, presumably to take advantage of the overlarge fireplace. The rest of the house sprawled out from the kitchen: a reception room, drawing room, a pantry, all reflecting a time when Weald House was inhabited by more than three servants and their reclusive employer. Now these rooms lay abandoned like limbs whose muscles had atrophied from lack of use.
“Sorry it’s so dark,” Mrs. Chilvers said. “Candles are quite dear these days. I must admit I was surprised to hear of your existence, Mr. Highstead. I hadn’t known Mr. Hugh”—Mrs. Chilvers addressed him by a title, unlike the others—“had any relations. He never spoke of any while he was here. Well, beyond Miss Isabelle, of course. Though she was only through Ada. Hence, I’d assumed—”
“I was his heir?”
Mrs. Chilvers nodded. “You’ll be staying three nights at least?”
“I’d hoped only one.” From a corner of his eye, Robert spied a long-eared wood mouse caught in a trap.
“There’s room enough to stay as long as you’d like, though most of the house is unused these days. We only use the west wing, so you’ll be there. Third floor. I’ll have Owen lay a fire for you. The east wing has been closed up since Miss Ada’s marriage. Not even a stick of furniture in them—well, now I’m gossiping . . .” Her words trailed off in ominous omission as they approached a wide stairwell curving up into more darkness. “Miss Isabelle dines in the library. She’s there now.”
“Do others reside here?” Perhaps Isabelle had a companion to keep her company in this isolated place.
The housekeeper shook her head, stifling a yawn. “Miss Isabelle is a solitary sort. She mainly dwells upstairs, away from Mr. Hugh’s study.”
“And where would his study be?”
“There.” Mrs. Chilvers pointed with her candle down toward a corridor below the stairwell; the walls appeared in better repair. “Just beyond the front entry. It’s the door with the brass plate. Well, we had to do something. The pilgrims come.”
“Pilgrims?”
Mrs. Chilvers nodded solemnly. “They call themselves ‘Seekers of the Lost Dream.’ The Lost History of Dreams and all that. Once Mr. Hugh disappeared, they flocked here for some sign of him. ’ Twas Miss Isabelle’s idea to let them tour his study so they wouldn’t disturb Ada’s Folly. But the pilgrims still ask about it anyway.”
“Because Mrs. de Bonne is interred here?”
“That and because of Mr. Hugh’s poetry. Still, the tours help.”
“So you have random people—Seekers of the Lost Dream, if you will—just show at Weald House?”
“Yes. I know it sounds mad, but the pilgrims are easy enough to identify. One even dyes her hair red in honor of Mr. Hugh—far darker color than yours, Mr. Highstead, though yours looked a bit ginger in the light. Most wear cockades of raven feathers surrounding a rose.”
“Why on earth would they do that?”
“From a poem he wrote, ‘The Rose and the Raven.’ Supposed to be about Miss Ada and their baby.” Mrs. Chilvers halted on the landing, her mouth grim. “I don’t want to think what they’ll do once they learn he’s dead. They’ll probably wail and rend their clothing.”
They turned down another corridor, where piano music drifted toward them. A Beethoven sonata. Whoever was playing was quite accomplished.
Robert asked, “Is that Miss Lowell?”
Mrs. Chilvers nodded. “She practices every night. Must have finished her tea.”
Whether it was the music or that she’d run out of words, the housekeeper finally fell into silence. Robert was grateful. The unexpected emergence of beauty infused him with courage. The truth was the closer Robert grew to meeting Hugh’s niece, the more his apprehension rose, though he was uncertain why. If Isabelle refused his request to daguerreotype Ada’s Folly, he’d just return home to his wife. Hugh, however, would have to be interred far from Ada. John would have to understand, despite the inconvenience of managing the property.
At last Mrs. Chilvers halted at a closed door. It looked no different from any other they’d passed: dark wood with chipped varnish.
“Here we are. The library.” Her voice dropped. “Be gentle. Miss Isabelle is sure to take whatever you have to say hard. Understand?”
And then she knocked on the door.
II.
The piano music came to a halt, leaving an unresolved chord dangling. “Come in,” a weary-sounding female voice responded from inside the library. “You can take my plate.”
“I’m not alone, Miss Isabelle,” Mrs. Chilvers explained, her cheek pressed against the door. “It’s Mr. Hugh’s cousin, a Mr. Highstead. He’s just arrived.”
“Oh. So soon.”
A long pause. A clash on the keyboard. The chord restarted and grew into an impassioned arpeggio.
Robert girded himself, his courage from the music forgotten. This was really no different than his job, he told himself. When he daguerreotyped those corpses, it had been easy to dispense with the homilies and kindn
esses. But he’d never been related to the grieving parties. Until now.
Mrs. Chilvers raised her voice over the music. “Do you want Mr. Highstead to return?”
“No, no . . .” The piano silenced. “It’s just that I’m . . . I’m not really dressed for visitors, mind.”
“Miss Lowell, we can speak at your convenience,” Robert interjected, hoping his reassurance would win him favor.
Mrs. Chilvers whispered, “She’s usually not one for vanity.” She opened the door, gave him a little shove. “Go.”
Once the housekeeper shut the door behind him, Robert was confronted with the unctuous odor of mutton. Because the room was nearly as dark as the hall, it took him a moment to identify where the smell originated: slices of the meat were arrayed on a porcelain plate beside a loaf of bread. Both mutton and bread were untouched. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since Shrewsbury.
“If you’d like some port,” that same female voice said from the shadows, “it’s on the table, Mr. Highstead. Just beyond the food Mrs. Chilvers forgot to take.”
His eyes strained in the dim gloom. Where was she?
“That’s very kind of you, Miss Lowell.”
Robert turned his attention to the rest of the library. Isabelle would be seated at the piano, if only he could find it. How could anyone read music with such little light? She must have played the Beethoven from memory.
The library was a long, narrow room with tall windows lining one side; if it contained books, they were hidden in shadows. Though the drapes were open—a hint of cold drifted from the bared glass—night had curtailed the sky into blackness. On the farthest wall, a coal fire faintly glowed amber beneath a coat of grey ash. A large mirror glimmered above it.
“Where are you?” he asked at last.
“Behind you, Mr. Highstead. By the door.”
Robert turned. The piano, a spinet, was set tight against the wall. A wraithlike figure was silhouetted before it. Hugh’s niece.
She pointed from the piano toward a glass decanter set beside her uneaten meal. For the first time, Robert viewed something tangible of Isabelle: a bony wrist, bleached of color, jutted below her lace cuff like a talon emerging from feathers.
“Port?” she offered again.
“That would be welcomed,” Robert conceded. However, it wasn’t port he wanted, though he’d never admit his hunger. It would be too crass.
He poured himself a glass and took a cautious sip. The port tasted brash with acid.
“Sit there, Mr. Highstead. By the fire. Where I can see you.”
Her hand pointed to a red leather chair adjacent to the fireplace; he hadn’t noticed it earlier.
“Thank you, Miss Lowell.”
From his seat beside the fire, his view of Isabelle Lowell was no better. She remained shrouded in darkness, which made his task seem all the more terrible, like inflicting a wound on a rabbit trapped in a bush—though he couldn’t see the animal, the blow would be lethal. He’d need to be careful. Gentle, as Mrs. Chilvers had implored. He took another slug of port for courage.
Robert adopted his most compassionate tone. “It saddens me to meet you under these circumstances. I have arrived with unfortunate tidings.”
“So your brother wrote,” she rejoined. “My uncle Hugh. Dead. Tell me, is this true?”
“I fear so.”
He paused to let his words settle. He heard a sharp catch in her throat. Even unable to view her face, he knew what Isabelle was experiencing: shock. She’d probably denied the veracity of the letter until his arrival bearing Hugh’s remains. He also knew that, in a moment, she’d begin to cry. He’d seen this before too many times and in too many ways since he’d become a daguerreotypist.
“Miss Lowell,” he said, adopting a tone as mild as milk. If he calmed her before she grew too far gone, he might circumvent a complete collapse. Then he’d be able to press for Hugh’s last request without delay—with luck, he’d be on his way home before noon tomorrow. “Or may I call you Miss Isabelle, since we’re family through Hugh?”
“Miss Lowell will do,” was her short response.
Her breathing became heavy. Irregular. She was going to weep. He knew it.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I wish there was some way I could help—”
“Hugh can’t be dead! He can’t be!” And then she wailed, just as Robert feared. Her wailing went beyond anything he’d heard before. It was a desperate, primal sound, emerging from deep within her, like something a woman would make in the depths of childbirth, or an animal under threat.
Without thinking Robert extended his arms in sympathy. It was a gesture he’d offered many times to the grieving, a quick pat on the back to acknowledge their loss. How strange, though: unable to view her face, he felt as though he were offering comfort to a shadow.
Before he could reach Isabelle, she rose from the piano bench and began to pace. Her profile was silhouetted by the glow of the dying coals.
“Oh God,” she sobbed. “What’s to become of me? What shall I do?”
She wrung her hands, occasionally parting them to pull at her fingers. Even in the low light, the tendons and veins of her hands looked especially prominent. Musician’s hands. If he were to leave Weald House at that moment, he’d have no knowledge of Isabelle’s appearance beyond those twisting, bony hands.
“I understand this is a shock. I hope it will be consolation that your uncle cared to make you his heir,” he said gently. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry?” she snapped, heaving for air. “Is that all you can say?”
Isabelle turned toward him—and at last her face was illuminated. Though he knew it was rude, Robert couldn’t stop gaping.
Isabelle Lowell was not what he’d expected her to be. He’d assumed she was close to his age, but her hair was white and thick and pulled tightly behind her ears, akin to how he imagined the enchantress Circe would appear from his Ovid. Yet Isabelle wasn’t elderly. Her unlined face bore a moonlike countenance, which contrasted against her sharp thin form. Her cheeks were high with color. She was terrifying, but not because her features were disharmonious. Far from it. Her eyes were large and of a color some would call grey, her mouth sensitive within that broad pool of a face. It was because her face was taut with hopelessness, as though life possessed no sweetness and never would. That nothing mattered.
Robert turned his attention to Isabelle’s clothing, as if this would tame his intimidation. Her purple gown was of a style popular over a decade earlier, featuring shirred sleeves alternating with puffed crests. She was still in half-mourning years after Ada’s death. And now Hugh was gone. Even if Isabelle hadn’t seen her uncle in years, he’d stolen her last hope from her.
“I’m so sorry,” he repeated. “If there’s any way I can be of assistance . . .”
For some reason, his words unleashed something in Isabelle. “Assistance?” A bitter laugh. “You’re only saying that because you want something from me, now that Hugh is gone.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” he lied.
“But you do! You do!”
She erupted in a new fluster of tears. How fragile she appeared, how distraught! Robert felt like the coldest, most venal person to walk the earth. Here she was, suffering with sorrow and loss—and she was right. Even now, he was thinking of Hugh’s daguerreotype in the chapel, his brother, and his return home to Sida.
“Please, Miss Lowell,” he said in his mildest tone. “I understand Mr. de Bonne’s death is a shock. That you cared for him.”
“Oh fie on you! You’re like all those who come to this house all these years, waiting and hoping for my uncle’s return, and caring naught for my aunt, like those pilgrims. Hugh never even really lived here—this was Ada’s home. It bears Ada’s history. Not Hugh’s! Not that anyone seems to care . . .”
As Robert listened to her tirade, he couldn’t decide how to respond. Hugh never even really lived here? Mrs. Chilvers hadn’t mentioned this when she spoke o
f him. Nor did Isabelle seem that distressed by her uncle’s death. None of this made sense. Robert drank the rest of the port in a gulp. It didn’t help that the alcohol was snaking through his veins, heightening his confusion. His fists clenched at his side. He yearned to shake her, to startle her into silence so he could think in peace.
He interrupted, “I was under the impression Mr. de Bonne considered Weald House his home.”
She waved his explanation away like a gnat. “Hugh spent a total of two weeks here before the chapel was finished. Two weeks!” She drew a breath, her eyes wet and swollen. “And now you arrive bearing his corpse like a king returning from exile. I’ll never have any peace!”
Robert raised his hand. “It’s late, madam. I didn’t come here only to speak of Mr. de Bonne’s death. I have other news.”
Somehow these words distracted Isabelle. He sensed her anger slow into a curiosity tangible as honey dripping from a knife.
Encouraged, he continued.
“I have a bequest for you.”
She blinked. “What did you say?”
“A special bequest. For you.”
From his waistcoat he drew out the envelope John had given him. Isabelle’s eyes widened like a child at a birthday party.
“For me? From Hugh?” Again she looked as though she’d weep.
He nodded. “All the way from London in the middle of winter. My brother said it was very important.” He lowered his voice to calm her; he’d learned this while soothing the bereaved. “Would you like to know what’s in it?”
Isabelle drew the envelope from his hands. When she finally spoke, her voice was tremulous.
“You already know what’s in here.”
“I do.” Robert met her gaze. “It concerns your inheritance of Weald House and the glass chapel in the woods.”
“Ada’s Folly.” Isabelle’s tone was hollow.
The Lost History of Dreams Page 4