“You’re shocked,” Robert said when he finished.
Grace shook her head, but the blood had leeched from her cheeks. “Not shocked—drunk men gambling don’t surprise me any. No, I’m confused. Why’d you do it?”
“I wanted to see what it was like to daguerreotype a corpse.”
“I still don’t understand.”
His voice broke. “My wife had died. I couldn’t imagine a life without her.”
“What of your family? Couldn’t they help?”
“I suppose. But I couldn’t go home. You see, my wife had become my home.” My locus amoenus, he thought, using Hugh’s words. “I would have done anything to reclaim her. Somehow by taking daguerreotypes of the dead . . .”
I’d keep her with me always.
Unable to continue, Robert dropped his head into his hands. Now he felt worse than ever. Sadder. Angrier. The memory of Isabelle taunting him returned, along with his frustrated yearning for Sida. He couldn’t even blame his confession on the morphia. The drug had worn off enough that his ankle throbbed with his every breath.
“My God, Mr. Highstead. What about those who still live?”
He raised his head from his palms. “You mean like Miss Isabelle and her glass chapel? You with those roses and the pilgrims?”
With his mention of the pilgrims, Grace’s hand drifted back to her chemise, but the gesture seemed perfunctory. “Wouldn’t it be nicer to make a daguerreotype of me instead?”
“I don’t think Owen would appreciate that.”
She gave a little giggle. “Owen?”
“Anyone can see he cares about you.”
“Well, I don’t care about him. Not anymore—he’s a flirt. Besides, I’ve got something else planned for my future. Something better than fussing around here while Miss Isabelle weeps over Ada and Hugh.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You won’t say anything? About him or those roses?”
“I won’t.” He met her eyes. “However, there’s something you can help me with. In exchange for my silence, of course.”
V.
“I told you that I never wanted to see you again,” Isabelle cried when Robert appeared at the library door. “How did you get up here? Someone must have helped you—they’ll be sorry when I find out!”
Robert was breathing too heavily to reply. He was also taken aback. When Isabelle opened the door, she’d been holding a goblet of red wine in one hand, a handkerchief in the other. Her face was swollen and blotchy beneath her nest of plaits. He’d interrupted her weeping. Ever so briefly, Robert surged with sympathy. Then he recalled how she’d called him mad at the coach stand. His compassion fled.
“I’m not going to tell you who helped me,” was his quiet but stubborn reply.
“Leave! Or I’ll scream! I’ll have Owen put you and my uncle on the next coach out of here, ankle be damned.”
“Scream away then,” Robert said, his jaw tight. “I refuse to leave until you tell me how you learned about my wife’s death.”
Isabelle folded her handkerchief deliberately. She set it inside a skirt pocket, as if her sorrow could be contained in it.
“Oh. That.”
She turned to her tea and sat. The meal was arranged like it had been the previous evening, only tonight there was a platter of cheese with sliced ham instead of mutton and bread. She took a long gulp of wine followed by a forkful of meat.
Sensing her strange acquiescence, Robert staggered into the room. He collapsed into the chair closest to her, Hugh’s walking stick still in his hands.
“Did my brother write you?”
Isabelle looked over her shoulder to meet his eyes; hers still glistened with tears. “No.”
“Someone in Oxford?”
She took another sip of wine. Her hand shook.
“Well?” Robert pressed. “Aren’t you going to answer?”
She waited until she’d finished chewing before replying. Her lips looked slick with grease beneath the candlelight before she wiped them with her napkin. Her voice was so low that Robert had to strain to hear.
“What does it matter how I learned about Cressida’s death?” She rolled her eyes but he sensed her discomfort. “The truth remains as it was.”
“What else do you know?” She couldn’t know about Sida’s family, could she?
“Beyond that she was dead?” She turned away from his gaze. “I heard she died under unfortunate circumstances. That you weren’t as you had been before her passing.”
“Mad, you mean.” Robert’s head grew hot again. Buzzing. “Once more, who told you this?”
In lieu of a reply, Isabelle rose from her meal, wineglass in hand. As she had the previous evening, she began to pace the length of the library, thus granting Robert the opportunity to examine the state of her grey merino gown. This one was nearly as shabby as the purple one she’d donned the night before. She wobbled slightly, as if the ground had gone soft. It was then he realized she was as drunk as a barmaid in Whitechapel.
Isabelle halted to face him. “How did she die? That’s the one thing I wasn’t told.” She tapped her finger against her lips, like a child plotting mischief. “Let me guess. Did she die in childbirth like Ada?”
“No.” He fought the urge to slap Isabelle’s wind-roughened cheeks.
“Hmm . . . I recall you arrived here wearing black, like an undertaker. You’re rather young to be a widower. She must have passed recently. Consumption? A fever? I must admit your situation surprised me when I first learned of it.”
First learned of it? She can’t hurt Sida. It doesn’t matter. But it did—for whatever reason, Isabelle’s knowledge of Sida’s death had rendered him breathless with unease.
Robert closed his eyes to calm himself. Everything compressed to sounds: the dark hiss of winter rain against the shutters, the crackling of fire in the hearth. What he could have told Isabelle about his wife’s demise could only be presented in images. The hotel room they’d chosen for their honeymoon, with its red-flecked wallpaper and cheap gilding. The red frothing her lips from internal injuries unknown until then; they’d eloped in spite of the beating she’d received from her uncle. Her cold fingers clutching at her breast, stilled mid-breath. Her bared legs thrust out from beneath her stained blue silk gown; by then, her blood had dried into a splatter of brown spots that bore little resemblance to the force animating a life.
After Sida had breathed her last, Robert had sat there for hours, his face covered by his hands, unable to move. Though the physician told Robert nothing could have been done to save her, it had brought no comfort. It had only renewed his grief. If he hadn’t loved her, she might have lived.
But Robert confided none of this to Isabelle—how could he? She’d only call him mad again. Another rush of rage swept over his body: rage that life could be so capricious, rage that this woman mocked him with her grim existence, her resentment toward the pilgrims’ veneration of Hugh. Rage that she’d made his time at Weald House so unpleasant. But he said nothing. Instead, he opened his eyes and stared at his folded hands. He’d clasped them so tight that his over-washed flesh had turned bone pale.
“My wife died three years ago.” He forced a rueful smile. “I chose not to taint your sorrow with mine. After all, sorrow shared is sorrow multiplied.”
“I see,” she said dryly, setting her empty wineglass on the table. “Did they teach you to say that in Oxford?”
Robert’s smile tightened. “Among other things.”
Isabelle turned back to pick at her food.
“Aren’t you going to say anything? Or are you too drunk?”
Her fork clattered against the plate. “You bastard! I’m not drunk. I’m sad. If you’re whom you claim to be, with your never-ending mourning for your wife, you should understand. You should have compassion.”
“You should have compassion too! You’re not the only one grieving.”
“You never back down, do you?” Isabelle flung her arms open. “Next you’ll be haranguing me about Hugh’s c
orpse and Ada’s Folly.”
“Very well. I’m not going to leave here until you let me daguerreotype him beside his wife.”
“I knew you’d say that. You’re just like the pilgrims, gnawing at a thing until you give way so they’d let you be. I suspect you’re like them in other ways too.” Her voice wavered. “They adore Hugh’s suffering over Ada’s death. The tragedy of his love for her. Like you with your—”
Despite his ankle, Robert lunged for Isabelle. She ducked nimbly away.
“I loved my wife more than anything in the world! Your uncle Hugh is dead. You inherited his estate. You can turn the pilgrims away anytime you like. Isn’t that enough satisfaction?”
“No,” she replied.
What Isabelle did next astonished Robert far more than her knowledge of Sida’s death. Like Grace an hour earlier, Isabelle unbuttoned the collar of her bodice. Instead of revealing her chemise, she drew what he assumed was the key to Ada’s Folly—he hadn’t imagined it dangling between her breasts in the stable house. She fondled it, her fingers pale against the dark iron. The key seemed to absorb light from the room. Robert resisted the urge to grab it.
Isabelle met his eyes. “Weren’t you a historian?”
“Before my marriage.” Robert’s neck prickled. “I’d written a book about Ovid.”
Her tone turned pensive. “I’ve a brilliant way we can suit both our needs, Mr. Highstead. We’ll make a trade.”
Robert frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“A trade like people do in a shop. However, instead of trading shillings for goods, we’ll trade what we most want. An exchange. It’s really quite brilliant. I wish I’d thought of this earlier—it could have made our time together more productive.” She leaned toward him. “Would you like to hear more?”
After a moment, he nodded.
“Very well . . .” She let out a long breath. “I’m not entirely without mercy. I comprehend your desire to bury Hugh beside Ada, and your need to prove his final request has been met. Hence, I’ll give you the key to the chapel. I’ll allow you to daguerreotype him there, and bury him beside my aunt—well, as soon as your ankle allows.”
“Truly?” Robert didn’t believe her.
“Truly.”
She placed the key to Ada’s Folly on the table between them. Tapped it once with her forefinger.
Wary, Robert leaned in. “What do you want in return?”
“I have a story to tell you.”
How drunk was she? “What sort of story?”
“A story about my aunt Ada. You see, everyone knows about Hugh—the letters, the books, his study. The poems, the passions. But no one knows about Ada.”
Robert scratched his head. “That’s all? You want me to listen to a story?”
“The main of it. You’ll also write her story down using all your skills as a historian. Then you’ll publish it for me.”
“Why not write and publish it yourself?”
“Because I’m not much of a writer, and you’re a scholar who’s been published. Because no one would believe me otherwise.”
As she spoke, her face softened with sorrow, illuminating an unexpected motivation for her exchange. She wanted her aunt to live anew through her words, just as he’d yearned for Sida to live again when he’d become a daguerreotypist.
“I understand very well,” Robert said, his chest tight.
She offered a grim smile. “I should warn you my story may take some time.”
His sympathy soured. “How long?”
“Five nights, Mr. Highstead.”
“Five nights! I haven’t the time—I need to return to London.” He pictured Sida alone in their room. Sida abandoning him. “Three nights. By then my ankle will have improved.”
She waved away his words. “Five nights is what’s required. We’ll meet here every night at seven o’clock. If this doesn’t suit . . .”
Isabelle rose from the dais.
“Wait!” Robert called. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t accept your offer. But given all that’s occurred between us, why should I trust you’ll honor it?”
“I can’t think of a single reason. But I can think of many why you should accept my offer.” She ticked off each on her fingers. “You’d rather not transport Hugh’s corpse back to London. You yearn to make amends to your brother for your unfortunate marriage. You also want the satisfaction of fulfilling Hugh’s final wishes and relieving your brother of his responsibilities toward me and this estate. If that’s not enough enticement, I’ll also reveal how I found out about your wife’s death.”
Robert wouldn’t concede so quickly. “As part of our trade, I’d need you to pose beside Hugh’s corpse inside the chapel as proof you were notified of your inheritance.”
She blanched. “Wouldn’t it be easier for me to sign a document?”
“Your uncle’s terms. Not mine.”
She shook her head. “This is an offer, not a negotiation. But that reminds me: as one of our terms, I’ll need your camera—”
“My camera! It’s expensive. Fragile.”
“I don’t care, Mr. Highstead. I need assurance you won’t attempt to daguerreotype my uncle in the chapel before I finish my story.” Her eyes swept over his ankle. “Let us be honest. You’ve proven as untrustworthy as I have, but I’m prepared to offer proof of my pledge. I’ll even write up our trade as a document, which we’ll both sign and consider binding.”
She held out her hand. “Agreed?”
Robert stared at her hand. He hadn’t written anything since Oxford—he couldn’t bear to. If it had been one night, he’d find a way to manage. But five? Leave. Return to Sida before it’s too late. Then John’s last words before he’d left Kent returned: “You of all men should understand—Hugh only wants to be reunited with his wife. To go home to her . . . Can you really deny him this?”
As Robert wrapped his fingers around Isabelle’s, he fought the urge to recoil.
“Done! Until tomorrow night, Mr. Highstead.”
“Tomorrow night, Miss Lowell.”
He staggered to his feet, leaning on Hugh’s walking stick. Just as he reached the door, Isabelle’s voice rang out.
“One last thing, Mr. Highstead . . .”
Robert turned back, his ankle unsteady. As he waited for her to speak, the hem of her gown swayed, her head drooped. For a moment, he imagined her collapsing from the combined forces of alcohol and resentment. However, Isabelle was only gathering strength for a last riposte.
“I understand you saw the pilgrims this morning with their cockades of roses, clutching their copies of The Lost History of Dreams. They believe themselves blessed by their understanding of Hugh’s last book. His last sacred offering of art and genius, inspired by Ada’s death and all that. But there’s one thing they don’t understand about Hugh’s poetry. One thing I do.
“You should know that The Lost History of Dreams isn’t about dreams or ‘chimera of wonder,’ as the pilgrims claim. Nor is it about love. It’s about the ambitions and hopes that plague us in life, which we end up regretting.” She shot Robert a meaningful glare. “Now go.”
VI.
Outside the library, Robert staggered down the corridor, his knuckles straining against the walking stick. He had no idea how long it took him to make his way downstairs. All he knew was how many steps it had taken: twenty-four down the stairway into the main hall, which he managed by grasping the runners as though they’d keep him from drowning. Next came sixty-five steps along the corridor into the kitchen, where Mrs. Chilvers offered a chair and a bowl of stew. He accepted both gratefully, along with the glass of ale she set out.
The housekeeper must have sensed his disquiet, for she didn’t gossip for once. Try as he might, Robert couldn’t stop shaking from anger. With every word Isabelle had uttered about his wife’s death, he’d felt as though she’d stripped back layers of his soul, exposing his deepest secrets to light. He’d forgotten his love for Sida, his desire to do right by his brother, to Hugh.
In that moment, Robert knew without a shadow of a doubt he hated Isabelle.
He asked for another glass of ale, his hands unsteady. He hated. If there was any time to drink, it was now.
Robert’s meal was interrupted by the arrival of Grace, who refused to meet his eyes as she passed through the kitchen. She was followed by Virgil, who offered a friendly wag of his tail.
“Help Mr. Highstead, Grace,” Mrs. Chilvers called out. “He can barely walk.”
Grace did not turn around—so much for their agreement. She bore a new red ribbon in her curls, probably a bribe from one of the pilgrims. “I’ll manage,” he assured Mrs. Chilvers. And then he staggered off toward the stable, resting his weight on Hugh’s walking stick as though he were a man of ninety instead of twenty-nine.
The food must have strengthened him, for Robert didn’t find himself counting his steps to the stable. Hugh’s walking stick was a good one: sturdy and of a length compatible with Robert’s height. It easily navigated through the icy mud-slopped ground outside Weald House. Even so, once he arrived at the stable room, he collapsed onto Owen’s bed, his forehead dotted with sweat.
It took him a moment to notice the traveling case containing his camera was missing. He immediately understood what Grace’s errand had been, along with her reason for avoiding him. A folded sheet of paper lay in the center of the floor, accompanied by a new journal with pencils.
Robert cursed beneath his breath as he opened the letter.
Dear Mr. Highstead, Isabelle had written in a spidery hand. I promise to take good care of your camera. Enclosed are the terms of our exchange. If you agree, please sign and bring it with you tomorrow night. Another piece of paper followed the first, presumably the contract.
He crumpled it without reading, tossing it to the ground. How dare Isabelle take the camera from him without notice? Treating the fragile equipment like it was rags to be sold for ha’penny a pound?
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