David swallowed loudly. “Should you like to share my carriage to the station?”
“Yes, please,” Lucinda said with a sunny smile. “If you don’t mind making a short stop in Shaftesbury.”
“To visit the Smiths?”
“Of course.”
Mrs. Patton came outside and said, “Lucinda, how many times do I have to remind you that you cannot go out in public without me?”
“I forgot—again,” Lucinda said. “Mr. Randall has kindly offered to share his carriage to the train station.”
“How very thoughtful of you, Mr. Randall,” Mrs. Patton said in a sweet voice.
“I enjoy your company,” David said, and then asked a groom to put their trunks on the carriage. He next assisted Mrs. Patton and Lucinda into the carriage before hopping in himself.
“Miss Leavitt, how did you enjoy the party?” David asked formally.
“The party was memorable,” Lucinda said. “And the house was like stepping into a history lesson. The beautiful arches. The soaring ceilings. They do not build houses like that anymore.”
“No, they do not,” David agreed. “Should you like to live in such a house?”
Mrs. Patton offered her unsolicited opinion. “I should think any young lady would be pleased to live in such a house.”
“Not this young lady,” Lucinda said.
“Why not, Lucinda?” Mrs. Patton inquired.
“It’s simply too large, too cumbersome,” Lucinda explained. “Three-quarters of the house is never in use. The estate would always be a financial burden—a drain on your income. It doesn’t make sense fiscally.”
“But the beauty of the countryside—” Mrs. Patton pressed.
“Does Miss Leavitt prefer London?” David asked.
“I love London, for London is home,” Lucinda said. “But someday I should very much like a snug little house on a manageably sized estate in the country to escape the polluted air of London.”
Mrs. Patton sat up at this. “Yes, yes. The air in London, particularly in the winter, is so very bad. I cannot breathe without placing a handkerchief over my mouth whenever I venture outdoors.”
David listened to Mrs. Patton compare the benefits of living in the country compared to the city for half an hour. The coachman, as directed, stopped at the post office in Shaftesbury.
“Are we at the train station?” Mrs. Patton asked.
“No, we are at the post office in Shaftesbury,” David replied, trying to suppress a smile. “I have a small item of business to conduct here.”
Lucinda sat forward eagerly. “Let us go in at once.”
David helped both ladies from the carriage and opened the pointed-arch door to the post office—a tall stone building with two gables. The building’s windows did not provide much light, and the air felt musty. A clerk with receding brown hair and narrow-framed spectacles addressed them. “And how may I help you today, sir?”
“We are looking for the Smiths who recently visited Bath. Would you be so good as to give us their direction?” David asked.
The clerk pushed his spectacles up his nose and peered closely at Lucinda. “We are not supposed to share the private information of our customers.”
“But—” David began.
Lucinda cut him off. “Of course you aren’t. I am impressed by your integrity, sir.”
The clerk flushed and stammered, “J-just—just doing me duty, miss.”
Lucinda held out her hand to David, and he took it in his own. She immediately pulled her hand away, and he looked at her, confused.
“I’m not trying to hold your hand,” she said out of the side of her mouth. “I need your coin purse.”
“Whatever for?”
“Money, obviously.”
“Oh.”
He pulled his purse out of his jacket pocket and placed it in her hand. Lucinda opened it and took out two shillings, then placed them on top of the desk. “We do not wish you to get into any trouble. If you would just be so kind as to give us the general direction to the Smiths’ home, no private information—only what anyone in the street would say—we will bid you good day.”
The clerk picked up the two coins and rubbed them together between his thumb and his pointer finger.
“If you were to ask at the pub,” the clerk began, “they’d tell you to continue north on this road and take the first right turn onto Wincombe Lane. About three or so miles down it, you’ll be able to see a large house on the south side of the road—Wincombe Park. That’s the home of the Smiths.”
“Thank you,” Lucinda said with a flirtatious smile.
“Good day,” David said. He touched the brim of his hat with his finger and slightly inclined his head.
David escorted both ladies back to the carriage and directed the driver toward Wincombe Lane. After a quarter of an hour, Lucinda stuck her head out the window to look for Wincombe Park. A great gust of wind blew by, and she was forced to hold on to her bonnet with her hands. Sheepishly, she ducked back into the carriage and sat in her seat. David could not help but laugh, and Lucinda joined in his mirth. Mrs. Patton tutted and mumbled something about ladylike behavior that neither Lucinda nor David paid any heed to. David did so love to hear Lucinda laugh.
Lucinda blushed and began to finger the brooch pinned to the collar of her shirt. David blinked, suddenly realizing how intensely he had been staring at her face. His eyes traveled to the oval golden brooch at her throat; etched in white stone was the profile of a woman. He was not close enough to see the fine details, but the shape of the woman’s face reminded him of Lucinda’s.
“Is the brooch a likeness of your mother?”
Lucinda nodded. “She gave it to me the Christmas before she died. Everyone who knew her says that I greatly resemble her, but I am afraid that her face has faded from my memories. It’s as if they have darkened with age.”
David paused before saying, “My elder brother, Francis, died when I was only five years old. He was ten years my senior. And sometimes I wonder if I really remember him, or if I just remember what my father told me about him.”
Francis, the perfect son. If only you could be more like Francis, his father always said. And David had always added in his head, and less like yourself.
“I suppose it’s our stories that keep our lost loved ones alive,” Lucinda said thoughtfully. “You are fortunate that your father was able to speak of Francis. My father cannot endure even my mother’s name being mentioned, let alone any anecdotes about her personality or the things she liked. After she died, he took her portrait down. We moved houses. He hired new servants. It was as if she never existed.”
“I believe your father loved your mother very much,” David said. “My father told my mother that he was shattered after her death.”
“So was I,” Lucinda said. “And now that she is never spoken of, she feels so very gone all the more.”
“What was her name?”
“Jane.”
“Jane,” David said in a soft tone. “A lovely name.”
Lucinda gave him a sad smile and again looked out the carriage window in search of the Smiths’ house. David watched as Mrs. Patton’s head bobbed forward and back. Her eyes would close as her head leaned forward, and then her eyes would snap back open as her head fell back. Mrs. Patton’s head bobbed for several minutes before it slumped forward and David could hear the steady repetition of her snoring. Lucinda continued to stare raptly out the window.
“I see it. There!” Lucinda said, pointing to a tall house, the roof barely visible behind a thicket of trees.
The coach driver must have also seen it, for he turned the carriage down a winding gravel lane that led up to the house. David did not need to lean out the window like Lucinda to get a good view of it. The house had a large stone tower in the center that was flanked on both sides by Tudor-style gables, painted white with brown wooden trim placed in rectangular sections. The closest gable had a bay window with a copper roof. It was an odd mix of a histori
c building with contemporary renovations.
When the carriage came to a halt, David looked from the sleeping Mrs. Patton to Lucinda, who pressed a finger to her lips and shook her head. David nodded. He quietly exited the carriage and then placed his hands around Lucinda’s trim waist and lifted her out. Such a small exertion should not have left him feeling breathless, but it did. He could hear Lucinda also breathing quickly in and out.
“Well. That is one way to get out of a carriage,” she said. “Next time, a simple hand of assistance should do quite nicely.”
David laughed and offered his arm. Lucinda took it, and they walked toward the arched door in the center of the stone tower. David knocked loudly with his cane, and they waited several moments before a young maid opened the door.
She seemed surprised to see them, and David handed her his card and requested to meet the owner of the house. The maid took the card and bobbed an awkward curtsy before running back down the hall. David looked at Lucinda, and she shrugged her lovely shoulders. They were kept waiting for several minutes before the young maid returned with an elderly matron wearing a gray-and-white striped dress and a white lace cap.
At first David thought the matron was the housekeeper, but then she introduced herself as the owner of the house. David bowed and introduced himself and Lucinda.
“I won’t stand at points with strangers,” the matron said. “Are you come to inquire about the house?”
“No, I am afraid not,” David said.
“If you are not here about purchasing the house, then what business brings you to Wincombe Park?” she asked bluntly.
Lucinda stepped forward. “We are looking for the family of Mrs. Smith.”
“Mrs. Smith?” the matron asked incredulously. “What would fashionable young people likes yourselves want with a Mrs. Smith?”
“We are trying to locate the family of the recently deceased author Mrs. Smith,” Lucinda explained.
“Well, they ain’t here.”
“Are you sure?” Lucinda asked.
“Dead sure,” the matron said. She stubbed a fat thumb at her sagging bosom. “I is Mrs. Smith, and I sure as stone ain’t dead.”
David coughed. “It appears we have made a mistake. We apologize for taking up so much of your valuable time, Mrs. Smith.”
“I should’ve known fancy folks like you wouldn’t be interested in this old house,” Mrs. Smith huffed.
“No, no. I think it is a lovely house,” Lucinda said hurriedly. “Are you obliged to sell it?”
“My husband died not a fortnight ago, and I discovered he was dead broke. I can no longer afford to live here or pay for the servants. That’s why all I’ve got left by way of help is Sally here, and precious little help she is.”
The young maid shrank into the shadow of the wall at her mistress’s words.
David cleared his throat. “Mrs. Smith, our condolences on the death of your husband, and our best wishes for a speedy sale of your house.”
David took the matron’s hand and bent over it. Lucinda gave the lady a curtsy and then took his arm. He handed her into the carriage, where Mrs. Patton still sat snoring, then directed the driver to take them to the train station. He climbed into the carriage and saw that Lucinda was no longer sitting next to her chaperone, but on the side of the coach that faced forward. David sat next to her, his shoulder gently bumping the puffed sleeve of her jacket.
“What an odd house and an even odder occupant,” David remarked.
Lucinda giggled. “I liked them both.”
David flashed her a grin and then sobered. “I am sorry we have reached another dead end in our search for the author’s identity and her family.”
Lucinda played with her hands in her lap. “It was no great matter after all … Just a silly story.”
David placed his hands over hers to stop their movement. Lucinda looked up into his eyes.
“If it matters to you, then it is not silly,” he said.
“You are a true friend, David,” she replied warmly. Her voice sounded breathless again, her face so close to his. He found himself looking at her lips as she licked them. She was near enough to kiss. He swallowed and forced himself to lean away from her. He released her hands and resolutely looked out the opposite window of the carriage.
Twelve
THE GASLIGHT FIXTURES MADE LONG shadows all over the room as Lucinda dipped the pen in the ink bottle and then began writing the thirtieth, nearly identical, letter:
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Porter,
I believe you stayed at No. 15 Laura Place sometime between the months of January and March earlier this year. Mrs. B. Smith, deceased author of She Knew She Was Right, was also a guest of the boardinghouse at that time. Did you, by chance, meet her? Or do you have any pertinent information about her family or know the direction of her permanent residence? Or where she was buried?
I am trying to locate whoever is in possession of her final papers. Thank you for your time and assistance in this matter.
Yours sincerely,
L. Leavitt
London
Lucinda sprinkled a little sand on the paper to help dry the ink and then blew it off. She folded the letter, carefully poured a little sealing wax on the pointed edge, then pressed the Leavitt seal to close it. It took several minutes for the sealing wax to harden before she turned the letter over and wrote the direction for Mr. and Mrs. Porter residing in Kent, then placed it on top of her stack of letters to take to the penny post.
Lucinda picked up her pen and carefully put a checkmark next to the Porters’ names. There was only one pair of boarders left: Mrs. Burntwood and her personal companion. She picked up yet another piece of paper and began writing, “Dear Mrs. Burntwood…”
Once finished, Lucinda placed the very last letter on the top of the precariously tall stack with satisfaction, then picked up the bell and rang for the butler. Mr. Ruffles arrived in the sitting room in less than a minute.
Lucinda gathered up her letters and handed them to him. “Please see that these go out first thing in the morning, Ruffles.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Thank you,” Lucinda said, then added, “Has my father come home yet?”
“Yes, miss,” Mr. Ruffles replied. “He’s in his study.”
She nodded and waited for him to leave the room before chewing on her thumbnail. Was now the right time to talk to him?
“Lucinda, dear,” Mrs. Patton said in a singsong voice. “A lady never bites her fingernails.”
Lucinda took her thumbnail out of her mouth. “Thank you for the reminder, Mrs. Patton. I am going to speak to my father about an important matter.”
Mrs. Patton sighed and set down her embroidery. “Lucinda, your father is a very busy man, and it isn’t ladylike for one to put themselves forward.” She patted the seat next to her. “Why don’t you come help me with my embroidery, dear girl? You have such neat little stitches.”
Lucinda shook her head. “I am afraid the gas lamp does not give off enough light,” she said, feigning a yawn. “And I am so tired.”
“Go to bed, dear girl,” Mrs. Patton said. She pointed her needle at Lucinda as she said in the same singsong voice, “A lady needs her beauty rest.”
Lucinda pursed her lips and nodded as she stood. She closed the door to the sitting room and walked away from the stairs that led to her bedchamber, heading instead toward her father’s study. Trying to gain some freedom in her life was making her a pathological liar. She knocked lightly on the door of the study.
“Come in,” her father said.
Lucinda walked into the dimly lit room. The gaslights highlighted the wrinkles and lines on her father’s face. He looked so tired. So old.
“You missed dinner, Father.”
“Very busy right now at the office, Lucy,” her father said without looking up from the paper in his hand. “We are in the middle of negotiating an important speculation opportunity.”
“The Durham project?”
Th
is made him look up, if only momentarily. “Yes.” He set down the paper and picked up his pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and began to write.
“Mr. Randall told me about it,” Lucinda said.
“Eh?” he said as he continued to write.
“I was thinking if it is improper for me to be at the countinghouse,” Lucinda began, “then I could work from home.”
He dipped his pen again and continued to write without looking up at her.
“You’ve been coming home later and later every night,” Lucinda said quickly. “I know there is so much work to do, and I am sure I could help you, Father.”
He shook his head slowly. His mouth was tight, his jaw clenched.
“I want to help you with the business.”
“We are not having this discussion again,” he said, still not looking at her.
“It isn’t a discussion if only one side is allowed to argue their opinion,” Lucinda said, clenching her fists.
“Go to bed, Lucy.”
“How can we have a discussion when you never even look at me?” Lucinda asked, tears of frustration forming in her eyes. She pressed her hands against her chest. “Let alone try to see me for who I really am. I am not my mother, and I do not want the future you and she planned out for me.”
Her father set down the pen and, for the first time since she came home from school, he truly looked at her.
“You will not speak of your mother in that way,” he said through clenched teeth. “Now leave!”
Lucinda turned and fled the room, tears freely falling from her eyes. Not tears of sadness, but ones of rage. An impossible anger made her chest burn and her hands shake. She would find a way out of this pretty cage, and she didn’t care how many lies she would have to tell to do it.
Thirteen
A FORTNIGHT LATER, LUCINDA WAS sitting at the front window again, counting the bricks on the house across the street, waiting for the post to arrive. She’d already received six replies from the thirty letters she’d sent out inquiring after Mrs. Smith. Unfortunately, the six people who had taken the time to respond had no recollection of meeting anyone named Mrs. Smith while staying in Bath. Still, there were twenty-four more possible replies, and she had not yet given up hope of finding the author’s relations.
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