The Painted Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  Had she been able to summon the nerve, Amelia might have imagined digging her best dress out of the back of the wardrobe—several years out of season. The soft merlot gabardine with golden shell buttons on the cuffs more than made up for its age. She would barrel-roll her hair, use the one prized tube of poppy-red lipstick she kept back for the most special of occasions, and slip on the last pair of stockings that might have existed in all of England, their silky smoothness a long-forgotten luxury against her skin.

  For that, Amelia might have been brave enough to defy the weather with a joyous heart. But the sideboard was bare. Every morning she’d checked. No stack of books. No note. And no word meant . . . no Wyatt.

  The tension between the past and her memories of Arthur—the pain of letting him go to a plane that was shot out of the sky—battled the something new that fluttered in her midsection whenever Wyatt walked into a room, or when she held a note of his penned words in her hand. It was why she so often found herself in her late husband’s library these days. Reliving memories. Doubting her own ability to heal. And wondering whether fate sought to punish her with thoughts of a man who was just as courageous, just as kind and steadfast as her Arthur had been, but very different at the same time.

  Thinking of the way Wyatt had dared to smile at Darly’s upturned nose over his lowborn status and of the way he had taken to supporting Luca’s mischief around the manor, she feared Wyatt might have begun to awaken the heart she hadn’t expected to share with anyone again. And there was an almost insurmountable risk associated with attending a USO dance in a dress with poppy lips and the one last luxury she had in silk stockings . . .

  “’Tis Christmas. He’d want you to be happy, milady.”

  Darly’s voice cut into Amelia’s internal deliberation. He stood behind her, hovering in the doorway but with propriety too stiff to allow him the benefit of leaning against the jamb.

  “And just how did you know I was thinking of Arthur?”

  “Who said anything about Arthur?” he whispered.

  She stood and walked his way. “Well, who else would we be talking about?”

  The light of the hall cast a halo around him.

  There was that same threadbare cardigan Darly always wore—she thought she spied a fresh hole pulling at the notched collar. His shoulders were a dampened evergreen, the sweater having absorbed the rain. His hair glistened wet in the light, gray-tipped ginger curling out from under the brim of his newsboy cap. The old tweed trousers he’d preferred for the last many years were not topped with a thick wool coat as they should have been.

  He’d have been dubbed shabby in dress only because of rationing and a heart that was as selfless as any she’d known, who gave his coupons for the benefit of the children. But to her, he could have been a king for the presence he added to a room, waterlogged or not.

  “Look at you, dear uncle! Whatever happened?”

  “It seemed pleasant enough for a walk to town.”

  “You never! In this downpour?” She laughed, his stubborn eccentricity a tonic even on the heaviest-of-heart days. Only Darly would dare walk down the lane instead of taking a trap, trekking through stinging rain and ice as if he were above it all. “Come in and sit. You need a warm fire and dry clothes or you’ll catch your death. And we certainly cannot have that.”

  He pulled a letter from his pocket. “I stopped in town to see about a few things. And brought the post along, milady.”

  Amelia took it in hand—why she thought it could be from Wyatt, she didn’t know. But the looping script was not his. It was postmarked London, and the elegant address marked on the front could belong to only one person.

  She ran her index finger under the envelope crease, took out the paper, and scanned the letter from Arthur’s mother. “Nothing from Thompson today?”

  Darly shook his head. “No, milady. I’m sorry. But will the dowager be gracing us with her presence this holiday?”

  “It appears affairs in London keep my mother-in-law aptly occupied. She informs us in this letter that she is leading a corps of the women’s Royal Voluntary Service in the city. Helping feed and care for those who have taken to sleeping in the underground. It’s just as well, I suppose. She’s needed where she is and would not care for the manner of disrepair in which we must survive at Parham Hill. The idea of children teeming about the drawing rooms and now servicemen playing ping-pong in her family’s illustrious great hall . . . I’d much prefer the war to end and us to have the ability to patch up the manor before she sees it in its present state, lest she feel I’ve allowed Arthur’s legacy to fall to ruin.”

  “Her protests over your marriage were unfounded, milady. And fell upon the deaf ears of my most intelligent nephew.”

  “Well, thank you for that. But it doesn’t matter a scrap now.”

  “It matters still, just to know someone was on your side.”

  Amelia replaced the letter in its envelope and tucked it inside the pocket of her coveralls. “I’ll answer her later, when I’ve time to pen a good, long letter. As it is, we have yet to bake honey cakes, hang socks along the mantels in the children’s chambers, and light candles in the windows before darkness falls. Come now, Uncle. Why not warm yourself by the fire?”

  “It’s three o’clock.” Darly broke into her attempts to evade, to divert, and to ignore the great elephant in the room.

  “So it is. I’m afraid I lost track of the time. The library owns its own brand of magic, doesn’t it? Come on then. Let’s go see about you, stubborn old man.” She hooked her elbow around his, pulling him toward the hall in a gentle tug.

  He stood still in the doorway, cast by a subtler vulnerability than was usual for him. He patted her hand, released his elbow from her grasp, and took off his hat. He smoothed what hair remained atop his head and turned the cap about in his hands. “Not just yet, milady.”

  Darly was stalling. Why?

  Panic stung her heart. Perhaps there was news in town? News of fortresses that had gone down in the poor weather? “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “I don’t mean to worry you. All is well. And I don’t mean to pry—it’s not the way of a gentleman.”

  That wouldn’t stop him. It hadn’t before, in fact. “But . . .”

  “But hadn’t you begin readying for the dance?”

  A wave of embarrassment washed over her.

  How he’d known or assumed she would attend the USO dance—whether it was with Wyatt or on her own—it gave the implication that she was romantically inclined again.

  She waved him off, relief popping out as a laugh. “A USO dance? In this weather . . . Are you mad? I’ll be the only one there.”

  “Yes, milady. I speak of the dance. In this weather and on this special day. You ought to go.”

  “But I can’t leave. Not now. I shouldn’t even have lingered in here as long as I have. We’ve baking and decorating to do. And I’ll be needing your help, sir. Shall we go?”

  Amelia tried to mask the fact that she was terrified of something as trivial as a dance, putting on a brave face as she smiled and moved to walk by him. But Darly arrested her by producing a box he’d kept just out of sight in the hall—a large, pastel-pink rectangle with the name Bertie’s Buttons and Bows splashed across the front, dotted with raindrops that hadn’t yet dried after the return walk from town.

  “You’ll be needing this instead, Amelia.”

  She looked up at him, tears pricking her eyes with strong emotion. “What is that?”

  The aged bachelor smiled with a fatherly warmth that shed all propriety but held fast to mercy and benevolence.

  “It’s your invitation to live again.”

  “To live . . . how?”

  “Only you can answer that. Your grief speaks to how much you loved him—any fool can see that. But Arthur was a good man, and he would not want you to hide away in his library for the rest of your days.” He replaced the cap on his crown and tipped his head in a bow. “I’ve put the cover on the tram.
I’ll hitch the horse and drive you over when you’re ready.” He left her then.

  Just like that.

  With shock prickling her senses, Amelia opened the box and couldn’t breathe for a moment.

  A liquid-silk gown lay inside careful folds of pastel paper, the ivory shining and more exquisite in person than she’d ever imagined it to be by simply looking into Bertie’s shop window. She ran her fingertips over the familiar folds of the cinched bodice, the fishtail train, and the mother-of-pearl buttons that sat in a delicate row at the wrists of elegant sleeves.

  A bill of sale signed by Florence Bertram herself indicated that all eighteen of the clothing ration coupons Amelia had thought went to keep their children warm, clothed, and in high spirits through the winter months had instead been put by and spent on a lavish Christmas gift . . . for her.

  Eighteen

  May 16, 1843

  Parham Hill Estate

  Framlingham, England

  When it came to uncovering murder, one could imagine herself doing just about anything to accomplish it. If Elizabeth had to tiptoe about the manor and peek into closed doors as a would-be sleuth, so be it.

  Sunlight streamed through the windows of a room far down the main hall, light hitting against walls papered in masculine navy and grays. Judging by stacks of unopened correspondence in a tray upon the desk, it appeared to be a private office, and if the look of the articles inside gave any indication, it was one in frequent use.

  She was arrested by the fact that she could not find a single shred of evidence that the viscount was any less than who he claimed, nor that the staff or Mr. Winterhalter had even a single harsh word to speak of him. By all accounts he was as upright a nobleman as any. And the memory of the moments that had passed between them in the meadow played over and over again in her mind.

  This room of his personal things proved to have an entirely different feel—one of intimacy that all the other rooms she’d seen could not boast. If it was his private study, there may yet be something to provide answers.

  She slipped in, clicking the door closed behind her.

  Deep-cognac wingback chairs of leather anchored a fireplace. A globe sat upon a sideboard on the far wall, next to a potted plant and glass domes with smaller plants sunning under the window. Shelves boasted an abundance of books. Feathers . . . rocks . . . even a collection of dried honeycombs—all with no visible dust. Pressed leaves and butterflies hung in frames upon the wall. And where a portrait of some distant member of the Huxley line should have hung in prominence over the hearth instead hung a landscape in rich greens and grays—what looked to be the vast expanse of Parham Hill’s rolling acreage.

  Even so, was it Franz’s work?

  She leaned in, inspecting the paint strokes before remembering why she’d stepped into the office at all. Time was short and art couldn’t be the lure that tripped up her endeavors.

  Hurrying over to the desk and hesitating but a breath over his chair, Elizabeth began the hasty opening of drawers. She thumbed through a stack of letters from some names she did not recognize—a business associate by the name of Thomas Whittle and several from what appeared a closer relation by the name of Fenton, though all were dated from years ago. Nothing current. Still, for him to hold on to them for so long made Elizabeth think they could have some merit in the end. Other names she did recognize—including Franz—his looping script as fanciful as an itinerate portrait maker’s could be—and another in fact signed by the prime minister, Sir Robert Peel, himself.

  Heavens, he does have high friends.

  Keaton had never mentioned an acquaintance with the prime minister before. Wouldn’t a gentleman of station have boasted of such a thing? She made a point to commit as many names to memory before she searched through a stack of books and musty old ledgers lined up with bookends along the desktop. Anything in hopes she might find some secret connection to where his path had crossed her own so many years prior.

  Where are you?

  A low drawer revealed editions from the Illustrated London News newspaper from the year prior.

  She sorted through them, finding the commonality of articles about thespian troupes, of all things. Most noted productions at the Adelphi Theatre near Piccadilly. Others at Covent Garden gave mention of a Miss Kelly’s Theatre and Dramatic School that had been constructed in May 1840 . . . And several articles discussing “illegitimate drama”—those burlesque and melodrama shows that had become more frequent across London, with the crop of nonpatent theaters that were gaining popularity with the theater-going masses. And one article, strangely enough, placed one Keaton James—not listed as the Viscount Huxley—alongside a man named Thomas Whittle, the latter in a performance at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Whatever the connection, it had to be from some point in his youth, before he inherited the title of viscount.

  Whyever would he be interested in theater news?

  Elizabeth sighed and dropped the newspapers back to the desk. Maybe Keaton fancied the diversion of entertainment that was the theater. Many gentlemen did. But newspapers . . . old letters . . . and not one personal effect of substance. So it was as nonsensical a find as any. If that was the extent of his secrets, she’d have to admit the search into the viscount’s past was all but a lost cause. It was very likely she should have no recourse but to confront the man head-on and pray she’d have enough gumption to stand up to whatever outcome may result from it. Had she been able to find the revolver, Elizabeth was certain she may have enough of it left in order to see her through, no matter how fearful his rebuttals might become.

  Heaven help her, Elizabeth wished Pa-pa were here.

  He’d know what to do.

  As it was, Elizabeth was alone. And she’d have to make the decisions she thought best—then live with the consequences.

  “Pardon, milady. I did not know you wished to use this room.”

  Elizabeth whirled around to find one of the maids standing by an open door. She’d entered without warning, a slightly surprised bent to her doe eyes, her arms loaded down with a bucket and cleaning wares. She curtseyed with difficulty, trying not to drop the lot on the hardwood as she did.

  “Oh, not at all.” Elizabeth closed the drawer of newspapers in haste and turned back. “Nettie, yes?”

  “Yes, milady. I’ve been sent in to open the room. His lordship has lately returned, and he wishes us to ready it for his use. But do you wish me to leave?”

  “No. Of course not. I’ll just move out of your way,” she fluttered, moving past the viscount’s desk to the door leading back out to the hall. “I have an engagement elsewhere.”

  “But if you please, milady?” Nettie added, calling her back.

  “Yes?”

  “I might ask that you join his lordship in the library at present.”

  “The library?”

  Nettie bobbed her golden crown under her maid’s cap. “Yes, milady. He’s asking for you. Should we see you, we were to make the request right away.”

  He’s asking for me?

  “Thank you, Nettie. I shall join his lordship directly.” Elizabeth stepped out into the hall, battling to calm her breathing on the walk from Keaton’s private study down the long hall to the library.

  It was not a brief jaunt by any account, but somehow she’d traversed it almost as if she were running a marathon in crinolines. He’d invited her to be about the gardens and manor, even the stables when it came down to it—wherever she wished to go. That was acceptable in theory, but she doubted it an expectation that his betrothed intended to nose through private affairs in his own office.

  To be unaccounted for in her betrothed’s manor was not a good showing at all, so she must hurry.

  Elizabeth paused at the library doors at the far end of the hall. She peeked through them, finding the viscount leaning with a hand braced on the fireplace mantel, interestingly staring down at logs in the hearth as if they danced with flames, when on this warm spring day a fire had not been set upon them. His gaz
e watched the memory of a fire that had gone cold.

  “Viscount?”

  “Keaton, please,” he said on a bow when she stepped in. “You needn’t be formal with me. And not in here. The library is . . . well, it’s the least pretentious room in the manor for a number of reasons, that is, despite the gold trim.”

  “Keaton.” The familiarity still tripped off her tongue. “I was told you wished to speak with me?”

  “Yes, I do. Please. Come in.”

  Elizabeth scanned the room. No dowager countess. No portrait maker in residence. And no service staff. It was quite unorthodox for him to have reappeared so quickly, and then to request an audience with her when they’d not spoken since the day he’d found her defending a horse in the meadow.

  Being in the same room with him again was a fluster-inducing occasion, especially given the fact she’d just been elbow-deep in his private correspondence. He was the one to have secrets to admit to her, that was true. But Elizabeth still felt a measure of guilt at being caught in his study, even though it was for a valiant cause.

  Somehow she felt the twinge that he didn’t deserve her mistrust, though that couldn’t possibly be justified. She knew the truth.

  “I understand while I’ve been in London you’ve—” He paused to sort through a stack of books on a sideboard under the window, and she held her breath. “Been taking lessons from Franz.”

  “Lessons. Yes, I have. For many days in succession now.”

  “And you enjoy this?”

  “I do. I cannot account for it, but he seems to have the impression that I am an artist of some talent. I fear I’ll let him down when he discovers how normal I am compared to his brilliance. But if you have any concern of my continuing . . . ,” she said, uncertainty mounting in her middle.