“I understand you have just arrived home from being abroad,” I said. “Were you on your wedding trip?”
“No,” she said.
“A holiday, then?” I asked.
“Of sorts.” She stared down at her hands, clutched in her lap.
“I adore Paris,” I said. “Were you there?”
“Only to change trains.”
I will not repeat the rest of the conversation. Suffice it to say it had not improved by the time Davis returned to announce dinner and, as a result, I felt relief when I handed her off to Colin so that he might escort her to the dining room.
Mr. Leighton, who took my arm, spoke in a low tone as we walked. “I do apologize, Lady Emily, for my dear Penelope. We have just returned from Switzerland, where she was taking a cure for her nerves. I am afraid it proved less effective than I had hoped.” That he spoke so freely to a relative stranger about his wife’s condition shocked me, and he must have read my feelings on my face. “I would not mention it except that I would not have you think her ungrateful for the attention you pay to us by inviting us here tonight. It is so good of you. Our cook will be forever grateful, as she had nothing on hand except what she planned to serve the staff.”
“It is our pleasure, Mr. Leighton.” We had only two footmen in the house—the rest were at Anglemore—and they held out chairs for us ladies while the gentlemen seated themselves. Because we were a small party, I had directed Davis to set the table with two places on each side of the center of the long table. As a nod both to the season and the snow, I had decided not to use the electric lights (which I found sometimes unreliable during storms), and instead caused the room to be lit only by gleaming silver candelabras with holly wrapped around their bases, its dark green leaves and bright red berries lending a festive air to the scene.
Mr. Leighton, a man of property and the youngest child of a father who had earned a fortune in the City, where he now employed in his firm all four of his sons, looked to be about five and twenty, but he spoke with an enthusiasm that made him seem much younger. That he doted on his bride was evident, and although she said very little during the course of our meal, the warmth in her grey eyes when she looked at him hinted that they shared a deep affection.
By the time the footmen brought in our final course, I had all but given up on being able to draw Mrs. Leighton into conversation, and had instead done my best to make her feel included by peppering her with little compliments. As she looked with dismay at the Grand Marnier soufflé placed in front of her, I worried that she did not care for the dish, but when she burst out laughing, I was so startled that I dropped my fork.
“Do forgive me,” she said. “Emmett and I had the most dreadful soufflés in this terrible little town in Switzerland— Do you remember the name of the restaurant, darling?—by which I do not mean to criticize your excellent food, Lady Emily, as I can already tell these soufflés are a far superior breed.”
Colin’s chiseled features showed no emotion, but the mere fact that he met my eyes and did not immediately look away told me that he felt as astonished as I. Perhaps it was the effect of wine, for we had had champagne with our starters and a very fine claret with our beef, but the change in her was remarkable.
“There, now, my darling Pen, I knew you would enjoy this evening,” Mr. Leighton said, all smiles and affability.
“I imagine this is what those horrid little things aspired to be,” she said. She had hardly eaten anything all night, picking at each dish, but this she devoured almost without pausing to draw breath.
Ordinarily, I never leave the gentlemen to port and cigars after dinner, as I am fond of both things, as well as the conversation that generally accompanies them, but tonight, I did just that. Colin, startled, rose to his feet when I stood and smiled.
“We shall leave you to your port,” I said, leading Mrs. Leighton out of the room.
Do not think, Dear Reader, that I had lost hold of my senses, or that I had abandoned my passion for port and my firm belief that women should have the same rights and privileges as men. When we reached my favorite sitting room, I called for Davis, who was as shocked as my husband to find I had abandoned the gentlemen, and asked him to bring sherry for Mrs. Leighton and port for me—I had not pressed her when she refused my offer of the latter. I wanted to spend some time with this enigmatic lady away from the company of her husband, whose ebullient personality quite eclipsed her own.
The strategy, I still believe, was sound, but proved fruitless. No topic of conversation brought back to her character the brief animation sparked by the soufflé, and I found myself sighing with relief when the gentlemen joined us for coffee and shared the burden of conversation. Something about Mrs. Leighton tugged at me, but I could not quite make sense of it until we stood with them at the front door, bidding them adieu and sending them off into the snowy night. As they lived only three doors down from us, they would walk home—I had ordered the footmen to make sure the pavement between our houses was clear—and we waved to them as they set off.
“No carolers tonight,” Colin said. “I am immensely fond of snow. Only think if we had a blizzard…”
I hardly heard the rest of what he said, because Mrs. Leighton, at the urging of her husband, turned back toward us—presumably he wanted her to wave, as he was, but she only stood, motionless. And then I saw it: the uncanny resemblance to the woman I had seen the previous evening. I shuddered.
* * *
“No, Emily, you will not convince me that Mrs. Leighton was standing out in the snow last night. Particularly as you were most insistent, if you recall, that whoever it was you observed left no footprints,” Colin said. We had retired to the library after our guests’ departure, and were playing chess.
“If it was not Mrs. Leighton, who was it?”
“I cannot speak to the specific identity of the individual, but I can assure you it was not a ghost, if that is what you are getting at,” he said. “Ghosts, my dear, are at worst a figment of weak imaginations and at best a useless attempt at reconciling oneself with death.”
“Even Christians believe in spirits,” I said. “Demons, at any rate. We do not know everything about the world, even if we do live in an age of science.”
“If this, Emily, is nothing more than an attempt to distract me so that you might—at last—beat me, I warn you it will not work.”
“I do not like to beat you because it puts you in a foul mood,” I said. “It is much easier to let you win.”
“Let me win? Quite,” he said, picking up his queen and swiftly placing her back onto the board. “Mate in two if you don’t make the right move.”
I sighed. “You are far better at this than I. My talents lie elsewhere.”
“As do mine,” he said, coming around the game table to my side. “I suggest”—he was covering my neck with kisses—“that we go upstairs at once, so I may demonstrate.”
I saw no reason to object, particularly as nothing short of visual proof would convince Colin I had seen Mrs. Leighton in the snow the night before, and I never liked to waste time on a hopeless cause, particularly in lieu of the activity he proposed. Furthermore, I had not the slightest idea how to avoid mate in two. Hours later, as I lay in bed listening to my husband’s even breathing, which told me he was fast asleep, I envied him his peace, for a feeling of disquiet had seized me, and I found I could no longer ignore it. As if driven by a force beyond my control, I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to my dressing room, nearly tripping on the gown I had worn that evening, which my husband had discarded with the same scandalous disregard he was wont to apply to his own garments. After pulling the door closed behind me, I turned on the lights, their glare harsh on my eyes after so many hours of darkness, and reached for a dressing gown.
I carried my slippers as I made my way back through our chamber, where Colin did not stir, even when I opened the door. I padded across the corridor, pausing to cover my feet, as the floor, even with its thick carpet, felt cold. Our room faced
the back garden, ensuring the ever-increasing traffic in Park Lane would not disturb our slumber. Now, though, I wanted to see the street. I opened the doorway across from ours, entered the Green Bedroom, so named for the Chinese silk hung on its walls, went directly to the window, and pulled aside the curtains, stepping forward until my brow almost touched the glass, the heavy fabric falling behind me as I let it go.
I half expected to hear something—anything—a sound that would explain the feeling of having been summoned to this spot, but silence hung heavy over me. Yet my premonition, if it had been nothing more than that, did not fail me. There, across the street, in front of the gate to the park, stood the same woman I had seen before, still with no coat, wearing what appeared to be the same old-fashioned gown. I believed she could not see me—I carried no light and the room was dark—but I began to question this when she removed one of her hands from her tattered muff and held something up in front of her, reaching high above her head. What could have prompted this motion if she had not observed me? I strained, trying to identify the object. She moved it, slowly and rhythmically, back and forth and, as she did, the glow of the streetlight caught it, only for a moment, and I saw a glimpse of gold, hanging from a chain.
I hesitated, wanting to race downstairs in another attempt to speak to her, but I knew—somehow, inexplicably—that she would be gone before I could reach her. Instead, I studied every detail of her appearance. Even from my current distance, I could see that, although she did bear a striking similarity to Mrs. Leighton, the woman was not she. This figure was thinner and more angular, with a paler, almost sickly complexion. I considered opening the window, but worried the sound would scare her away, so I continued to watch.
After what felt like an eternity had passed, I began to grow concerned. She would freeze if she stayed out much longer, yet her posture indicated no sort of discomfort as she continued to move the necklace—unless it was a watch—back and forth. Back and forth. The motion mesmerized me, and before long, my lids felt heavy. I swear I closed them only for an instant, but when I looked again, she had gone, without a trace.
As before (although this time through the window), I looked up and down Park Lane, but did not see her. She could not have retreated into the park, as the gates had long since been locked. Telling myself I must have drifted asleep, and for longer than I thought, I returned to bed.
Colin rolled over and reached out for me. “I do not like waking up and finding you gone,” he said.
“As you see, I am not gone.”
“Your feet are like ice,” he said. “Which tells me you have only just returned. What have I missed?”
“Only another visit from our mysterious lady,” I said.
“Mrs. Leighton?” he asked, his dark eyes, which had remained half-closed through this, suddenly snapping open.
“No,” I said. “The same woman I saw from the library window. You were quite right. It is not Mrs. Leighton, but it is someone very like her.”
“You were dreaming,” he said, pulling me close and wrapping his arms around me. “Go back to sleep, my dear.”
* * *
The snow had stopped by the next morning, and after luncheon Davis informed us Mr. Leighton’s servant had returned an identical quantity of coal to that he had borrowed and had also sent two large potted poinsettias as thanks. A short letter from Mrs. Leighton accompanied the plants. She thanked us for our hospitality and invited me to tea that afternoon.
“If this continues, we may as well return to Anglemore,” Colin said, tossing the note aside after I gave it to him to read. “We are plagued with neighbors no matter where we go.”
“Mrs. Leighton is unlikely to suggest charades,” I said.
“Touché, my dear.”
I bundled up against the elements before walking to the Leightons’ that afternoon for, although the snow had finished, the temperature had dropped. Theirs was one of the oldest houses in the street, but it did not possess the elegant Georgian façade one would expect from an eighteenth-century dwelling. Instead, it loomed above Park Lane, a dark and foreboding tower rising from one corner, as if its designer had wanted to conjure up the image of a medieval fortress. Large trees stood in the front garden, too close to the house, causing a feeling of claustrophobia as one approached the front door. The interior had been remodeled in the middle of our current century, and I am sorry to say had been decorated to excess, no doubt by someone who followed the fashion that mistook clutter for style.
The butler led me through the wide entrance hall and into a dark-paneled corridor. A collection of hunting paintings hung from the walls, their subjects ranging from portraits of elegant individuals wearing pinks while seated on their horses to mangled and violent death scenes depicting the hunters triumphant. I could not imagine that any young bride would choose to adorn her house in such a fashion and wondered if she planned to renovate.
When at last we reached the sitting room where Mrs. Leighton received me, I was delighted to leave the gloom of the rest of the house for this charming little space overlooking Hyde Park. With the leaves long since fallen from the trees in the front garden, the room was brighter than it would have been in the summer, although the branches outside the windows combined with the early dusk of winter allowed an uneasy gloom to creep into the room. Well-placed lamps managed to combat it effectively, however, and the walls glowed a comforting shade of yellow, with grapes, sunflowers, and a variety of other blossoms covering the paper that could only have been designed by William Morris. The fact that Mrs. Leighton chose to have tea here made me wonder if the rest of the house reflected her husband’s taste rather than hers.
“What a charming room,” I said, sitting in one of the Empire style chairs that furnished the space and thanking her for the steaming cup of tea she handed to me.
“I thank you for the compliment. It is the only place in the house I feel comfortable,” she said. “I suppose I am not quite used to the married state. This house is very large and something like a mausoleum, I am afraid.”
“I read somewhere that marriage is a stalemate between equal adversaries,” I said. “Your husband is quite affable and obviously enormously fond of you. I cannot imagine he would object to you redecorating however you would like.”
She blushed, and the color in her cheeks transformed her whole appearance. “He is very good to me. He purchased the house after our engagement, but I have not yet thought about making changes. It does still feel very much like someone else’s home.”
“Where did you meet Mr. Leighton?” I asked.
“The usual way, at a ball,” she said. “I was with my aunt in London at the time.“
“Were you with her for the season?” It was not uncommon for young ladies whose parents did not keep a house in town to stay with relatives when making their entrance into society.
“I have lived with Aunt Clara from just after my tenth birthday. She took me in when my mother died. It has always made this time of year difficult for me. The anniversary of her death is Friday.”
“I am so very sorry,” I said.
“My father was in the merchant marine, so we hardly ever saw him growing up. Mother fell ill not long after his ship disappeared in a storm. I had only met my aunt once or twice before then—she was much grander than we, you understand, and our social spheres did not overlap.”
She made her point delicately. “How good of her to take you in,” I said. “Does she still live in London?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “She lived in Manchester, but when I came of age she sold the house there and we moved to Essex. There was enough money left to give me one season in London, and, happily, I met Emmett during it. We planned to spend Christmas with her in the country, but the storm delayed our departure. I had hoped we would leave tomorrow.…”
I waited for her to finish, but no further words came. “The snow will be dealt with by then, surely, so long as no more falls.” She sat, looking out the window, saying nothing. “Are you unwell
, Mrs. Leighton?” I asked.
Her teacup and saucer clattered to the floor, and the noise of it shattering brought her back from wherever her thoughts had taken her. “Apologies, Lady Emily. I am afraid I am a poor hostess.”
“Not at all. Did you see something out the window?” I asked.
“Why would I see something out the window?”
“There is often a fascinating parade of people going to and from the park,” I said. I had asked the question because something about the look in her eyes called to mind the mysterious figure I had seen outside my own window, and given the overall oppressive atmosphere of the house, I could hardly keep from expecting to see something untoward. I continued, not wanting her to think I suspected anything to be wrong. “Although in this weather—“
“Of course,” she said, her entire face a mask of gloom, her grey eyes the color of dim storm clouds. “I misunderstood your question.”
This fascinated me. Perhaps she had seen something she did not want to confess. “How so?”
“It does not merit discussion,” she said, her cheeks coloring again. “I must thank you again for having us to dine last night. Your cook is extraordinary. Please do give her my compliments.”
“Of course,” I said, studying her face. Her eyes had gone bright once she changed the subject. “How do you find Park Lane so far? Will you be happy here? My husband complains about the traffic, primarily because he remembers the street being much more quiet during his childhood.”
“It has certainly been quiet with the snow,” Mrs. Leighton said.
“It has,” I said. “Colin objects to the ever-increasing presence of motorcars. He insists the sound of their engines is not conducive to residential neighborhoods.”
That Silent Night Page 2