The Wrong Girl (Freak House)

by C. J. Archer

  "I know." He held up his hand. Three bloodied scratches raked down the back from knuckles to wrist.

  "I'm—" Sorry, I'd been about to say. But I wouldn't apologize to my kidnapper for trying to save myself. "You ought to be more careful where you put your hands, Mr. Langley."

  Again he gave that small smile, but once more it disappeared before taking proper hold. "Call me Jack. I'm not one for formalities."

  "And you can call me Sylvia," Miss Langley said. "May we call you Violet?"

  "If you prefer." I peered past her to the house, a rather solid, dominating presence that looked as if it had been hewn from a mountain of rock. Yet it appealed to me in a way that Windamere never had. There was no symmetry to it, no evenness of form and certainly no beauty, but it was interesting, in a grim way.

  "Welcome to Frakingham House," Sylvia said, following my gaze.

  "You called it Freak House in the carriage."

  "Did she now?" Jack glared at her from beneath a fringe of dark hair. He looked bedraggled, and I supposed I must have been equally unkempt. I touched my curls. Ugh. It was an untamed mess. I must have lost hat and hairpins somewhere along the way.

  "That's what the villagers call it," Jack said. "Behind our backs."

  "Behind your back perhaps," Sylvia said.

  "Where are we?" I asked.

  "A few hours from Windamere," Jack said. "Show her to her room, Syl, then come see us. I'll meet you there shortly."

  "Where is 'there' exactly?" I asked. "And who else will I be meeting?"

  Neither answered me. Sylvia steered me up the flagstone steps to an enormous arched doorway recessed deep into the stone moldings. Carved rosettes and a coat of arms decorated the lintel above.

  Jack pushed open the door and allowed Sylvia and me to walk through first. As I passed him, a strange warmth spread along my veins to the tips of my fingers and toes. His breath hitched, but I didn't dare look at him. Didn't dare desire this man who'd kidnapped me.

  I walked side by side with Sylvia to the grand staircase. It rose up to the first level then split in two with both sections continuing higher, disappearing through arched doors. Stone arches were everywhere. They formed the baluster, were carved into the walls to create niches, and enormous ones held up the vaulted roof. To my surprise, neither butler nor footman greeted us. If it had been Windamere, Pearson would have known we were about to walk through the front door before we did.

  "Don't be afraid," Sylvia said with a squeeze of my arm.

  "I'm not," I lied.

  Our footfalls echoed throughout the cavernous space as we walked up the stairs and along a series of corridors that seemed to turn and turn again until I no longer knew whether I faced the front of the house or the back.

  Sylvia stopped at a closed door. "This is your room."

  "I'll never find my way out again. Or is that the point?"

  "I see it'll take some time before you realize we're not going to harm you."

  "You may not harm me, but you do intend to keep me prisoner here."

  "This door will never be locked," she said, opening it. She said nothing about the front door and others leading outside, and I didn't ask. I suspect it would be something she wasn't allowed to discuss.

  So who was forbidding her? The mysterious other person I was about to meet?

  The bedroom was nothing at all like my attic one. Not only was it considerably larger and not covered in woolen hangings, but it was lavishly furnished. Paintings and tapestries hung on the walls, and the walls themselves were papered in a rich, deep burgundy. There was rather a lot of furniture, most of it beautifully made from dark wood, but it all looked comfortable, particularly the canopied bed with its swathes of crimson fabric covering the tester and cascading down the posts to form curtains.

  "It's very grand," I said.

  Sylvia fluffed up the cushion on one of the chairs. "We thought it appropriate for the daughter of an earl."

  Would I be removed to the servants' quarters if they learned I was really plain Hannah Smith?

  "It's a little chilly in here," she said. "Do you want the fire lit?"

  "No. Don't trouble yourself."

  The fireplace didn't look as if it had been lit in years. Perhaps it hadn't been. Perhaps I was the only visitor the room had ever seen. It did have the musty smell of a closed room, and the bedcovers and all the cushions looked crisp and new.

  "Did you do these yourself?" I asked, indicating the embroidered cushions.

  Sylvia smiled. "Yes. I painted most of the pictures too."

  I studied the paintings. Some depicted ruins that resembled the ones I'd seen earlier, and others were of the lake or woods. They were a little dark and ethereal for my taste with stormy skies and an abundance of tangled vines, but they suited the house itself. "I hope you haven't removed them from your own room for me," I said.

  "Oh no, I've done many more. They're in every room."

  "You're very prolific."

  "Oh, I meant every room that we inhabit. Most of Frakingham is empty. We don't need all of it."

  "Who are 'we' exactly?"

  She set the cushion down on the chair and arranged it just so, then rearranged it again. "Jack and me, of course, and Uncle August."

  "Jack's father?"

  "No."

  "So he's Jack's uncle as well as yours?"

  "Yes, of course. You do ask a lot of questions." She opened one of the cupboard doors. "There is a selection of gowns here, and jackets. They should all fit nicely as long as Jack was right."

  I frowned. "Right about what?"

  "Your measurements. He assured me he could tell your size just by looking at you."

  "Jack first appeared at Windamere two weeks ago. Don't tell me you've had them all made since then based on the guess of someone who's only seen me a few times and at a distance?"

  "Not all of them were made new. Some are altered ones of mine. I hope you don't mind. As to the fit...Jack's rarely wrong."

  How irritating. "An expert on women's sizes, is he?"

  She flashed me a mischievous grin. "I think you've made an impression on him. He almost smiled earlier, and when you get to know him better, you'll learn that he smiles rarely."

  "I don't wish to get to know him. I wish to go home." It sounded petulant, but I didn't care. The Langley cousins might have been all solicitude toward me, but fear tightened my chest. Besides, I wanted to see Vi again. She must have been frantic with worry.

  Sylvia turned suddenly and strode to the dressing table situated in the bay window. Her fingers lightly caressed the silver-capped perfume bottles, the combs, brushes and a silver candlestick and trinket boxes. It was as if she sought comfort in the familiar objects, or perhaps it was merely a way of avoiding eye contact with me. "You'll find unmentionables in the drawers."

  I came up beside her and looked out the arch window. I could just see the lake and the ruins off to one side. Beyond that were wooded hills and little else. The village the cousins had spoken of must be in another direction. My soul thrilled at the sight of a new vista, so different from the one I had stared at every day for years. Yet I felt a stab of sorrow and the cold lump of unease too. I might never see the view over Windamere's park again.

  "How old is this place?" I asked. Talking about the history of Frakingham might keep my nerves under control. Hopefully.

  "The estate itself is ancient. People have been living and worshipping here for centuries." She pointed at the ruins. "That was Frakingham Abbey. It belonged to the Cistercian order, but was abandoned and fell into ruin around the time of the Dissolution of the Monasteries. It's rather a pleasant place to picnic now in the summertime."

  "It looks eerie."

  "I suppose it does." She looked at my crossed arms as I hugged myself. "Don't worry. There are no ghosts here that we know of. Indeed, this building is only about sixty years old, although you wouldn't know it."

  "I thought it was medieval."

  "Not at all. The previous Lord Fra
kingham wanted a grand house built in the Gothic style. He bankrupted the estate in the process, and his heir had to sell it when the place began to need repairs."

  "Your uncle bought it?"

  She tilted her chin and her eyes flashed. "He did. He's a self-made man, Uncle August. He worked his way up from nothing to be able to afford this. The son of a grocer now living in the same house that a lord built. Imagine that!"

  "Yes, imagine." I had no idea how expensive it would be to buy something on the scale of Frakingham, but it must be considerable. Few Englishmen who hadn't been born into the upper echelons of society could afford it. No wonder Sylvia was proud of her uncle. "I'd like to meet him. Now, if you please." Commanding her allowed me to command my own trepidation as the full extent of my situation sank in. Well, to a certain extent at least.

  Sylvia bristled. "Demands won't get you anywhere with Uncle. As it happens, he wants to see you immediately anyway. Let's get you ready." She spun me around and scanned me from head to toe. "These clothes are so drab. They won't do. Uncle August expects women of your status to dress accordingly. He likes order, you see." Her nimble fingers unbuttoned my jacket. "Servants ought to dress like servants, shopkeepers like shopkeepers and ladies like ladies. I'm surprised your father doesn't too. I'd have thought an earl would be more of a stickler for these things than Uncle."

  "Who knows what Lord Wade thinks," I muttered as I allowed her to take off my jacket. There was no point in arguing with her, either about who my father may or may not be or about what I should wear to meet her uncle.

  The prospect of meeting him filled me with foreboding. What sort of man inspired a nice girl like Sylvia to fumble nervously with the hooks and eyes on my dress? What sort of man had his niece and nephew kidnap for him?

  CHAPTER 3

  "Uncle August's rooms take up the entire top-most floor of the eastern wing of the house," Sylvia said as we hurried up the stairs. It was growing late in the day and being almost winter, the sun had already begun to set. The stairwell would have been dark if it wasn't for the small candle-shaped gas lamps attached to the walls. "There are a few things you ought to know about Uncle August before you meet him. First of all, he can't walk."

  "How does he get about?"

  "In a wheelchair."

  "How did he lose the use of his legs?"

  "It was an accident of some sort. He doesn't like to talk about it, and you're not to ask him."

  That was like telling a fish not to swim. Yet I would hold my tongue, for now. My situation was too precarious to jeopardize it. "So he doesn't walk, but he lives all the way up here?" We'd reached the landing on the top floor. Sylvia had told me that the Langleys used only the eastern part of the house. Her uncle occupied the second floor, Sylvia, Jack and I had rooms on the first, and the ground floor was where the dining room could be found along with the formal drawing room and a more intimate informal parlor. Staff quarters were at the rear of the house with the kitchen and other service rooms.

  "He has everything he needs up here," Sylvia said, her tone clipped.

  "Everything except his freedom."

  "When one doesn't have the use of one's legs, how much freedom can be expected?"

  I thought it a narrow view, but didn't say so. Her curt manner invited no opinion. Besides, I was too anxious to argue with her. My stomach began to churn again and I had a pressing urge to turn around and run back down the stairs. I wondered what Sylvia and Jack would do if I just walked out the door.

  Return to Windamere and kidnap the real Violet Jamieson?

  We paused at a door on the landing, and Sylvia drew in a deep breath. She let it out slowly and knocked. The door was opened by Jack. He'd changed into formal evening wear of black tailcoat, waistcoat and trousers, white shirt and necktie. His hair was neatly combed back, and he looked every inch the lord of the manor. "Come in, ladies." He stepped aside. "He's waiting for you."

  The room was very large, running half the length of the eastern wing. The far end was crowded with low tables, cupboards and desks, and a bench ran along one wall. Most of the surfaces were covered with lamps, paperwork or equipment that appeared to be scientific in nature. I recognized glass bottles, burners, at least two sets of scales and a cabinet housing dozens of small drawers. There were tools too, but I was too far away to identify them, and I probably couldn't anyway. Science was not my strength, as Miss Levine had frequently informed me.

  The rest of the room where we stood was more sparsely furnished. A deep leather chair hunkered near the hearth, a small table close by, and one wall housed densely packed bookshelves. I couldn't make out their subject matter. Three of Sylvia's Frakingham paintings decorated another wall in a perfectly neat row. Not a single one hung crookedly.

  There was another chair too, but it had wheels instead of legs and was occupied by a man dressed in a crimson and gold smoking jacket. He was quite handsome for a gentleman of about forty or so, despite the silvery streaks through his blond hair and the slight slackening of his jaw. He could have been even more handsome if he wasn't frowning so hard that his mouth was little more than a pink slash in his pale face. He was broad in the shoulders too, but his waistcoat bulged at his middle and he filled the chair completely.

  Behind him stood a very tall man with stooped shoulders. His dark hair had receded, leaving a pronounced widow's peak at the front. It was difficult to tell how old he was, or what his nature might be. Indeed, he reminded me of an automaton awaiting his key to be turned. He simply stood there, quite still, his hands behind his back, staring unblinkingly ahead.

  "Welcome, Lady Violet," the man in the wheelchair said. "I am August Langley. You've met my niece and nephew."

  "You know I have," I snapped. I refused to make it easy for him, just as I refused to wipe my clammy palms down my skirt. Instead, I clasped my hands in front of me, the picture of calm serenity. Or so I hoped.

  August Langley looked down at his lap and expelled a breath. It was a long, awkward moment before he spoke again. "Please sit down."

  "I'd rather stand."

  Sylvia gave a little gasp, and I felt Jack stiffen. It wasn't just that I didn't want to do this man's bidding—although that was certainly part of my reason for refusing—I also felt awkward sitting when others were standing. If Sylvia and Jack left, then perhaps I would sit to be on a level with Langley. Being alone with him was the very last thing I wanted, however.

  "Forward, Bollard," Langley said.

  As if his key had been turned, the man behind Langley came to life. He stooped even more and pushed the wheelchair until Langley put up his hand to stop. The servant let the chair's handles go and settled once more into a stiff stance.

  Langley tipped his head to look up at me. "I suppose you've guessed why you're here."

  "Actually, no. It's quite a mystery. Your relations wouldn't divulge anything, despite my questions. After the method in which I was snatched from my home, I think I'm entitled to some answers, don't you?"

  "Don't try to turn this into something it's not, Violet. I may call you Violet?"

  I looked down my nose at him in the most imperial manner I could muster. It was not something I'd seen Vi ever do, even with Miss Levine, but I thought I made a good attempt. "What do you mean, turn it into something it's not? This is exactly what it appears to be. Abduction, imprisonment, extortion."

  "Not extortion." He said nothing about the other two accusations. So it was true. He intended to...keep me.

  My knees suddenly buckled, but Jack caught me by the elbow and steered me to the chair. I sat down heavily and struggled to catch my breath. The damned corset was too tight, and I had to gasp for air.

  "It's not what you think," Jack said, crouching beside me. "We mean you no harm."

  "Jack!" Langley snapped.

  Jack straightened to his full height and glared down at his uncle with such ferocity I thought he might punch him. "She's frightened. I was the one who had to do your dirty work, and now she's frightened of me. Forgi
ve me if I find the need to offer comfort."

  Langley didn't take his hard gaze off his nephew, and I got the feeling if he could stand, he would square up to Jack and use his bulk to intimidate.

  "Jack, perhaps now is not the time," Sylvia said in a sing-song voice. She came up beside him and looped her arm through his. Despite the placating tone of her voice, I could tell she was using all her strength to drag Jack away.

  Finally, with a flare of his nostrils, Jack obliged her. I immediately felt less secure, and when I felt afraid, I talked.

  "Then what do you want with me? If you mean me no harm, why am I here?"

  Langley turned his steely gray gaze on me. "I'd heard you were clever."

  I bristled. "Heard from whom?"

  "Never mind that. You're here not because of who you are, but what you are."

  My heartbeat slowed. My cheeks cooled. I sat very still and stared at Langley, although I didn't really see him. I'd known it all along, but I'd not wanted to admit it—I'd been kidnapped because they thought I was Vi, and Vi could start fires with her mind.

  I swallowed hard. Langley was going to be in for a rude shock when he discovered I couldn't set anything alight without matches. And once he did, then what?

  "But why do you want someone who can start fires?" I asked.

  "To train you."

  "Pardon?"

  "Jack is going to teach you to use your power at will and control it."

  I held up my hands, closed my eyes. My breath seemed unnaturally loud in my ears. "One thing at a time. For what purpose are you training me?"

  "You cannot go about setting things ablaze willy nilly. You'll never be able to function in the real world if you don't learn to control it. We're going to help you, Violet. The sooner you see that, the sooner you'll accept your situation here."

  "My situation being that I am a prisoner at Frakingham."

  "Leaving would be foolish, and I've already established that you're a clever girl."

  "Clever people can do foolish things."

  He gave a slight nod. "I advise you against trying to leave. I know your father kept you confined to the attic, but you'll have more freedom here."