Then, one morning, only a thin fog crept over the empty hill. Henri thought maybe his mother had gone out earlier than usual and he’d just missed her, but there was a sick feeling in his stomach. For hours he stood with his hands clasped in prayer trying to will her back.
Looking around the library, Henri’s gaze settled on the upholstered armchair where his mother sat those days before she disappeared, when he asked her if she would read one of his father’s books out loud. She had looked at him tenderly, remorsefully, and he had stood next to that chair and put his hands on her cheeks. He had thought then that she might love him after all, despite how she was.
The enormous clock on the mantel gave a single, sharp toll as it struck one. It startled Henri, and he walked abruptly to the window. A light rain still sifted down, the wind causing it to lift and fall in irregular patterns over the hills and fields and gardens. Jonquils were in bloom, and the daisy stalks were up, their buds tight and green.
“Henri?”
A female voice came from behind, and Henri turned to find the woman who had taken him to France so long ago. She wore a dark blue dress, just as she had that day, only her hair was no longer blond, but silver, and pulled high on her head. In his memory, she was a wispy, pale beauty with a hardened face. There was still a hint of her beauty left, and her hardness defined in fierce lines on her brow. She had lived in this house Henri’s entire childhood, and only now did it occur to him that she had likely been his father’s mistress.
“Miss Marion Gray,” he said, smiling. He hadn’t thought it would be good to see her, but it was.
“You have impeccable timing.” She crossed the room with a limp he’d forgotten she had. As a child, that limp was the only thing that had made her seem vulnerable.
She did not offer her hand as conventional women did, but took hold of his and held it firmly, pressing it between both of hers. “I’m sorry to tell you your father died,” she said directly. “December 5. You’ve just missed him.”
It was as if a rope had been cut around Henri’s middle. The tightness let up, and he looked into Marion’s misty eyes, finding himself embarrassingly light-headed, but not stricken, as one might assume. Someone else’s son would have been devastated to come all this way, after all this time, only to have missed the father he had not seen in seventeen years, by a mere five months. But Henri was relieved, and it showed all over his face.
Marion smiled. “You’re right.” She nodded as if she could read his thoughts. “He’d only grown meaner. Fiercer. Sadder.” She let go of Henri’s hand, this last word spoken tenderly.
“And my mother?” he asked, and it was impossible not to hear his expectant tone, the anxious anticipation and hope.
Marion shook her head. “No, my dear. She never came home.”
Henri nodded, looking at the upholstered chair, a deep, familiar regret spreading through his whole body. He had known this the moment he stepped into the library. Her absence was in the dust, in the untouched books, the empty desk and the silent, vacant air around him, and yet there was a part of him that could not let go of her.
“It’s not teatime,” Marion said, “but let’s have some anyway, in the dining room. I despise it in here.” She gave a little shiver, took hold of Henri’s hand, and led him from the room.
Walking down the hall, safely away from the library, Marion said, “The servants have absolutely no respect for me, but I’m the only one they have to answer to now. If I want tea at an irregular hour, tea it is.”
It was the same dining room table he’d sat at as a boy, the same sideboard and elegant-backed chairs, probably the same teacups and silver. And even though it was far from comforting, Henri found he could breathe a little easier. Unlike the library, the dining room didn’t hold the faded memory of his mother. She had never once taken dinner in here with them. It had only been Marion, his demure grandmother who he remembered as a silent, wide-eyed presence, and his fickle, mercurial father, either slumped in his chair, speechless and sour, or shouting, loud and fast, spit flying.
For a while, they drank their tea in silence. Eventually, Henri asked, “Why didn’t you write that my father had died?”
He swirled the dregs of sugar at the bottom of his cup, the last bit of tea rising up the sides of white porcelain and sliding back down.
Marion watched him carefully. “Why would I?” she answered, forthright. “I never knew what happened to you after I left Paris. And then, so many years later, you write asking for my help. Asking me to lie for you.” She smiled, an ironic smile, showing he was quite right to assume she’d agree. “You asked not a single question in return, nothing of your father, or your mother. I assumed you’d rather not know.” She reached for the teapot—a round belly of shiny silver—exposing her delicate wrist as it stretched away from her lace cuffs.
A spout of tea steamed into his cup, and Henri dropped in two lumps of sugar, watching them promptly sink to the bottom. “You were right. I didn’t want to know.”
Marion tilted the teapot over her cup with a finger pressed to the lid. “Why now?”
“I suppose facing my past became inevitable. I’d put it off as long as I could. I’m very good at putting things off.”
She set the pot down, picked up her fork, and cut into a slice of lemon cake. “You could have put it off indefinitely. It wouldn’t have been the worst thing. I left home and never returned. I lived over a draper’s shop, had a drunk for a father, and sang in the opera. Left it all behind when I came here. I have no idea what happened to my pitiful father. Probably made his grave in a ditch somewhere.” The cake slid into her mouth.
Henri traced the gold swirls in the cream-colored wallpaper with his eyes. “I want to know what happened to my mother,” he said. “I want the truth.”
Marion finished her bite and daintily dabbed the corner of her mouth. “You’re a grown man.” She folded her napkin and set it next to her plate. “Not much sense keeping it from you.” Standing, she left the room.
When she returned, she slid a folded newspaper clipping in front of Henri and sat back down to her cake. “I don’t know if it’s the truth,” she said. “But it’s why your father sent you away.”
Henri’s stomach dropped. He unfolded the paper and pressed the creases down with his fingers.
EXAMINER, NOVEMBER 25, 1860
Since the printing of our last story on the disappearance of Mrs. William Aubrey it appears the London police have found reason to suspect her husband, the acclaimed author, Mr. William Aubrey, of her murder. Chapman and Hall cannot keep enough copies of Mr. Aubrey’s latest novel, THE TIDES, in print since the whole of London is enamored with the fictional heroine who disappears at the end of the novel, killed at the hands of her husband. The police are investigating Mr. Aubrey of having committed the crime to create sensationalism for his novel and increase its popularity. As of yet, no body had been found.
Sickened, Henri flipped the paper over, pushed his chair back, and crossed to the window. The rain had stopped, but enormous thunderheads sat on the horizon like craggy, mountainous peaks. He felt a wave of nausea. Not once, not even when the authorities kept coming, had he suspected anything this grotesque.
“I don’t know whether he killed her or not,” Marion said flatly. “If he did, it certainly wasn’t for the reasons suspected. Evelyn was alive when she left this house that night.”
Henri shot around. “How do you know?”
“Because I found her.”
“What? Where?”
Marion drew herself forward, shamelessly missing the excitement she had drawn from the disaster. “She was on the North Sea, near Hartlepool. A man named Peter Emsely helped her. They’d been engaged once. She had broken it off to marry your father.”
Henri folded his arms and locked his hands around his elbows. “Then this news story is just a fabrication?”
“Like I said, I don’t know.” Marion reached for her cake and took another bite. She often wondered if Evelyn had secre
tly enjoyed the scandal. What spectacular revenge, William being blamed for her murder. “Your father was a violent man,” she said. “I’m sure you haven’t forgotten.” Henri hadn’t. He could still feel the back of his father’s hand. “But he never touched your mother. Did you know that? Regardless, your mother was terrified he’d force her back if he found her. She made me swear I’d never tell where she was.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
The room grew dark as the storm crept near. The pressure in the air was giving Henri a headache, and he pressed his fingers into his temples. “So that was it? You never saw her again?”
Marion finished her cake and ran her tongue over her teeth to make sure there was nothing unseemly stuck in them. “I never saw her again.”
She thought of leaving it at that, but she had to be very careful how she played her hand here. Henri was an Aubrey, after all, and the heir. It might be to her benefit if he thought the worst of his father.
“One day in December your father left. He hadn’t gone anywhere since Evelyn’s disappearance. He was gone for a week, and when he came back he went into Evelyn’s room and took everything—her writing, clothes, even her bedding—and burned it all. It was barbaric, frightening. I watched him shove item after item into the hearth. He didn’t care who saw: not myself, or the cook, or the housemaid.” Marion hesitated because this was the part that had always gotten to her. “He said, ‘She’s gone. She’s dead.’ He said this very calmly, as if certain of it.”
“You never inquired further?”
“What was I to do? Your father was drawn to the dramatic. It may have just been a notion, a feeling. Maybe he’d gone to look for her, and when he couldn’t find her, he decided she was dead to him. I don’t know.”
Marion looked away from Henri—his pale, serious face so much like his mother’s—and smoothed a wrinkle out of the fine white tablecloth with her fingertips. How ironic, that William had kept her here, in all this wealth, just as she’d planned. She remembered the day she arrived, young and beautiful and determined. This house had been her escape. Not from a man, but from a life of poverty. For a moment she considered telling Henri everything, now that she’d started; about his mother’s journal, about the truth of his father’s books, but she didn’t. Maybe it was resentment for all she’d endured, for her internment here at Abbington Hall, for the loneliness she’d lived with. Or, maybe, it was just the deep bitterness that she’d carried around her entire life.
Whatever the reason, she decided to keep Evelyn Aubrey’s secret, which was both loyalty and betrayal.
“I know nothing more,” she said sharply. “A few months later, William told me I was to take you to Paris and deliver you into the hands of that family.” She looked at Henri. “Your father’s reputation was ruined.”
“But he was never convicted.”
“It was no matter. Your mother wasn’t found, and people believed the worst. To your miserable father’s credit, he didn’t want you living with that scandal. He believed you would never have gotten away from it in England. William knew the Savarays from his travels abroad. They were wealthy, with a good reputation. Seemed the best thing for you.”
“I reminded him of my mother, of what he had done. Best to do away with both of us,” Henri said bitterly.
Marion walked over to him, her limp more severe now, as if it had worsened in just a few short hours. She was a small woman, and Henri looked down at her, noticing the fine lines around her clear eyes, eyes that were not as aggressive as he remembered, only terribly sad, with a hint of humility, which was not how he had ever thought of her.
“I do believe he was trying to protect you,” she said. “He wasn’t a good man, but he wasn’t always a bad one. He may have loved you. There’s always the chance of that, love being so unruly and out of one’s control.”
Henri shook his head. “I’m sure he did not.” He gave a quick, ironic laugh. “You know I’ve never read The Tides. I tried once, but I couldn’t bring myself to open it.” His low voice was laced with controlled hysteria. “Could he have killed her? How does one live with that, the mere idea?”
“Henri,” Marion snapped at him. “It was a rumor. One does not base one’s life on rumors. Put it out of your mind. You must.” She turned and drew her arm out in a sweeping gesture, slowly, as if on stage. “Because all of this is now yours.”
Henri followed the sweep of Marion’s arm, looking out into the cold, heartless room. This house was as extreme as his father, ostentatious enough to distract people, cover things up. Henri clamped his arms across his chest and bent his head as if bracing against a fierce wind. He didn’t want Abbington Hall. He didn’t want anything to do with it.
“It’s late,” he said. “I ought to be going.”
“You mustn’t travel in this weather. I insist you stay the night.”
“I need to get back to London.”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait.”
“No, it cannot.” Henri moved quickly to the door, and Marion followed.
Outside a warm wind had picked up. The sky was dark and tense, the storm brewing overhead. Marion loved a good storm. It made her feel as if something tremendous and exciting was about to happen. She looked at Henri, remembering a time when all she had to do was cast a look at a man and he’d give her anything she wanted. She was far too old for that now.
“You’ll want to contact William’s lawyer about the estate—Barlow Greeves, 11 Coventry Street.” Marion shouted above the wind. “They didn’t know where to find you.”
“Why didn’t you tell them?” Henri cried back.
“They didn’t know I knew. I figured you’d come home when you were ready.” Marion’s skirts whipped around her. “Get on into that carriage. The sky looks menacing. We don’t want to be out in it any longer than we have to,” she said, knowing she’d stay out long after his carriage pulled away, just to enjoy the thrill of being caught up in the wind.
“The man who helped my mother, Emsley did you say? Is he still alive?” Henri shouted back.
“I don’t know.” Marion looked up. Clouds rushed overhead as if pushed by a current. “He had a law firm in London. If he’s still alive, he shouldn’t be too hard to find.” Henri stepped into the carriage, and Marion caught his arm. “What’s going to happen to me?” she cried. “I have nowhere to go. I have no other home.”
Henri reached for her hand. “Abbington Hall is more your home than mine. You needn’t worry about a thing,” he said, hurrying into the carriage as the first, fierce drops of rain began to fall.
Chapter 28
On the train ride back to the city, the rain falling steadily, Henri thought of his children. He pictured Jacques as a grown man standing in the Savaray drawing room, facing Colette, his real maman. Jeanne and Jacques would want to know the truth someday. They’d dig it up, just as he had.
He put his hand to the glass and traced a stream of water with his finger. He couldn’t wait to see Aimée. He wanted to tell her everything he couldn’t speak of that first day when they were children, when she sat in his room, curious, wanting to know all about him.
The rhythmic rocking of the train and the steady noise of the churning pistons made him drowsy, and Henri leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He wouldn’t go to Aimée empty-handed this time. He’d put everything in order first. He wondered how it would go over when Lady Arrington found out he was Henry Aubrey, if she’d know the name, the history. He’d have to face that now. It took on a new meaning with his father gone, now that he and Jacques were the only Aubreys left.
* * *
Finding Mr. Emsley’s office was easy. His name had hung outside the same door for the past thirty-seven years. All Henri had to do was ask around.
The building was small and dark. Inside it smelled of leather and old wood. Henri stepped toward the man hunched behind a large desk.
“Pardon me,” he said. “I’m looking for Mr. Peter Emsley.”
&nbs
p; The man didn’t look up. He dipped his quill pen, slowly, his hands as old and leathery as the place smelled. “Who might you be?” he said, his voice rough as bark.
“Henri … I mean Henry William Aubrey.”
The man was completely still other than his eyes, which shot up. “I don’t know what you’re after,” he said as if defending against accusations already made. “I have no information to give you.”
“Not according to Miss Marion Gray,” Henri answered.
The tip of the man’s pen rested on the page of an open ledger, but he did not make a mark; instead he dropped the pen back into the inkwell. He pulled his head up and looked at Henri with bloodshot eyes that peered from behind thin, wire-framed spectacles. The man was tall and paunchy with a thick white beard that ran up the sides of his face and blended into the scruffy line of hair cresting his bald head.
“I used to wonder if you’d come,” the man finally said, pulling off his spectacles and letting them hang from a silver chain around his neck. “After a time, I stopped wondering. I suppose, with your father’s death, I should have prepared myself. Please, I have been impolite. Won’t you have a seat?”
“Thank you, kindly.” Henri pulled up a chair. The office was pleasant, sparse, but neatly furnished and clean. “I apologize, Mr. Emsley, if my presence is troubling to you in any way.”
“Please, call me Peter,” Mr. Emsley said, and there was kindness in his dark, inquisitive eyes. “You, my boy, are not what troubles me. It is your mother who has always troubled me. You are just a reminder.”
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