Summer Darkness, Winter Light

by Sylvia Halliday

  He opened the door to the stillroom. The little minx had had cures for everyone’s ills. She’d rid the coachman of his stones, freed the cook’s helper from her insomnia, and cured an epidemic of fever among the grooms. Perhaps he could find, among her bottles and nostrums, a cure for his discontent and gnawing anger.

  He set down his candle and looked around the orderly room. Everything—bottles and jars, flasks and packets of powder—was clearly labeled in her graceful, florid hand. He wondered who had taught her to write so beautifully. Damn it, he wondered why it should matter to him! He uncorked a stone crock marked as a cordial and sniffed its contents. It smelled warm and spicy and vaguely familiar; she’d served this to him more than once. He took a deep swallow and replaced the cork. Perhaps he’d wait a while and see if it revived his spirits. If not, he could always try another.

  He wandered around the stillroom, touching bowls and spoons and beakers. Rubbing his hands across the polished tin alembics. Fingering vials filled with colorful liquids. She had touched these selfsame objects. It haunted him, to know her presence was so near in this room.

  He found her recipe book, still open and waiting, as though she would return in a moment and finish what she’d been writing. Idly, he flipped the pages, perusing her entries. It was strange to see himself mentioned at the end of almost every recipe: “His Ldshp. was pleased with this recipe for Barbados water.” “His Ldshp made a face at this imperial water, though he thinks I did not see it. Next time, add less ginger.” “This aqua composita agreed with His Ldshp. He was in an excellent humor all the next day. Not a sign of the headache that had plagued him. Would that the ailments of his soul were so easily cured.”

  He scowled. Damn the wench! If she were so concerned with his well-being, why did she leave? He felt the anger growing again within him, the hot, helpless fury that tore at his vitals. With a savage growl, he picked up her recipe book and flung it against the shelves along the wall. There was a loud crash and a shattering of glass and stoneware. It brought him an odd measure of satisfaction.

  He picked up the cordial he’d sampled, and reached for his candle. Perhaps tonight he’d be able to sleep.

  “’Od’s blood, milord! Is anything amiss?” Briggs stood at the doorway in his shirt and waistcoat, his face shadowed with concern.

  In another moment, Mrs. Rutledge appeared behind him, yawning and hastily wrapping a voluminous cloak around her nightshift. “I heard a noise. Your Lordship…?”

  He felt like a fool, a schoolboy caught where he oughtn’t to be. “I wanted a cordial,” he said defensively. “Is that so strange?” His words sounded false in his own ears. And they didn’t explain why he felt it necessary to fetch the cordial for himself in the middle of the night, rather than ringing for a servant. “Why the devil don’t we have a new stillroom maid yet?” he blustered.

  “Your pardon, milord,” said Briggs. “But Mrs. Rutledge hasn’t been able to find a girl from the village who’s willing and skilled at the art.”

  “Find someone in Ludlow then, damn it! Or train one of the girls here. Surely, for a few extra pounds…”

  Mrs. Rutledge’s face twisted in a sour grimace. It was one thing to be awakened from a sound sleep, her expression seemed to say. It was quite another to defend her hiring practices at this hour! “There’s none of them can read her peacockish writing clear enough. All those high-flown loops and curls on the page. Her precious ‘Lord Ridleys.’” As she said the words, the housekeeper curled her lip in scorn and wrote his name in the air with her finger. “She was always taking on airs. Putting herself above her station. Can you believe, milord, she even wanted my position?”

  He frowned. Something wasn’t quite right. What had the woman said? Lord Ridley. But all the entries in Allegra’s book referred to him as His Lordship. “Where did she write ‘Lord Ridley’?”

  “Why I…in her recipe book, I suppose.”

  “No. I’ve only just looked through it. She never once writes Lord Ridley. ”

  Mrs. Rutledge laughed nervously. “Oh, but she must have. I’m sure that…”

  Christ’s blood, the woman was blushing! And she looked as guilty as a prisoner in the dock. “Where did she write my name like that?” he demanded.

  She was beginning to quake in fear. “A…letter,” she whispered.

  “What letter?”

  Mrs. Rutledge looked for support from Briggs, but he scowled and folded his arms across his chest. “Answer His Lordship,” he growled.

  She gulped. “The day…the day she ran away. She left a letter in her room.”

  Grey fought the urge to strike the hag where she stood. “Now, by God, if you tell me you’ve destroyed it, I’ll have you strung up by your thumbs!”

  She gave a shaky giggle. “Of course not, Your Lordship. I’d never do such a thing! I meant to give it to you all along. I was only waiting until you were in a better humor.”

  He pointed to the door. “Fetch the letter, you jealous bitch,” he said through clenched teeth. “You may thank God that you merely had the malice to withhold it, and not the courage to tear it up.”

  In the few minutes it took Mrs. Rutledge to scurry to her room and hurry back with the letter, Grey had paced the floor half a dozen times. She had written to him. And he had suffered, all this week, never knowing.

  He snatched the letter from the housekeeper’s fingers, broke the seal and unfolded Allegra’s letter. His hands were shaking so violently that he could scarcely hold it steady at first. She had written to him. He took a deep breath, held the letter close to the candle, and read.

  “My dearest Grey,” it began. “It breaks my heart to leave you this way. God preserve me, I cannot promise even to return to you. The path that I have chosen, that I have sworn to take, will perhaps lead to my own downfall. But I have my duty. And the ghosts that haunt me are as real to me as those that haunt you. I beg you, Grey, to lay the past to rest. You can do no more to atone. Let it rest, and forgive yourself.

  “As for me, forgive me and forget me. My course was set long before I met you. If I fail, nothing but death awaits me. If I succeed, I will have become a stranger to myself.

  “They say that one sin breeds another. You are consumed with guilt for deaths for which you are blameless. What will become of me, when my hands are covered with blood I have chosen to shed? What will be left of your fair Allegra then?

  “Live your life without me, Grey, and be happy. On those days when your soul is in pain, and drink seems your only release, remember the woman who loved you with all her heart and will love you forever. Allegra.”

  He turned away and covered his face with his hand. How could he have doubted her for a minute? How could he have heaped curses on her memory all this week? What a fool—to deny what his own eyes, his arms, his lips had told him. And now she was gone, set on her mad path to destruction.

  My God! He swore to himself, filled with a sudden rush of panic. What if he was too late? He whirled to Briggs, the words pouring out of him in an anxious burst.

  “Briggs! I know ’tis late. But I want you to write to Gifford in London tonight. Tell him to expect me on Saturday, at the latest. He’s to open Morgan House at once.”

  A small, pleased smile tugged at the corners of Briggs’s mouth. “Yes, milord.”

  “See if he can discover what has become of Tom Wickham. Baron Ellsmere, that is.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  He scoured his thoughts, then snapped his fingers. “The knife, of course! She will have pawned it, I should guess. Tell Gifford to inquire at all the shops.”

  The smile deepened. If his secretary could find either the knife or Ellsmere, he would surely find Allegra. “Yes, milord. You’ll want Gifford to buy back the blade, of course.”

  “Certainly. It was a gift from a dear friend.”

  “Do you think you can find the girl, milord?”

  “She’ll have a week on me, but I doubt if she knows London. Where Gifford and I can go with certainty,
she’ll be finding her way. We may discover Ellsmere before she does.”

  “Shall I accompany you?”

  “No. Ram will be enough. You’re needed here.”

  “If I were you, I should take a second footman with you, milord. And armed. There has been talk of late. Highwaymen on the London road.”

  “Yes, of course.” Highwaymen? He frowned in thought, his heart contracting in sudden fear. “My God, Briggs! What if she was harmed on the journey? She was alone when she left!”

  The man’s smile was filled with awareness. Grey wondered how much he guessed. “Be of good cheer, milord. I have no doubt she took the mail coach. A safe journey. I reckon she had enough money from what you paid her to buy a fare.” He turned to the door. “I’ll write to Gifford now.”

  “Wait.” Grey held up his hand. “One thing more.” He pointed to Mrs. Rutledge, who had been following the conversation with all the curiosity of a born gossip. “Rid me of that harpy.”

  Mrs. Rutledge squealed like a pig in a farmyard. “You can’t, milord! I’ve served you well and faithfully.”

  “You’ll go without a fuss, woman. And not a bloody reference from me!” He brandished Allegra’s letter. “Or would you prefer to be arrested for stealing my correspondence?” He turned to Briggs as Mrs. Rutledge sputtered in outrage. “Sack the woman, and get me an honest housekeeper for a change. I’ll pay good wages, but I’m damned if I’ll allow my pockets to be picked any longer!”

  The smile had become a grin. “Yes, milord!”

  He returned the grin, pushed past a now-sobbing Mrs. Rutledge, and raced back to his rooms. He was glad to find Jagat Ram still up and waiting for him. “Prepare my clothes for a journey,” he said. “We’re leaving for London the day after tomorrow.”

  “London?” said Ram quietly. “Are you sure, Sir Greyston?”

  He took a deep breath and shook his head. “No. I’m terrified. But I must find her.”

  Ram nodded. “Yes. I understand.”

  “Do you? She loves me, Ram,” he said in wonder.

  A gentle laugh. “Yes, I know.”

  That caught him by surprise. “Was I so blind, not to see? Or is it you, with your quiet ways, who manages to know everything that goes on in this house?”

  “I do what I can to serve you, Sir Greyston.”

  He stared at Jagat Ram, cursing himself for a selfish clod. Had it been so long, and he so wrapped in his own miseries and drunken state, that he had failed to notice the man’s loyal service? “You should go home,” he said.

  Ram shrugged. “In good time. When Allah wills it. For now, I am content, Sir Greyston. And you are needing me in London.”

  He scowled. Indeed. He would need all the help he could get to find Allegra. That foolish girl, to have run off like this. But the more he thought about it, the angrier he grew. “I may need you to keep me from strangling the girl when I find her,” he muttered. “She could have told me of her plans. Damn it, she should have told me! Pray God she doesn’t do anything rash before we find her. Proud, stubborn woman! She succors the whole world, takes on the burden of everyone’s pain. Then the creature thinks that she must keep her own counsel. Wrestle her own dragons alone. ’Tis a foolhardy…” He stopped and glared at Ram, who had begun to chuckle softly.

  “Why do you laugh?” he asked, his voice rising with indignation.

  “I am thinking that that stubborn, proud woman has stolen your heart, if you will forgive my presumption.”

  “Stolen my…? Don’t be absurd! ’Tis natural enough to have concern. The girl is a stranger to London, and she has embarked on a course of murder and folly. And anger, to be sure! I have a right to that. She stole my favorite knife, and ran away like a thief in the night. But stolen my heart?” He looked at Ram’s wise expression, rubbed the back of his neck, and smiled ruefully.

  “Yes,” he said at last, “perhaps she has.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Summer was nearly over.

  Allegra made her way down Great Russell Street toward Bloomsbury Square. The trees that lined the thoroughfare were tinged with the first colors of autumn, russet and soft gold glowing amid the dark-green foliage. The hawkers who cried their wares through the cobbled streets pushed barrows piled high with the bounty of the fall harvest. And the lamplighters were busily at work, cleaning lamps and replacing wicks. The coming of Michaelmas in two weeks would bring with it the enforcement of the Street Lighting Act. For six months, until Lady Day, the lamps would be lit from dusk to midnight. Allegra remembered Papa telling her of the glittering wonders of London on a wintry night.

  She sighed. The time was passing, and she was no nearer her goal. She had been in the city for more than a week, and had precious little to show for it. She glanced down at her gown, a plain dark mantua of deep red cloth. It had been her one major purchase since she’d pawned Ridley’s knife. It served two purposes. It was simple, yet handsome enough so that she could pass as a gentlewoman in the streets; a young woman who looked like a servant was subject to all manner of lewd entreaties by the London beaux.

  And her new gown served another purpose. At her direction, the dressmaker had sewn a triangular pocket into the front bodice. It now held a very plain, but very deadly, dagger. To wear it near her heart was to remind herself of her vow. And whenever, in these past few days, she’d found her thoughts straying to Grey and the sweet ease of her life at the Hall, she had but to touch the dagger and feel its length pressing against the bones of her stays to be reminded of why she had come back to England. Why she wandered the streets of this vast, bustling city, wary of pickpockets, suspicious of every shopkeeper who held out his hand for a coin, yet eager to trust anyone who might help her to find Wickham.

  A pox on that pawnbroker! No doubt he had marked her at once as an easy cully. With her simple country clothes and a costly knife that clearly was stolen. And she had been taken in. She had accepted his piddling offer for the blade, had even confided that she needed a solicitor to find a missing friend.

  She laughed bitterly, catching the surprised stare of a passing clergyman. The pawnbroker must have been in league with that accursed solicitor all along. The two of them knew exactly how much money she had to spend. It had cost her half a crown a day. Double that amount yesterday, when the oily solicitor had smiled and sworn he had a friend who was sure he could find Thomas Wickham. It needed but a few extra coins, he’d said, to get his friend into the gambling house that Wickham was known to frequent.

  And then this morning the rogue had told her that the search had been fruitless, and he would need another pound, at the very least, to continue to serve her. She had refused him, of course. She wondered now if he had ever done anything but take her money and share it with his confederate.

  She reached Bloomsbury Square with its neat park and turned toward King Street on the east. She stopped a footman in front of one of the townhouses, and asked to be directed to the door of Dorothy, Lady Mortimer. She prayed that the woman had returned to London by now, and would remember her kindly.

  She had hesitated to call on Lady Dorothy, fearful that word of her visit might get back to Grey. But she had no other friends in this city. And she was beginning to think—after her experience with the solicitor—that she’d need someone who traveled in aristocratic circles to find Lord Ellsmere. Random inquiries at taverns and shops had proved useless.

  Lady Dorothy hurried to greet her almost as soon as she was ushered into the parlor. “My dear Allegra! You bring news from the country?”

  She curtsied politely. “There’s very little to tell, Your Ladyship. I’ve left Lord Ridley’s employ.”

  “Oh.” The smile faded from Lady Dorothy’s face and she sank into a chair. She frowned down at the carpet, then lifted her eyes at last to Allegra and managed a faint smile. “You’ve come to London to be a lady’s maid, then?”

  “Not precisely, milady, though I thank you for remembering.” She had already decided on the story she would tell. “I only
want—”

  Lady Dorothy interrupted her with an impatient click of her tongue. “Have you no messages for me?”

  “No,” she said, bewildered by the odd question. “Were you expecting any?”

  “Not quite expecting, but…You have nothing to tell me?”

  “Well,” Allegra began, remembering Lady Dorothy’s unhappy departure from Baniard Hall, “I feel sure that His Lordship has long since regretted your quarrels. But I have no message from him.”

  Lady Dorothy shook her head. “No, no! I meant Mr. Briggs. Surely he…” She buried her face in her hands. “Oh, I’m a fool. I was so sure I saw in his eyes…”

  Allegra stared in astonishment. Could it be…? “Milady, can I bring you cheer?”

  Lady Dorothy sighed and lifted her head, belatedly recalling her station. “Forgive me. This is scarcely your concern. What has brought you to my door?”

  “I’m seeking a gentleman who once employed me. I wanted a reference from him. I heard he came to London. But I’m at a loss to find him. Beg your pardon, but you were so kind to me at the Hall, I dared presume to use your good offices to aid in my search.”

  “But I can give you references. I saw enough of your good character at Baniard Hall to speak for you.”

  “I thank you, milady. But I must have them from Lord Ellsmere.”

  “Thomas Wickham? I fear I don’t know the man.”

  Allegra bit her lip. “Perhaps, someone else…?”

  “Wait.” Lady Dorothy frowned. “I think I heard something of him only the other day. I was walking in the Mall and met a friend. Oh, dear. What did he say? He’d heard the gossip at the Haymarket Theater. Yes, now I recall. Ellsmere is completely ruined, the poor man. He has been, for some time, thanks to his late father’s gambling.”

  “Aye. I’d heard that was why he came to London. And is he here now?”

  “For the moment. But only just. It seems that Providence has smiled upon him. He has inherited a small piece of property in Yorkshire. I think he’s leaving from Gravesend this very week. Saturday, if I’m not mistaken. By packet boat, my friend said.”