by Annis Bell
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2014 Annis Bell
Translation copyright © 2015 Edwin Miles
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Die Tote von Rosewood Hall (Lady Jane 1) by Amazon Publishing in Germany in 2014. Translated from German by Edwin Miles in 2015. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2015.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503944756
ISBN-10: 1503944751
Cover design by Scott Barrie
Contents
Start Reading
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
35.
36.
37.
38.
About the Author
About the Translator
Where sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,
She sleeps a charmèd sleep:
Awake her not . . .
Sleep that no pain shall wake;
Night that no morn shall break
Till joy shall overtake
Her perfect peace.
Christina Rossetti (1830–1894)
1.
Rosewood Hall, February 1860
Laughter, the clink of glasses, and scraps of conversation mingled with the lilt of the music and the swish of silk ball gowns as they glided over the parquet floor in time to a waltz. With every turn the dancers made, the magnificent jewels worn by the women sparkled and glittered in the glow of countless candles on the chandeliers in the ballroom. The exquisite buffet tempted even the most discerning palates, and Lord Pembroke had gone so far as to have the good champagne served.
Jane sighed. She knew that her uncle had gone to such lavish expense all for her sake. She leaned unhappily against a column and let her eyes wander over the lively gathering. After the death of her parents—both far too young, the victims of a cholera epidemic in India—her uncle Henry had taken her in. He could not have loved her any more had she been his own daughter. Jane gazed around the room anxiously, trying to see him. She knew her uncle was ill, seriously ill, although he tried to keep it hidden from her. In his sixties, he remained an impressive man, tall and slim and with a mane of silver hair, which she now spied among a group of older men on the far side of the ballroom. She was relieved to see that he had not yet withdrawn for the night, and turned her eyes to the guests.
The young, eligible women in attendance had gone to great lengths with their clothes and makeup. Some of them were so beautiful they could turn the head of any man there. Perhaps a goldfish or two would find its way into a net tonight. That’s what this soiree was all about, after all. Her uncle wanted her—at long last—to find a suitable partner for marriage. Jane chewed her lip and nervously fluttered the fan in her hand. But who? What man would allow her the freedom that mattered so much to her? She wasn’t one of those sugary creatures with a pretty face and an empty head. Not that she couldn’t hold her own among the marriageable young ladies at the party. Her shining, red-brown hair was all the rage, and her daily routine of riding, walking, and swimming had given her an excellent figure. Perhaps her curves were not quite feminine enough, her chin too emphatic, and her green eyes too critical too often, but when she made an effort, she could bat her long eyelashes seductively and draw her full lips into a most enticing smile.
She fluttered the fan again. She had no desire to pander to vain fops who were only after her dowry and saw her as no more than a necessary evil. Not yet twenty-five, she was no old maid. But the danger zone was approaching.
“My gosh, Jane, if you go on frowning like that, your forehead will stay creased forever. Then we’ll never find you a man!” Lady Alison was her best friend and, for the last year, the Baroness Latimer.
“Oh, Ally . . . do you really think I want to be with one of these men? I’d throw myself off a bridge first!” said Jane, swatting her friend’s magnificent pink silk robe with her fan.
Alison was petite and blond, and her big blue eyes lent her an air of vulnerability that made her all the more attractive. But the impression was deceptive. Jane knew a sympathetic fighter’s heart beat in her friend’s breast. And she knew that she could trust Alison with her life. Since Alison had married, they saw each other only on rare occasions, for Alison now had to care for her husband, her household, and her three-month-old twins. Jane missed her friend’s vivacious company.
“Just wait, we’ll find one for you. I see Lord Hargrave’s here. Rich, attractive . . . if you like graying at the temples. He has a gorgeous townhouse in London, in Park Lane. I’ve seen it myself.”
Jane followed Alison’s discreet gaze and saw a giant of a man. There was something military about him, though he wore an elegant black suit and stood among the other guests. On second glance, his superficial handsomeness diminished. His mouth was too wide and was surrounded by deep lines, signs of a lack of restraint and a short temper. He seemed to realize that the women were looking at him, and when he caught Jane’s eye, she immediately looked away.
“No, Alison, I don’t like him. Was he in the military?”
Alison raised one shoulder coquettishly and continued to scan the room. “They say he was in various wars in India and Crimea, and doubled his fortune in the process. Well, you’ve only yourself to blame, because there are plenty of frogs in the pond today. Ah!”
Alison gave her friend a triumphant nudge. “There! He’s the one! He just arrived ten minutes ago, and I asked Lady Dorchester about him. He comes from one of the best houses in England.” Alison steered Jane’s gaze past a row of pillars and a pyramid of champagne glasses.
The first thing Jane saw was the dress uniform of an officer. The man was tall and broad-shouldered and was standing somewhat ill at ease beside a group of young women who giggled behind their fans and stole covert glances at him. Their attentions, however, seemed to leave him completely cold. His black hair tumbled almost to his shoulders, framing striking cheekbones and a scar that ran from his right temple to his chin. His expression was unreadable and his dark eyes seemed to be scouring the room, coming to rest only when they caught sight of Jane’s face.
For a brief moment, she held his gaze. He was at once dashing and inscrutable. Then she raised her chin slightly and turned to her friend. “Who is that, did you say?”
Alison grinned smugly. “I knew it! His name is Captain David Wescott. The youngest son of the Duke of St. Amand.”
“The Amand?” Jane again turned her eyes in the direction of the officer, who was just then approached by Lord Albany. St. Amand was one of Queen Victoria’s key advisors and famed for his covert diplomatic missions.
“The very same! Lady Dorchester also told me that Wescott and his father have fallen out. They haven’t said a word to one another for years. He’s just back from the war, poor man,” said Alison sympathetically.
“Which explains the scar on his face?”
Alison nodded. “Apparently it’s not the only scar he has.” She cleared her throat in embarrassment and toyed absently with a lock of the blond hair that perfectly framed her well-proportioned face and was held in place at the back with pearl-studded combs. “He served in India and then in the Crimean War, in the terrible battle of Balaklava. Lady Dorchester says he was more dead than alive when they brought him back from the front.”
“You don’t see that now,” Jane remarked. But those dark eyes of his could be hiding wounds on the inside, she thought. She observed Captain Wescott with renewed interest.
“Besides, he has a dubious reputation when it comes to women.” Alison tilted her head. “Oh, look. Here comes your worthy cousin. No doubt he wants to ask you to dance.”
Jane rolled her eyes and turned away, pulling Alison along with her. “It’s enough that I have to see him every day. Him and his outrageous wife! Come, let’s make ourselves scarce for a while.”
“Jane, we can’t do that!” Alison protested, following her friend uncertainly as Jane sneaked behind a column and out of the ballroom. “I promised Thomas the next dance!”
“Oh, Ally, just for a few minutes. I need some fresh air!” Jane knew every nook and cranny of the vast manor and could have found her way around it in pitch darkness. With determination, she made her way from the entrance hall into a small salon and from the salon into the conservatory.
In there, the sounds of the party were muted and seemed swallowed up by the enormous palms that towered to the top of the glass dome overhead. The conservatory smelled of rose, hibiscus, and lemon, and Jane took a deep breath. “Isn’t it marvelous here? I love this place!”
Alison was panting a little. “Oh my, I’m out of breath.” She stroked her tightly corseted waist. “This dress fit me, once upon a time. But ever since the twins were born, everything in my wardrobe seems to have shrunk.”
Jane heard steps approaching and pulled her friend along with her. The expensive silk of their dresses rustled between planters and against the pedestal of a small fountain until Jane and Alison were standing at the doors that led outside. Jane pushed one of the French doors open and stepped out into the cold night air. In the silver moonlight, shrubs and topiary hedges cast bizarre shadows across the grass, and the clipped evergreen balls and tapers seemed to dance around the small statuette in the parterre. From the ballroom windows warm light fell onto the terrace, where a little snow still clung to the marble tiles.
Alison stopped in the doorway. “Come back. You’ll catch your death out there!”
“A little cooling off will do me good.” A deep sadness had come over Jane, as it had so often in recent weeks.
“Not me. I’m not as hardy as you. What is going on with you? Jane!”
It was so unfair! Why couldn’t women own property of their own? “I wish I were a man,” she said, giving voice to the thought in her head. “Then Matthew would have no power over me.”
“But your uncle is still alive. He would never allow any injustice against you,” said Alison, trying to calm Jane, but she just shook her head in despair.
“Uncle Henry is far more ill than he’ll admit, and I’m deeply worried about him. Matthew knows it too. Why do you think he and his conniving wife moved in here? Oh, of course, they say they want to help. Matthew supposedly wants to assist Henry with the administration of the estates. Don’t make me laugh! All he wants is a good look at his future property—including me. It makes me so angry! When Henry dies, Matthew will become my guardian.”
Shivering, Alison reached a hand out to her friend. “Come back in, please. No one can take away your father’s title. Isn’t there a house in Cornwall that will belong to you when you marry?”
Jane looked out into the darkness. In her mind’s eye she could clearly see the grounds surrounding Rosewood Hall, this place she loved so much. “I haven’t been there since I was a child. In my bedroom hangs a small painting of Mulberry Park—that’s its name. Henry hired a caretaker to look after it, but I have no idea how much the place brings in. Well . . .” Jane forced herself to smile. “I am not poor, but I am also not free. And I will never be free. Never.”
“Don’t say that, Jane. You make it sound as if we were all locked up,” Alison objected.
“Aren’t we? One way or another, all women live in prisons. One day, Alison, one day, we women will be allowed to decide for ourselves. I’m sure of it. Why else would the Lord above have given women a mind to think with?”
“Jane, that’s enough now. I don’t like it when you start talking like this. You know it makes me sad. There’s a reason for everything, and it really isn’t all that bad.” Alison tugged disconsolately at a velvet purse dangling from her wrist.
“It’s all right, Ally. I won’t say any more,” said Jane, but deep inside she was in turmoil. She felt a painful rebelliousness that she knew she would not be able to suppress for long when her uncle passed away. She would not allow Matthew to dictate anything in her life, and that fact would inevitably lead to more difficulties.
“Alison? Where are you hiding?” called a man’s voice from inside the house.
With almost hysterical relief, Alison called to her husband. “I’m in the conservatory, Thomas. I’m coming!” She looked questioningly at Jane, who was still standing out in the cold.
“Go, Ally. I’d still like to be alone for a minute.”
“Don’t think about these things so much, Jane. We can’t change the way they are.” Alison turned and hurried off to her waiting husband.
Jane bit her lip, swallowed her tears, and murmured, “I will never give up on myself. I will die first.”
Just then she became aware of a strange noise in the darkness, a kind of low whimper. A cat? Some injured animal? Jane lifted her skirts and took a step forward. The thin material of her shoes was soaked through instantly, but when she heard the pitiful mewling again, she realized it was the sound of crying, and she ran down the steps into the garden.
The crying was coming from near a statue, behind which grew a rhododendron. Jane didn’t stop for a moment to consider that she might be putting herself in danger. During her childhood in India, she had learned to rely on her senses, to trust her instincts. Her instincts now told her that a human being was in need.
“Hello! Is someone there? Hello!” she called softly as she slowly approached the bush. Among Jane’s peculiar gifts was the ability to see like a cat at night. This had led her first English nanny after her arrival in Wiltshire to call her half-wild and unnatural, an infernal little heathen. And although her uncle Henry had dismissed the nanny soon after that, Jane had learned early that it was often safer to conform than to stand out.
Without a second thought, she made soft, calming sounds, as she would with a skittish horse or anxious dog. “It’s all right. No one wants to hurt you.”
The crying sounded childlike, and when Jane peered cautiously beneath the rhododendron, she discovered a little heap of misery.
2.
What lay in the snow beneath the bush could easily have been mistaken for a pile of stinking rags. Jane pressed a handkerchief over her mouth and moved closer. The light of the full moon revealed a picture of wretchedness. A girl starved to mere skin and bones was curled there, cowering inside her torn rags. Jane touched the poor crea
ture gently on the shoulder with her fan, and the girl turned her head and looked at her fearfully with wide, feverish eyes.
“Oh, my goodness! Now what on earth are we going to do with you?” Jane stood up and was taken aback to see Captain Wescott striding toward her.
“My lady, what are you doing out here alone?” A strand of dark hair fell over his face as he looked at her, and his expression was grim.
“This place is my home, and we have not yet been introduced, but now that you are here, you might be able to make yourself useful.” She pointed fervently at the girl, who seemed more dead than alive. Only the soft rattle of her breath betrayed the fact that there was still some life in her body.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Wescott went down on one knee, laid a hand on the child’s forehead, and then lifted her effortlessly into his arms. As he stood up, a book fell from the girl’s ragged shawl. Jane bent down and picked it up.
“Where can we take her?” asked Wescott. “Perhaps not the servants’ wing. She has a high fever and could infect everyone there. Is there a separate room?”
“Yes. This way.” Jane gathered her skirts and walked quickly back into the conservatory. Only now did she feel how cold her feet were, but there would be time later to remedy that. The glass conservatory had an extension where the gardener cultivated plants and, on occasion, stayed the night. Rosewood Hall was known for its grounds and gardens, with its exotic plants and extraordinary roses.
In her wide skirts, Jane pushed her way through an espalier of lemon and orange trees and opened the narrow door that led into the hothouse, or “infirmary,” as her uncle liked to call it. A comfortable warmth rolled out to meet them. “In here. Uncle Henry loves plants. This is where he has them nursed back to health.”
On wooden shelves stood a variety of orchids and other plants not hardy enough to survive the winter outside. In a corner of the long room stood a coal heater, and at the far end was the gardener’s chamber.
“Your uncle’s plants have it better than some people,” Captain Wescott remarked.