The Girl at Rosewood Hall (A Lady Jane Mystery)

by Annis Bell

  “It’s all right, Bertha. Lady Jane would just like to talk to you for a minute.”

  Jane stood up and went to Bertha, whose hair was covered by a white bonnet. “Bertha, it’s about Jenny and the girl who’s disappeared.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Would it be possible for me to speak with Jenny without anyone from Mr. Devereaux’s household finding out?”

  Bertha’s eyes widened. “I should think so, ma’am. Tomorrow’s Thursday, and some of us go to the Red Hen. I see her there sometimes and could introduce you.”

  “Very good. Then let’s do that,” said Jane, a plan taking shape before her eyes.

  34.

  Mary

  Mary had searched every inch of her prison, but there was no way out. She did not even know where in the house she was locked up. It was strangely quiet. She heard no sounds from the courtyard or the kitchen, and there were never any servants in the vicinity. She heard no whispers in the corridor or from any surrounding rooms. The only sound was the occasional rattling of Mrs. Avery’s bundle of keys.

  Like just then. Alarmed, Mary crouched on the bed, which was pushed against the wall in one corner. A narrow ray of light angled down from an unreachable height, and when the sunlight shone through, a pretty floral pattern appeared on the floor. The high window itself was barred. The walls of the cell were clad in wooden paneling, but she could find no point where the panels were even slightly loose. She had hoped to find a secret door, but if there was one, it was well hidden.

  The floor was stone, the footstool and bed made of solid wood with turned legs. There was no furniture like that in the servants’ quarters, and Mary suspected she had been locked up in the master’s section of the huge house. Since she’d arrived at the house, she’d managed not much more than a glance at the extensive property, and she had no idea of the floor plan. She and Jenny had only ever been on the main floor, but this room seemed higher. Perhaps there was a tower?

  The key was inserted into the lock and turned without a sound. The door opened just as silently. No squeak or creak betrayed someone entering. That made the room even more threatening, for Mary imagined that someone could surprise her in her sleep. But try as she might to stay awake, at some point every night, her eyes closed and she slept.

  Mrs. Avery greeted her with a false smile. “It will soon be over, Mary. The party will take place tomorrow evening, and if you do your job well, you’ll be rewarded. If not, well, we’ll see.”

  “What kind of party? What am I supposed to do? I can’t sing or dance!” said Mary as she watched Mrs. Avery withdraw the chamber pot from under the bed. A task that undignified was far below the level of the housekeeper, and the simple fact that she lowered herself to it could only signify that no one else in the household knew about this prison. The dark-haired woman screwed up her nose and set the pot outside the door.

  “You don’t have to. You have a God-given gift that makes you special.” Mrs. Avery looked at her, biding her time.

  While Mary continued to clasp her knees, her long blond hair hung like a curtain around her slender body. The meals served to her there in the room had been meager, and the delicate curves that the good food of the servants’ kitchen had brought out were starting to disappear. “My hair?” Mary murmured, wishing she had a knife to cut it all off.

  “No, girl. Your hair is just a bonus. You really haven’t worked it out, have you? Your maidenhead.” Mrs. Avery’s eyes were fixed on her, and there was something cold and appraising in her gaze. “There are men who will pay a fortune for that. And many girls have no idea at all what they’re giving away when they let the next lad who comes along have his way with them.”

  Mary’s lips began to quiver. “I don’t want that! I don’t want to!” she sobbed.

  “Why do you think we paid so much money for an uneducated orphan girl? Pull yourself together. If you try to fight, it will only be worse.” The ruthless housekeeper stepped up to the bed and grabbed Mary’s arm. “Come on, stand up!”

  Mary reluctantly obeyed. She stood on the cold tiles with her head down and let herself be examined like a piece of meat. Mrs. Avery ran her hands over Mary’s tiny breasts, her ribs, and protruding hipbones. “Excellent. That’s what the master likes. This evening, we’ll wash you and curl your hair. Tomorrow you’ll look just like an angel.”

  As soon as the housekeeper disappeared and the door clicked shut, Mary crouched back on her bed and cried. What had she been thinking? Of course that’s what they wanted from her. Poor Polly. What had she gone through? Had she also been here, counting the hours, staring at the strip of light over her head? And once Mary lost her innocence, what then? Would they kill her? Would Ramu come and twist his scarf around her neck? Mary jumped to her feet. She still had a night and a day to get out of there.

  She crawled under the bed, where she had first checked the wall for hidden passages. Slowly, she ran her fingers over every inch of the paneling, following the grain to see if a small gap formed anywhere, anything that might indicate a secret door. The bed was heavy, but still she managed to haul it a few inches from the wall. Her fingers slid across the polished wood again and stopped where the wood suddenly felt uneven. Nervous, Mary dragged the bed a little farther out. The last rays of daylight shone weakly into her prison through the high slit window and illuminated what the bed had previously kept hidden.

  Someone, very awkwardly, had scratched something into the wood: Polly, it read, and another letter that she could not recognize. Mary cried out and pressed her hand to her mouth, then began to weep and beat her hands against the wood. Exhausted, she squatted between the bed and the wall and stroked the clumsy letter that her friend had left behind during her ordeal. What did they do to you? Did they come for you here, then bring you back afterward?

  For some minutes, Mary could not stop herself from sobbing. Then she wiped her face and shoved the bed back where it had been. Now she knew with terrible certainty that her friend had been there. And she had proof! Excitedly, she paced around the narrow room. She could prove to someone from the outside that her friend had been locked up in there. They would have to believe her then! Mrs. Avery could not be allowed to find out about the inscription, not for anything. And somehow, Polly had managed to escape. But how? Polly had been somewhat taller and stronger than Mary. Still, she could not have reached the window. Maybe she had escaped during the party?

  Mary heard the jangle of the keys and leaped back onto the bed. Mrs. Avery put the chamber pot inside the door and brought fresh water and an apple. Dinner.

  “That won’t fill me up!” Mary complained.

  But the door was closed again without a word. Mary greedily ate the apple and looked around again in the dying light. Blast it, there was no way out!

  Mary did not know how much time passed before Mrs. Avery came to fetch her to take a bath, but it was already dark. In the hated woman’s iron grip, she padded barefoot along a dark corridor and, after several yards, was pushed into a small bathroom where a tub of hot water stood waiting. Soap and towels lay on a bench.

  “Wash! I’m going to get the ribbons, then I’ll be back.”

  Mary heard the click as the door was locked from outside. She looked around. The window in this room was somewhat larger, and Mary immediately dragged the bench and a small stool to the wall, climbed up, and looked out. What she saw was not encouraging. Far below was a lit path, where a watchman strolled past just then. Jumping from that height was impossible. The wall was smooth and there was no drainpipe that she might be able to climb down. She would probably be too weak to hold on anyway.

  Disappointed, she pulled off her dress and climbed into the tub. The hot water caressed her body, and the soapy foam smelled of violets. The unaccustomed luxury, meted out only because she would soon be led like a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter, gave her a sense of bitter well-being that made her feel sick. As soon as she stepp
ed out of the water and dried herself, she looked at her own body with repulsion. Ledford had sold her. If she ever got out of there alive, she would find him and take revenge.

  She only had to survive. Then she could find her brother. He would help her avenge what was being done to her. Oh, yes, Tim would be sure to help. Tim, whose cat Mrs. Avery had thrown in the fire. Just then, the door was opened and her tormentor entered with a basket of hair ribbons.

  When she saw the look on Mary’s face, which reflected all the hate the girl felt, Mrs. Avery said to her bluntly, “If a pair of scissors lay here, I wager you’d stab me to death.”

  Mary’s lips were white with fury. “You have no idea . . . ,” she hissed.

  “I think I probably do. I’ve been on this world somewhat longer than you, after all. Girls like you come and go. But the master holds on to me because he needs me.” She stood directly in front of Mary and clamped her chin roughly between her fingers. “You’re a pretty little virgin, but when he’s done with you, he’ll toss you aside like a filthy rag. But he places great store in me because I understand him. I know about his secret passions; I know his tastes. And I would do anything for him.”

  The housekeeper’s eyes flashed intensely, and Mary saw a touch of insanity in them. Mrs. Avery was mad with love for a man she would never be able to have, a man who exploited her dependence.

  “But he doesn’t want you, does he?” Mary said. “All he sees is his housekeeper. You’ll never be anything but a servant, you—”

  Mary didn’t get any further, because Mrs. Avery slapped her across the face. Mary screamed as she felt the pain shoot into her ear.

  “Sit down!” Mrs. Avery shoved Mary onto the stool brutally and set about combing her hair and tying strands with the ribbons.

  When she was finished, she smiled with satisfaction. “Very nice. Tomorrow morning, your hair will be dry, and we’ll take the ribbons out. Then we’ll find a dress for you, and you can eat whatever you like.”

  Mary reached for her thin slip and pulled it over her head. “What happened to Jedidiah?”

  “What do you think happened?” Mrs. Avery grasped Mary’s wrist and dragged her along behind her. Out in the corridor, she suddenly stopped. The muffled sounds of music could be heard, then laughter and the clack of a dice cup on a table.

  Mary saw a thin strip of light at the end of the corridor and knew that the doorway must lead into the master’s rooms. The wing she was in seemed uninhabited. “Where’s he buried, I mean?”

  “Buried? Well, now, that would have been far too honorable an end for a scrimshank like him. The Thames is good enough for his sort, girl. Back inside with you!” Mrs. Avery pushed Mary back into her cell and locked the door.

  The hot bath had made Mary tired, but in the middle of the night she awoke from a nightmare and stared anxiously into the darkness. Was that a flash of white by the door? Were those the eyes of Ramu, standing there motionlessly, looking at her? Was he just waiting for his chance to sling his cloth around her neck? Her breathing quickened, and drops of sweat trickled down her neck and body. Finally, she summoned her courage and whispered, “Is someone there?”

  She waited for minutes that felt like hours, but there was no sound save her own rattling breath and the call of an owl in the trees outside. Mary reached her hand up to the ribbons that were tied so tightly that her scalp hurt. Old cloth cut into strips was rolled into the hair to curl it. As if through a fog, Mary remembered her mother doing the same thing many years before.

  Her mother had been a loving woman, a decent woman. She had toiled hard to get her children through. Mary remembered the woman’s rough, overworked hands on her cheeks, and how she’d kiss Mary tenderly on her forehead and eyelids while she hummed an old song and did the girl’s hair.

  “Baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping, for her husband was far on the wild raging sea . . . ,” Mary began to sing, and her hands pulled at the annoying ribbons. One after another, she took them out of her damp hair. She wound individual strands around her fingers and tore at them until they came out of her scalp and curled in her lap like threads of golden silk.

  “The baby still slumbered, and smiled in her face as she bended her knee . . . ,” Mary sang softly, still tearing at her hair, harder now, tugging the ribbons out forcefully, and when they caught, she jerked harder. She didn’t feel the pain, nor did she notice the bloody skin that clung to the roots of the hair.

  “O blest be that warning . . . for I know that the angels are whispering with thee . . .”

  One strand of hair after another sank into her lap or fell on the bed and the floor, where the silver moonlight bathed the fallen blond locks in a ghostly white. When the pain finally came through and she could no longer bear it, Mary stopped and stared tearfully at her hands, sticky with blood and hair.

  Whatever happened, she was no angel anymore.

  35.

  “Finished! You can try it on.” Hettie pulled the needle out of the material, bit through the thread, and held the dress out to Jane.

  “Wonderful!” Jane lifted the garment in the air, inspecting it. At first glance, it looked like a skirt. “Very good. This will do nicely. Something I can actually move in.”

  She had already taken off her petticoats and now slipped into the culottes, which were similar to her riding breeches but lighter and gave her even more freedom of movement. In addition, she would also wear a blouse and jacket and hide her hair beneath a coarse tweed cap. Hettie had bought the jacket and cap from a merchant in a part of the city where they normally never shopped.

  “Where are your things, Hettie?” Jane asked, stretching her legs and trying out a crouch. “I wish we could wear clothes like this every day.”

  Her maid giggled. “That would cause a pretty scandal, ma’am. If anyone sees us, there’ll be a scandal in any case.”

  She went into the adjoining room and came back with her own clothes. They looked similar to Jane’s, although Hettie’s more ample curves were harder to hide. But the unbecoming clothes had been cut for no other reason.

  “Maybe we can hang a large bag over your shoulder. And you need to swing your hips less when you walk,” said Jane critically when Hettie slipped into her clothes. Jane laid an old oiled-leather bag on her bed, opened the flap, and removed a hunting knife, a neat little dagger, and a pistol. She gave the dagger to Hettie.

  “Stick this in your belt.”

  Hettie nodded doubtfully. “I don’t know if I could stab anyone with it.”

  “You could if someone were threatening your life. You’ve already proved how brave you are, Hettie.” Jane patted her maid on the shoulder. They had secretly been practicing how to use the knife.

  For herself, Jane was relying on her years of experience with her uncle’s hunting weapons. It was next to impossible to do any kind of shooting practice unnoticed here in the city, but it was a skill one never forgot, and she had always been an outstanding markswoman.

  Down below, in the hallway, the large clock struck seven. It was already getting dark and there had been no rain that day, which favored her plans for the night.

  “Dinner! Today of all days, he has to be home for dinner.” Jane slipped out of the forbidden clothes and had Hettie lace her into a corset.

  Hettie, still in her own culottes, bustled around arranging the skirts for Jane’s evening dress. “What if Jenny doesn’t keep her word? We’ll find ourselves standing in front of a locked door and they’ll arrest us as burglars. Or they’ll set the dogs on us, or have us . . .”

  “Enough! If Jenny really does leave us hanging—though I don’t think she will—then we’ll simply leave again the same way we came. And we’ll take a bone for the dogs, of course. Better safe than sorry.”

  Jane was not as convinced of her plan as she sounded, but she had no choice. If she wanted to save Mary, it had to happen tonight. Jenny had seen Mrs. Avery carr
ying food upstairs that was clearly not intended for the master, nor for herself or any other servant. And this evening, a party had been planned in Devereaux’s house—a party where, as Jenny put it, something strange was afoot. The other servants whispered about immoral affairs that took place behind locked doors in a sealed-off section of the house. No one knew exactly what went on because on those occasions staff were hired in from outside, and only Mrs. Avery had access to the rooms, which were otherwise always locked.

  At their meeting at the Red Hen, Jenny explained exactly where they would find a hidden gate in the wall. Jenny’s boyfriend, a lad from the stables, would open it for them. The cook was also on Jenny’s side, and had immediately declared herself ready to put bones out for the watchdogs. That would keep them distracted after midnight. The watchman had a weakness for liquor, and Jenny would leave a bottle for him on the windowsill in front of the kitchen. Jane had spiced the deal with a ten-pound note, and Jenny’s eyes had lit up at the sight of it. Jane was sure that, coupled with the promise of a second such piece of paper, the chambermaid was motivated enough to suppress any loyalty or fears she might otherwise have.

  As Jane, wearing an emerald-green dress, inspected herself in front of the mirror, she smiled encouragingly at Hettie, who was standing behind her. “Everything will work out, Hettie, believe me. Devereaux suspects nothing and thinks himself completely safe. That’s our advantage. He would never dream that two women would have the audacity to enter his house.”

  “And if we tell the captain after all? He’s going to be terribly angry with you when he finds out about this,” Hettie said.

  “He’ll be angry either way, but if we tell him now, he’ll prevent us from doing what we have to do to save Mary,” Jane replied briskly, although, in truth, thinking about Wescott made her uncomfortable. It was not right to go behind his back like this, and she was certainly acting recklessly, but it was her duty to help that poor girl. Besides, at the mere thought of this dangerous nighttime adventure, she felt a boundless strength surge inside her. Her skin prickled with excitement. She felt alive.