And do the same with myself.
An anxious energy poured through me and into my limbs, but what could I do now to fix what was fractured in so many ways? The only way I knew to cope with such frustration was to dig in and begin to work on something. On anything.
With the sudden determination of Spitalfields Ragna, I turned to face the chaos, more than ready to accomplish something huge, to move forward, to do something productive. Shoving up the sleeves of the simple day gown, I marched up the aisle to the front of the great chapel and dragged a large caldron that had been carelessly stored there into the center. I scooped armfuls of musty paper debris that lay around the pews and front steps and tossed it into that caldron with a thwump that echoed in the emptiness.
After gathering two more armloads and dumping them in, I looked back over the whole chapel and wanted to weep at the hundreds of armloads it would take me, and the tiny fragments of ancient paper that floated through the air from the disturbance. Would this place ever come clean?
I had to try. I was the only one here to work on it. The only one who could rescue Sully. The only one who could pull off the charade. I knelt to lift an overturned kneeling bench as my thoughts spiraled, and the bench’s weight surprised me, discouraged me. As I struggled to right the thing, hot tears sprouted from my eyes that were dry with dust. I strained against its weight, and all the weight on my spirit that had piled up in the weeks here. How had it become so heavy?
God, I can’t. I cannot do this. Have mercy on me. I struggled to keep my tears from pouring out and put my shoulder into the hunk of wood. Suddenly its immense weight lightened with blessed relief, and I opened my eyes to see a tall, massive man at the other end, lifting along with me. I staggered under the shift in weight and blinked in the dimness. God? The man’s face, obscured by floating dust and sunlight, melted into a gentle smile. “Are you ready for my help yet?”
I blinked, my vision cleared. It was the local farmer from the cloister walk. Together we righted the bench and stood to dust off our hands. “It’s you.”
He bowed and stepped closer, his boots scuffing along the grime and debris on the floor. “All the day long, my lady.”
“What are you doing here?” I wasn’t sure whether to be affronted or simply shocked, but I couldn’t force an edge of authority into my voice for anything that morning.
“I was right about the damage. It seems the rooms here are ready to cave in on themselves.”
“How did you get in here?”
“I am an invited guest. I spent the night in your Danube room.”
I squinted at this man who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. “Who are you, exactly?”
“Ah! Now you’ve asked the right question—my name. In this house I’m known as Uncle Wells.”
I gasped, my cold fingertips covering my lips, which were void of meaningful words.
“Never judge a man’s identity by the outside. That can all be changed in an instant. One wrong step around a muddy puddle, and—” He made a swooping motion with his hand. “When you’re tall as I am, it’s a long way to fall and a lot of wet to wear on a man’s frame. Wouldn’t you know, the only suit here in my giant size happened to be an old worn-out one, which worked in my favor.” He stepped forward and looked about the ruins and straight up to the leak somewhere above, where the great dome had begun to crumble. “I’ve come as somewhat of a surprise to see firsthand what use you’ve made of my gift.”
I squirmed as if God himself had entered into the chaos of my soul that resembled this room. “You were not meant to arrive until spring. I assure you, I planned to have these rooms much more presentable by then.”
“Which is one reason I came unannounced. I don’t want impressive, I want truth.”
“There’s far too much work to be done. I simply haven’t had the time . . .” My voice faltered.
But his smile was gracious. Warm. “Perhaps we can do it together.”
I cringed at the thought of him working on such a disaster.
“Besides, they won’t survive the neglect much longer.”
“It seems impossible to fully restore them, and I’ve no idea what use these rooms would be, anyway. I’ve toyed with the notion of removing them altogether, but . . .”
“I lunched with a man once who knew the history of the place, and he told me the monks had called these rooms the Kardinia, from kardiá, the Greek word for ‘heart,’ the essence of one’s inner being—mind, soul, emotion, everything. It was the piece around which all else centered, and that’s precisely what these rooms were to those men—their center of worship in the chapel and center of knowledge in the library. I foolishly neglected them during my renovations, because the repair work seemed overwhelming, and the other rooms kept me sufficiently distracted.” He walked over to one of the grimy stone walls and laid a hand on it with reverence. “Yet this is the actual abbey, the point of life here.” He breathed in deeply of the dusty air. “So you see, it’s important to keep them up, for around that, everything else is built. The house would begin to crumble without them.”
As if triggered by his dire words, pieces of old rotted wood and slate roofing crumbled down from above and shattered on the floor between us. I leaped back and looked up at the spot with panic, wondering what would come next. Wasn’t this uncle recovering from illness? I couldn’t let him remain in this room and possibly be injured.
“Why don’t we break our fast in the morning room?” I hurried the man out of the crumbling chapel, looking over my shoulder as we went.
Over small plates of food, I tried to force myself to relax. Perhaps I could win him over despite the rooms. We talked of Rothburne’s past, of the soirees and guests and lively music that had filled it. The man spoke of his long-deceased wife with the tenderness of a jeweler handling rubies, which made me want to weep.
“She is the reason I passed this estate on the way I did. It was to honor her memory.”
“Was she very beautiful?”
“Golden as the sunshine, inside and out. I adored that woman until the day she died. It was she who opened my eyes to how worthy of my respect women are, for she had more heart, more intelligence, than I ever did, and it often lay quietly behind those smiling eyes of hers.” He paused to close his eyes and inhale the sweetness of her memory.
“It troubled her that women had no say in government, or even their own home, and then it began to trouble me too. When she died I was compelled to give a voice to others like her, and to make other men do the same. I advocated for amendments to the law that allowed women legal rights over property and such, and when it seemed like it might come to pass several years ago, I decided I must act upon it. I had two unmarried and highly arrogant nephews, both of whom could benefit greatly from the refining influence of marriage. I put it to them that the first to marry would receive the benefits of my estate, starting with this abbey and its profits.”
I blinked as the pieces to the entire conspiracy came together into a whole, ugly picture.
“The earl was, of course, the one to achieve this, so I allowed him to take over the abbey and reap the rewards of this estate with one small detail—I would retain legal ownership of the estate until the amendment passed. Then I planned that it would be fully gifted under this new law—to his wife.”
“I see.” My reply came out in one low breath as the enormity of my position sank in. My heart teetered on the edge of revealing everything, but that would be like throwing Sully before an oncoming train.
“Now Rothburne has a new mistress, as lovely and bewitching as the place itself.” He smiled. “You’ve changed him, you know. Begun to lighten his burdens. That’s as I intended when I urged him to marry. Yet you are not at all what you are said to be.”
I clasped the wooden arms of the chair. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve become such a mystery to me, Lady Enderly, and I find that fascinating. All reports of you call you poised and accomplished, yet here you are convincing yoursel
f in private to be self-assured.” He flipped out my little stack of stationery, waving it, then dropping it on the glass table before me. There were my ramblings under her name, my attempts at persuading myself I was her.
“You read that?”
“With utmost fascination.”
I groaned and dropped my head into my hands.
“Forgive me, but I didn’t know what it was when I found it hidden here. I had no idea it contained private thoughts until I read them, and then I could not stop.” He sat back and sipped his tea. “Why do you call yourself Ragna in it?”
I swallowed, my throat thick with the tension of near-discovery. “It was a nickname. I’m afraid I didn’t come from very noble circumstances.”
“It seems to me you suffered from a poverty of spirit more than of the pocketbook.”
“How is that?”
“Ragna.” He grunted his disapproval. “Never let anyone else name you, child. No one has that right.”
“But the name had a bit of truth, sir. My family was . . . we were in the textile industry.” My face heated. “We sold rags.”
“Sold them, not ‘were’ them.”
I slowed my chewing to think on this.
“It’s important to remember who you are. Names have great significance, and we cannot let the world twist them.”
When he departed, I hurried back to peer into those abandoned rooms. Who I am—he wouldn’t have suggested I hold onto that if he knew who I was. I looked down at the lumpy floor stones, my thoughts spinning. I was Raina the rag woman, the fake, the castoff playing at being countess. But there was more now too—all the pieces of the countess had become part of me. Perhaps that would form my new identity, for there was no other countess but me.
It was only when I walked into the old library that a pair of jewel-green eyes sliced through my moment of hope as they stared down at me from their perch on the wall. My gaze shot up to hers in an instant, and my world shifted yet again as I was met with a painful reality.
I do exist. I do. And you are not me.
26
Our identity is one of the few things in life that truly belongs to us, whether or not we accept what it is.
~Diary of a Substitute Countess
Boots pounded the bed of the dray, and work-roughened hands clapped to the beat of Sully’s music, their voices belting out raucous folk tunes as his heart pounded and his fingers flew. The lively songs kept blood pumping through his veins. It made him feel alive to be out in the crisp autumn air, drawing spirited singing from this band of good folk. He swept the bow up after the last note, and the applause followed, cheering the worry out of his heart and making him want to play forever.
Soon the dray stopped before the service entrance, and the boisterous group hurried inside to gather around the long table to chatter before the big open fire. Rothburne’s cook had stayed behind, promising to have spiced cider ready for everyone’s return.
“Never did a hot drink smell so good, Mrs. Williams.” He lifted his mug to her in thanks and sipped the liquid, even though it burned his tongue a little. A trickle of heat warmed his insides.
The stout cook thunked mugs down in front of the footman and stable master who were lost in noisy conversation and easy laughter. “The only good that comes from those outlandish affairs—leftover treats for all of us.”
“You should have come with us.”
The woman grunted and turned back to the stove.
The trek to Havard had been good for the overworked staff, allowing them fresh air and leisure time. Yet back in this house, his mind was heavy with worry. Sully stared down into the amber liquid with specks of cinnamon floating on top. The words he’d overheard from that woman in red refused to leave his mind—The countess does not exist. But she had to. What could she mean? Knowing the answer to that could be the key to their freedom.
He eyed the hardworking cook who seemed as much a part of this old kitchen as the cast iron skillets or the jars of colorful preserves. “I suppose you’ve seen a great many gatherings at the abbey, have you?”
“More than I can count.” She carried mugs to the two chambermaids farther down the long table, then returned to her pot on the stove for more. “It’s the only excitement at a dreary place like this. Before the countess came, it was mostly guests on a short holiday, and most were duller than sticks.”
“The countess has brought a great deal of life to this place, then. Is this her first visit to the abbey?”
“Aye, that it is.” She ladled more cider into mugs and plunked them onto the sideboard.
“So you’ve not met the woman before this trip?”
She frowned at him and smeared her apron across the gathering moisture on her face. “Are yer ears broken, laddie? Didn’t I say it was her first time here?”
She moved down the long table with more steaming cups, leaving Sully to his thoughts. When the first footman left his seat, Sully slid closer to the stable master. “I suppose you’re quite used to these events, are you?”
“Not so much, since the property transferred hands. The earl was never one for big goings-on, and his wife makes a home out of the whole world, it seems, traveling to this land and that. Some have trouble holding still for their governesses in the classroom. She never outgrew that, I suppose.”
“But you’ve met her before this visit, haven’t you?”
“I’ve not.” The older man ran his hand along the stubble on the side of his face and looked toward the window. “The earl met his wife abroad and married her quite suddenly. She’s been nothing short of a legend around here since we had word of the elopement, and we were all anxious to meet her.”
But the cousin—Philip Scatchard’s hatred of the woman had gone back much further than the few weeks Raina had been here. There was some other object for his disdain. And then there was the painting . . .
In the moments it took Sully to down the rest of his drink and cough on the broken bits of cinnamon stick from the bottom of the cup, he knew his next course of action. Rising from the bench and thanking the cook for the cider, he took himself out of the hearty gathering of servants and went in search of Philip Scatchard.
He found the man entering the main doors, stamping mud from his boots.
Sully hurried to remove his greatcoat and accept his hat and gloves. “A fine day for a drive, sir.”
“If fine is an Irish word for cold, then yes. Quite. We’ve gotten a brash taste of fall all of a sudden, it seems.”
Sully smiled. “I’ll bring tea service to the study and that’ll take the chill right out of your bones. Or perhaps you would prefer a little cider?”
“Thank you, McKenna, but I believe I’ll just rub my hands together before the fire.” He paused long enough to meet Sully’s gaze. “It’s kind of you to think of me on your day off, though. Much appreciated.”
“Shall I freshen the fire for you in the study? I’m afraid it’s been neglected the whole day, seeing as no one’s using the room.”
He smiled and gave one nod of approval. “I would be in your debt.”
Sully hurried in to poke at the fire and throw fresh wood onto the flames until it snapped smartly and heat emanated from the hearth. When Scatchard entered and came to pace before the fire, Sully cleared his throat. “It’s convenient we have this moment of privacy, sir. I’ve wanted to speak to you about that mission you gave me.”
The pacing stopped then, and the man turned his attention fully on Sully. “Go on. Have you found something?”
“Perhaps, but I was hoping you could give me a little direction. I’ve only lately come to Rothburne and met these people for the first time, so I cannot tell what it is about this woman I’m supposed to be searching for. What can you tell me about the way she was before? Has she changed a great deal?”
His brows lowered. “Certainly she’s changed. From stingy to generous, and from arrogant and lofty to, well, downright normal, she’s an entirely new person.”
“Perhaps it’s
merely been a long time since you’ve been around her.”
“We’ve mostly corresponded by letter regarding matters of the estate. She gave directions, and I carried them out. She had very set ideas about the way things should run, and I forced myself to carry out her wishes.”
Sully turned from the fire to watch the man’s face as he asked the all-important question, even though he could already guess what the answer would be. “But does she seem different to you, sir? Has she changed in appearance or manner?”
The frown deepened as Scatchard huddled in toward the fire, arms over his chest. “I couldn’t tell you. Before this trip I’d never actually met the woman in person.”
27
Many people who go out looking for themselves will become lost, for they look outside themselves or inward, rather than up to the God we reflect.
~Diary of a Substitute Countess
I felt like hiding. Not just because of the ridiculous gown laced with little feathers that now graced my frame, but because I felt trapped. Being the countess had lost all appeal, and I wished I could shed it the way I wanted to shed this awful gown. Whether she was real or imagined, I wanted to hand her back her life and all the chaos that went with it. I closed my eyes and pretended I was home. What would it be like to return there? Who would I be after all this?
When I was young, I had once fallen asleep reading late at night, and the candle stub had melted onto the book. Peeling apart all those pages the next morning had been impossible, and the effort destroyed them entirely. That’s exactly how it felt now, attempting to separate my identity from Lady Enderly’s, but I had been enticed to search out my own. Certainly there was more to me than rags and a dirty flat in Spitalfields.
Don’t let anyone else name you, child. No one has that right.
Finding Lady Enderly Page 22