“So she married with an eye to using her husband’s fortune to regain lost prestige.”
“She tried. After they were married, she discovered that Mr. Marshwood’s prospects were far less grand than she had been led to believe. She has devoted her life to pushing him into better circumstances.”
“Why did they go to Egypt?”
“He accepted a minor diplomatic post. She used her father’s connections to secure his appointment, but Marshwood was something of a disaster. He wasn’t brought up to that sort of thing and bungled it frequently.” There was a casual snobbery in Stoker’s remarks. The fact that Mr. Marshwood had not been born to the ermine of aristocracy did not preclude him from being a man of talent and ability. But this was not the time to brangle with Stoker.
“Why did they come back to England?” Too late, I realized I had blundered.
He turned his head, his smile a harsh, thin line. “Because they needed to rescue their daughter from her brute of a husband.”
“I apolo—”
He held up a hand. “Don’t. I may forgive you for forcing me into this, but it will not be today.”
The hansom rocked to a stop, and Stoker flung a coin at the driver. “Keep the change.”
“That’s half a crown!” the cabman protested in half-credulous joy.
“I don’t bloody care,” Stoker called over his shoulder as he stalked away. He mounted the steps of a stolid house, as characterless and dull as all the rest in that particular square. I followed hard upon his heels. He turned as we reached the top.
“You really have no idea what you’ve done, do you?” he asked. Before I could reply, he made a fist and brought it down hard upon the door.
• • •
The door was answered after a long moment by a tall, imposing butler with florid cheeks and ramrod posture. He swept us both in a long, cool glance that might have meant anything.
“Yes?” he inquired in a tone that perfectly balanced hauteur and politeness.
Stoker wordlessly produced a card from the depths of his pocket. The butler looked pained at the lack of card case and still more grieved at the condition of the card. In Stoker’s pocket it had doubtless kept company with bits of string, marbles—for use as eyes in his taxidermic mounts rather than a child’s playthings—paper twists of sweets, and the occasional feather collected upon his walks.
The butler placed the grubby card upon a silver salver, but it was clear from the change in his manner that he had read it and taken note of the “Honourable” preceding Stoker’s name.
“Shall I direct your compliments to the master or the mistress, Mr. Templeton-Vane?” he inquired.
“Neither. I want to see Mrs. de Morgan.”
The butler had been well trained. He gave a politely regretful smile. “I am sorry to say that Mrs. de Morgan is not at home to callers.”
“But she is at home,” I pressed.
The butler gave nothing away, merely inclined his head and kept his smile fixed. He moved towards us, as if to guide us back through the door. “I shall of course convey the fact of your visit to Mr. and Mrs. Marshwood,” he began.
Stoker drew himself up to his full height and folded his arms over the breadth of his chest. “I am not leaving. If I cannot see Mrs. de Morgan, kindly arrange for me to see her parents.”
“I regret—”
“Not yet, but you will if you don’t do as I say,” Stoker cut in ruthlessly. “I can smell his bloody cigar smoke from here. Go fetch him and be quick.”
The butler flushed, his complexion mottled above the stiff starched white of his collar. “Now, see here—”
Although things had not yet deteriorated to fisticuffs, the altercation was loud enough to draw the master of the house from his lair. A door just off the entry opened and a short, barrel-chested man emerged, drawing furiously on his cigar.
“Bowles, what the devil—” He choked off the last word when he caught sight of Stoker. His ruddy complexion drained of color, and the cigar slipped from his lips. He caught it with a bare hand, scorching himself, and muttered a curse. He thrust the smoldering stub into his pocket and pointed a plump finger at Stoker.
“I suppose you’ve come to gloat.”
“I have done nothing of the sort,” Stoker said calmly. “In fact, I might be able to help. I need to see her.”
“See her?” Mr. Marshwood’s eyes rounded and he gave a harsh laugh. “Not bloody likely. Go back to whatever hell pit you crawled from and take your tart with you,” he added with a jerk of his chin in my direction.
Stoker’s hands clenched, but he did not raise them, nor did he move. Instead he looked down at his former father-in-law, disdain writ clearly upon his features. “I need to see her,” he repeated, clipping the words in his most aristocratic tones.
“You need to see her,” Marshwood mocked in his decidedly less modulated accent. “You need to go to the devil, is what you need.” He raised a hand, pointing a shaking finger at Stoker. “Remove yourself from my property and do not come back.” He looked to his butler. “Throw him out bodily if he will not go of his own accord.”
The butler glanced at Stoker, startled, and Mr. Marshwood grimaced. “Get the lads from the kitchen to help if you cannot manage it on your own.”
With that he turned on his heel and returned to his sanctum, slamming the door behind him.
The butler stared at the closed door, then turned slowly to Stoker. He gulped audibly as he surveyed Stoker’s inches.
“Perhaps we could come to an understanding,” the butler began, pitching his voice low.
“What sort of understanding?” I asked, quick to seize the olive branch.
“Your companion wishes to see Mrs. de Morgan. It is impossible through the conventional methods, but Mrs. de Morgan does like a turn in the conservatory before her supper,” he said with a meaningful gesture towards the back of the house. He moved a fraction nearer. “In the wall of the garden is a door. You can find your way from there. Go quietly and he need never know,” he added with a lift of his brow at the closed door.
Stoker inclined his head graciously and turned to go. The butler sagged in evident relief.
“Wise man,” I told him. “Blood can be devilishly hard to get out of white linen.”
The butler closed the door firmly behind us, throwing the bolt instantly. Without a word, Stoker circled the property, leading me through a small mews to the back of the garden. I could just see the roofline of the conservatory, a small affair of wrought iron and glass. It was nothing to the glasshouse at Bishop’s Folly, but the fogged and dripping panes meant it would be warm at least.
The street door to the garden was unlocked, and we slipped in, hurrying through the shadows until we reached the conservatory. This too was unlocked, the door giving way with a small shriek of the hinges as we entered. Whoever loved this place had a fondness for ferns, for they abounded, draping long green fronds every which way. They had been badly tended; some were browning, the edges crisp as new taffeta. Others were clearly root-bound, tendrils of white root clawing their way out of the bottoms of the pots. But the heating system worked, pumping steam through the enclosure, and a garden seat had been installed amidst the leafy greenery.
It might have been a pleasant place on a sunny day, but in the darkness of a February afternoon past sundown, it was oddly unwelcoming. Shadows shifted and stirred, raising little fingers of mist against the blackness outside, and the pipes gave low moans and the occasional shriek as they rattled about their business.
Sitting on a garden seat was a woman dressed entirely in white, her gown loose and shapeless, her body wrapped in a woolen shawl that shrouded her to the knees. Her head was bowed over a piece of needlework. Stoker stopped, his gaze fixed upon that head. It gleamed gold in the lamplight, the long tresses unbound except for a small plait around the crown of the head. He
r white hands moved smoothly, setting tiny stitches in a rhythm that never varied as she hummed tunelessly.
The hair hid her face, but just then my shoe scraped against a pebble, and she looked up, breaking off her song midnote. If Stoker reacted, I did not notice it. I heard only my own sharp intake of breath as I looked for the first time upon the face of Caroline de Morgan.
I had seen her photograph, and I had thought myself prepared. I had taken note of the perfection of her bones, the graceful features which would be beautiful when age had stripped the flesh from them and wrinkled her skin. I had studied the lines of her face and figure, marking each place where Nature had favored her. The list was long. From the arch of her brows to the tips of her tapered fingers, from the curve of her swan neck to the sweet Cupid’s bow of her lips, she had been created by a benevolent hand.
But what I had not realized, what no photograph could convey, was the pure perfection of her coloring. Her hair was the rich color of summer corn silk, her lashes a fraction darker. Her eyes—but what can one say about such eyes? It would need a poet to do them justice. They were some variety of light blue that would have given a sapphire envy, the irises impossibly wide with the tiniest of ebony pupils. Roses bloomed in her cheeks against a complexion so fine and white, it would have caused a snowdrop to turn away in shame.
Her hands stilled and she blinked slowly, peering into the leafy shadows. “Who is there?” she called.
Only the voice lacked perfection. It was high and light but oddly hoarse. Stoker stepped forwards and I moved in his wake on unwilling legs. I had forced my way into this meeting, and in that moment I would have sold my soul to a tinker to be anywhere else.
Stoker moved into the circle of lamplight, the warm glow settling over his features and illumining his form. Caroline de Morgan raised her face, expressionless as she gazed at her former husband.
She blinked twice in obvious puzzlement, then spoke. “Do I know you?”
• • •
Stoker opened his mouth, but not a syllable escaped him.
I moved to her, smiling a smile that cost me everything. “Good afternoon. You are Mrs. de Morgan, are you not?”
At the sound of her own name, her face puckered in confusion. She looked from me to the pile of needlework in her lap. She lifted her needle and set another stitch. “Mama says I must not tax my strength,” she said slowly.
“Of course not,” I told her. “May I see what you are working on?”
I moved past Stoker, for he stood as one turned to stone. I was careful not to move too close to her, for she seemed timid as a doe. Her needle trailed red silk through a large piece of white cloth, and she held it up for me to see. The cloth was uneven at the edges, a rough piece of linen that might once have been used for toweling. Patches here and there had been covered in random stitches, variations on a theme of chaos, no two sections alike. She had stitched at whim, moving from an untidy flame technique to the crooked crosses she made as I watched.
“It’s very pretty,” I told her. I glanced to Stoker, but still he stood, rooted to the spot, his mouth slack in shocked comprehension. I remembered then the hints we had been given about her state. Sir Hugo, Mornaday, even the Tivertons had indicated that she had succumbed to the strain of police questions regarding her husband’s disappearance. Sir Hugo had blamed the Dover police for handling her roughly. Little wonder her nerve had broken under the strain.
She looked at me, that blue gaze blank as she searched my face. “Do I know you?” she repeated.
“No, Mrs. de Morgan. My name is Veronica Speedwell,” I told her. I darted a glance to Stoker to urge him to come nearer, but he stood at the edge of the ferns, his hands curled into fists.
“Why have you come?” she asked me.
I hesitated, unwilling to deal as brutally with her as the police had done.
Stoker moved then, folding his arms over his chest. “Enough. You might have duped the police with your little performance, but I recognize your amateur theatricals.”
She looked up at him, blinking slowly, a vacant look upon her face. Then, with an audible sigh, she settled back in her chair, her expression entirely lucid. “What gave me away?”
“You forget I saw your Ophelia. You did the same little trick of wringing the hands,” he replied with a coolness I suspected he did not feel.
The beautiful mouth did not smile, but the corners softened ever so slightly. “I did forget. Well, I mayn’t have fooled you, but thankfully the men at Scotland Yard are not quite so suspicious.”
“That’s the stratagem, is it? Pretend to be witless so they will leave you in peace?”
Indignation flared in her gaze. “They have been monstrous to me. They think I conspired with John to steal that wretched little crown,” she burst out.
“To be fair, that is only one of their theories,” I corrected.
She regarded me with a distinct lack of warmth. “Revelstoke, who is your friend?”
“Miss Speedwell is my professional associate,” he informed her.
She tipped her head to the side, studying me closely. “And something more, I suspect.”
Stoker did not rise to the bait. “Is that all you have to say to me?”
Her lips thinned. “I suppose you want an apology.”
“I think we are far beyond that,” he replied. “You could carve out your own heart and offer it up on a platter and your ledger would still run red.”
Her hands curled into fists. “Don’t, Revelstoke. I am not proud of what I did. But neither am I as evil as you would like to believe. Malice was never my motivation.”
“What a consolation that is,” he said, the words sharply edged as any blade.
“You may mock me,” she told him evenly. “God knows you have earned the right. But it is the truth. I intended to make you a good wife.”
“Of all the lies you have ever told me, that, I think, is the most terrible,” he replied. He moved again and she watched him, her expression wary. She lifted her chin in defiance, but I saw from the quickening of the pulse at her throat that she was afraid.
He moved slowly, carefully, and she licked her lips as she watched him approach, seemingly unable to tear her gaze from him. Her fingers tightened on the needle in her hand, and I wondered how close he would have to get before she plunged it into his flesh.
He stopped just short of touching her. Without a word, he slipped to his knees before her, his face almost on a level with hers. He tipped his head back so that the light fell full upon him, exposing the scar that marked him from brow to collar.
“I thought you might like to admire another piece of your handiwork,” he said, his voice low and terrible. He nodded towards the needle in her hand. “Did you want to sign it? Go on. There is nothing more you can do to hurt me now. You have already broken the man you knew, crucified every part of my humanity and left me with nothing except the ruins of what I once was. Why do you look away? Have you developed a conscience? What a burden it must be to you.”
He might have gone on. He might have goaded her to plunge the needle into his flesh. He might have taunted her until she fled or broke down weeping. And I would have let him, happily, if it meant causing her pain. I had seen the disgust in her expression as she looked at the scar, the flicker of revulsion that revealed her feelings only too clearly. She regarded him and counted only the damage; I saw only the places where he had stitched himself back together. What repelled her was to me the greatest part of him. Every mark that his suffering had left upon him was a mute monument to his strength, the inhuman courage that had caused him to reject death and degradation and every evil with which he had consoled himself on the long journey back from his destruction. He had walked through hellfire and back again and she saw only the scorch marks whilst I saw the phoenix.
I hated her for that. Oh, let me be honest—I hated her for a thousand reaso
ns! But in that moment, I hated her most of all for the fact that she had the power to hurt him still. He was on his knees before her, lowering himself to revile her, and it was that stripping bare of all his defenses that drove me to intercede. She would not hurt him again, I vowed.
“Did you kill your husband, Mrs. de Morgan?” I asked, my voice sharper and louder than I intended.
Instantly, their heads swiveled to me. Caroline de Morgan’s mouth went slack and she gave a little cry of protest, bringing her hands up. Stoker’s gaze was empty a moment. Then his eyes seemed to focus and he wrenched himself back into the present, seeing me where a moment before—but who can say what devils he conjured in his mind’s eye? Was he thinking of her as she had been, an innocent bride whose altar-blessed lips he had kissed before she had left him for dead? I could not bear to think of it.
He forced himself to his feet as Caroline de Morgan addressed me, her voice cold with rage. “How dare you? That is the most monstrous suggestion.”
“Is it?” I asked mildly. “Reports of the state of your marriage indicate that it was not entirely happy.”
“It was—it is—perfectly happy,” she insisted angrily. “John loves me and I love him. And if we quarrel sometimes, it is only because we are neither of us temperate. Ours is a marriage of great passion,” she said, breaking off as she looked at Stoker. “I don’t understand why you have come, tormenting me with questions.”
“We have come because we are investigating your husband’s whereabouts,” I returned.
“Investigating! And who are you that you should do the business of the police?” she demanded.
“I do not feel inclined to explain our interest in the matter. But if you will not speak to the police, you ought to speak to us. Surely you wish to uncover the mystery to your husband’s disappearance.” I let my voice trail away suggestively.
“Surely I wish!” She mimicked my tone with sharp cruelty. “How cold you are. You can stand there and discuss the greatest tragedy of my life as dispassionately as if I had misplaced a latchkey! You are the most unnatural woman I have ever met.”
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