This pleased Celia. “You are without doubt the cleverest and pleasantest girl I know,” she declared, “and you must come and see me again tomorrow. My best friends are the Clarence sisters, in Brunswick Square. There are four of them, each as droll as you like. They will love you as I do, though you are much prettier than any of them. I am eager to introduce you!”
“I look forward to it,” lied Aurora, who had no wish to be introduced to a family of four sisters, droll or otherwise. She stood up. “Does the library contain a volume of Shakespeare? I know my brother admires his work greatly.”
Celia shrugged impatiently. “I do not know. You may look for one if you will.”
“Very well,” said Aurora, opening the parlour door. “I will be no more than a quarter of an hour.”
Josiah and Joe Deede were still in the dining room. Aurora could hear their voices as she passed the door. In the library, she inspected one volume, then another, taking them to the table and leafing through them. When she was sure Celia had not decided to follow her after all, she placed a biography of Cardinal Wolsey on the narrow top of the writing desk, holding it there with one hand while she tried the hinged cover and the drawers with the other. All, as expected, were locked.
The table in the centre of the room had two drawers, for holding playing cards and chess pieces. Aurora had little hope that whoever had locked the writing desk would keep the key there, but she took Cardinal Wolsey to the table and opened them anyway. They did not contain any playing cards or chess pieces, but neither were they empty. One held writing implements – quills, penknife, wiper and ink – and sheets of paper ruled in lines after the fashion of schoolchildren. The other contained a Latin primer, much thumbed, and a rather newer copy of a handwriting practice book. As Aurora had suspected, this had been Edward’s schoolroom.
Her hand shook as she felt at the back of each drawer, then peered underneath them, took them out of their casings and inspected the underside of the table itself. There was nothing there; no false bottoms or secret compartments, no hidden box or envelope. Nothing that could contain a small brass key.
She replaced the drawers as soundlessly as she could, and was straightening up when the door opened and Joe came in, followed more slowly by his father. Both looked surprised. “Miss Drayton!” Josiah the elder was the first to speak. “We thought you were upstairs with Celia.”
“I was, sir,” said Aurora apologetically. She had gone red, she knew. “But I expressed a wish to see the library. Celia kindly allowed me to browse here alone while she drank her tea.”
“Tea is much more appetizing to my sister than literature,” observed Joe with a short laugh. “We despair of her, do we not, Father?”
“We do,” said Josiah, his eyes on Aurora’s face. “But you are a reader, Miss Drayton?”
“My brother is. I wonder if I may have your permission to borrow some books for him?”
“By all means,” replied Josiah.
Aurora bobbed a curtsey. “Thank you. My brother will be most grateful. He is a quick reader – the books will be returned forthwith.” She looked down at the book in her hand. “May I take this one? And this?” She picked up a volume of poems by Sir Walter Raleigh, the first book she had taken from the shelves, and opened it. “I see it is inscribed to someone called Elizabeth Francis,” she observed. “If this lady is of significance to your family, of course I would not dream—”
“Take it! Take it, Miss Drayton!” Josiah Deede had turned on his heel and was striding out of the open door. “And come up and drink some tea, if you please!”
“I must go to my brother now, sir,” she called after him, “so I will not take tea. But I will come and bid your daughter farewell.” She turned to Joe, who gave a slight bow. “Your father is most kind.”
Celia rose as Joe and Aurora entered the upstairs sitting room, where Josiah Deede was already seated. “Father says you are going, Aurora!” she cried accusingly.
“I must, I am afraid. My brother awaits me.”
“But you shall come tomorrow, and visit the Clarences with me?”
Aurora looked at Josiah Deede. “I am invited by your daughter, sir…”
“If she wishes it, then it is so. You may come whenever you like.” He gestured towards the window. “Indeed, why not pay a visit to Spring Gardens, while the weather is so pleasant? Is that not a good idea, Joe?”
Joe nodded, his eyes upon Aurora’s face. “Will you come with us to Spring Gardens – shall we say on Saturday? If your brother will spare you, that is.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Aurora, curtseying. “I am sure he will.”
Celia accompanied Aurora downstairs and embraced her as they parted on the doorstep. “I adore Spring Gardens, do you not?”
“I have never been there,” confessed Aurora.
Celia stared. “How astonishing!”
“I have not lived in London long,” Aurora reminded her. “I am sure I will find the gardens as delightful as people say they are. But now, I bid you goodbye. Please convey my thanks to your father and your … and Joe, for the hospitality I have received today.”
She left Celia at the door, knowing she had coloured, and scolding herself for such weakness. But as she set off towards Floral Street her scolding turned to more serious self-rebuke. Would the spirit of her dear father ever forgive the lies she had told today, the false responses she had enacted and the pleasure she had felt in the company of a handsome – and fervently Catholic – man?
Praying silently, she set off with quickened steps for St James’s Church.
A Skeleton in Her Dress
Aurora had assumed that she would wear her blue silk gown to visit Spring Gardens. But when she took it out of her trunk and shook out its creases, Edward dismayed her by telling her that the dress, at least in its present state, would not do.
“Spring Gardens is a pleasure-ground for the wealthy, but it is also a hunting-ground for professional ladies of low reputation,” he declared. “You must resemble the former more than the latter.”
“Impertinence!” she replied, but she had to acknowledge he was right.
There was not time to get a new dress made, but Edward gave her the money for a new front panel for the skirt of the old dress, ribbons for the back, and a new hat and gloves. “I must repay Richard when I can,” he told her as he handed her the sovereigns. “Do not, I beg you, be extravagant.”
She was as extravagant as a visit to Spring Gardens demanded. The necessity of avoiding anyone in the mantua-making business who might be known to her mother sent her south of the river to Lambeth, near the Gardens themselves, where Celia reported that she and her friends the Clarence sisters patronized a woman who did excellent work and did not overcharge.
The new silk panel, embroidered with tiny flowers and birds, matched the blue of the dress exactly. The ribbons, likewise, reflected the colour of Aurora’s eyes. Standing in the mantua-maker’s parlour before the tall looking-glass, Aurora was pulled this way and that as the woman drew up the back of the skirt and pinned the material into intricately gathered layers, ready for the ribbons to be sewn on. When the hat Aurora had already chosen from the milliner’s next door was upon her head, and the new, lace-edged kid gloves on her hands, she allowed herself the luxury of noting that she was pretty enough to attract any man amongst the many hundreds who frequented Spring Gardens.
Aurora knew it was a wicked thought, but Joe was so handsome, and carried his sword and his opinions so boldly, she could not help observing to herself that he resembled the vision of her future husband far better than the man to whom she was actually married. The many hundreds of men did not matter; she wished to look pretty for Joe.
By Thursday evening the dress was finished, and Aurora put it on for Edward’s inspection. “Lady of the night or daughter of the gentry?” she asked, posing.
She thought he would smile, but his face remained immobile. “Something in between.”
“Perhaps if I wear a mask, as I
did at the theatre?”
“No!” he protested. “In Spring Gardens a mask is the sign of a harlot.”
Aurora felt admonished. She disliked it when Edward’s superior age and experience exposed her unworldliness. “Very well,” she said stiffly.
He smiled then, and patted her shoulder. “You are to go to the Deedes’ tomorrow, are you not?”
“I have been invited for dinner.”
“You will be offered fish, no doubt,” said Edward, still smiling, “as Catholics must abstain from meat on Fridays.”
“I like fish,” said Aurora blankly. “And it will be very finely cooked, you may be sure. No expense is spared at the Deedes’ table.”
A change came over Edward’s face. Aurora was suddenly conscious of her careless words. “I did not mean—” she began, but he stopped her.
“Now,” he said, “change out of this finery. I have something of great interest to show you.”
When Aurora emerged from her chamber he was sitting at the table. As usual, Mary had not yet collected the breakfast dishes; Edward had pushed them aside. He motioned to the other chair, and when Aurora was seated he held up the key which opened the outer door of their rooms. “What do you notice about this key?” he asked her.
Aurora frowned at it. It looked the same as every door key she had ever seen. Fashioned from iron, with a ring at the end, a plain shaft and a head with a pattern cut out, like teeth. “It is an ordinary key,” she said helplessly.
“And what about this one?” He held up another door key, which looked the same except that it was plainer.
“That one fits a different lock?” hazarded Aurora, feeling like a child interrogated by its tutor.
Edward lowered his voice. “It will fit almost any lock. It is a skeleton key.”
He laid the keys beside each other on the table. “See, our key has several teeth, and a depression at the end that fits into a pin.”
Aurora inspected the end of the key. True enough, it was hollowed out. “I have never noticed that before,” she confessed.
“All keys of this type have that depression. And all have a number of teeth, which fit into notches inside the lock. But this one, the skeleton, has the depression at the end, but only one tooth, at the top. That is why it is known as a skeleton key – it has not the flesh of the true key.”
Aurora strove to understand. “So, inside the keyhole, these teeth make the lock turn, which unlatches the door. Is that correct?”
“Quite correct,” nodded Edward.
“So when you put the skeleton key in the keyhole, how can it work, if it has no teeth?”
“Because it bypasses the notches the teeth are supposed to fit into, but latches on to the pin at the end. When you turn the key, the pin and the barrel of the lock turn, and the door opens.”
Aurora stared at the skeleton key. “So can anyone make a key like this, which will fit any door lock, by filing off the other teeth?” she asked incredulously.
“That is, in theory, true,” said Edward. “Though in practice it does take some skill. But that is why such locks only appear on things of little value.”
Aurora nodded. “Such as our door.” She considered for a moment. “Or a writing desk?”
“Exactly. At the first opportunity, try this key in the lock of that cabinet in the library. My family has no such piece of furniture; Josiah Deede must have brought it from Tavistock Street, so everything in it must belong to him or his children. No doubt he carries the key everywhere he goes, but has not added to the security of the desk by padlocking it. Perhaps his children also have keys.”
“I must be prepared to find nothing of interest,” observed Aurora despondently. “His private papers are more likely locked up in his office, or in a chest in his bedroom.”
“Perhaps.” Edward watched her turning the key round and round in her fingers. “But he regulates carefully who enters his house, and is very unlikely to suspect his daughter’s new friend. With a little luck this key will reveal something.”
“If it works,” said Aurora, scrutinizing the key.
“It will work. It was made by a craftsman.”
They regarded each other, Aurora with a frown and Edward with the hint of a smile. “I will ask no more questions,” she told him, weighing the key in her palm, “as it is plain I will get no answers. And I will keep this in a very safe place until I am called upon to use it.” She slipped the key down the top of her bodice. It felt cold against her skin, but secure against any intruder. “I promise you, Edward, I am as eager as you are for this deception to be over. I will find the truth.”
When she arrived at Mill Street on Friday, Joe Deede was from home. He had also been out on Wednesday, when she had accompanied Celia to Brunswick Square to take tea with the Clarences. Four days had now passed since she had last been in his company.
It seemed that she was expected to act as Celia’s friend, ready with flattery and gratitude whenever Miss Deede desired it, pandering to the girl’s vanity, self-centredness and ignorance, and that of her acquaintances. Celia treated Aurora pleasantly, but the notion that she considered her as a new distraction, to be discarded when another came along, was never far from Aurora’s mind. She told herself that was what rich girls were like; the Clarence sisters had displayed the same attitude. But this thought did not make it easy to bear so much of Celia’s company when she would have preferred a little more of Joe’s.
“Where does your brother go, that he spends so many hours from home?” she asked Celia nervously, fearing to incur more accusations that she must be madly in love with him.
But Celia responded with affectionately scornful laughter. “White’s, of course! Where he sits with his friends and chews the world to pieces, arguing and pontificating, as stubborn as a dog with a tough old bone. I thank God I can have no part of it.”
Aurora did not acquiesce. Coffee houses, with their unrestricted gathering of men and minds, had always seemed attractive to her. Celia might be glad that women were forbidden to enter them, but Aurora had far rather accompany Joe to White’s than sit in the parlour with his sister.
Her mission today, however, was to engineer enough time alone in the library to attempt to unlock the cabinet. To that end, she had brought back the books she had borrowed. She now put them on the worktable and handed Celia a note. “My brother thanks you for the loan of the books,” she said, “and sends you this.”
Celia made a great show of bashful astonishment as she unfolded the letter. “What a delightful hand!” she exclaimed as she read it. It was Aurora’s hand, heavily disguised, though the words had been dictated by Edward. “And equally delightful sentiments.” She looked up from the letter. “What a pity your brother is so ill. I am sure he is very charming.”
Aurora smiled. “A charming Protestant?”
Celia shrugged her slim shoulders. “I suppose so.” She sighed, letting the letter fall into her lap. “But you know, Aurora, I sometimes wonder if I will ever be permitted to have a suitor. Father is so strict.”
“You are young,” said Aurora soothingly. “There is plenty of time for a young man of the Catholic faith, whom your father considers suitable, to turn up.”
Celia did not look convinced. “I hope so. But you are younger than I, and you have got Joe.”
“I have not ‘got’ Joe!” protested Aurora. “I have met him but once!”
Celia responded with a knowing look. “Twice, actually.” She folded up the letter and put it in her workbox. Aurora wondered if she would reread it later, letting loose her dreams of the non-existent Edward Drayton. Guilt swept over her. Spying on Josiah Deede might suit her nature, as Edward had pointed out, but this deception of his artless daughter did not.
“May I borrow some more books for Edward?” she asked.
“Of course.” Celia laughed briefly. “Any man who writes such an elegant letter may borrow as many books as he chooses!”
“Thank you,” said Aurora, standing up. “I will take the
se back down and bring some more up, and then, perhaps, we could go for a walk? It is another beautiful day.” She thought quickly. “While I am downstairs I could tell Harrison to bring our cloaks, and save you calling him. You have better things to do than run after servants.”
Celia was satisfied with any suggestion that implied she was important. “You are so good, my dear. Always thinking of me.” She drew her workbox towards her. “I will get on with my work.”
Or read that infernal letter again, thought Aurora. “I will not be many minutes,” she assured the girl, and, with the books under her arm and the skeleton key nestling between her breasts, she walked quickly downstairs to the library and closed the door behind her.
She put the books on the table. Taking the key from her bodice, she slid it into the keyhole in the front of the writing desk, pushed it as far as it would go, and tried to turn it. Nothing happened. She tried withdrawing it a little; she tried turning it the other way; she tried lifting it as she turned, then depressing it. But it would not budge, and the desk remained locked. Frustrated, Aurora tried the key in the lock that secured the top drawer, immediately under the hinged front of the desk. To her amazement it slipped in as if made for the purpose, and turned as if newly oiled.
There was nothing of interest in the drawer. Writing paper, sealing wax, a dusty collection of old quills, a long-unused snuffbox right at the back. The key also unlocked the next drawer, and the bottom one. In none of them was anything that could be remotely connected with Henry Francis, or indeed with anyone. No letters, documents, money, forged wills, incriminating objects of any kind. It was as she had said to Edward: Josiah Deede kept his important papers locked up in his office, under a locking system less easily breached.
Why would the front of the desk not open, though? She stood there frowning, and a dim memory came to her of something her father had once told her. “Hidden in plain sight” was the expression he had used to describe to her and an equally fascinated Flora how God created certain animals with clever markings so that they could hide from predators. A speckled bird in a laurel bush, a stoat in the snow – no one could see them although they were there all the time.
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