Perhaps that was the reason for Alethea’s affinity with the chapel, the air of desertion. She knew logically that Lucy had not deserted her, but the loneliness settled in her bones like an early frost.
Loneliness should be an old friend to her, but Lucy had always been her shield against lowness and pain. Lucy had always been her comfort. Now she fought the stirrings of betrayal and an unsteadiness in the foundations of her life that frightened her. There was no comfort for her now.
It may have been the chapel that caused the words of the rector’s wife to come in a whisper: divine relationship. It meant nothing to her, and yet there was a promise of comfort if she could understand its meaning and take hold of it. Yet what kind of comfort could God offer to her? He had not comforted her before.
Or perhaps, like Margaret, Alethea had simply not heard him.
It was absurd to think that God would want to comfort her. Did he not control circumstances as he willed? Why should he cause suffering in order to bestow comfort?
No, she was being unfair. God did not cause suffering. Her father had caused her suffering. Her brother had caused her great pain. Dommick had lashed out in fear. Her sister . . .
But where was comfort? Where was the surcease of burdens? It was not here, in this lonely room, amongst relics and cobwebs.
Light footsteps sounded outside the chapel doors, then the creak of a door centuries old. Alethea turned to see Aunt Ebena in the doorway.
“Good gracious, you certainly are acquainted with the most unlikely places. If a servant had not happened to see you, I never should have found you.” Aunt Ebena stopped at the pew where she sat. “Well? Be so good as to allow me to sit.”
Alethea moved over.
“I had not known you intended to travel with your inheritance.” Aunt Ebena scowled at her.
“You knew about my inheritance? I thought only my father and brother knew of it. And Wilfred now, if the lawyer has informed him.”
“Of course I knew of it. My sister’s husband set it up to form the dowry of any of his granddaughters, since he did not trust the prudence of his eldest son and did not wish shame to come upon the house of Trittonstone should the girls have no portions. Your father was freely able to squander what was not tied up in trust for you.”
“Why should it surprise you that I wish to use my inheritance? My marriage prospects are highly unlikely.”
“I suspected you would want your independence, but I had not thought that you would travel.”
“I have read that in Italy one may live on very little expense. And there are music masters I wish to study under.” Of course, it may all come to naught now.
“But now that Lucy will not travel with you, you will need a paid companion, which may be a financial hardship,” Aunt Ebena said.
“I had thought that when the war ended, I might find a travelling companion to share the expense.”
“That is very wise of you.” Aunt Ebena hesitated, her face as stern as always, but faint apprehension in her grey eyes. “It was my thought to offer myself.”
Alethea could not speak for nearly a full minute. She realized her mouth had dropped open and closed it with a snap. “You would . . . want to . . . travel? With me?”
“I have always desired to travel, but . . . it did not appeal to Mr. Garen.”
Now that Alethea knew her aunt’s history, the reticence of her comment spoke volumes. “You enjoy travel?”
“I have not travelled at all. But I desire to partake of foreign culture.”
Alethea recalled her aunt’s avid attendance at concerts, art exhibitions, lectures. What must it have been like to marry a man much like Aunt Ebena’s father, in control of all her actions and decisions? How had she borne the frustration of wanting something dear to her heart, knowing her husband had the funds for it, but being unable to attain it?
Alethea also knew her aunt’s income. “May I ask an impertinent question?”
“When have you ever asked permission?”
“After Mr. Garen died, you never wished to sell your house and travel?”
Aunt Ebena said in a halting voice, “I had thought my age and respectability a deterrent. But I flatter myself that I have come to understand you in this past year. You will not allow such a setback to forestall you.”
“No.” Not while Italy beckoned.
“Then I cannot allow my notions to forestall me. Our combined income will enable a very comfortable housekeeping, more so than independently of each other.”
It was true. But her aunt’s abrasiveness had caused no small discomfort to this past year.
However, she now understood Aunt Ebena better. And might some of that abrasiveness have been a reaction to Alethea’s carefree spirit, her determination to pursue her desires, whether befriending her illegitimate half sister or playing an instrument scandalous for genteel ladies? Weren’t all those things against what her aunt had upheld for most of her very correct, upright life?
“Are you certain you could live with me, ma’am?” Alethea asked with uncertainty.
“I have lived with you for the past year,” she snapped, then seemed to regret her tone. “You are sensible, and while you can be headstrong, you are not foolish. We shall rub along tolerably well, I fancy.”
Aunt Ebena, for all her faults, was strong and confident. Alethea needed her confidence now, for she felt very alone and unsure. “I should be glad of your company, Aunt Ebena.”
Her aunt nodded as though she had known all along that Alethea would agree. “We can make no plans until you have received your inheritance and the war with France is ended, but you may know that I will remain committed to our schemes.”
“Thank you, Aunt.”
What an unexpected turn her life had taken in less than a day. Yet out of this, all three of them would achieve their dreams. Aunt Ebena would travel, Lucy would marry, and Alethea would still go to Italy.
But in the depths of her heart, deeper than she wanted to scrutinize, was the doubt that Italy was still the focus of her dreams. Yet what else did she have? She would do better to forget what was not directly before her and instead embrace this new opportunity.
Bayard was certain Richard Collum was involved somehow in the intrigue surrounding Alethea’s violin.
Verifying it, however, was a different matter.
Bayard wrapped himself against the freezing wind, damp and smelling of a brewing storm, and rattled the knocker at a small, respectable house in Chippenham. It had the look of former affluence, but had fallen into disrepair and neglect. The widow of an attorney lived here, but he had no wish to speak to her.
Mr. Collum’s appearance was too convenient. He was a stranger, but his presence was excused by his engagement with Lucy. No one would note the doings of Lucy’s betrothed.
Clare was disappointed to lose Lucy as her maid, for she would leave as soon as Mr. Collum found a new position. Clare had dropped broad hints that Bayard should hire Mr. Collum as a groom, for their head groom was getting on in years, but Bayard had rather doggedly pretended not to hear her. He would not hire a man he could not trust.
He hadn’t spoken to Alethea in days. He had never realized how effortless it would be for a woman to avoid speaking to him in the confines of the abbey. He wasn’t certain what he would say if she did speak to him. It was better by far that she avoided him and believed him to be a blackguard.
Bayard had spent the majority of the day in Bath, speaking to Mrs. Ramsland’s butler about the letter of reference Richard Collum had produced upon being hired as head groom, then following the trail backward to two other homes in Bath where Mr. Collum had worked, and finally here in Chippenham, where Mr. Collum had supposedly worked for five years.
The butler who opened the door was aged, with wispy, white hair and a stoop to his shoulders. “I regret that Mrs. Boane is unavailable.”
“I have come to speak to Mr. Keable.”
The butler’s thin, white brows climbed toward his balding pate. “M
e, sir? Please do come in.”
Bayard entered the house but remained in the gloomy foyer, which was lit only by tapers on the entrance table. “I am Lord Dommick. I was given your name in order to ask about a groom who worked here ten years ago.”
“I am afraid you are mistaken, my lord, for Mrs. Boane keeps no horses.”
This was the inconsistency Bayard had been hoping for. “You have been with her long?”
“For ten years.”
“And there was no groom when you started?”
“There had been no groom since Mr. Boane died.”
“There has been no servant named Richard Collum in Mrs. Boane’s employ? Whether as groom or footman?”
Mr. Keable stiffened. “Mr. Collum? I beg your pardon, my lord, but I was mistaken. Yes, Mr. Collum was Mrs. Boane’s groom ten years ago.”
Bayard found himself nonplussed. “He was?”
“Indeed. He was a good lad, very bright and amiable.”
Bayard was confused and frustrated at the same time. “How long did Mr. Collum work here?”
“Several years.”
“For whom had he worked before?”
“He was hired based on the recommendation of a former servant in this house. Mr. Collum proved to be an excellent worker.”
For a man who had professed not to know anything about a groom ten years ago, Mr. Keable suddenly knew a great deal about Mr. Collum. “You knew him well?”
“Mr. Collum left soon after I began my employ with Mrs. Boane, but he impressed me during the period I knew him, and the other servants spoke highly of him. Mrs. Boane herself wrote his references quite willingly.”
Bayard was at a loss. There was something havey-cavey going on, but Mr. Keable seemed most earnest in his estimation of Mr. Collum’s character. Yet what could Bayard do, short of accusing the man of lying. “Thank you, Mr. Keable.”
“If it is not impertinent for me to ask, I hope Mr. Collum is well, my lord?”
The butler’s question struck Bayard as rather odd for a fellow servant and Mr. Collum’s supervisor. “Yes. He is at Terralton Abbey.”
“Mrs. Boane will be glad to hear of it.”
“Mrs. Boane would remember a groom from ten years ago?”
Mr. Keable looked confused, then said, “Mrs. Boane is most solicitous of her servants.” Which was an even more bewildering answer. “May I help you in any other way, my lord?”
“No. Good day, Mr. Keable.” He exited the house and hurried through the rising wind toward his carriage.
Bayard drove home disgruntled, aided by a cold rain that worsened into a downpour. Perhaps he would need to hire someone else to look into Mr. Collum’s background.
The travelling coach in the gravel sweep before his house was unknown to him. He ran through the rain and up the steps to the front door.
The butler took his wet greatcoat from him. “Lord and Lady Trittonstone have arrived, my lord, along with Mr. Kinnier.”
The rain had not seeped through his coat, but Bayard was suddenly chilled. Why would Alethea’s cousin and his wife be here with Mr. Kinnier, of all people? Was Bayard unreasonably suspicious to jump to the conclusion it had to do with the violin? The timing of their visit was too coincidental.
“I prefer to announce myself, Forrow.” Bayard headed to the drawing room.
As he opened the door, he heard an unfamiliar male voice say, “The papers have been signed.”
Alethea stood opposite the door, and the expression on her face caused every vein in his body to pulse with fear, anger, protectiveness. He had never seen her so white. He had never seen her with such a look of vulnerability, devastation, terror. He knew that whatever had just occurred, her entire world had gone up in flames. Her hand went to her mouth, and she swayed on her feet.
A man standing with his back to the door turned and saw him. “Who the devil are you?” His thin voice was just shy of a whine.
Bayard shot him a look that made him flinch. In a low, snarling voice he said, “I should ask the same, as it is my house and you have upset my guest.”
The man’s brow cleared. “Oh. I am Trittonstone, Alethea’s cousin.” He bowed.
Bayard refused to return it. “What have you done?”
Movement to Bayard’s left had him twisting in alarm. Mr. Kinnier stood a few feet away, his dark eyes gleaming in triumph. He looked like a pale snake about to strike. “Congratulate me, Lord Dommick,” he said. “I have become betrothed to Lady Alethea.”
She had been sold. Again.
She was going to be sick.
Alethea rushed forward, pushing past Wilfred, past Dommick, out the drawing room door. She stumbled on the staircase and nearly fell, but she grabbed the bannister and regained her footing, only to hurtle herself down the last flight.
“My lady!” Forrow cried as she sprinted across the entrance hall, throwing herself against the front door. “My lady, it is raining—”
She unlatched the door and plunged into the dark.
The rain drenched her, shocking her with its cold. The wind sliced through her like an icy bayonet to her stomach, and still she ran into the teeth of the gale, running away and yet feeling as though she were not moving. The gravel of the sweep bit through her thin slippers, and then she was sliding on the half-frozen grass, mud oozing between her toes. She ran on, across the vast lawn, heedless of direction until a faulty step sent her tumbling face-first.
The cold ground bit into her cheek like a serpent’s kiss. She dug her fingers into the mud and pushed herself upright, but could not rise from her knees. She knelt in the grass and pooling water, rain falling upon her shoulders.
She had been sold.
She heard her brother’s voice through the moaning of the wind. Signed the papers this morning. You’ll marry my friend by special license tomorrow and he’ll give me a nice cut of your dowry.
Wilfred had said almost the same words tonight, and with them, had taken away everything. He had the power to force her to his will because she was not yet come of age and he had authority over her. She was twenty-eight years old, and he controlled her life as if she were eighteen. She squeezed her eyes shut and dug her fingers into the dirt.
If she ran away again, there was no certainty in her ability to hide from him until she reached her majority. He had the resources to find her.
She had built her dream like an oasis in a desert. She had clung to Italy as the only way she could be happy. And now it was gone.
She was helpless, and hopeless. The dark storm without was the same as the dark storm within.
A sound behind her made her jump and twist around, but it was Lucy with a cloak.
“How did you know I was here?” Alethea’s teeth chattered.
“Forrow found me and sent me. Come inside.”
“Lucy, Wilfred has sold me.”
Her sister’s hands, which had been draping the cloak around her wet figure, tightened in the folds of cloth. “Like . . . your brother?” She did not need an answer, for Alethea’s face said enough. She threw her arms about Alethea and squeezed tightly.
Her sister’s fervent embrace opened the floodgates, and Alethea wept tears that felt like shards of glass slicing her skin. She wept for all she had lost. She wept for all that men had done to her. She wept for the life she would never know.
“Who is it?” Lucy whispered.
“Mr. Kinnier.”
Lucy jerked away, her hands tight on Alethea’s shoulders. “No. No. Alethea, you must run away again.”
“What?” Alethea had never seen her sister look so terrified.
“You must run away. You cannot marry him.”
“I escaped my brother last year because of the accident. I could not hope for something similar again. Wilfred would find me.”
“You will have me with you this time.”
“Richard—?”
“I won’t marry him. Alethea, I won’t leave you alone. We will escape. I will keep you safe from him.”
“What is it about Mr. Kinnier? You must tell me.”
Lucy pressed her hand to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and stark white in the darkness. “Alethea,” she said, her voice thick with tears, “Mr. Kinnier killed his first wife.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mr. Kinnier knew about her violin. Alethea was certain of it.
She didn’t know if he was the villain himself, or if he happened to uncover the truth about it and now coveted it. Regardless, he knew. She had seen it last night. While Wilfred pronounced the betrothal agreement with his usual indifference to sensibilities, Mr. Kinnier had regarded her with those small dark eyes, and a nasty smile had curled his perfect lips.
A cat, about to pounce. A snake, preparing to strike.
What did he know about the violin that they did not? She had heard from her aunt’s friends that Mr. Kinnier’s fortune was substantial enough that he would not need her dowry, which may be why he was willing to pay a significant bride-price for her. And after he married her? Would he kill her as he had killed his first wife?
She wandered through the wet grass, flattened by the storm last night, and followed the edge of the lake. The morning was grey and bitterly cold, and she wrapped her cloak more tightly about her and trudged through the mud. A ball of ice lay in the centre of her body, numbing everything inside her, and so she did not mind the weather.
What did Dommick think of all this? She had not seen him, and he had not sought her out. It was not his affair, and he could do nothing. It would be laughable for a woman to insist on any legal rights in this matter.
Lucy was determined for Alethea to run away. Mr. Collum said he would assist them. He confirmed the rumours Lucy had heard about Mr. Kinnier.
“At my last position before Mrs. Ramsland,” he’d said, “I’d been hired with two other new grooms who had left Mr. Kinnier’s employ after Mrs. Kinnier died. The local magistrate turned a blind eye, but all the servants knew Mr. Kinnier had struck her—and not for the first time—and then pushed her down the staircase. The two grooms said they couldn’t work for a murderer.”
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