Kate came tumbling down, sending them both to the ground with a thud.
Kate recovered quickly, rising from the overgrown grass to brush leaves from her skirt. “We noticed one of the panes had fallen out, Mr. Thompson,” she said, her breath coming fast. “I was just going to open the window to see if it could be retrieved, but it seems the glass has shattered.”
Elsie flinched when Uncle Oliver thumped the ground with his cane. “And now you’ve no doubt cut your hand in your foolishness. Stand up, Elsie. Both of you come here and let me see if you’ve hurt yourselves.”
“I’m fine, Uncle,” Elsie said, awkwardly rising to stand next to Kate. “We were only curious—”
“You had no right to be fooling with those windows. I told you the building is locked and only the gardener has the key. And we keep this laboratory locked because there are delicate instruments and specimens in there, flammable chemicals even. Mrs. Thompson doesn’t want anything broken, nor does she want anyone messing about and getting hurt.” He glowered at each of them in turn. After a moment his face softened. “Am I understood?”
“Yes, Uncle,” Elsie said.
“Now come here, Kate, and let me look at your hand.”
“It’s only a splinter, Mr. Thompson.”
He held her hand to his face, lifting his spectacles to peer at it. Then he shook his head. “I can barely see it. Take her to the kitchen, Elsie—Cook should be able to retrieve it. It’ll serve you right if it hurts.” He released her hand to adjust his spectacles. “After that, I trust you two will find something better to do with your Sunday afternoon than haunt this place.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
Elsie avoided Kate’s gaze as they walked in silence toward the kitchen. She already knew what she would find written in the girl’s expression.
Suspicion.
Asher watched Elsie and Kate out of the corner of his eye the next morning. They sat next to each other at the breakfast table, speaking in low voices. This new intimacy fascinated him, for each of them seemed improved by it. Elsie was more alert and outgoing, while Kate’s rough edges had smoothed considerably. Kate was, in fact, looking more human each day.
Just then, Kate turned to look at him. To find him staring at her. She grinned before he could turn away.
He quickly focused his attention upon his toast.
Halfway through breakfast, Millie walked in with the morning post for Mrs. Thompson. The girl pointed at the envelope that lay on top. “That one was delivered by hand, ma’am,” she said, glancing at Elsie before bobbing a curtsy. Asher thought she might be stifling a giggle.
Mrs. Thompson scanned the envelopes. “Ah, and here’s another telegram for you, Asher.”
As soon as she handed the thin envelope to him, he stuffed it in his pocket. He might have known Kate wouldn’t let that pass without comment.
“Who’s it from, Asher?”
“My father,” he mumbled. “I’ll read it later.” He turned from her inquisitive gaze to study Mrs. Thompson as she silently read another note—the very one Millie had singled out.
“My, my,” the woman breathed, pushing the note across the table to her husband. “Young Simon Wakeham wishes to invite us on a rowing expedition tomorrow. What do you think of that, Oliver?”
Mr. Thompson spoke from behind his paper. “Too damp for me, I’m afraid. And I’ve too much work, anyway. Young people seem to have more time for such frivolities.”
Mrs. Thompson’s smile faded. “You’re right, of course. My plate is quite full this entire week, and we have much to do in preparation for the next Society meeting.” She glanced at Elsie. “But that doesn’t mean the three of you can’t enjoy a row on the Cam. Kate, I will inform Miss Barrett that you won’t be available that afternoon.”
Asher couldn’t ignore the triumphant look Elsie gave Kate, and in that moment he hated Simon Wakeham more than his own father. Why was Wakeham the one to make Elsie so giddy? It was Asher who’d followed her to London to make sure she was safe. And when Wakeham departed, Asher had escorted her home and kept her secret from the Thompsons. The only thing Wakeham had done was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was no hero—just a man who happened to bump into Elsie and send her into a seizure.
Why, it was the complete opposite of a romantic encounter!
“You seem so gloomy today.” Kate’s voice roused him from his thoughts. “You will come with us, won’t you?”
Asher glanced at Elsie. The sight of her sipping tea and staring dreamily into the distance decided the matter.
“Actually,” he said, “I have a mind to accept Dr. Marshall’s invitation to visit Trinity.”
“Oh, I think you should,” said Mr. Thompson, smiling. “Nothing better than an insider’s view of the college. No doubt he’ll take you on a tour of Addenbrooke’s Hospital, too. Marshall lectures on some peculiar aspect of medical research. Can’t remember what exactly—electrotherapy or some such.”
Asher cast another covert glance at Elsie. She’d not even heard Mr. Thompson, for she still stared like a besotted fool.
“It will be a pleasure to see Dr. Marshall again,” he said finally. “In fact, I think I might stay at Trinity for several days.”
Chapter 22
“I do hope the rain holds off, don’t you, Mr. Wakeham?” Elsie twitched her parasol as though to beckon the sun from behind the thickening clouds.
“Indeed.” He smiled politely before returning his gaze to the water.
She took in more of the view before trying again. “That chapel is very striking. It would make a lovely photograph, particularly from this angle. Is that King’s College?”
This time he only nodded before once again fixing his attention on the oars.
Elsie sighed.
Nearly all the men she had ever encountered felt it their right to stare at her. Some stared openly, while others waited until they thought she wouldn’t notice. She’d never sought such attention, nor was she always pleased by it, but she’d grown accustomed nonetheless.
On this morning when she actually would have welcomed it, Simon Wakeham did not stare. In fact, he barely looked her way. He politely met her gaze when she spoke but otherwise was content to look out onto the water as he pulled the oars.
Their conversation continued to lag in the shallows. Kate was no help, for she merely stared into the distance as Elsie and Mr. Wakeham traded bland observations about the scenery. As they glided past Clare College, Mr. Wakeham remarked on the architecture and shared an amusing story of rivalry from his days as a Trinity man. Elsie enjoyed watching his face as he talked, but she wished he would meet her gaze for more than a fleeting moment.
It was then that Kate broke her silence.
“Mr. Wakeham, how old are you?”
“Kate!” Elsie nearly dropped her parasol at the impertinent question. But when she chanced a look at Simon—for she decided now to call him by his Christian name in the privacy of her thoughts—his eyes were merry.
“Why do you wish to know?” he countered.
“I didn’t mean to offend,” Kate said. “It’s just that you seem young to be a member of the Metaphysical Society. Those Society men are all so old.”
“I suppose they are,” he said, grinning. “But since you ask, Miss Poole, I am twenty-one. I started a little early at Trinity, and perhaps I worked a bit harder than some of my peers.” His face grew serious. “I don’t say that to boast, mind you. It’s just … studying was all I had. I cared little about society or sport. I simply couldn’t afford to care—they each required more money than I was able to part with.”
Kate nodded thoughtfully, and Elsie knew she was calculating Simon’s age when her father died. No older than eighteen, she thought. Was it possible for someone so young to be corresponding with a prominent, well-respected gentleman? According to Kate, Frederic Stanton was a man born to wealth who dabbled in many things other than metaphysical research. Why would he bother writing letters to a young student a
t Trinity College?
“This is my favorite spot for picnics,” said Simon, rousing her out of such thoughts.
He moored the boat by a small brick arch and stone staircase on the east side of the river. Keeping one leg inside the boat, he extended his hand to Elsie. It wasn’t an elegant disembarkation, but his hand was warm and steady as he pulled her to higher ground. Once she and Kate had climbed the steep bank, they positioned their blanket to enjoy a view of Trinity College and unpacked the picnic basket.
The day had dawned bright with only a few puffy clouds dotting the skies, but now those clouds had gathered into solid grey clumps, and the breeze blew chilly from the river. Elsie did not mind the drop in temperature or the threat of rain, for it meant they were alone in their picnicking. She and Kate laughed with abandon as Simon continued to share anecdotes from his days as a student—more than once poking gentle fun at her uncle and his tendency to stutter, or that odd habit of chewing his long beard when preoccupied. Elsie knew Simon was fond of the man, so she never doubted his teasing was meant affectionately.
When the conversation flagged once again, Elsie reached for her bag and retrieved her camera.
Simon’s eyes widened. “You trusted my rowing skills enough to risk your camera?”
“I can hardly bear to be parted from it,” she replied, opening the box and clicking the lens into place.
“I’m afraid it’s going to rain any minute,” said Kate, peering at the sky.
“Then get to your feet and stand so that the college is behind you.” She turned to Simon. “What is that building, Mr. Wakeham?”
“New Court,” he said. “Built less than a hundred years ago. My cousin Marshall has rooms there.”
“It’s very grand. Kate, you must pretend you are a princess escaping the tower. Mr. Wakeham, help me pose her.”
They laughed so much as they directed the placement of Kate’s arms, hands, and head that it took quite a while to arrange an appropriate pose. Afterward Simon consented to be photographed beside the river, and he smiled handsomely when coaxed by Kate. Before they could arrange another pose, it began to drizzle.
Elsie packed her camera away as Simon and Kate pulled the basket and blanket under the canopy of an enormous willow tree. There they settled, listening in silence to the gentle patter of rain. Simon was half sitting and half lying, propped on an elbow. Elsie positioned herself so that she could covertly study the back of his head, his pale neck and wide shoulders. After a moment she leaned against the tree, thinking she’d not felt such contentment in years.
She closed her eyes and imagined walking alone with Simon through the meadow, their arms entwined. She rested her head against the mossy bark, smiling as she envisioned him searching her face, the cool grey of his eyes warming with passion. Yawning contentedly, she settled further into the fantasy.
“Someone is watching us,” said Kate.
Elsie opened her eyes to see the girl scrambling to her feet.
Simon jerked upright. “What? Who?”
Elsie leaned forward, peering into the distance, but Simon blocked her view.
“Oh!” Kate cried. “He said he would find me.” She glanced back, her expression apologetic. “Please excuse me—I won’t be gone long.” And with that she was off into the rain, holding the parasol over her head. Her hat lay on the picnic blanket.
“Kate,” Elsie cried, “that parasol is not meant for rain!”
But Kate was already out of hearing.
“It will be in soggy tatters when she gets back,” said Elsie, brushing the grass from her skirt. “I wonder who that was.”
“I’ve no idea,” Simon replied, without turning. “Should I go after her?”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine. She’s very good at taking care of herself.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Then he swung around and began tidying the abandoned picnic items.
“Oh, please don’t bother with that yet,” Elsie said quickly, pushing the items aside and inching toward him. “Let’s sit awhile longer. This is such a beautiful place, and I envy you for spending so much time here. Did you say you read classics at Trinity?”
He nodded.
“May I ask, then, what led you to your interest in the metaphysical? Has this always been a passion of yours?”
He smiled. “Would you believe, Miss Atherton, that before coming to Cambridge I fully intended to find my vocation within the church? My father was a vicar, after all.”
“He was?”
“Both he and my mother were devout Christians.”
“So what changed your mind? Did you lose your faith?”
“Not in a higher power. Just … in the church. I couldn’t find the answers I sought there. And yet I still yearned for the serenity I’d once found in sermons and hymns.”
“And you found it in your research?”
He laughed. “There are many so-called metaphysical researchers, and their studies vary greatly. Some of them seem to make a religion out of it, despite the fact that much of the research has led to disappointment. I’d say most Society members are intrigued by the soul and its afterlife, but for my part I would rather study the matter scientifically than sit through sermons or séances.” He paused, his expression hardening. “The Society members are united, however, in their opposition to the Materialists—those who believe there is no soul, no existence after death. Those who reject metaphysical theories out of hand. They claim to have science on their side but in doing so offer even less comfort.”
Elsie knew if she examined her own religious beliefs, she would have little to offer him in the way of comfort. Although she was fond of their handsome village church by the river, she went to services out of duty rather than spiritual zeal. The sermons made her sleepy, but the hymns were beautiful. Sometimes, when the choir was singing, she felt her spirit reaching out to something higher. But overall, religion merely seemed part of the routine of country life.
“I think I know what you mean,” she finally said.
“I suppose what drives me to study metaphysical phenomena,” Simon continued, “is this certainty I have—or perhaps, if I’m honest with myself, it’s really a profound longing—that the life of the mind does not end with death. Corporeal life is over—I understand that.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But the idea that I could be completely extinguished, that no part of me would continue to exist and grow … well, it’s intolerable.”
She stared at him. She couldn’t help herself.
At that moment she longed to tell him everything. I have seen the other side. Existence does continue. But she had only seen the spirit continuing in pain and confusion—there was nothing comforting about that. So she held her tongue, instead reaching out to place her hand on his.
He looked into her eyes for a brief, delicious moment before turning away. “I find it hard to meet your gaze sometimes,” he murmured.
She pulled her hand back, inwardly cursing her own boldness. “But why?”
“There’s a peculiar light in your eyes. As if you know something about me—something I may not even know about myself.” He returned his gaze to her. “It’s disconcerting.”
She thought of the lady in the dark between. She’d loved him so desperately she could not stay away, not even in death. Did he long to speak with her? Would he even wish to see how desperate she was?
“I think it may be that I can read an old grief in your face,” Elsie said.
His eyes widened. “Really?”
“At supper you said you’d lost your father and a close friend. I can see that their deaths still haunt you.” She smiled. “I certainly didn’t mean to be disconcerting.”
He shook his head. “I am behaving like an idiot.” He moved closer and took her hand, staring at it for a moment. When he looked up his expression was blandly cheerful. “I invited you to go rowing, but instead of offering you lively conversation I’ve maundered on about religion and death. And this tree won’t protect us from the rain muc
h longer. Can you forgive me?”
Even though he held her hand, she could feel him pulling away. Her mention of grief and loss had made him skittish, as though she’d touched upon something he wished to hold to himself. Of course, this only made her long to delve further into those very secrets he protected.
She wove her fingers through his. “I don’t care about the rain, Mr. Wakeham, and I don’t desire lively conversation. All I want is for people to talk to me about real things, things that matter, even if they are painful.” She sighed. “I wish you weren’t leaving Cambridge so soon, for I should like to know you better.”
He met her gaze directly, and though his face seemed haunted, his eyes were wide with surprise … and something like yearning.
The rain began to fall with more force, dripping down through the leaves. Simon blinked as a drop splashed his temple. With her free hand Elsie smoothed a lock of hair that had tumbled over his brow and then allowed her fingers to trail down his cheek, following the path of the raindrop. Her heart was pounding, but she no longer felt shame at her boldness. This was innocent. She only meant to comfort him, to put him at ease and encourage his trust in her.
But she also wanted very much to kiss him.
Her fingers trailed by his mouth, and then she let her hand drop to her lap.
He swallowed, his grip tightening on her other hand.
She leaned forward ever so slightly.
And then, finally, his lips were on hers, slightly open and soft as a whisper. She closed her eyes and sank into him. There was nothing frenzied about it—he did not clasp her by the back of the head and crush her mouth with his own … as the artist had done. Simon’s kiss was so light, like a tentative caress, that she longed to be the aggressor. She pressed against him, imagining herself pushing him to the ground.
A shudder went through her body, but it wasn’t a tremble of desire. Rather, it was the sinking feeling that always prefaced a convulsion. She roughly pushed away from Simon, closing her eyes and gasping for air.
“No, no, no,” she moaned, willing her body to stop shaking.
The Dark Between Page 17