Beyond the Grave

by C. J. Archer

  Lincoln accepted the slice of cake from Cook. "It seems likely he already knew to look in France, perhaps because Ellen was French. The response in this letter also explains why Frankenstein didn't know precisely where to look for you in London." He pointed to a line on the letter that I couldn't understand. "The matron explains here that the baby she suspects is the one I'm interested in was adopted by a vicar based in London. There was a fire some years ago and all records were lost, but she remembered you."

  "Why?" I gripped my teacup harder in both hands. I felt like my eyes were huge as I stared at him, holding my breath as I awaited his answer. "They must see hundreds of babies."

  "The matron states that Ellen Mercier was unlike the other mothers who are forced to give up their children. She spoke well, with an educated accent, and her clothes were well made and of good quality, although they were old and worn. Matron suspects Ellen was from a good family but had fallen on hard times, perhaps as a result of her pregnancy."

  "She did not marry Frankenstein," I whispered.

  "No. As an unwed mother, doors would have been closed to her."

  "Perhaps even the door to her father's home."

  He nodded as he watched me. After a moment, he turned the letter over and pointed to the small, neat writing near the top. "She describes Ellen Mercier's appearance here. 'Small in stature and figure, with features to match except for her large eyes that one couldn't fail to notice.' Like you."

  "Yes," I whispered.

  "But her eyes were brown."

  "Mine are blue, like his." I wished I'd found out more about my mother from my father, before his death, but there'd been so little opportunity, and now he was gone. "Does the letter say what happened to her?"

  "The matron notes that Ellen left in something of a hurry. She was upset at having to give you up, but she felt certain it was for the best. It was very hard for her to walk away, but she was very sick and knew she couldn't look after you. The matron says Ellen begged her to give you away to a nice, respectable family, one who desperately wanted a child of their own to love. When the Holloways came to them a few days later, wanting a daughter, she didn't hesitate to give you to them. You were a good baby, content, and the right age. The matron suspects your mother probably wouldn't have lived very long. She was too ill."

  He watched me very closely, his gaze never leaving my face. I wanted him to hold me, comfort me, but I knew I would get no affection from him now. He'd made his stance clear.

  "Why were the Holloways in France looking for a baby?" Seth asked.

  "Aye," said Gus. "What's wrong with an English one?" Seth smacked his arm, spilling some of Gus's tea. "What's wrong with that question?"

  Cook swore under his breath, gave me a pointed look, and smacked Gus's other arm.

  "The matron doesn't know for certain," Lincoln said, "but she implies that the Holloways wanted to pass the child off as their own, after an extended tour of the continent. Apparently it happens frequently. Holloway claimed their decision to 'save a poor French babe,' as he put it, was made on a whim the day before, but matron said it can't have been. They already owned a perambulator and some baby clothes. With the previous day being a Sunday, they couldn't have purchased anything. They must have been planning an adoption for some time."

  "Blimey, this matron has a good memory."

  "She asks how you are, Charlie," Lincoln went on. "She's very interested to know how you turned out. If you'd like to write to her, I can translate for you."

  I nodded dumbly, even though I couldn't think of a single thing I wanted to say to her at that moment. Thank you, perhaps?

  "There is one final thing she notes. Your mother left something, with the stipulation that it would remain with you, but the Holloways wanted nothing from your past. She asks if I want it sent over."

  "Yes," I said quickly. "Yes, please, tell her to send them." I rose, hardly knowing what I was doing. I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts. The woman who'd given birth to me seemed more real now, not an unknown, vague figure. And she had loved me enough to do what was best for me.

  "Excuse me," I said with a weak smile for them all. "The cake was lovely, Cook, but I'm not hungry. I'll finish it later."

  "You ain't started," Gus noted.

  "Shut it," Cook hissed.

  I left and headed…somewhere. I hardly knew where to go. Outside, perhaps. I needed some fresh air. But Lincoln caught up to me before I reached the front door.

  "Charlie, a moment."

  I stopped and looked up at him. I was very aware of my full eyes, my tight throat. My emotions were close to the surface. Close to spilling over. Speaking with Lincoln might not be the best thing for my tender nerves at that moment.

  His fingers brushed mine so briefly that I wondered if I'd just imagined it. "I'll take you." The words tumbled from his lips. I'd learned that he spoke that way when he said something on a whim, without much forethought.

  "I'm not going anywhere in particular." I waved in the general direction of the front door. "Just outside for a walk."

  "I mean to France."

  "France?" Surely he wasn't serious. And yet he looked so earnest, so sincere.

  "After we've found Buchanan, we'll travel to Paris together and retrieve your things from the orphanage."

  I became aware that I was staring at him rather stupidly, my mouth ajar. "Lincoln…don't say things you'll regret later."

  He clasped his hands behind his back. "Hopefully before winter comes, when the crossing is rougher. Sea voyages are unpleasant at the best of times."

  "I wouldn't know." I waited for him to retract his offer, but he didn't. He simply stood there, as if he were waiting for me to speak. "Lincoln, I…I don't know what to say."

  "There's nothing to say." He turned and marched off. His fingers twisted together at his back, the knuckles white.

  I wanted to run after him, take his face in my hands and kiss him. But instead I simply called, "Thank you."

  He stopped at the base of the stairs but did not turn around. He rested a hand on the balustrade. After a moment, he finally said, "My pleasure." Then he took two stairs at a time and disappeared from sight.

  * * *

  I didn't stay outside for long after it began to rain. Upon returning inside, Lincoln found me as I headed to my rooms.

  "You're here," he said simply. "Good. Collect your coat and gloves if you want to come with me to Harcourt House."

  "We're going to confront Lord and Lady Harcourt?"

  "Yes."

  "What if the dowager's there? You wanted to shield her from what we'd learned about her. I don't think we can do that if we reveal what we know."

  "We can't, and it was a futile and misguided suggestion on my part. I should have listened to you." He gave a stiff nod. "You said there might be a link between her, The Alhambra and Buchanan's disappearance, and you've been proven right. I'm sorry I doubted you, Charlie."

  He strode past me, leaving me staring at his back. I wasn't sure which shocked me more—that he was wrong or that he admitted it.

  I hurried up the stairs. The cool air outside had cleared my head. I no longer felt stunned to stupidity by the news in the letter; I was energized by it. I felt more whole—complete. Before, it was as if I were reaching into the dark and finding emptiness. Now I felt like I carried a small lamp and could see a person nearby, almost within reach. I very much wanted to go to the orphanage with Lincoln. It spurred me on to find Buchanan and finish our business faster. Confronting the Harcourts was a good place to start.

  Seth and Gus both drove us since they claimed to have nothing better to do. I suspected they simply wanted to get away from the housework and gardening. I traveled in the cabin with Lincoln and pretended not to feel awkward as he watched me from the opposite seat.

  "You're happy," he hedged when we were almost at Harcourt House.

  "I am."

  "Because of the news from France?"

  I nodded, smiling.

  "You di
dn't seem happy when I told you in the kitchen."

  "It came as a surprise, that's all. It took some time to sink in."

  "Good." He hooked the curtain with his finger and tugged it back as far as it would go. He peered out at the elegant Mayfair houses. "I was afraid my actions had been thoughtless and made you unhappy."

  I frowned. He seemed genuinely concerned that he'd upset me by seeking out information about my mother. "Lincoln, you've given me quite a number of gifts. This cloak for one thing, gloves and hats. The chatelaine most recently too."

  He let go of the curtain and gave me his attention.

  "But none of them are as special as the gift of that letter."

  He returned to looking out the window and our gazes locked in the reflection. "It cost me nothing," he said, breaking the connection.

  "It would have taken you considerable time to write all those letters to France. That's not nothing."

  "The information is from the matron, not me. You can show her your gratitude when you meet her."

  I shook my head and smiled. "You're impossible."

  "And you're not like any female I've met."

  I laughed. "Then you need to go to more balls and dinners."

  "I doubt I'll find another there."

  The coach slowed to a stop. It dipped as Seth jumped down. He opened the door and held out his hand for me, but I didn't take it straight away. I angled myself so that my body blocked the doorway then quickly kissed Lincoln on the cheek.

  "The best gifts come from the heart," I told him, "not a jeweler's shop or the dressmaker's. Thank you for writing the letters and offering to take me to Paris. It's very sweet of you."

  I had the very great satisfaction of seeing him stunned. His eyes had never been so wide, nor his jaw as slack. I stepped out of the coach, with a smile for Seth, and waited on the pavement. It was a long time before Lincoln emerged, his bland expression once more in place.

  Millard, the butler, opened the door to us and almost stumbled backward in aghast at seeing me alongside Lincoln. The last time I'd called at Harcourt House, he had pointed out that maids should enter through the service entrance.

  He recovered enough to bow and step aside. "Mr. Fitzroy, sir. How good to see you again."

  "And you." Lincoln presented me as if I were a debutante and Millard the queen. "You remember Miss Holloway."

  "Of course." The bow he gave me was considerably shallower than the one he gave Lincoln.

  "Is his lordship at home for callers?"

  "Not at present. Lady Harcourt and the dowager Lady Harcourt are both here, however."

  "Please inform them I'd like to speak with them both."

  "Of course, sir. If you will wait in the drawing room."

  Despite being smaller, the drawing room was even more spectacular than the one at Emberly House with its soft green velvet curtains, and crimson and gold carpet. Where Emberly's walls were covered with paintings of cows and countryside, this drawing room was more elegantly decorated with pictures of women and children. I assumed they were family members, but it was odd that there wasn't a single man in any of the paintings. Each one was framed in heavy gold, as were the three mirrors, and gold leaf decorated the mantelpiece, ceiling and much of the furniture. The dowager's tastes ran to less clutter than her daughter-in-law's, making the room appear large and airy. I liked the room considerably more for it.

  Lady Harcourt—Julia—sailed in, a surprised smile on her face. It turned hard when she spotted me. It would seem Millard hadn't thought me important enough to announce. "Lincoln, Charlie, how lovely to see you." She greeted Lincoln with a kiss on his cheek. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

  "We need to speak with Lord and Lady Harcourt," he said.

  Her gaze shifted to me then back again. "What about?"

  "We learned some things at Emberly Park that need clarification."

  "We?" she echoed, once more eyeing me. "Lincoln, what is going on? Why is Charlie here?"

  Marguerite took that moment to enter. Unlike her mother-in-law, she didn't so much glide into the room, but rather she padded with heavy feet and swaying hips. She greeted Lincoln cordially but frowned through his introduction of me as if she couldn't quite place me.

  "Tea, m'lady?" Millard asked.

  Julia lifted her brow at Lincoln, but he shook his head. "No, thank you, Millard," she said. "You may go. Please close the door."

  He bowed himself out and shut the double doors.

  "Madam," Lincoln began, but stopped when Marguerite lifted her hand.

  She hadn't taken her eyes off me since sitting down. Now she sat forward and pointed at me. "That's your housemaid."

  "Miss Holloway is my assistant."

  "She looks very much like your maid."

  Julia arched her brow at him, but he paid her no mind. I suddenly wished the sofa would swallow me up. I didn't know why I had thought this would be a good idea. Of course both ladies would find it abhorrent that I sat in their drawing room, let alone pried into their private matters. Lincoln should never have included me on this excursion.

  Then again, it was precisely what I'd wanted him to do. I'd wanted to be his partner in investigations, to be more than a maid within the ministry. It wasn't fair that I thought him wrong now for doing exactly as I requested. Nor should I feel awkward in the presence of these ladies. I might be beneath them in situation, but I was Julia's equal in birth and at least Marguerite's equal in intelligence. I wouldn't want to be in either woman's position now.

  "Miss Holloway and I returned from Emberly Park this morning."

  Lincoln's declaration was met with a gasp from Marguerite. Her hand fluttered to her chest and she looked to the closed doors. Wishing her husband was present, perhaps? "Why did you go there when you knew we were here?"

  "To find out if your brother-in-law visited the house or not."

  "My husband told you he did not. Was his word not good enough?"

  "No."

  Marguerite's lips pinched. "This is outrageous!"

  "Lincoln didn't mean it like that, Marguerite." Julia gave Lincoln a withering glare.

  He ignored them both. "It seems that Buchanan did go to Emberly that day, after all." I eyed him carefully, but if I'd not known he was stretching the truth to test her, I wouldn't have guessed. "He was seen in the grounds."

  "He was not!" She flattened her hands over her lap, stretching her fingers. "He couldn't have been, since he wasn't there."

  "Mr. Edgecombe saw him from his window."

  "John! B-but you cannot believe everything he tells you. H-he's…not quite right in the head. Ever since the accident…" She put out a hand to her mother-in-law.

  After a long moment, Julia took it. "He was in a riding accident, a year or so ago," she said. "He changed after that. He drinks heavily, for one thing. Are you sure he wasn't mistaken?"

  "He must be," Marguerite blurted. She shot another longing glance at the door.

  "It's difficult to say," Lincoln said.

  "Did the servants see him?" Julia asked.

  "No, but they were lying."

  "How do you know?"

  Lincoln's gaze slid to her. She pressed her lips together.

  Marguerite looked as if she would burst into tears at any moment. She continued to glance at the door, but I began to wonder if it was because it was her only escape route and not because she hoped her husband would walk in and rescue her.

  "Mr. Edgecombe told me that Mr. Buchanan fought with a man in the family graveyard on the rise," I said. "Near the mausoleum."

  Marguerite's face drained of color. Her hands shook. Julia frowned. "Is it necessary to bring up old wounds?"

  "We believe the baby is integral to this investigation," Lincoln told her.

  She scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. How can that be?"

  "Marguerite, may we speak with you alone?"

  Julia's back straightened. "Are you throwing me out of my own drawing room?"

  Lincoln's glare at Marguerite d
idn't waver. I wanted to warn him to scale back his sternness, for the sake of her nerves, but I couldn't catch his attention.

  "Perhaps you could fetch tea for Lady Harcourt," I said to Julia. "She might need it."

  Julia went rigid. "I do not fetch anything, Charlie. That is what Millard is for."

  "My apologies," I mumbled as my face heated. "I just thought she might like some privacy."

  "Oh, for goodness' sake, she might as well stay now." Marguerite dabbed at her eyes with her pinky finger. "Everyone else seems to know, even the maid. Hector was full-term," she told Julia. "He lived only a day then died in my arms."

  Julia patted her hand. "Oh, my dear. I am sorry. But it happened over five years ago."

  "Can I not still mourn him?" Marguerite spat. "It may not be the done thing in your circles, Julia, but he was my son." Despite her dabbing, a tear escaped. Lincoln handed her his handkerchief.

  "That isn't what I meant," Julia said quietly. "Of course you still mourn him." She appealed to Lincoln.

  "Marguerite, I'm sorry to have to ask you this," he said. "It's a delicate matter regarding the baby's father."

  Julia retracted her hand as if it had been slapped away. She stared at Marguerite, who'd gone very still. Even her tears had stopped.

  "Is it Andrew Buchanan?"

  "How do you know?" Marguerite whispered.

  "The fight at the mausoleum, his interest in Estelle Pearson, some gossip…we joined the pieces together."

  "No." Julia shook her head over and over. "Surely not. Andrew?"

  Marguerite nodded.

  "But he…he…" Julia slumped back on the sofa as if she'd been pushed, unconcerned that she was crushing her bustle. "He never breathed a word."

  "You think he tells you everything?" Marguerite bit off. "He doesn't, you know."

  "How long had Buchanan known?" Lincoln asked.

  "I told him when I first discovered my state," Marguerite said. "But he…he refused to do anything about it."

  "That sounds like Andrew," Julia said on a sigh.

  "It was not his fault." Marguerite fired back. "Indeed, it was yours!"

  "Mine?"