The Heartreader's Secret

by Kate McinTyre

Chris placed both hands on either side of the seat, trying to keep himself steady. The lack of gnome-stabilization on the wheels was a thousand times worse on these country roads than it had been back in the city.

  “You do get used to it,” Rachel said.

  Chris looked up.

  She wore a deeper red coat to cover her pretty rose dress, and a rose cloche hat cradled her gibson rolls. Either she’d added some rouge to her cheeks, or it was just the effect of the brisk wind that made her look so lively. She smiled at him faintly. “I found it hard to keep my seat, as well, at first. But really… it’s not so bad. Certainly not worth all the gnome-related accidents for a bit of comfort.”

  He desperately missed that comfort as his teeth knocked together in his skull, but he nodded, trying to find a way to wedge himself into the seat. “I didn’t expect to see you, Rachel,” he said, trying to move the conversation away from his inability to exist without city comforts. “Preparations for the Festival, and all.”

  Rachel folded gloved hands in her lap and tilted her head. “Yes, that’s what brings me to town. Rosie has need of some ribbons for her dress, you see.”

  Chris cracked a smile. “And she let you pick them out without her input?”

  Then, to his utter shock, the girl sitting beside Mabelle turned around in her seat, throwing an arm over it to leverage herself. “Oh, posh, Chris. When have you ever known me not to want to weigh in on pretty things?”

  For the second time in mere hours, Chris had looked right at his sister without actually seeing her.

  He gaped. She’d somehow gotten her mass of windswept, tangled ringlets braided back into a queue like Miss Greene’s. He tried to tell himself that’s why he didn’t notice her—Rosie’s hair was almost her entire identity, after all!—but he felt it was rather something else entirely.

  He just didn’t know her well enough to see her unless he was staring right at her, anymore.

  “Your hair…” he said, not sure what else to say.

  Rachel shook her head. “It took me nearly an hour to get a brush through it. Rosie,” she said, tilting her head back so that her words would reach the girl in the front seat. “I don’t mind you riding at all hours, really, but please just tell me you’re going so I can braid your hair before you turn it into macramé?”

  I mind her riding at all hours! Chris barely held the words back, sinking farther down into his seat while his sister laughed.

  At least Rosie had it in her to look abashed. “Sorry, Rachel. But you were down for breakfast, and I wanted to be the first to jump the courses….”

  “Which you did a rather impressive job with,” Olivia put in. She met Chris’s eyes across the way. “Don’t you think so, Christopher?”

  Chris cleared his throat hard. He felt all of them looking at him: Rachel, Rosie, and Olivia, waiting for his response. He thought of the hurtful way he’d spoken that morning. This was a second chance. “It was…” He sighed. “Very impressive, Rosie. I—I never would have thought you capable.”

  She narrowed her eyes as if she wasn’t sure if it was an insult or a compliment. And in truth, he wasn’t certain, himself. He desperately wanted everyone to stop staring at him.

  “Well,” Rosie said, eventually. “Thank you, Christopher. Everyone says I’ve got the knack.”

  “You have the knack for a great many things,” Rachel said, and Rosie ducked her head, cheeks glowing with pleasure.

  “Hm,” Olivia sat back and crossed one leg over the other. It looked very strange, for someone wearing trousers. “You know, that is true, Miss Buckley. You’re quite a talented young lady.”

  Rosie frowned. “I… thank you, Miss Faraday?” She looked as if the words pained her and abruptly shifted back in her seat to face forward. “I’m glad you’re looking into things with Mabelle’s father.” Her voice was as stiff as he’d ever heard it. “When she and I went to the police in town, they weren’t very cooperative. Saying it was cut and dry, no need to investigate more. It’s good that they changed their minds.”

  Rachel looked down into her lap, where she’d begun to knot her gloved hands together. “Girls…” she murmured. “I’m not so enamoured with the whole idea, myself. It all just seems… rather a long shot.”

  You oughtn’t to give her false hope, yes? Rachel’s quiet plea from the night before echoed through Chris’s mind.

  “Really,” she continued in a rush, “I can’t help but think… won’t it just disturb the poor animals, recalling what they saw that night? And for so little chance of a result.”

  He could barely hear her over the passing of the wind and the rumbling of the wheels and the clattering of the horses’ hooves, but the girls in front seemed to understand.

  “They… they’re strong beasts,” Mabelle said. Her voice rang with a brassy sort of confidence. “I know that they’d want to know what really happened with Da! I know it sounds like a load of rubbish to you house-folk, but they’re family with him. With me. They’d want this if they understood.”

  “But they don’t understand, do they? I… just don’t want to cause them any undue distress. I know what they mean to you. What they meant to poor Mister Greene.” Rachel looked up. Chris caught her eye for just a moment before she quickly glanced away. Something dark had flitted just beneath the surface of her gaze, but he couldn’t place what, exactly, it had been.

  Rosie shot a quick glance back and then leaned over in the seat, hands cupped, to whisper something into her friend’s ear. Mabelle quickly looked back at them, and then away. She pulled back on the reins, slowing the horses from trot to walk.

  “I think it’s worth it,” Mabelle said firmly. “If there’s any chance they might tell us what happened to Dad…” The brassy tone of her voice sounded a bit tarnished.

  “I can’t stand the thought of—” Rachel began.

  Olivia furrowed her brow. “Goodness,” she said. “Miss Albany, you certainly do care a great deal about what happens to some horses. Are you such an inveterate lover of animals, that you’re willing to try and redirect an angle of investigation for their sakes?”

  “Wh—” Rachel looked startled. She quickly looked away from Olivia and down at her lap. Chris couldn’t help but notice that her shoes were shockingly stylish, felt and burgundy and matching her coat, cloche, and gloves. Her feet looked small and delicate when they weren’t caged in cracked brown leather.

  “I’m sure she has her reasons,” he said. Because he knew what she was trying to do, and why, and he couldn’t bear to see Olivia’s irrational, petty dislike beat her down. “I have a difficult time watching an animal in pain, myself.”

  Rachel shot him a thankful look. Her fingers twitched as if she considered reaching across the way. To take his hand. Chris’s heart skipped a beat.

  Olivia shrugged. “It all seems rather bizarre to me, but what do I know? I only do this for a living.” She snorted, settling back into her seat. “Though, Gods only know what good a country veterinarian might be. If he were any good, he’d have vacated to Darrington a decade ago like the rest of us with any bankable talents.”

  Rosie leaned close to Mabelle again. Chris strained to hear what she said. ‘Should think about this’ was all he could make out.

  Miss Greene pulled back on the reins again, and the horses pulled to a halt.

  “I doubt it’s all that relevant,” Olivia muttered.

  Rachel’s hands fluttered in her lap.

  “It’s hopeless anyway,” Miss Greene breathed. “I don’t know why I’m….”

  There was something in her voice, this chasm of pain, that spurred Chris to action. It was too familiar, that dead-eyed, heartsick hopelessness. Maybe the poor girl feeling that way was inevitable, but… but even if it was, Olivia was right about some things. There was value in exhausting every avenue. In not having to wonder forever. In closure.

  “I—” He shook his head. “Rachel, I… I do understand the point you’re trying to make. About the feelings of the horses being very
fragile right now.” The nanny glanced up, and then quickly away. “But we’re already partway there, and, ah… Olivia, you yourself said that this all might be more… complicated than you initially thought, and that the avenue with the veterinarian was a good thought?” Gods, it was hard remembering who all knew what and why. “A-and, I…” Gods, he should say something to Rosie. Say that he understood that she didn’t want her friend to be hurt. But… he turned away from her. “Miss Greene, I think you’ll regret not doing this. I… I’ve lost someone, too.”

  “I know,” the girl said, with a look at Rosemary. “Mister Spencer, right?” She cracked a smile. “For what it’s worth—I never met him. But anyone the rest of the Spencers hate so darned bad must be a peach.” And then she took a deep breath and focused forward. “Right. Sorry about that—rubbish. Rachel, I know you’re just trying to help, but I’ve just got to see this through.”

  She snapped the reins over the horses’ backs, and they shot forward with such renewed speed that Olivia had to clutch her hat with a little cry.

  Chris turned an apologetic smile on Rachel, but she was staring into the distance and didn’t seem to notice him at all.

  Summergrove proper was a quaint, intimate little town, barely more than a village, with winding narrow streets, pre-Lowry stone buildings, abundant greenery in autumn colours, and a bustle of people. It reminded Chris very much of the cozy rural borough where White Clover Farms had been located. He and Rosemary had made a tradition of attending the menagerie there as often as funds would permit, and he’d always looked forward to everything about those days, from the easy peace he and Rosie had always found there to the comfortably picturesque location.

  Watching Rosie hug Mabelle and then jump down from the front seat, Chris couldn’t help but feel the gulf between them stretch further and further from those days. White Clover had been where the reality of Rosie’s gifts had been revealed to the world. Since that day, everything had changed. White Clover had closed down, and Rosemary had moved half a country away and become someone else.

  Rachel leaned across the seat, close enough that he could feel her breath on his face. He swallowed hard, but she only murmured into his ear. “At least stop it if Mabelle becomes distressed?”

  She moved away before he could find his tongue to agree, and she carefully lifted her skirts to climb down from the carriage and join Rosemary on the street below.

  “Best luck, Mabelle!” Rosie waved to her friend, “Don’t worry about us! We can find a hack back to Miller. Just take your time, all right?”

  She skipped off and headed toward little shop with Rachel following at a more sedate pace. Willowbrook Millinery, the sign above the door proclaimed.

  Chris smiled faintly. At least she still loved her hats.

  Olivia squirmed in her seat, moving closer to the middle where Rachel had sat. “Before we go to the veterinarian, Mabelle,” she said over her shoulder, “do you mind if we quickly visit the post office? There’s a letter I’d very much like to check on.”

  Mabelle fiddled with the reins. “It… won’t take too long, will it?”

  “Goodness, no. In fact, aren’t the two locations quite close together?”

  Mabelle nodded slowly. “Yes, but—”

  “How about you let Christopher and I off at the post, then, and you can make your way to Foster’s practice? You can get everything set up and ready to go so that the moment we walk in, he can begin.”

  The stable master’s shoulders slumped with relief, and she smiled. “That sounds lovely, Miss Olivia. Thank you, that would be—thank you.”

  Olivia went to straighten non-existent skirts. She made a face down at her trousers and cleared her throat. “Yes, well. Of course. Hop to it, now, won’t you?”

  The carriage pulled off again. Chris watched Rachel and Rosie disappear into the hat shop, fighting down the urge to throw himself down and chase after them.

  Instinct prevailed when they arrived at the post office. Chris hurried to the ground and reached up to hand Olivia down from the conveyance. She shook her head, and he flushed, but she let herself be manhandled.

  “Really, Christopher,” she admonished, reaching up to straighten her hat. “I’m in drawers, today. I can certainly get myself down.”

  While he tried to stammer out a reply, she twisted to wave Mabelle on. “Yes, good, go on ahead, now, dear! We’ll join you presently, you have my word!”

  As Mabelle trotted off, the empty four-in-hand trailing behind her, Olivia pulled Chris into the post office.

  Chris had been to the one in Darrington, which was palatial and grand, hung with lofty ceilings, supported by pillars hewn from marble, and inhabited by numerous busts of Lowry Academy Presidents. Summergrove’s office had more in common with a beehive. Tiny, filled with boxes for previous cargo to be stored in, and literally humming with activity.

  While he stood by the door, getting his bearings, Olivia practically elbowed her way through the crowds to reach the front desk. All manner of furious townsfolk hollered insults after her, but more than a few stopped when they recognized her. Chris caught whispers of “Elouise Miller’s girl” and “Deathsniffer in Darrington” and “no, the one with the twin” as he made his way through her wake to join her at the counter.

  “Good afternoon, Mister James!” Olivia called, folding her hands on the surface before her.

  A myopic, stoop-shouldered old man peered through glasses the size of camera lenses. “Well now,” he mused, coming closer. “Could that actually be Faraday’s girl?”

  “It’s me, James.”

  “But it isn’t even snowing out! Are you sure this isn’t some sort of trick?”

  “Nothing of the sort, I’m afraid! I’m here on an investigation, for which I might have need of your help.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice to the point where Chris, standing right beside, could barely hear her. “That is if you can be discreet.” She tapped her nose.

  The old man laughed and tapped his own back at her. “Discretion is my middle name, my girl,” he said. “Forty years of seeing everyone’s mail come through here? Ah, I could turn the town inside out, if I weren’t such a trustworthy fellow!”

  “Very good!” Olivia chirped. “Now,” she said and leaned in so far that Chris couldn’t hear another word she said.

  He tried to read her lips but gave up after a moment. Apparently, this dialogue wasn’t for him. He took a few steps back, smiling apologetically to assorted angry patrons and nodding at the bevy of postmasters serving them. The busyness of the post office seemed incongruous to the size of the town, but, he supposed, fewer people in your environs meant more need to communicate abroad. Gods knew, most mirrors couldn’t reach as far as Darrington anymore. Maybe the mail was the only way for these people to speak to associates, friends, and family. It was a strangely sobering thought.

  “Eh? Is that you, there?”

  He twisted about to follow the sound of the voice, which pierced through the hum in a way that made him just know it was addressed to him. And there was Sister Margaret—that was, Margaret McKenna—standing in a corner, far enough from the crowd that it was obvious that she wasn’t waiting in line to be serviced.

  Her face brightened the moment they locked eyes. “Ach, that is you! Thought I recognized that pretty golden hair. What’s got you in Summergrove? Thought you were off in the parish on some investigation?”

  Chris looked behind him. Olivia was practically climbing over the counter in order to have her parley with the postmaster. There was no help, there. Sighing, he stepped closer to the ex-Maiden.

  In close quarters, he towered over her. She looked up at him impertinently and stroked her chin with the end of one of her braids.

  “What brings you here?” he asked. “Weren’t you were looking for Doctor Livingstone?”

  She sighed and leaned back against the wall. “Eh, that. What a mess it’s been, so far. For all the rumours that he was seen up here, it seems that nobody’s ca
ught hide or hair of his arse. Isn’t that just the thing? Hauled my own fat bum all the way out here for nothing, maybe.”

  “So you’re… sending a report back?”

  She shook her head, making a face. “Oh, hells, no. I don’t give up so easy! I heard some folk say they seen that black woman around here fairly often. She’s supposed to be an associate of the doctor’s.” She shrugged even as Chris stood up straighter. “Them at the front told me I can wait until the lunch rush is over. Then they might talk to me. Fair enough, says me. I can park myself right here and be patient if they’ve got something.”

  “Where did you hear that? I—that is—about Miss Banks?”

  Margaret folded her arms, eyes lighting with interest, and Chris noticed his mistake immediately. “Oh, yeah? Miss Banks, is it? You know her, then!”

  “I…” Chris swallowed. “I, that is, Olivia is acquainted. She knows a lot of people.”

  “Hmm. I’ll bet.” Margaret eyed him, not even bothering to conceal her obvious suspicion. “You know, gossip has it that there’s a ginger copper around, too, and that she’s shacking up with this Banks woman.” She made a face. “Hell of a thing, that, innit? It’s one thing to make jokes and whatnot, but actually making the beast of two backs with your own kind? Ech.”

  Chris looked away. “I… I wouldn’t….”

  She shook her head and eyed him suspiciously. For a moment, Chris thought she was seeing something of that sort in him, but then… “Odd thing, though, isn’t it? Doesn’t your Deathsniffer work with a ginger copper? Right crabby little thing, built like a chimney and covered in freckles?”

  Chris pushed up his glasses, trying to give himself a moment to think. This was what happened when too many pieces began to overlap. He shook his head. There was no dissembling to be had. All he could really do was play it off. “I can’t talk about that,” he said.

  Margaret rolled her eyes expansively. “Right. Sure you can’t. You know, I’m getting real sick of that line. ‘I can’t talk about that’ and ‘that’s above your pay grade’ and ‘just do what you’re told, this is important’ and whatnot. I get the feeling there’s a whole lot of whatnot going on, here…” She peered up at him and blew out a heavy sigh. “Ach, but you’re not going to tell me bollocks, are you? You’re going to keep saying those same things and leave me holding the bag just like everybody else?”