by Regina Darcy
“I tend to agree with your line of reasoning, Miss Galt.”
“I think—” Annie stopped herself. Lydia had just appeared on the banks of the pond, looking rather confused.
Annie knew what her mistress had been doing—throwing sticks and pebbles into the old, tumbledown wishing well in the garden, just as she had as a young girl. She was probably wishing for Edmund to come back to her, after all this time. Lydia turned around, and her gaze locked with her maid’s.
“Annie!” she called, holding her hands up. “What on Earth are you doing out there with Sergeant McCormack?”
The maid waved at her, her face scrunched into a worried smile. Then, an ominous crunching sound cracked through the cold December air. Before Lydia could tell them to get off the ice, Annie plunged straight through the pond’s frozen surface. She was gone.
“Annie!” Lydia screamed. She watched in horror as Jack, his expression deadly calm, leapt into the freezing water after the maid.
Gathering up her heavy skirts, Lydia rushed in the direction of the house and screamed for help. A couple of gentlemen gawked at her through the parlour window, but no one reacted immediately.
So she rushed back, sliding over the ice till she reached the hole through which Annie had disappeared moments before. It gaped like a black wound in the centre of the pond. Without a care for her dress or for propriety, she lowered herself onto her stomach and ungracefully slid over to the edge of the ice.
Just then, Jack sputtered to the surface, holding Annie with one arm, reaching out with the other. Lydia grasped his wrist with both hands and pulled. She succeeded in pulling Jack up so that part of his torso landed on the ice.
“Grab her first!” he sputtered. Annie’s head lolled to the side, her red hair plastered across her face, obscuring her eyes. Lydia grasped her arms and tried to yank her to safety.
Crack. The more she moved, the more the ice began to give way beneath her. Lydia felt the frigid water seep through her clothes. If the ledge of ice gave out, they would all end up in the pond.
Then, suddenly, someone was beside her. Tilting her head, she saw that it was a man in a dark cloak and a chipped skeleton mask. Together, they pulled Jack and Annie from the black water and dragged them off to dry land, hurrying as the ice broke apart behind them. At a certain point, Jack managed to stand and carry Annie himself.
Then, just when they were about halfway back to shore, Lydia took a step and felt the ice shatter beneath her. She knew the water here was only up to her chest, but she landed facedown and found herself completely submerged. The shock of the cold momentarily froze her entire body.
Lydia opened her eyes and saw the bottom of the pond, the plumes of dust, the wiggling, eel-like strands of weeds coiling toward her, as if they were beckoning her to sink further and further away from the light and noise.
Suddenly, someone was grabbing her around the waist and pulling her back to the surface. She looked up. It was the skeleton mummer again. He had jumped in after her. She looped her arms around his neck, and he began to carry her, breaking through the relatively thin coating of ice. His mask slipped for a moment. Lydia saw a deep blue eye and a mottling of scars. Then, he readjusted it.
“I… I—” She was shivering too violently to get her question out.
“It’s all right,” he told her in a quiet voice.
They made their way back to the shore, where Jack and Annie waited, clutching each other for warmth.
“Follow me,” the mummer told them in a voice muffled by the mask. They obeyed, following him as he carried the violently shivering Lydia back toward the manor house. A number of gentlemen had begun to spill out of the house and now stood gaping at the strange sight. The mummer set Lydia down delicately in the nearest chair in the lounge. James Smith pushed himself to the front of the ranks of bystanders.
“What on Earth happened?” Smith snapped, his eyes catching hold of Lydia. “Quick! Someone get her a blanket!”
Lydia ignored him, instead turning to the skeleton mummer, who had already begun to flee through the garden.
“Edmund!” she yelled through chattering teeth. She reached out a hand toward him. Were she not freezing to death, she would have raced after him and tackled him, right there in the snow. “Stop!”
The skeleton mummer stopped moving for a moment.
“It’s obviously you. I know you!” Her voice broke. “Don’t leave.”
For a moment, the man seemed as if he were about to whirl around and face her. But instead, he began to run. Tears mingled and froze with the pond water on Lydia’s pale cheeks as she watched him fade into the bleak winter day.
EIGHT
May 16, 1811
La Albuera, Spain
Opening his eyes, Edmund saw twisted, burning branches splayed across the sky above his head. He couldn’t breathe, and his throat burned inside and out. He sucked in breaths, unable to fill his lungs.
Presently, he sat up. His hands were tied before him, and he was lying on the gnarled roots of a tree. Clumps of burnt myrtle blossoms lay about him. His musket, sword, hat, and red coat—identifiers of his rank and country—were gone. There was something around his shoulders, something made of heavy and scratchy material. He ran his fingers along the braided fabric. It was a thick rope, fashioned into a noose.
He touched the burns on his neck.
His groggy thoughts all came together, and a chill went through him. Had he just survived a hanging? Closing his eyes, he tried to concentrate, tried to focus all his fluttering memories together.
A row of redcoats seated around a tree stump—a jury.
A judge, looping the rope around his neck.
Dangling, strangling, unable to suck in enough air to live.
He sat there, trembling as he struggled to free his hands.
Then, he heard a whistling sound. The French artillery—
All the Earth around him exploded into hot, hungry flames.
December, 1813
Spotswood, Gloucestershire, England
Mr and Mrs Page spent the rest of the afternoon frantically attending to their daughter and asking if she was quite all right after her frigid dip in the pond. By now, things had mostly settled down. Piled high with blankets, Lydia, Jack, and Annie, now in dry clothes, sat by the fireplace, thawing out.
“Are you sure you don’t have frostbite, dearest?” Lydia’s mother asked again.
Lydia didn’t even answer. She was glaring into the fire, her pretty face reflecting the glow of the flames.
Then she stood abruptly, casting off the layers of quilts. Annie and Jack watched as she pulled up a stool and began to furiously play the harp in the corner. Apparently, most of the gentlemen who had been hanging back from the centre of the room and the half-drowned heiress took that as an invitation to begin conversing with one another in jolly tones once more.
However, Mr Page knew better than that. His daughter took to the harp to calm her mind when she was upset.
“Lydia, darling, are you truly well?” he asked.
She stopped playing.
“No, Father, I don’t think I am. I believe that Edmund Adair is alive.”
Her hurt, low voice carried across the room. Mr Page’s eyes widened. A low murmur went out through the crowd.
And when Lydia began to strum again, the delicate, shimmering harp was the only sound in the room, aside from the crackling of the fire.
When Lydia finished playing half an hour later, she situated herself in a chair in the darkest corner of the room. She knew that she was being frightfully rude, but she was not in the mood to even pretend to be interested in talking to—or even interrogating—the men attending the ball.
A familiar figure slipped in front of her.
“Good day, Miss Page,” James said in a slick voice. “Might I speak to you in private, for just a moment?”
Lydia remembered Lord Cavendish’s warning about Smith’s intentions. “May we not converse here? What does this concern?”
“It concerns…your outburst. Regarding the poor late Edmund. I have some information that you need to be made aware of.”
Lydia stood up. “Very well, then.” Together, they marched into the adjacent, deserted reading room.
“I must tell you the truth about Captain Adair,” James said, easing into a chair.
“Thank you,” Lydia replied, before quietly adding, “That would be most welcome, for a change.”
“You have to understand…This is difficult for me to speak about.” Smith placed a hand over his eyes. “We were like brothers.”
Lydia felt some of her icy suspicion melt a bit. “I know. He cared for you quite a lot, Mr Smith.”
“So, you see, the short of it is, you are right. He may very well be alive.” Smith shook his head. “In fact, he likely is, based on your potential sightings of him.”
“You believe he’s alive, as well?”
“Possibly. He…Well, it’s time you learned the terrible truth. I can say for certain that he didn’t die at Albuera.”
Lydia clapped her hands. Of course, she’d already had a good feeling about that, but she never passed up an opportunity to assert her rightness. “I knew it.” She circled in on Smith. “So, why did he run away?”
“It’s awful to say. Part of me wishes you had left well enough alone, so at least you could retain your positive image of poor Edmund. You see, he deserted at Albuera.”
“Deserted? That doesn’t sound like Edmund at all.”
“I know. I think his nerves got to him.” James shook his head. “He went mad. He lost control and killed two men trying to stop him. It was terrible.” He stood up and began pacing. “I tried to intervene, but it was too late. They hung him, but apparently the rope broke, and he survived. When I last saw him, I hid him from our superiors. I helped him get back to England.” He let out a ragged sigh.
“I told him again and again to at least contact you and his father. But he refused. You had to see him…A light had gone out of his eyes. He was a warped man, a changed man. I’m afraid the old Edmund that we both knew and loved is long gone. The man lurking around town today is a mere shadow of his old self.”
NINE
The evening’s masquerade ball was in full swing by the time Edmund showed up in his skeleton mask. He had stolen a spare one from the mummers’ case, so that they wouldn’t be able to identify him—no one in their group typically wore the macabre thing. Despite the dramatic incident at the pond earlier, no one stopped him from entering—there were plenty of men wearing similar masks tonight.
He didn’t know why he had come, but he suspected that it was primarily to check on Lydia, to make certain that she was fine after the incident at the pond. Now that he had seen her again, he supposed that he couldn’t very well stay away. She was intoxicating.
As he drifted around the manor, he picked up snatches of conversation.
“The poor girl is stark-raving mad. The young man’s own cousin, Mr James Smith, told me that he identified Mr Adair’s body on the battlefield.”
“She’s lost her marbles. A pity for the poor parents. Imagine that—your only daughter is beautiful, but empty in the head.”
“I remember that Adair fellow from St. John’s. Nice enough bloke, but very quiet. Shame about his passing. Looks like the fiancée never got over it.”
“She’ll have trouble finding anyone else to marry after that outburst.”
Edmund found himself growing hot behind his mask. By running away, he had only been trying to save Lydia from more heartbreak, but in so doing, he had ruined her social reputation. He ducked outside to get some air beneath the starry sky.
There, he heard a familiar voice. It was his cousin, James Smith. Hearing him again saddened Edmund. He wanted nothing more than to reveal himself to his closest friend, but that was out of the question.
Smith didn’t seem to notice the newcomer as he approached a plump man in a minister’s garb, who was making his way inside to the party.
“I just wanted to inform you that the wedding might be happening sooner rather than later, Reverend.”
“Congratulations, Smith, old boy.”
“Thank you.” James laughed. “Of course, the same conditions apply to our agreement.”
“Yes, yes.” The Reverend waved his hands. “If the blushing bride complains that she’s being forced to marry against her will, I’ll interpret that as premarital jitters.”
“Exactly.”
Edmund turned on his heel and hurried back into the party. What had that disturbing conversation been all about?
James brushed past him completely oblivious, making a beeline for a slender woman in the corner wearing white. Edmund stared. It was Lydia. She looked luminous, like a Grecian goddess of old in her shimmering gown, with her sad, downcast eyes. Edmund found himself biting his lip to prevent himself from calling out to her.
***
Smith was a terrible dancer. No, that wasn’t quite right. He knew all of the steps, and his rhythm was quite remarkable. Rather, the problem was, he was an agile dancer and but terrible person. Constantly attempting to caress Lydia as they danced.
She was willing to overlook a few instances, as though they had happened by accident. However, after his hand started moving to wrap around her waist, Lydia broke free of his clammy grasp. She’d heard of too many naïve young women who’d been duped into dancing salaciously with a rake. It could lead to social ruin—even forced marriage—for the girl.
She knew that her parents were a bit more progressive (to a fault, sometimes) than all of that, but she certainly didn’t want to risk anything, especially since they already seemed so keen to pair her off with the next somewhat suitable man who came along.
“Wait, Miss Page, we’re not finished,” James snapped, his eyes furious behind his jester’s mask. However, he was cut off and shoved aside by a newcomer. Lydia gasped. It was the man in the skeleton mask—Edmund. They twisted and turned through the dance, moving further away from Smith.
“Who are you?” she asked, her heart hammering.
The skeleton didn’t respond.
Lydia took a deep breath, and a scent so familiar to her crowded her senses. The special tingle that she only felt in the presence of her beloved made her weak in the knees once again.
“Edmund. I know it’s you,” she whispered, her voice pregnant with tears.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured through his mask. Then he let go of her hands. Lydia lunged after him, but he slipped away into the crowd.
***
Edmund’s heart was thumping in his chest as he fled the ballroom. So many thoughts were rushing through his mind. How dare his cousin treat a lady like that? Everyone knew that sort of behaviour would unfairly ruin a girl’s reputation, even as the man got away without consequences…
And as for Lydia, she had looked as beautiful as ever. She had known him. But he couldn’t reveal himself to her. Not yet. Not like this. Every step that he took away from her pained him.
As Edmund rounded the corner into an empty hallway, a hand shot out and grabbed him by the collar of his ragged greatcoat. He felt himself shoved up against the wall.
Looking down, he saw that his assailant was none other than James. He had to stifle his cry of surprise.
“You dishonour me, sir,” James snapped. “How dare you steal Miss Page away from me in that manner? I’m going to marry that girl. Who on Earth let you in? You are probably the one who pushed her into the pond this morning, for all I know. You have no business being here.”
Edmund managed to shove him off and proceeded to march away. Up ahead was the door to the garden. He had to reach it, had to get away from this maddening ball.
“You dare to walk away from me?”
Edmund turned around, just in time to see James lunge at him with his blade drawn. He supposed his cousin had only meant to scare him, but Smith had clearly been drinking. He stumbled a bit, grazing the sword against Edmund’s side.
Edmund pressed his hands against the place where his cousin’s blade had stabbed him. His palms glistened red. He was bleeding profusely.
“I…” James looked at him more closely, squinting his eyes. “Edmund? Is that really you?”
Then, with one more horrified look at James, Edmund turned and ran from the Page estate.
TEN
Clutching his bleeding side, Edmund struggled forward. He couldn’t be sure how deep Smith’s blade had pierced him, but the wound throbbed with each step. He could not believe how despicable his cousin’s behaviour had been. Trying to dishonour a woman like that? Stabbing someone over an interrupted dance? That wasn’t like the James he had once known. He must have been extraordinarily drunk…
Edmund’s ragged breaths puffed out through the mask. He took a deep breath, then exhaled, watching the plume of white steam escape him and drift out into the dark forest like a ghost.
He lost his footing on the icy forest floor and fell to his knees. He stayed there for a moment, frozen, unable to stand up or crawl forward. Snow spiralled around him.
He removed his hand from his side. It was slick with blood. He watched the beads of red drip, drip down, staining the white snow.
This was it. He closed his eyes.
Suddenly, someone was pulling him to his feet, helping him over to a glossy chestnut sleigh. Edmund’s vision flickered in and out. The entire sleigh ride was a blur—he lay down and watched the stars spiral overhead. Memories of the past washed over him.
May 18, 1811
La Albuera, Spain
Edmund lay in the infirmary tent, wrapped in a cocoon of bandages. The medics were all out at the moment, collecting bodies from what had been the single bloodiest day for England in the whole of the Peninsular War. He had been found badly burned near the myrtle crepe tree. No one had been around to so much as take his name and rank yet.