When we’d completed the task, I threw a wan smile toward Mr. Grupp and turned to my horse, but his heavy hand on my shoulder stopped me.
“I’ve been waiting for a moment to talk to you alone, but I’m afraid this is as close as we’ll come. You must know something, Aura Rose. It’s about your father.”
I spun, every muscle tensed.
“He knew there wouldn’t be an inquest or a trial because of where he died, but he wanted you to know the truth. I think he feared for your safety. I should have told you earlier.” His haggard face hung in the shadows.
“What are you trying to say?”
“It happened while you were searching for Mrs. Danbury’s daughters. It wasn’t the infection that took him. He was murdered, Aura Rose, by one of his creditors. A blow to the back of his head.”
31
A well-written book always revealed the complex truth about its characters, but more than anything, the basic truth about its author.
~Nathaniel Droll, Lady Jayne Disappears
Horse hooves pounded the road beneath me as my dress billowed out behind and the shadows of despair blanketed me with their heavy weight. Mr. Grupp had escorted Papa into death because I hadn’t been there. I’d left him for two days for . . . what? Ensuring another prisoner did not die without her daughters present.
Meanwhile my own papa had died without his. Tears squeezed from my wind-burned eyes. I could have prevented it—or at least walked with him through it.
Defeat crashed over me. Every area of my life had fallen apart from my own foolish actions, and my memories of life with Papa had been my saving grace. But I’d failed there too.
The weight of my guilt only intensified after a night of sleep, but I swept it to the side as I descended to the morning room for breakfast the next day. Somehow the night had inflamed my appetite, so I loaded a plate with all manner of hot and cold breakfast food and perched on the stiff couch to devour it. Spiced sausage tickled my senses.
“Ah, you’ve returned.” Garamond strode into the room with his narrow chest puffed out. “I was beginning to wonder if Cook was poisoning our food, the way everyone’s disappearing.”
I forced a bite of stewed peach down my throat and turned to watch him devour his toast.
He slowed his chewing and considered me. “Pardon my joke. Sometimes I find I must laugh when I need to maintain my composure.”
Poor man. “No word from Juliette?”
He shook his head and cleared his throat with more than necessary effort. “She’s likely married to that Grupp fellow by now, and hopelessly lost to us.”
I slid closer and laid a hand on his arm. “I do have one piece of good news.” The words had been bottled up inside me since my late return last night when I’d found no one awake to tell. “I went in search of Miss Wicke and found Jasper. Drunk and alone. Juliette has left him.”
“Willingly?”
I nodded, and he dropped his other hand over mine, expressing so much through the touch—relief, gratitude, hope.
“I feel awful about—”
“Don’t.” He waved it off, looking away. “Juliette has a mind of her own. Unfortunately.” His eyes brushed closed and he sighed.
“Have others disappeared?”
“Rotherham has returned to London as of this morning, and I believe I heard something about our seamstress being dismissed.”
“I see.” Of course they’d have left at the same time. I wanted to be happy for them, truly, but the news made me feel more alone than ever. At least, out of everything, I’d done one thing right in giving up Silas for Nelle.
With a wan smile, I stood to leave, but the name Nathaniel Droll caught my eye in the newspaper on the side table. Casually lifting the half-folded periodical, I skimmed the boxed column that exploded with news of Jasper Grupp being an imposter.
Mr. Droll’s shrewd reply to the imposter claiming his work was to simply pen the offender into his novel and thoroughly scald him with the fire of his words. We hope he is marginalized from polite society, but not to fear, dear readers. Mr. Droll will likely find a place for him in his next novel, anticipated to release from Marsh House Press.
Pinching back a smile, I wandered into the hall, belly and heart full.
“Digory, has the latest installment of Lady Jayne Disappears arrived yet?” Oh how that article made me want to delight in my own words again, to read afresh what readers and reviewers had seen.
“Yes, miss, it’s arrived. But I sent it with Silas Rotherham when he left. He requested every installment in the house for the train ride to London.”
I frowned. “Surely a trip to London is not the length of an entire novel.”
“I merely do as I’m asked, miss.”
With a nod, I climbed the stairs. Closing myself in my bedchamber again, I brushed against Papa’s coat as it swung past me on the back of the door where I’d hung it. The whoosh of his scent overpowered my calm, loosening from my chest the tears that had clogged there all night and morning.
After emptying my soul of them, I blotted my face with a handkerchief and pulled down the notebook containing the never-to-be-published ending showcasing my raw feelings for Silas. It was beyond time to release my hurt over Papa’s true demise onto the page where it belonged. This volume would be my cathartic scrap page book, a collection of scenes and snippets written only between myself and God.
Bending the pages back to the first empty one, I dipped my pen and let it hover over the book as my feelings surfaced and simmered.
But then my eye caught the final paragraphs on the left page, and my heart stopped.
And so, leaving behind her glorious purple gowns, golden trinkets, and the title that went along with it all, Lady Jayne disappeared into the mist of early morning at the manor and ceased to exist. The house she left behind became chaos, but she walked in peace.
In due time, a little maid in Manwood Gardens returned from an extended holiday to resume her duties in the kitchen, no one bothering to ask her where she had gone or how she’d enjoyed the experience. For in truth, she’d have been unwilling to tell them of her adventure.
No. It couldn’t be!
I blinked at the sickeningly familiar words for several seconds before my fingers dove into the previous pages, eyes drinking in the sight of them. Before me lay the safe ending—the one supposedly posted to the publisher.
Yet here it remained. And out there somewhere my most intimate, shameful thoughts traveled to Marsh House Press to be printed in little green booklets and distributed to the world.
Including ardent fans Nelle Wicke and Silas Rotherham.
I slammed the book closed on the despicable words that should not be here for me to see and jumped up. What could I do now? Mistake upon mistake seemed to hurl itself from my hands, but I would not fail in this. It must be remedied immediately.
I flew down the stairs and nearly collided with poor Digory.
“Miss Harcourt. Is there anything—”
“Yes.” I grabbed his arm and caught my breath. “Yes. The train schedule. Where is the nearest station, and when might I catch one for London?”
There was still time if I arrived that very day. After that, it would be the weekend, with the publishing house closed until Monday. And Monday might be too late.
“I couldn’t say, Miss. But I’ll find out.”
“Thank you, Digory.” Flashing a brief smile, I ran for the stairs and scaled them, legs pumping under my light housedress. Why had I even written down that first ending? And why on earth hadn’t I had the sense to realize I’d posted the wrong one?
A brown traveling gown. That would be more appropriate for London offices than my pink day dress. Struggling to change clothes without help, I berated myself again. Of all the idiotic mistakes . . .
I slipped into my white side-lace boots, yanking the ties all the way up my ankle, and set a fancy hat on my already-heated head. At the door, I paused to bury my face in Papa’s coat again. I will fix thing
s, Papa. Your pen name will not be used to destroy a romance so like your own. Lifting it from the hook, I flung it around myself, even though the weather hardly warranted it, and forced my notebook into its inside pocket.
What about money? Jasper had taken most of this quarter’s check. I dug madly through the desk. Finding a few copper pennies, I pocketed them and nearly fell back down the stairs in my haste, tripping over the hem of Papa’s coat. If those pennies were not enough for the fare, I’d have to figure out another way. Even if I had to stow away in a coal car, I would get myself to London that day and repair the wrong I’d created.
Rounding the bannister at the bottom of the stairs, I swung wide and stopped at the sight of Aunt Eudora standing in the sunlight beaming through the tall windows. Where was her wheeled chair? She looked so tiny without it. Her waist was actually quite narrow and shapely.
“Digory tells me you are traveling to London.” Her voice rang through the dust-filled air. “I have decided to accompany you.”
Dread settled in me like cast iron.
“Young ladies should never travel without a proper chaperone.” With a pointed glare that traveled up and down the length of the oversized coat far too warm for summer, she turned and limped with the aid of a heavy cane directly to the front door. “Digory, is the carriage in the drive yet?”
“Yes, my lady.” His voice echoed in the narrow hallway. “Will you allow me to fetch Mary to help—”
“What part of ‘no’ was not clear before? This is a private excursion.”
With nothing else to be done about it, I followed Aunt Eudora into the blinding sun and allowed the coachman to elbow-lift me into the carriage. In the dark box across from Aunt Eudora, I closed my eyes.
Help me, Lord. I need to make it there today, and I need to break away from Aunt Eudora to do it. Thank you for helping me realize my mistake in time.
Hopefully.
At the tiny station, bugs zinged into my personal space, somehow intensifying the heat and anxiety swirling through me. I’d removed Papa’s coat and draped its weight over my arm. The train, surprisingly sleek and sturdy, proved a welcome sight as it charged into the station. Aunt Eudora paid for both fares at the window and, with substantial help from me, led us up two steep steps and to the first pair of cushioned seats where she collapsed into one. Dare I ask why the trip was private? A lady’s maid would have been helpful.
The aged woman wheezed, leaning sideways and clutching the bar in front of our seats.
“Thank you for accompanying me.” The sight of Aunt Eudora struggling wrung the statement out of me, no matter how much it had complicated my plans to have her along. Whatever the woman’s reasons, the trip had cost her a great deal.
“What on earth were you thinking of, traveling alone? You have a responsibility to be at least remotely decent while living in my home.” Settling forcibly into the seat once she’d caught her breath, Aunt Eudora arranged her cane as close to the window as possible.
“It never occurred to me there was anything indecent about travel.”
The woman rolled her eyes. Narrow fingers picked a white handkerchief from the wrist of her sleeve, and she draped it over her face, nose tenting the material over her features. And then she was still.
Setting my hat on my lap, I relaxed into the accommodating seat cushion. A patchwork of hills stretched across the view outside the window, stone fences cutting it into sections like quilt squares. Yet here we sat, in a modern convenience about to whisk us away to London.
As the conductor shouted and swung into the first car, reality settled over me. I was on my way. This would work. All would be fixed. With noisy effort, the train gathered power and surged forward, moving faster than I had ever traveled in my life and gaining speed. The exhilaration tickled me.
In minutes, Aunt Eudora’s handkerchief rose and fell with the whoosh of deep breaths. Tugging the notebook from Papa’s coat, I flopped it open and steadied the ink jar firmly between my boots. This would not be a simple task, but I would do it. God had aligned everything so far, it seemed, and I would succeed in fixing my problem. I had only to polish the safe ending enough to warrant what I was about to ask of the publishers.
Forcing my mind into gear, I bent down to dip my pen in the jar and then rose to stare at the flat words that must somehow have life breathed into them. How could I possibly dive into the story and rend my heart across the page in the midst of this crowded, hissing machine? But necessity drilled through me. Write. Just write.
Then the terrible words implanted on my subconscious drifted forth, surging over my sparks of creativity in drenching waves.
Laughable prose.
Not worth reading.
Childish.
How could I do this? I was not my magnificent father and never would be. I’d been fooling myself, thinking I could write. What would come after this book? Would I ever be able to produce an entire book on my own—idea, characters, prose, and ending—that would be worth reading? With my pen poised and dripping ink into the well, I fought panic.
Then other phrases vibrated through my mind.
It isn’t the writing that’s so fantastic. Nathaniel Droll is only famous because no one knows who he really is.
These words dropped carelessly into conversation by Garamond now branded themselves on my mind in paralyzing clarity. I was not talented and had nothing worth writing.
Time slipped by with each double-clack of the train speeding toward London.
Lord, you’ve given me the words when my brain proved to be a stubborn blank slate. Now please help me do it again.
32
Among the wealthy, Lady Jayne stood out like a rebellious wildflower among perfectly trimmed hedgerows. And it was much to her benefit.
~Nathaniel Droll, Lady Jayne Disappears
When we stepped down into the steamy London station, a massive wooden tunnel brimming with people and moist odors, I waved away smoke and clung to Aunt Eudora with my free hand. Cinched together, we wove through the throng of skirts, parasols, and moving feet toward an arched exit. Steam rose from the brick streets, and everything—carriages, people, horses—was in a supreme, noisy hurry. Why had I ever thought I could do this alone? All of the world’s people seemed to have converged in the space of several blocks, all fighting for room to move about at once.
“A hansom cab, please.” Aunt Eudora touched the arm of a uniformed man.
Two sharp whistle blasts brought a sleek little carriage, no more than a covered bench on two wheels, that seemed to satisfy my aunt. Without the aid of a coachman, I helped Aunt Eudora into the cab and climbed in, fitting neatly beside her on the seat.
“Location?” An ugly man with a crooked nose leaned down from his perch behind us.
I looked at Aunt Eudora, who watched me expectantly. Should I make up . . .
“Where might ye be going?” His firm voice blasted through my thoughts.
“Upper Ashby Street, please. Number 67.” I curled down into my seat, turning away from Aunt Eudora. I counted the rapid beats of my heart, but Aunt Eudora did not speak above the clatter of hooves on brick. The vehicle jerked forward, moving fast enough for the moist breeze to whip hair across my face. Must everyone move at the speed of a racehorse in this city?
Careening around corners and between other carriages, our cab stopped at an iron fence that bordered a columned stone building of at least five stories.
“’Ere ye be, missy. ’At’ll be one sovereign for the fare.”
Aunt Eudora tucked the coin into the man’s hand as he helped her disembark from his vehicle. As soon as our feet were firmly on the ground, the man had swung up to his post and whipped his horse into a trot again.
Now what? Take Aunt Eudora along? The plan of evading her had failed terribly.
“I’ll wait here while you attend your business.” Leaning heavily on her cane, Aunt Eudora stood poised and certain, as if she belonged among this rush. And perhaps she had once.
“I j
ust need to—”
“We’ll strike a bargain. You carry out your errand in peace, with no questions from me, and then you will go along on an errand of my choosing, no questions asked. Agreed?” Her old eyes glittered dangerously. Who was this woman, friend or enemy?
With a quick nod, I approached the double doors and entered a dark office building with dust floating in slender streams of sunshine. People in fine, modern clothes rushed about through a low-ceilinged space. One woman sat behind a desk, her hat tilted at a stylish angle.
“Pardon me, but I’m looking for Marsh House Press.”
One thick eyebrow rose toward curly hair. “Did you read the sign inside the door? This is it. First two floors.”
“Oh, I . . . Who might I talk to about . . . about books? The serials?”
Whipping through a stack of papers while she talked, the woman jerked her head toward a wide marble staircase that narrowed toward the top. “Up and to the right. You’ll need to speak to Ram.”
Hugging my coat and notebook to my chest, I nodded and hurried up the steps that were the centerpiece of the large open floor. Ram. The man who had been unable or unwilling to remove the telling details of a previous installment.
At the top, a white-tiled hall with textured walls led me to an open space with several desks spread over the floor. When a suited young man with slicked hair caught my eye and offered me a tiny smile, I approached him.
“Please, I’m looking for the person in charge of the serials.” Back straight, chin up, shoulders back. I must fit in, at least until my errand was done. Then I could collapse into my train seat on the way home.
“Certainly. Right this way.” Springing up, he led me to an office and knocked on the slightly open door. Even he was in a hurry, with no apparent reason. “You have a visitor, sir.” He gave a gentle shove to my shoulder, then disappeared as if he’d ignited a timed bomb.
Lady Jayne Disappears Page 27