Lady Jayne Disappears

by Joanna Davidson Politano

  Only one person had ever called me that. The words resonated in my mind, piercing my memory. As they slid into place, I sat up. “Ram? Your father is Ram, of Marsh House Press?” Ram, short for Rotherham. Of course.

  “How do you think I came by the manuscript that has not seen publication?”

  “You are the publisher.”

  “That is correct. Years ago, when we first began Marsh House Press, this man called Nathaniel Droll sent us a few short fiction pieces. Said he was a family friend who had heard of our small press and wanted to offer us his work. We weren’t in a position to turn away a capable writer, so we printed it. Eventually we had him doing longer serial pieces when the shorter ones did well. When his fiction began selling in record numbers, we signed him on for more, and created a periodical specifically for his work. We always accommodated his demands for privacy, for blank checks. We hadn’t a clue of his true identity for years, other than what he’d said about being a family friend. I’m not even certain when I knew it was Woolf, but I eventually had an idea of it when I recognized the setting and the style of the tales.”

  I lay back again, staring at the clear sky, pondering everything, connecting the pieces with wonder. “You are the one who decided to delay the printing of the final issue.”

  “That I am. And with good reason.” He leaned close and propped up on his elbow to brush the fallen hair off my cheek, then he kissed the spot. “I dearly hoped for a happier ending.”

  A smile lit me from the inside out and I gingerly touched his face with my fingertip. “And you shall have it, my dear Mr. Rotherham.” But in that perfect moment, with God flooding my soul, Silas beside me, and Papa’s Lynhurst Manor in the distance, my heart released its fisted hold on Nathaniel Droll. What need had I for that childhood relic? “But only in the realm of reality. I shall no longer write novels after this.”

  “I cannot allow that.” He rolled over and sat up, his frame blocking the sun as he looked down at me. “You would cease to be Aurelie Rosette Harcourt if you stopped writing. No, you will never stop, no matter what you say. Do you realize what a tool you’ve been given to reach people, to impact them with truth they desperately need?”

  “I’m not sure my heart can handle the critics.” The honest words were wrenched from the hidden vulnerabilities I’d managed to bury just below the surface. The admission nearly brought tears to my eyes as the words of an unknown reader avalanched over me once again.

  “You will. You’ll bear it because there will be two of us under that load.” His gray eyes penetrated as a solemn promise lit them.

  I sat up then and faced him, twining my fingers with his. How could I explain? “I don’t think you understand what it feels like to have strangers read your secret journal in story form and do and say anything they like about it. They rip it to shreds with their words like knives and leave you bare and . . .”

  His thumb slid across my lips, slowing the flow of my words, then his hand cupped my cheek tenderly. “Aurelie. There’s a boy drowning in the English Channel. And an entire beach full of people observing your every move, but God saying, Go!” Those gray eyes sparkled with the intensity in his heart as he framed my face with firm hands. “Now go and swim like mad.”

  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever. (Psalm 23:6)

  ————

  If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.

  ~C. S. Lewis

  Prologue

  Never let common sense stand in the way of a great legend, they say, and there’s wisdom in that. Because on occasion, those great legends turn out to be true.

  ~The Vineyard’s Secret, notebook of a viticulturist

  WESTON-SUPER-MARE

  SOMERSET, ENGLAND, 1866

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” The gnarled old hand shot out to grab mine across the chipped counter of the Dark Horse Inn’s serving room and anchored it there. From beneath my hooded cloak, I met the old woman’s gaze that sparkled with interest and held a finger to my lips as the loud words of the two men beside me ignited my curiosity. I didn’t set out to eavesdrop, but some conversations are simply too interesting to avoid overhearing.

  “I say that Tressa Harlowe’s dead. It’s the only explanation for it.”

  Especially when the topic discussed by these strangers was me. In such cases, it was like I had no choice but to absorb every word, for wasn’t it my business even more than theirs? I gazed from my shadowed corner of the dim room at the greasy little man who spoke these words and thanked my lucky stars I’d lost my way in the rain and wandered into this awful place.

  The brutish man beside him tore off a hunk of bread and plunged it in his mug as he answered. “Dead? Ach, no. She’s too smart for that.”

  His mousy little companion hunched over his mug as if his frame couldn’t support its own weight. “Either way, she’s been away from the castle for nearly four months. It’s the perfect opportunity, Hamish.”

  I could hardly wait to hear what opportunity my absence afforded them. I leaned forward and reached for my hot tea, drawing it into the folds of my cloak as I listened.

  “So what exactly are you asking me to do, Tom Parsons?”

  I breathed deeply in anticipation of the response and my genteel senses were flooded with the putrid scent of the place, the sharp aroma of cheap, greasy food and working-class men.

  “I’m suggesting we avail ourselves of an abandoned treasure. No different than mining, simply digging for gold.”

  Hamish thunked two meaty forearms on the rough counter. “Look, you know how I feel about thieving from the rich. But I’ll not go stealing from the likes of Tressa Harlowe. Much as I need that new horse, I won’t do it. If that hidden fortune exists, and that’s a mighty big if, well, then she deserves it.”

  “It seems everyone loves that little princess of the castle.” Tom Parsons wrinkled his nose as if he could offer no suitable reason for this affection toward me.

  Princess. I nearly spit my tea onto the wood floor as laughter threatened.

  “Such a lot of life packed into a little mite of a girl.”

  “I daresay I’d be full of life if I stood to inherit ten thousand a year.” The man’s narrow lips pinched with resentment. “What does that girl need with a fortune anyway? Won’t she have a hundred rooms all to herself one day? I’ve two up, two down, and ten people to fill them.”

  What did he know about rooms? Little good it did to have a hundred rooms or a thousand if most were devoid of life.

  Parsons spoke again, sniffing at his tea. “It’d be mad not to take such an opportunity. It’s like a golden egg with no goose to guard it.”

  “Ach, you’re a fool.” Hamish threw his head back to down the last of his cider and then thunked the pewter mug back onto the counter. “She’ll be back when she hears what’s happened. Any day that fancy carriage of hers will come rattling down the road, spraying mud on all us common folk as she comes to claim her own.”

  I froze, straining to hear the rest.

  What? What had happened at my home? Father’s summons now seemed ominous rather than exciting.

  The proprietor strode through the crowd then and approached me, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “There’s a man willing to take you to Trevelyan’s outer gates, but no further. He’s by the door waiting.”

  I stiffened as his direct address lifted my cloak of obscurity. “Thank you, sir.”

  “But save yourself the trip. With all the goings-on at Trevelyan, they won’t be looking for help.”

  Before my curiosity at these words took root, both men at the bar pivoted to face me, their two pairs of eyes seeing me for the first time. I fancied a light of recognition glowed from Hamish’s face, but Tom Parsons merely observed me with a hint of annoyance at the interruption.

  I rose and pushed back my shoulders, bestowing a gracio
us parting smile toward them both. “Good evening, gentlemen.” I moved past them, holding my breath as I squeezed between the tightly packed patrons, and then turned back. “You are most correct, by the way. The fortune does exist. I’ll warn you though, it’s guarded by the princess of the castle, and I suggest you do not underestimate her.” With a polite smile, I turned again toward the door and sailed through the crowds.

  Near the exit, I approached the proprietor. “There’s a man named Hamish there at the bar. Please find out where he lives and send the information up to Trevelyan.” I dropped a farthing in his hand. The man would have his horse. One of the best parts of eavesdropping was discovering unexpected kindness, for it was a rarity in my world, and I delighted in rewarding it. Such was the only benefit of being an heiress.

  Outside, rain poured off the metal roof of the porch, creating a curtain of wetness between me and the waiting cart. I ducked and ran to the vehicle, where a man hoisted me into the dark chamber, climbed in, and slammed the door behind us.

  I had never seen the legendary fortune my father had hidden, but I’d always known of it, like one knows of the queen without ever meeting her. It had haunted me until one day in my thirteenth year when I’d been brazen enough to ask him about it directly.

  “I’ll tell you where it is when I’m dying,” he’d said with his usual gruff dismissiveness, and I’d considered the matter resolved and did not ask again.

  For at that time in my life, I believed him.

  1

  What you plant, you should harvest and enjoy without delay, for one never knows when his time will be up.

  ~The Vineyard’s Secret, notebook of a viticulturist

  I sprinted toward an abandoned barn and huddled under the eaves to wring out the ends of my sopping wet cloak and peer up at my destination. Trevelyan Castle’s three towers sliced upwards through the curtain of smoggy rain, rising from the gray hills that embraced it, and I deeply dreaded what I should find there. The matter is urgent, said Father’s missive that had called Mother and me home from abroad, and I couldn’t imagine what would have made him write such a thing, for he was not one given to alarm.

  When the carriage harness had broken as we’d rounded the coastal road a ways back, Mother had of course seen it as a bad omen, for she could spot bad luck in a sunny day in July. But now, with the words of that Hamish sweeping through my mind, the whole world held an eerie chill that even I could not dismiss as I neared my home and saw no one coming to meet me. The man who had taken me to the outer gates of the property was no more than a distant speck as he sped toward his own home.

  A shock of utter aloneness bolted through me as the cold wind penetrated to my skin. It was not the sort of isolation that lifted in the presence of others—it sat much deeper and longer-lasting than that.

  The rumble of horse hooves thudded through my reverie. On the wooded path snaking through our woods, a black-cloaked rider leaned into his massive stallion, grasping his mane as they thundered together through the rain. A shiver convulsed me and I tucked myself into the shadows and watched the ghostly figures. What was this stranger doing on our land? His beast panted closer, looming large and terrible. The rider turned to look at me, rain spraying off his dark curls under the hood, and I caught sight of nearly black eyes set in a strong, stubbled face.

  Leaning back in one graceful move, the stranger reined in his horse and redirected him toward the barn where I crouched. A slash of lightning illuminated the wild eyes of the stallion as he pounded closer, and I shrank into the shadows. Willing myself to be invisible, I watched them approach, and then the horse danced to a stop in the mud outside the barn.

  “What are you doing here?” The rider’s voice was low and harsh as the thunder, and almost accusatory. As if I was the invader on my own estate.

  “Walking to the castle.” I had to nearly shout above the storm.

  “Not very effectively. Those shoes are terrible. Get on.”

  I hesitated at the sight of his rain-soaked leather glove outstretched to me, but this severe man was the only human I’d seen since the driver from the Dark Horse Inn. He guided his horse under the eaves and gripped my hand, then lifted me easily onto the horse behind him at a precarious side-angle that thankfully kept me from straddling the beast in my skirts.

  Propriety still shouted loud warnings at the nearness of this man I didn’t know, but one glance at the steep hills before us and I slipped my arms around the breadth of his body and anchored my hands on his chest. Dignity would have to make way for safety. I leaned my rain-drenched body against his back, sinking into its solidness, and the first jerk of the horse had me nearly squeezing the life out of the man. I moved close to his ear and shouted an apology over the sound of pounding hooves and thunder.

  In response he covered my hand with his, pressing it to his rising and falling chest with a remarkable combination of strength and gentleness. “Hold on as tight as you need.” That rare bit of masculine tenderness surprised and comforted me as I sat atop his horse and trembled.

  Thank you, God, for the rescue. I shall accept this man as your hand in human form outstretched to me. Please let it be so.

  I closed my eyes as the horse’s hooves found solid ground at each stumbling step and I relished the cool sea breeze on my hot face in unladylike surrender, feeling quite at home in the outdoors once more. My hair clung in wavy clumps to my cheeks, which were already slimy with mud, and a sense of urgency returned to my spirit. Mother, my little butterfly mother adorned in her own sort of gossamer wings, would be waiting in that broken-down carriage for me to send her a rescue.

  The ancient groom had remained with her because of her delicate nerves, which now seemed a providential turn, for Mother never would have willingly climbed atop this massive steed. With any luck, the other carriage carrying our ladies’ maids and trunks would only be an hour or so behind us, and everything would be quickly set right.

  Bracing against a fresh deluge of rain, I clung to the rider, my cheek to his wet cloak, and took in the familiar scents and sounds of Trevelyan Woods. So many childhood memories, both sweet and lonely, hung about the castle and the sharply scented woods around it.

  When at last we crossed the drawbridge and stopped under the red timber overhang, I relaxed my grip and peeled myself away from my rescuer. The urgent words of Father’s missive swirled around me then and fear gripped me anew. I glanced at the imposing entrance for reassurance, that familiar arched doorway buried in the stone wall, and it was just as I’d left it. Nothing terrible could have happened if everything looked the same, could it? With a quick grunt, my rescuer turned and swung me to the ground.

  “Thank you.” I delivered the simple words with a great deal of feeling as I looked past him to the downpour we’d just galloped through. The barn that had sheltered me stood at a distance that nearly put it out of sight. “Mister . . .”

  “Vance. Donegan Vance.”

  The man’s dark eyes engaged me from atop his horse, and strangely enough, I found it hard to draw mine away. He had quite an effect on me, this stranger. I wished I could be indifferent to one I knew so little, but he held a kind of horrible fascination for me. Rain dripped off the black curls that framed his face and traveled down his jaw.

  “Thank you, Mr. Vance.”

  He gave a brief nod of acknowledgment, and then with one mighty yank of his arm, he spun the horse and galloped away in a splash of mud and rain. It was almost like a fairy tale, being rescued this way. Perhaps that’s what made the man so handsome. Impossibly so. I watched them charge back into the storm together, that unknown horse and rider, and then heaved a sigh and turned to my home and whatever awaited me there.

  And suddenly, as I stood wet and chilled on the stoop of my home, hope flooded my breast as I remembered with vivid clarity the reunion I would soon experience. Whatever past sadness that had kept him captive for so many years had lifted on the eve of our departure, releasing him to embrace the daughter who had desperately craved
him for all of her days. We’d lost many years, Father and I, but the short time before we’d parted had been full of reconciliation and the tender promise of a restored relationship upon my return. I’d thought of it often on our travels, with surges of sweet anticipation, and now it was here.

  Delight unfurled and climbed through my mind as I pictured my life as a beloved daughter. For once, it would not be merely the pitiful dream of a lonely girl, but reality. I could dig my toes into the warm soil and sprint around the lush vineyard where he’d eye me with that twinkle of masked humor beneath his proper distain for my spritely ways. He’d enjoy me. He’d see me. Greater delight I could not imagine.

  I stepped up to the door with the curtain of rain as a backdrop, eagerly moving away from my life of solitude to one of love and fullness. Oh, the joys we would have as we finally began to know one another. I banged on the heavy wood door with my fist, then after a pause I repeated the effort. With a clank and clatter, the door opened. Framed in the glow from indoors stood our housekeeper, who remained as unchanged as the rest of the house.

  “Margaret!” I leaped into her linen-clad arms, a wonderful sense of home washing over me at the sight and smell of her. “Oh, Margaret, how glad I am to see you.” I pushed back and grasped her arms, words spilling out fast and breathless. “It’s been a terrible night, full of adventures of the worst sort. The carriage has broken down a ways back, and we should send someone immediately. Mother is waiting, and you know how she is. We’ll have to fill her with five pots of your orange spiced tea before she will be able to tolerate life again.”

  Her smile stilled my words. “Oh, Miss Tressa! How sorely we needed you.” She tightened her arms about me in a sort of exultant embrace as she guided me out of the storm and into the house. “You’ve no idea how we need your light in these gray walls these days.”

  As I stepped inside, I couldn’t help throwing one more backward glance toward the darkened woods. To my surprise, the stranger and his massive horse had paused some distance away, watching the castle. As soon as I had stepped into the shadowy interior of the house, the man once again bent into his steed’s neck and urged the animal to carry him away.