“You should probably go,” Trentwood said.
Hartwell’s nod was small. He closed his eyes against a tear that threatened to fall, handed Henry to his mother, and walked away.
***
FORTY-TWO
Unlike Trentwood’s funeral, only Mary, Pomeroy, and Mrs. Beeton stood to watch Mrs. Durham’s casket lowered into its grave. The sun hid behind storm clouds. The casket made a dull thud that sounded far too much like how Mary imagined it must have sounded when her aunt cracked her head against the very same rock that caused Pomeroy to walk around with his head bandaged for days.
Why hadn’t she moved that awful rock?
“You shouldn’t be doing that,” Trentwood said, appearing at Mary’s side.
They were burying Mrs. Durham at the family plot, on the other side of her twin’s grave. It seemed appropriate that the two people Mrs. Trentwood had loved, her husband and her twin, should flank her in life and death.
“Pomeroy,” Mary said, her voice dull, “would you be so kind as to leave me, for a moment?”
“I don’t know if I should,” he said, inching his fingers along the brim of his hat in his hands. He kept looking at Trentwood’s grave, as if the man himself would crawl from it.
Mary’s smile was a bit wry. Poor Pomeroy, if he only knew Trentwood had already done that. “Go on, I will be perfectly fine. Watch me from the window, if you like. I won’t go anywhere.”
Pomeroy’s eyes narrowed as if he knew she was lying to him. But another glance at Trentwood’s not-yet-level grave made up his mind for him. He placed his hat on his head, tipped it to Mary, and left her alone with Trentwood.
Waiting until Pomeroy was out of hearing, Mary said in flat tones, “What is it I shouldn’t be doing?”
“You know very well. Mary, you can’t keep blaming yourself for situations that are out of your control. You did not kill your mother, migraines did. You did not kill me, my stubbornness did. And you definitely did not kill your aunt, her madness did.”
Mary sighed, nodding. “I know.”
That seemed to startle Trentwood. “What?”
“Father, I’m right where I began two months ago after your death. I’m alone, I have no money, I have no friends, and now I don’t even have family.” She lifted her black netted veil, the very same one she had worn to his funeral, and looked him in the eye. “I haven’t been sleeping, trying to decide what I’m to do. I have nowhere to go, I haven’t the education to be a governess, and I don’t want to leave home. But I can’t see another way out of it.”
“You have your inheritance,” he reminded her.
Mary waved her hand at him. “Money isn’t going to solve my problems.”
“Well, it won’t hurt,” he retorted. He inhaled, sighed, and looked at Mrs. Durham’s grave. “It’s probably better this way, for her, at least. She got to hold her husband’s child. That’s all she really wanted, it seems.”
“Yes,” Mary said, “hold him, and kill him, and kill herself. Or have you forgotten already?”
Trentwood pulled out his pocket watch, swinging it from its gold chain. “So morbid,” he muttered.
“My mother’s sense of humor,” Mary said, gesturing at her mother’s grave.
“Indeed.”
They stood there, staring at the gravesite.
“You know,” Trentwood mused, “I haven’t been here since I was buried.”
Mary looked up at him, squinting. What was he about to say? She bit the side of her cheek when she saw his expression. He was going to leave her. Just when she didn’t want him to, he was going to leave her.
“I can’t stay like this forever,” he said as explanation.
“You wouldn’t have to,” Mary said. “Only until I die.”
Trentwood chuckled at that. “I’d like to, my girl, but you’ve no need of me anymore. You’re out of danger, and you’ve gotten a bit of your spirit back, and you’ve found affection, if you’re brave enough to accept it.”
Mary frowned. Steele had been very quick to leave after a day of sleep, eating what was left of her food stores, and the regaining of his senses. With him, she was sure, went his proposal of marriage. Funny that she didn’t miss him all that much.
“I could have told you marrying Steele would have been a mistake,” Trentwood said, “but you were sure to have married him then, just to spite me.”
“I was going to marry him if he would have me.”
“Yes, because you thought it would chase me away.”
Mary frowned at him.
“Marrying a stupid man won’t make me leave your life.” Trentwood grinned at her. “I would have haunted him until he lost his mind, or you came to your senses, whichever came first.”
Mary crossed her arms over her chest and glared.
“Why don’t you take a holiday from this dreary place for a while? Why not go to the city, enjoy a play or two? See the queen’s jubilee? You can come back in the summer and begin repairing the house then, when it’s a bit nicer out.”
To be sure, this was a miserable spring. Raining every day since Mrs. Durham’s death a week ago, with no sign of the weather improving in the slightest. Mary turned her face upward to the raindrops that were starting to fall.
She inhaled the fresh air and exhaled slowly. She released the tension in her shoulders. She let her hands drop to her sides. In this unguarded moment, her heart peeked out from behind the walls she had erected to suggest a small, simple thought.
Mary’s eyes popped open.
Trentwood nodded. “It’s about time, young miss.”
He leaned over to kiss her forehead, and with everything else she had seen, Mary knew she was not imagining the feathery feel of his lips, the peppermint on his breath, the suggestion of whiskers on his cheek. She shivered and closed her eyes. His lips left her, and with them, the sensation of his presence.
“Sleep well,” Mary whispered, sinking to touch the foot of his grave. She was alone and knew that was how it would be unless she did something about it. It was as her mother said. All women have a prince who needed rescuing. “Give my love to Mama.”
***
FORTY-THREE
En route to London, June 1887
The train ride had Mary on edge even more than she expected. It rocketed through the countryside, bringing her closer to London than she had ever thought possible. Having never been on a train before, the sights and smells were almost too much.
She wanted to vomit from the overpowering stench of soot and overripe bodies, all on their way to the golden jubilee of their Regina Victoria. She was crowded in with the other upper middle class, and there was no way around it. She couldn’t ask for a private carriage because she hadn’t the money or the status to facilitate such a demand.
So Mary sat with Pomeroy at her side for she had insisted he stay with her, trying to figure out what she was going to do once she got to London. The crowds, she had read in the papers, were immense, unimaginable. Apparently they stretched to the limits of sight, preparing to hail their glorious Queen Victoria as she traveled the distance from Westminster to Buckingham.
Mary told herself that was why she couldn’t keep any food down. She was worried for the queen.
So many people fighting to catch a glimpse of the little woman was sure to frighten her. So easy for someone with ill will to get close enough to harm her.
Mary shook her head. What a silly thing to think. The queen was surrounded by her adoring subjects; who would want to, or dare to, hurt her on such a momentous occasion?
The train slowed to a halt far before Mary had grown accustomed to the odd rhythm. It had been smoother than horse-drawn, yet her stomach felt as though it was spinning.
The noise in London was overwhelming. All of civilization had convened on London, and they were happy about it for some reason. There were placards and walking bands, paper boys and constables. Hails between friends. Raucous laughter. Claps on the shoulder and invitations home for a drink before the qu
een’s parade tomorrow.
With Pomeroy’s help, Mary stepped from the train and was handed into a carriage, where the world was, thankfully, quieter.
“Where to, Miss?” the driver said.
Mary looked at Pomeroy. Pomeroy rattled off some London address with a knowing smile at her and settled into his seat. How he knew the address she wanted, she had no idea. But there were a great many things about Pomeroy that Mary didn’t know. It seemed it would always be that way.
Mary closed her eyes, the comforting familiarity of a horse-drawn carriage lulling her to sleep. She paid no mind to the shouts and cries and whinnies around her, the sounds that made up London life. She was far too exhausted, and she needed her energy to do what she meant to do.
Pomeroy shook Mary’s shoulder. “We’ve arrived.”
“Hmm?” Mary said, blinking sleepily. “Arrived? Arrived where?” She allowed Pomeroy to take her hand and help her from the carriage. They stood before an austere red brick building, a brass name plate with the name “Hartwell, Barrister” etched on it.
Mary licked her lips. She nodded.
Pomeroy opened the door for her, and she swept inside to find Steele filing a ledger away in one of at least fifteen tall bookcases.
“How do you do, Jasper?” Mary said.
He spun on his heel, dropping his papers. He blanched at the sight of her, backing into the bookcase behind him and disrupting even more papers.
With a tight smile, Mary inched into the room, not wanting to step on the papers Steele continued to drop and jostle out of place.
“Steele,” Hartwell shouted from the back room, “what the devil are you doing out there?”
Steele managed a garbled grunt of a reply.
“How many times have I told you, that—ah. Oh. Hello,” Hartwell said, emerging from the back room with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, his hair a mess, his scarred face looking particularly awful in the harsh afternoon sunlight. He stared at Mary as if she were a ghost. A seemingly welcome one, if his broad smile meant anything.
Mary caught her breath. Before Hartwell could respond to her appearing in his office, she stepped forward, holding a careworn letter. “My father’s will stated that I need to provide a key to retrieve my inheritance, but I haven’t any key.”
Hartwell nodded. “Yes,” he said slowly, looking as if he had difficulty wrapping his mind around the vision of her standing before him. They had not seen one another for almost three months. It stood to reason he would be rather befuddled, to say the least, especially since the last time they had spoken, her aunt had been alive, and she had been haunted.
“What are my options, then, to retrieve my inheritance, paltry though it must be, without the key?” Mary hoped Hartwell smiled because she looked well. She had, with Pomeroy and Mrs. Beeton’s help, slowly put the manor house to rights. They had gone on walks, and she had regained some of her walker’s coloring. She had picked up reading again, and laughing. She was a member of her little community again, and the local farmers had welcomed her with warm arms.
Just as she hoped Hartwell would do now.
Hartwell frowned, not at Mary but at her necklace. Her mother’s pendant. He crossed the room and lifted the pendant, turning it from side-to-side in his fingers.
“Your father said, or rather, his ghost said—”
“Ghost?” Steele shrieked.
“—it was your mother’s key you needed,” Hartwell finished over Steele’s interruption.
Mary nodded, holding her breath. She didn’t care about the inheritance, and she needed to tell him that. It wasn’t the inheritance she came to retrieve. It was him. Hartwell. Her Hartwell, with his laughing eyes and mangled face and intense love for his nephew. He had said only she could make up her mind about Steele’s offer, and his unspoken, but, she hoped, implied one.
Without a word, Mary turned around so Hartwell could unclasp the necklace from her neck. Her smile was hesitant as Hartwell looked at her. She couldn’t read his expression, but his eyes, his dark, laughing eyes, said all she needed to hear.
Her necklace in hand, Hartwell pulled her close, hugging her. “I’m so sorry about your aunt.”
Mary pulled away just enough to look him in the eye. His arms were strong, steady, safe. Warm. She felt warm and right, standing there in his arms with Steele and Pomeroy trying to pretend they weren’t gawking. She smiled at Hartwell. He smiled in return.
“What are your plans?” he whispered.
Mary pressed her lips against Hartwell’s as her answer. She felt him smile as the kiss deepened. Her arms wrapped around his neck, his arms around her waist. They clung to one another, feeling as though they were the only two persons in the room. It was Steele’s scandalized “Ahem!” which made them pull away from one another, laughing, breathless.
Pomeroy leaned against the doorjamb, grinning.
“You’ll have to marry him now, you know that, of course,” she thought she heard Trentwood say.
Mary leaned her head onto Hartwell’s shoulder.
Yes. I suppose I shall.
Mary didn’t know how much inheritance she had. She didn’t know if her pendant was the key to the lock box. She wasn’t sure if she could live in London with the noise and pollution, or if Hartwell would be willing to come home with her to Compton Beauchamp. But all that was insignificant to the feeling of standing in Hartwell’s arms, knowing he had cared for her even when he had thought she was mad, and she for him even though the world thought he was grotesque.
It was more than enough for Mary. And in the end, that was, she remembered her mother saying, the point of such fairy tales.
The story, her mother had always said, came to an end when the heroine thought nothing better could happen to her.
***
FROM THE AUTHOR
Dear Reader,
Haunting Miss Trentwood began as an exercise to understand how one of my parents felt about losing both of their parents. I researched adult (or midlife) orphans, which is such an important and under-recognized topic. I’m certain the public library thought I was going through some deep trouble because I read every book on the topic.
I became fascinated and terrified by the idea that one day my parents will die and with them go the only people in the world who have seen it all happen to me. They exist as a living record and archive of the traumatic and joyous moments in my life. They are my anchor.
I asked the questions: What happens to someone who loses his or her parents? How do we continue, knowing there will never be anyone who knows us entirely? How do we keep the spirit of our parents alive?
Soon thereafter, I began dreaming about ghosts. Specifically, one ghost: the ghost of Mary’s father. I didn’t know why he was there. Mary certainly didn’t know why he was there. But we both knew his presence would forever change the plot and purpose of Haunting Miss Trentwood née Trentwood’s Orphan.
Looking back, I can see influences of Hamlet involved in the inspiration of Haunting Miss Trentwood. We so often underestimate the importance of the role our parents have in our lives, or the lack thereof if our parents are not a part of our lives. We underestimate the influence our parents have on our judgments and decisions.
This book is my attempt to understand and cope with the idea that one day my parents will be gone, but I hope to keep their spirits alive within me.
All the best,
Belinda
***
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
No one makes a book alone, and anyone who tells you that is lying. I have a huge list of people to thank, so bear with me!
I owe a great debt of thanks and a series of hugs to the following people for contributing to and supporting this endeavor…
Thank you to my family for listening when I went on a happy-writer-rant about some plot development I had discovered. And for not putting me on medication when I admitted I had characters in my head and they were telling me to write their story.
Thank you to the people wh
o have been with me since this book was called Trentwood’s Orphan and was about breach of promise: Graham Carter, Jill Daher-Twersky, Susannah Jane, Joe Murphy, and The Ohio State University library system.
Thank you to my editor, Cindy Sherwood, for helping this book be as good as it could be!
Thank you to my Kickstarter peeps that helped make this book financially possible! Kickstarter is a website that allows creative projects to accept funding pledges from anyone with a credit card. Thank you, everyone, for believing in me and Haunting Miss Trentwood (alphabetical):
Adrienne Dye, Allison Cooke, Andrew Selig, Angie Nelson, Ava Misseldine, Bobak Kechavarzi, Brandon Stephens, Brittani White, Caitlin Boyle, Caitlin O’Sullivan, Casey M Addy, Cathy Windle, Chris Basham, Cindy Gildersleeve, Ebiji Akah, Erica LeMaster, Evangeline Holland, Geoffrey Stetson, Guy Jacks, Hailey Anderson, Heiko Maiwand, Jackie Akah, Jacqueline Abreo, James M Turner, Jay Steele, Jennifer Center, Jeremy Center, John Wayne Hill, Julie Hoopes, Kate Logan, Mark Kroll, Linda Jackson, Lorelei Kelly, Lynn S. Dombrowski, Matt Edwards, Moe Rafiuddin, Nikki Lemon, Nina Onesti, Robert J. McCarter, Robert Kariuki, Susannah Jane, Suzy Turner, and William Malinowski.
And thank you to everyone else who supported my Kickstarter project. You know who you are! If you don’t, check out my website, worderella.com, to find your name.
***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Belinda Kroll is a word nerd, history geek, and computer dork. She resides in central Ohio with her laptop, handmade-over thrift shop furniture, and books. Many, many, delicious books. She drinks gallons of tea a week.
That might be a gross overstatement, but then, it might not.
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