The Hollow of Fear: Book three in the Lady Sherlock Mystery Series

by Thomas, Sherry

  Then the sensations of ill omen dissipated into the ether, like so many coils of cigarette smoke. His breaths quickened. He was well acquainted with this particular strain of silence—the heat, the hunger, the coercive need to touch.

  “You mentioned earlier that you’d like to see me remain longer in the country,” she murmured. “You could bribe me to that end.”

  “Oh?” he heard himself say, “how much per extra day?”

  “We could discuss that. Or you could pay me a call one of those days, when Mrs. Watson takes her afternoon nap.”

  Yes. Would tomorrow do?

  He clasped his hands behind his back. “You did not write for three months and you think I would be amenable to perform such services at your beck and call?”

  She scoffed. “You did not write for three months. And you think I would be mollified with anything less than such services at my beck and call?”

  He couldn’t help but smile.

  Mrs. Watson came into the walled garden then—she had probably run out of questions to ask the head gardener—and exclaimed at the extent and vibrancy of the place, this late in the season. He showed her the glass houses and, when she asked how those were heated in the coldest months, explained in some detail about the boiler room just beyond the north wall, where all winter long one of two boilers, sunk deep underground, would provide heat via hot water forced through a network of pipes.

  The ladies took their leave not long after that. For discretion’s sake, he did not accompany them to the front of the house, where their pony cart was parked, but bade them good-bye just outside the walls of the kitchen garden. Mrs. Watson extended a warm invitation for him to call early and often at their hired cottage.

  “We will be most delighted to see you”—she turned to Holmes—“won’t we, Miss Holmes?”

  “Of course,” she said, all limpid-eyed innocence, as if she hadn’t propositioned him again. “We will await your arrival with bated breath.”

  He watched her walk away and felt, for the first time in a very long time, something like happiness.

  4

  Livia had always had dubious luck. Nothing catastrophically bad—at least, nothing apart from Charlotte’s banishment from Society—but a daily, sometimes hourly cascade of vexation. Doors closed on the hems of her dresses. Of all the picnic sandwiches in a basket, hers would be the one soaked by the contents of a leaking canteen. And if a magazine published a serial she enjoyed, she could count on the certainty that at least one issue would go astray, leaving her with a hole in the story.

  But this was the first time she’d had to evacuate a country house party because the house itself flooded from the top down. Several cisterns had been built into the attic of Mrs. Newell’s manor, so that gravity could supply running water to baths and water closets. On the second day of Livia’s visit, two cisterns ruptured.

  Fortunately, no one was hurt. Mrs. Newell, after a few minutes of dismayed incomprehension, declared herself grateful for everyone’s safety. Her guests were corralled into the library, which had escaped the inundation, and served rich cake and strong spirits. In the meanwhile, grooms rode off in every directions, seeking aid at nearby establishments.

  The village inn only had a couple of rooms to spare. The nearest house was shuttered, its owner abroad. But the third groom to return brought welcome news: the master of Stern Hollow had put himself and his abode at Mrs. Newell’s disposal.

  Everyone sighed with relief. Of course Lord Ingram would offer his assistance. Whatever rumors circulated about his parentage, his conduct had always been thoroughly admirable.

  By dinnertime the entire party was in Stern Hollow, ensconced in comfort and style. Livia gasped when she saw her room. By now she had become inured to odd and frequently inferior guest rooms—rooms with ceilings barely higher than her head, rooms that looked onto a wall three feet away, rooms that were never more than six feet wide at any point and bent to fit around an awkward corner.

  But this room was exquisite. It was sufficiently large to be airy and spacious but not so enormous as to dwarf the furnishings. Light green silk printed with lotus flowers covered the walls; a soft jade counterpane draped the bed. The window overlooked a knot garden boasting, at its center, a simple but graceful fountain, a basin held aloft on a slender fluted column.

  Best of all, there were flowers everywhere: a bouquet of blush roses on the mantel, a pot of orchids on the writing desk, and, on the night stand, an arrangement of sweet peas, in such riotous colors that she really ought to disapprove—instead she mooned over their rambunctiousness.

  She drifted about, caressing bedposts, curtain ties, and painting frames, her eyes stinging with abrupt tears. She had not been assigned this room at random—Lord Ingram had asked that she be put up in the manner of an esteemed guest, because she was Charlotte’s sister.

  This was what it felt like to be valued.

  A housemaid arrived to deliver tea and help her unpack. Livia, flustered by her attentiveness, accepted the tea and asked her to return later. Now she needed to be by herself, to wallow in such loveliness and, above all, such care.

  To think, Stern Hollow could have been her home, if only Lord Ingram had married Charlotte instead . . .

  How much sweeter Livia’s life would have been, had she spent the past six years here, instead of at home, with her unkind, unloving parents. How much she would have treasured every hour of every day, always quietly celebrating her vast good fortune.

  No, she reminded herself, Charlotte would not have accepted Lord Ingram’s suit—that much Livia knew for certain. And needless to say, Lord Ingram had been in love with another woman. Alas, their choices had both turned out disastrously, so if only…

  If only.

  But there were second chances in life, were there not? A missed opportunity in the past could, in the future, be embraced with both arms. With Lady Ingram out of the way, Lord Ingram and Charlotte could arrive at a marital arrangement that suited them both: As a friend, he would want to restore her to her proper place in Society; and Charlotte, as persnickety as she was in such matters, might agree to it for Livia’s sake, if nothing else—without Charlotte she was beginning to wilt, a sun-loving plant forever stuck in the shadows.

  Her imagination took flight, lifted to ever greater heights by thoughts of peaceful days and lively evenings, of security, freedom, and respect. She would write—her words would flow beautifully here, she was sure—and she would take long walks, rain or—

  Her castle in the sky crashed to earth, scattering dream shards far and wide, when reality intruded. Whether Lady Ingram had run away with an illicit lover or been confined to a Swiss sanatorium, she was only absent, not dead. Lord Ingram was as much a married man as he had ever been, in no position to offer Charlotte anything both permanent and legitimate.

  And Livia would be headed back home again, all too soon, to the embrace of no one.

  But how real it had felt, her imagined happiness, how infinitely bright and tangible.

  A quarter hour before dinner, all happiness, real or imagined, fled.

  The guests were assembled in the drawing room. Mrs. Newell, acting as the hostess, went around informing each gentleman which lady he was to take to dinner. Livia observed the proceedings with her usual tightening in the stomach. Her dinner partner the night before had been obviously more interested in the lady on his other side; she hoped to have a more considerate gentleman this evening.

  The next moment, the identity of her dinner partner lost all importance: Two bejeweled, beplumed women marched into the drawing room. Lady Avery and Lady Somersby, Society’s leading gossips, had descended upon the gathering.

  Given the antipathy Livia felt toward the two women, it was difficult to see how they could ever be welcome anywhere. But they were greeted with open arms at any number of gatherings, holding, in fact, standing invitations to a good many house parties—Mrs. Newell’s, for one—that they didn’t always have enough time to attend.

 
; At any given point in time, only a small subset of Society was discussed in drawing rooms across the land. There was the louche Marlborough House set, of course, though Livia was personally bored by the Prince of Wales and his progression of mistresses. There were couples like the Tremaines, or Lord and Lady Ingram, whose wealth, glamour, and staggering marital infelicity made them perennial favorites for dissection, as cautionary tales, if nothing else. And there were the scandals du jour, such as Charlotte’s, generating brief but intense bursts of notice.

  Or at least the brouhaha surrounding Charlotte would have been a lot briefer had she allowed herself to be exiled to the country, never to be seen again.

  The point was, unless one originated a scandal or was close enough to one to be systematically hunted down by ladies Avery and Somersby, their arrival at a function generated excitement rather than dread. Livia herself had, on more than one occasion, tried to sneak as close as possible to the gossip ladies, especially when they discoursed among married women, to whom they gave the truly juicy stories that were considered too indelicate for maiden ears such as her own.

  Livia glanced toward Lord Ingram, but he had his back to her. She didn’t know how she managed to keep talking and smiling; she barely had any idea on which gentleman’s arm she walked into the dining room.

  At the head of the table Lord Ingram was as gracious as ever, though he did seem tired and tense. The dread that had never truly left since she first read Lady Avery’s letter flooded her veins and intensified every time one of the gossip ladies looked toward him. She repeated to herself, ad nauseum, that the worst had already happened, that no titillating tidbit disseminated tonight could diminish either Charlotte or Lord Ingram in the long run. But her innards churned with ever greater ferocity, forcing her to give up any pretense of eating.

  Almost as soon as the ladies had risen from dinner and removed to the drawing room, Lady Somersby accosted her.

  “You have received my sister’s letter, I presume, Miss Holmes?”

  Livia answered stiffly that she had. “I have not had time to reply. Much of yesterday was spent traveling. And much of today involved the relocation to Stern Hollow.”

  Lady Somersby waved a hand. “We weren’t anticipating any useful intelligence from your direction, in any case. It was more kindness on our part, to let you know that your sister had, at least as of July, been getting on quite well, all things considered.”

  Livia managed not to grind her teeth before she said, “How thoughtful of you, my lady.”

  “Indeed, we do think of everything.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “But this does complicate matters, do you not think?”

  Oh, when did you realize? Before or after you decided to tell everyone something they didn’t need to know in the first place?

  Livia held on to her tongue, though she was sure her smile must have degenerated to a rictus. “Is that so?”

  “Oh, rather. Think about it, Miss Holmes. You know of Lady Ingram’s abrupt departure at the end of the Season, I’m sure?”

  “I’ve heard it mentioned.”

  “Word was that her health took a tumble. My sister and I always regarded that with a grain of salt—or a pillar as large as the one Lot’s wife turned into, if you will. We were at the ball that night. She did not look out of sorts at all. A bit impatient for her guests to leave, perhaps, but in no worse physical condition than most other people near the end of a Season.

  “And then, all of a sudden, she was so badly off that she had to be shipped to Switzerland. How likely is that, I ask you?”

  Livia had heard Lady Somersby ask that question before, at a different house party to which the Holmeses had been invited. Those were happier times—Lady Somersby hadn’t implied that anyone except Lady Ingram herself had been involved in the decision to decamp for the Alps.

  “Sometimes things deteriorate with catastrophic speed.”

  “I’m sure they do. But if she was in a terrible way, what was wrong with English physicians? They exist in great abundance in London, and our schools of medicine are not in the habit of producing quacks. Not to mention, why a sanatorium? It is not a place for stowing the desperately ill. And last I inquired, she wasn’t suffering from polio, asthma, tuberculosis, or any other chronic disease for which a sanatorium offers suitable treatments.”

  Livia saw where this was going. “Everybody knows about her bad back,” she retorted, her voice acquiring a nervous squeak. “And Switzerland has thermal springs for rheumatism.”

  “No one needs to disappear overnight to soak in hot springs,” Lady Somersby pointed out. “She could have taken proper leave proper of her friends and acquaintances.”

  “Perhaps she didn’t wish to. Perhaps she was fed up with Society and her back hurt and she just wanted to be away. This was your conjecture earlier, remember?”

  Lady Somersby waved her hand again, brushing away her own erstwhile theory as if it were a wasp at a picnic. “Or perhaps she learned about her husband’s involvement with your sister and was so upset that she simply had to run out.”

  Livia’s grip on her fan tightened—would that she could whack Lady Somersby and get away with it. “That is farfetched, my lady. First, Lord Ingram and my sister are friends of long standing. Second, if Lady Ingram knew her husband at all, she would know that he would not abandon a friend in need. And third, let’s suppose she assumed the worst, that Lord Ingram wasn’t only helping my sister but keeping her, how would that make him any different from any other man in Society? Even if they weren’t severely estranged, how many women have you known to become upset enough over a husband’s indiscretions to leave children behind?”

  “Well,” said Lady Somersby slowly, “there is sense in what you said. I concede that particular theory might be flawed. But it is highly odd, isn’t it, the entire situation with our host and his absent wife?”

  “Whatever their situation is, ma’am, I can assure you that it has nothing to do with my sister.”

  Lady Somersby soon moved on. Livia slumped into a chair, feeling as if she’d wrestled a bear. If only she had any confidence that she had been the winner of the contest—or at least a survivor.

  “Miss, the carriage is ready to take you to the village,” said the butler to Livia as she left the breakfast parlor the next morning.

  Livia had been thinking, rather intensely, of getting away from Stern Hollow for a bit. She still loved her room, of course, and she longed to explore the grounds. But the current atmosphere, with the gossip ladies in residence and all the other guests whipped into a frenzy of curiosity, was hardly conducive to her peace of mind.

  “I haven’t ordered a carriage.”

  Her luck was such that if she didn’t point this out but tried to take advantage of the butler’s mistake, he would realize his error just as she was about to climb into the carriage, and she would be left on the front steps looking like the fool she was.

  “His lordship ordered it for you, Miss Holmes.”

  Livia had to swallow past a lump in her throat—she was not accustomed to being looked after so thoroughly. “Do please thank his lordship for me. Tell him I’m beyond grateful.”

  As it turned out he was there in front of the house when she arrived. Her smile faltered, however, when she noticed his bloodshot eyes—it was as if he hadn’t slept at all.

  She cursed the gossip ladies. “Are you all right, sir? You look a little under-rested.”

  “I’m well.” His voice, too, sounded scratchy. But his hand was steady as he helped her into the carriage. “Take as much time as you need in the village.”

  It was only as the door of the carriage closed that she realized he had left a folded note in her gloved palm.

  From High Street, make your way to Rampling Cottage on foot, a twenty-minute walk. You will be warmly received there.

  “Oh, Charlotte,” Livia murmured. “Charlotte. Charlotte. Charlotte.”

  She must have held her sister for a solid two minutes, but it wasn’t enoug
h. It would never be enough.

  Reluctantly, she let go, and only because Charlotte did not enjoy sustained contact. “Is your Mrs. Watson here?”

  “She went out for a walk. Usually I go with her. But given what happened at Mrs. Newell’s, I thought chances were good Lord Ingram would point you my way as soon as possible.”

  Livia resisted the urge to enfold Charlotte in another long embrace, but she did cup Charlotte’s face and kiss her on the forehead. Her sister had taken all this trouble to station herself nearby, just so they could meet. “You should have told me.”

  “There’s always the risk that my letter goes astray. Mamma and Papa can’t do anything to me, but they could keep you at home and not allow you to go anywhere. Which would not have been a desirable outcome.”

  Charlotte showed Livia into a plainly furnished sitting room, where a tea tray had already been set out. Charlotte put a kettle to boil on a spirit lamp. Then she set a plate laden with sliced cake and finger sandwiches before Livia. “You haven’t been eating properly.”

  “When you’re not there, nobody cares whether I eat or not.”

  “I’m here now, so tuck in.”

  A sandwich in hand, Livia told Charlotte about Lady Avery’s letter. Charlotte, however, was more interested in the flooding at Mrs. Newell’s house. And when Livia had given a satisfactory account, she asked, “How long will her guests stay at Stern Hollow?”

  Some of Livia’s delight at her reunion with Charlotte was already draining away. “Word is we will be there no more than three days. Obviously, Mrs. Newell’s party ended the moment the cisterns broke and we are at Lord Ingram’s not to continue the revelry but to make other arrangements without being too rushed or uncomfortable.”

  She didn’t want to go home yet. She never wanted to go back home.

  “Poor Lord Ingram. He didn’t look well this morning. Can you imagine, having to host Lady Avery and Lady Somersby, who are going about pondering—right under his roof, no less—whether his wife left because she discovered that he’d been keeping you?”