Lady Rights a Wrong

by Eliza Casey

  Cora closed her eyes, her face very white and intent. She breathed deeply, the only sounds in the perfect silence of the room besides the tick of the clock and the pop of the fire. A branch scraped at the window, and Mary gasped.

  “For heaven’s sake, Mary, don’t be such a goose,” Monty muttered.

  “Quiet, please,” Cora said. She drew in another breath. “Amelia, our departed dear friend, are you with us?”

  Cecilia held her breath until her chest felt tight, hardly daring to move as the darkness closed around her. What if they did see a ghost? Then again, what if they didn’t? What was that brushing against her foot?

  Jack suddenly darted out from under the table and leaped onto her lap, his green eyes filled with laughter that he had scared her.

  “Not funny, Jack,” she whispered, and he blinked at her in perfect innocence.

  “Amelia, are you there?” Cora called. Everything was silent for a long moment—then a crack echoed, like a graceful footstep on the old wooden floors.

  “Amelia, we want only to help you,” Cora said, her tone growing desperate. “Show yourself to us. We are your friends.”

  Nellie scowled at the Winters. “Unfriendly entities will make the spirits hold back.”

  “Amelia, we only have this one evening to reach out to you,” Cora said. “Do not be frightened. Please talk to us.”

  The table suddenly trembled, the white cloth swaying, one silver candlestick toppling and sputtering out, leaving a smudge on the damask. Mary squealed and clutched her husband’s hand tighter, and even Anne looked discomfited.

  “Amelia, what was the last thing you saw?” Cora asked, her voice shaking.

  “Surely, it was you,” Monty snapped.

  Everyone ignored him, focusing on the table as it swayed and swirled between them. Cecilia’s stomach lurched in fear and excitement, and she held on tightly to Jane’s hand as Jack huddled close to her.

  The fire in the grate behind them flared up, like a red-gold-purple explosion, and Mary screamed.

  “Who are you?” Cora shouted. “Is that you, Amelia? Tell us what happened!”

  No voice answered, but one of the water glasses flew up from the table and lurched toward Mary’s head. She ducked, suffering only a few droplets on the shoulders of her black satin and tulle gown, but Monty was splashed full in the face.

  “Blast it!” he growled. He snatched his wife’s hand and pulled her from her seat. She nearly tripped as he rushed to the door, knocking into Cecilia’s chair as they passed and making Jack hiss. She had a fleeting whiff of some sharp-smelling cologne.

  “Do excuse me,” Henry Price murmured and followed his daughter and son-in-law out the door.

  The heavy old door slammed behind them, shaking the floors of the cottage, and Cecilia was sure she heard a merry peal of laughter from somewhere in the rafters. She shivered and clutched at Jack’s warm solidity.

  “Amelia, if you are truly there, I will call out letters,” Cora said, her voice shaking. “Make the table move when we spell out the last thing you saw in this earthly life.”

  Cora began to slowly recite the alphabet. It took some time, everyone glancing around nervously, but when she said “S,” the table shook again, harder, more violently. And then there was only the crackle of the fire, the rough rasp of Cora’s labored breath. Whatever had been there, it was gone now. Primrose Cottage was empty.

  Cora slumped over in her chair, her face paper white. Nellie jumped up to wrap Cora’s dropped shawl tightly around her shoulders. “Come, Miss Black, you should lie down now. You’re exhausted.”

  Cora nodded weakly, as if she could do nothing else, but tears rolled silently down her face. “We were so close to finding her. I’m sure of it. But S? Who is S?”

  Nellie led Cora upstairs, and Cecilia and Jane started helping Anne clear away the mess of their botched séance. Jane took the water glasses to the kitchen, and Cecilia straightened the candlesticks and folded the ruined cloth. She could see nothing under the table that would have let a person shake it. But had it really been Mrs. Price trying to contact them, making a mess of the sitting room and giving them the flimsy S clue?

  “Do you think—maybe there really was something?” Cecilia asked Anne as they moved the chairs back to their usual places.

  Anne laughed. “I’m a lawyer, trained to see the world as a rational place, able to be ordered. I can’t see ghosts or fairies. But if someone like Cora thinks it is so, and thinks it hard enough . . .”

  “If they think that already, then it’s easier for them to see what they expect,” Jane said, coming back into the sitting room with Jack on her heels.

  “Or hear it suggested to them,” Anne said.

  “But who or what could be S?” Cecilia asked.

  Anne shrugged. “I can’t think of anyone with that initial. But you are kind to come here and try to help. I’ve been quite worried about Cora’s state of mind since the inquest. I hoped if she felt like she was doing something to help . . .”

  “We all want to do that,” Cecilia said, thinking about her own chase through London, digging up gossip both old and new. “It’s terrible to feel so helpless.”

  “It’s very late, I’m afraid, and we’ve kept you too long with our shenanigans,” Anne said.

  “Shall we see you at the church bazaar, Miss Price?” Jane asked.

  “Oh yes, that reminds me—I have a donation for you. Let me just fetch it.” Anne hurried out of the room, and they heard her footsteps on the stairs, solid and real and human. She seemed to take what had happened in her stride, unlike her sister’s shrieks and shouts. She brought back a square box, wrapped in paper, and saw Cecilia and Jane out to their waiting cart.

  “Who could this S be, my lady?” Jane asked as they made their way out of the now-quiet village, everyone tucked in safely behind their garden gates and windows. “The last thing Mrs. Price saw. Is anyone here named S?”

  “It could be just as phony as the whole séance business.” Cecilia ran through all the members of the Union she knew of, and Mrs. Price’s family. “Not that I know, anyway. Perhaps a middle name, or a nickname? A title? Or maybe it’s not a person at all, but a thing. Her sash?”

  “A sheep? A glass of sherry?”

  Cecilia laughed. “Maybe it was sherry she last saw. But how would it make her fall like that? What happened to the piece of her sash that’s missing?”

  “Do you suppose she might have been in love with that awful Lord Elphin all this time? It’s hard to imagine, but she did wear his ring, didn’t she?”

  “The heart does strange things indeed, doesn’t it, Jane? I never understand it. I suppose Mrs. Price and Lord Elphin could have carried a romantic memory of how they imagined the other to be. And then . . .”

  “When he saw what she had really become, a suffragette and all, he stole back his ring through Mr. Guff and then killed her? Or had the thief kill her,” Jane said. Jack hissed and arched his furry back.

  As Cecilia drove past the Winters’ rented cottage, a sudden small flare of golden light touched the darkness like a firefly. Henry Price stepped out from behind the hedge, a cigar raised to his lips. Despite all the odd things that had happened that night, and his abrupt departure from Primrose Cottage, he looked unruffled, cool, and handsome.

  “Mr. Price,” Cecilia said, wondering if he had overheard any of their conversation. “I’m surprised you’re still out tonight.”

  “I wanted to make sure Mary got home safely, but then I found myself a bit worried about Anne, as well,” he said. “It has been a—rather odd evening.”

  Cecilia was rather sure the Prices’ whole lives together had been odd. It couldn’t be what a solicitor to the royal family would expect from his family. Could he have done away with his wife to protect his own reputation? To marry again without the scandal of a divorce? But he did look rather
worried about his daughters, his face tensely lined in the light of his cigar.

  “Anne seems a strong sort. I’m sure she is quite well,” Cecilia said.

  “Anne is strong. She takes after me, and after her mother, too.” He smiled ruefully. “Now Mary—I could not say who she takes after, the poor girl. But not even Anne can entirely fight off grief with her strong will alone.”

  “No, I am sure that is true,” Cecilia said. “Will you be returning to London soon, Mr. Price? No doubt you must have important business waiting for you there.” And a new wife to woo.

  “Yes, I’m sure I will,” he answered vaguely. “There is nothing to keep me here. But don’t let me keep you, Lady Cecilia. Your parents must be worried.”

  “Indeed,” she said. “Good night, Mr. Price.” She flicked the reins, jolting the cart forward and leaving him alone with his cigar and his mysterious thoughts.

  Cecilia and Jane were silent for a long moment on the drive home, letting the thoughts and memories and puzzles fly out into the chilly autumn night, trying to make sense of something that seemed entirely senseless.

  Jack settled onto Jane’s lap, purring as if he was thinking it all over, too. But they were all tired, all overcome by the strangeness of what had happened, and Cecilia knew there would be no answers that night.

  “You had suitors in London, my lady,” Jane said as they turned through the Danby gates. “Were there any you felt for as Mrs. Price once did for Lord Elphin?”

  Cecilia thought of the men she had danced with in Town. “No. No one either so unsuitable, or suitable, either, caught my attention. Sometimes I think I must be destined to be a useful spinster, helping out with Patrick and Annabel’s children while I molder away in my Danby rooms. But at least I won’t have to make such a choice as Amelia Price did.” Despite their financial troubles, Cecilia knew her parents would never force her to marry, even as they worried and fretted.

  “So you’ve never been in love with anyone at all?” Jane said. “Or thought of being in love?”

  “I know I’ve never been properly in love, like all the romances in books,” Cecilia answered. But in her mind, she suddenly saw a flashing image of Jesse, laughing with her in the empty dining room, and Mr. Brown taking her hand to help her climb over a wall. The marquess twirling her around a dance floor. Perhaps there were hints of romance in her life. “It does seem to be all that my London friends talk about, but right now there are so many other things to worry about.”

  Jane sighed. “That’s the truth, my lady. What with murderers and ghosts wandering around . . .”

  Cecilia glanced over at Jane, who was studying the parkland around them thoughtfully as she cuddled Jack. “What about you, Jane? Have you ever been in love?”

  “I’ve had to work too hard to be in love, haven’t I? My dad’s store, the hotel, here at Danby. But maybe there’s someone—I mean, I just think he might be—well, a bit handsome. And interesting.” Her freckled face blushed so bright pink, Cecilia could see it in the darkness.

  “Jane! How delicious. Do I know him? Oh, who could it be?” One of the footmen? A shopkeeper in the village? Maybe even Sergeant Dunn, who went all tongue-tied every time he saw Jane? Or maybe Collins?

  But any of them would take Jane away from Danby, except for maybe Collins, and the thought made Cecilia feel wistful. It was nice to have a friend nearby.

  Jane shook her head. “It’s not like that, my lady. Just a—what in America they call a crush.”

  “A crush?”

  “When you secretly admire someone from afar.”

  “Oh, like a pash. Then I’ve had crushes, too. A French teacher when I was a girl, our old head gardener who used to pick the best pink roses for me, things like that.” She laughed. “Luckily, none of my crushes have ever led me astray.” Yet.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  . . . and the game of quoits can go over there, and the archery on the lawn,” Lady Avebury said, gesturing to the stretch of grass beyond the rose beds. “And the tea tent over there, just past where they’re setting up the bring-and-buy area. What do you think, Cecilia?”

  “Hmm?” Cecilia murmured. She had been trailing behind her mother and Annabel all morning, but her thoughts were still in the noisy darkness of Cora’s séance. What did S mean? What had really happened there?

  “The tents!” her mother said impatiently. She gestured at the notebook in Cecilia’s hand. “You have the plans, darling. You know that some of the booths cannot be placed near one another or there will be quarrels. What do you think of it all?”

  “Oh yes, the archery on the lawn, of course,” Cecilia answered absentmindedly.

  Her mother shook her head. “Really, Cecilia, what will you do when it is your own home and you must make all the plans?”

  Cecilia thought of Aunt Maggie’s life, traveling wherever she liked, a large London house all her own, no one asking her where the tea tent should be. “We must hope it will never come to that, Mama.”

  Her mother shook her head again, exasperated, and surveyed the busy garden with a wistful expression. Footmen and gardeners hurried past, putting up billowing white tents and setting up tables for games, while maids carried trays back and forth. Everything looked just as it was every year at that time, with church bazaars, shooting parties, the gardens at Danby in one last burst of color before winter. “Or fear it will never come to that. Oh no, Bridget, that cannot go there!” She snatched the notebook out of Cecilia’s grasp and rushed over to supervise the placement of the newly arrived flower arrangements.

  A gust of wind caught at Cecilia’s hat, and she barely grabbed it before it sailed away, as she studied the scene before her. The same scene she had witnessed every year of her life, unchanging and dear Danby. It all seemed so far away from Mrs. Price, from London, as if Danby were as timeless as the old medieval tower that rose from beyond the corner of the house. Its ancient stones had watched Normans and Saxons, Roundheads and kings, through the centuries, and it watched over them still. Yet a menacing shadow hung over it all.

  “Lady Cecilia,” she heard Mrs. Caffey call, and she turned to see the housekeeper hurrying along the terrace with a bouquet in her hands. Pink and red roses with lilies and irises, a riot of color, tumbling free from its vase. “This just arrived for you. I thought you might like to see it.”

  Cecilia stared at the flowers, astonished. She had never received a bouquet quite so exuberant before, as small nosegays were appropriate for debs.

  “My heavens,” Annabel said. “Aren’t those gorgeous? You must have an admirer.”

  Lady Avebury approached them, drawn by the vivid flowers. “What does the card say?”

  Cecilia plucked the small pasteboard square from behind a red rose. “It—it’s from Lord Eversham.” She was completely astonished. They had only danced once, though he was indeed a handsome charmer. Why was he sending flowers, and such flowers?

  “Oooohhh, that handsome marquess we met in London!” Annabel cooed. “How delightful, Cec. You must have utterly charmed him!”

  “I don’t think so,” Cecilia said doubtfully. Though she had laughed a lot during their dance.

  “A marquess?” her mother said sharply.

  “We met him at a dance Mrs. Solent took us to in London,” Annabel offered. “He did seem delightful.”

  “A marquess . . .” Lady Avebury murmured, her head tilted as she studied the bouquet. “Lord Eversham? Yes, I think I knew his mother when we were girls; his father died and left him the title when he was quite young, poor thing. He has a grand estate. I am sure he needs a marchioness to help him in his duties. Is he in the neighborhood now?”

  Cecilia turned over the card and read the scribbled message. “He will be for the Byswaters’ shooting party.”

  Lady Avebury’s face lit up. “Then you must invite him to Danby for tea! It would be lovely to meet my old friend’s
son. And I’m sure your father will see him at the shooting. Oh, it is too bad he won’t be here for the bazaar. He could have seen Danby en fête. How clever of you to make such a nice new friend, Cecilia.”

  Cecilia could definitely see how the wind was blowing, wafting up her mother’s strong matchmaking instincts just on the basis of one bouquet. Was poor Mr. Brown to be forgotten, then? She felt her breath catch in her chest, making her feel she was suffocating under the weight of all these expectations. “I—I must go, Mama. I have a—a vital errand to run just now.”

  “An errand?” Lady Avebury cried. “We’re still working on the plans for the bazaar!”

  “We’re nearly done, and you and Annabel have it more than in hand. I won’t be gone long.”

  Cecilia thrust the flowers into Annabel’s hands and hurried away before her mother could protest again. Luckily, she was already wearing a plain shirtwaist and sensible tweed skirt, so she only had to stop in her chamber to fetch a jacket. Jane seemed to have been there recently to leave a pile of freshly laundered handkerchiefs on the dressing table, but she wasn’t there at the moment. Jack sat on one of the chairs by the fireplace, grooming his paws. When he saw Cecilia, he stood up with a bright gleam in his eyes.

  “Mrow?” he inquired.

  “I am sorry, Jack dear, but I don’t think you’d like to go out with me now. Very soon, though. I know you must be terribly bored after all the excitement of the séance.”

  He sat back down with a huff and set about grooming his other paw. Cecilia quickly found her tweed jacket and pinned a boater hat to her upswept hair. She shut the door tightly behind her so Jack couldn’t go wandering, like the time he got himself caught in the dumbwaiter.

  She found Mrs. Price’s bicycle propped next to the garage, freshly washed by Mr. Collins. She had only practiced a few times, but surely riding a bicycle couldn’t be all that hard, could it? And it would carry her away from Danby faster than her feet.

  She walked the vehicle out for a short way, until she was out of sight of the house, just in case she did take an embarrassing tumble. Once she was near the gates, she climbed onto the seat and pushed off on the pedals.