The Vanishing at Loxby Manor

by Abigail Wilson

  There was an abject look about his eyes, a defeated curve to his shoulders. He stared off into the distance until he was confident of our approach, his countenance gaining composure. His hands, however, continued to worry their way around the brim of his hat.

  He stepped forward rather awkwardly to greet us. “Good morning, Mr. Cavanagh, miss.” He produced a wan smile, but it was impossible to miss the uncomfortable severity of his halting gaze.

  Piers introduced me at once and Mr. Lacy nodded, shifting from one foot to the other. His voice came out a touch gruff, but not unpleasantly so.

  His focus was tight on Piers. “I was hoping to have a word with you, sir, about Miles. I’ve spoken to Mrs. Cavanagh about my concerns more than once, but after this morning I believe I should talk with you.”

  Piers spoke with authority. “If you prefer privacy, I’ll need to escort Miss Halliwell back to the house first; nonetheless, let me assure you that Miss Halliwell is a loyal friend of the family. She is more than aware of what has transpired and is considered the soul of discretion. We have all found her a great comfort during this trying time, particularly my mother and father.”

  My cheeks grew hot. Comfort to the family? Good heavens!

  Piers went on without sparing me a glance, and I wondered what on earth he meant by such a flowery compliment. He certainly hadn’t said such things before.

  “We have no secrets from Miss Halliwell. You should remember her from when she was a child.” A smile crossed his face. “She used to run all over this estate.”

  Run all over the estate indeed. If I did so, Seline, Avery, and he were right there beside me.

  Mr. Lacy cast me a quick look, a wary one, hidden nearly completely behind a pair of pinched eyelids. He patted his jacket pocket. “I found a letter this morning, and I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

  Piers lowered his voice. “A letter? From Miles?”

  Mr. Lacy angled his shoulder. “The boy must have left it for me before he departed the estate. It was under some books in his room, and I missed it until today.”

  A line wriggled across Piers’s brow. “Did he mention Seline?”

  “Not at all. That’s the thing. His words were rubbish really, just some outlandish ideas about moving on and such, taking advantage of opportunities elsewhere. He seemed to imply he had found the answers to all his monetary troubles.”

  Piers rubbed the back of his neck. “Answers? Surely, he meant marriage with Seline, although I find that difficult to believe, as her dowry is not all that large. If I may, do you know how deep Miles is in the basket?”

  Mr. Lacy raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know the whole of it till he was here at Loxby. Miles was never constant, you know, not in any area of his life, taking positions here in Britain and abroad, playing deep. He was nigh cleared out if I had my guess.” He pressed his lips together. “When I suggested he come to Loxby, I had hopes he might settle down, but the entire notion was a terrible, terrible mistake. My brother fairly deceived me about his character. Trust me when I tell you he was not the man I thought him to be. If Miles did run off with Seline, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  My mind focused on the word if. Did Mr. Lacy share the same suspicions as Piers and me?

  Piers laid his hand on Mr. Lacy’s shoulder. “The repercussions of your nephew’s lack of judgment are his and his alone. You’ve been a loyal retainer for years. You could not have anticipated all that has happened.”

  I stayed silent throughout the emotional exchange, anxious not to intrude on the conversation, but the word choice Mr. Lacy had used lodged in my mind and only grew the more I thought about it. “If I may ask, earlier you used the word if when you spoke of Miles’s elopement with Seline. Why was that?”

  He considered me a moment before dipping his chin. “Like I told Mrs. Cavanagh from the start, I can’t put my finger on it exactly, but I had a conversation with him the night he left. It made me question things. For one, he appeared scattered. What I mean is he was acting rather odd, rushing around here and there, thrusting his clothes into a bag. He kept repeating over and over again that he hadn’t any time, that he had to leave straightaway. The whole interaction has never sat well with me. And then this letter? It just doesn’t add up.”

  Piers chimed in, “Perhaps he was only following my father’s instructions. He did demand that Miles leave the estate. There were terms to his exit.”

  “As there should have been, but Mr. Cavanagh knew full well Miles planned to depart in the morning. He told him so in my presence. Mr. Cavanagh was more than gracious enough to grant us that. The whole blasted business was arranged for me. Mr. Cavanagh felt compelled to do right by me, and Miles threw all of it away. Believe me, that boy was happy enough at the time to agree to Mr. Cavanagh’s commands. Something else must have transpired to cause such urgency that night.”

  “Perhaps Seline proposed an elopement and they set off at once,” I said.

  A look of doubt blew once again across Mr. Lacy’s weathered face. “I tell you right here and now my nephew was afraid, Miss Halliwell. I don’t care what this note looks like. He was afraid. Something must have got beneath that tough skin of his, and he saw no recourse but to leave Loxby Manor as soon as possible. It is the only conclusion I can come to.” He plunged his hand into his pocket and retrieved the note, shaking it in his hand. “He must have left this letter to appease me.”

  Piers crossed his arms, tapping his finger against his jacket sleeve. “Did you recognize the handwriting?”

  “It’s his all right. No doubt there.” He spread the letter into the light.

  Piers shrugged. “I cannot say I have any recollection of Miles’s handwriting, so I will take your word that this is his.”

  I moved in close to Piers, scanning quickly what I could of the script.

  Uncle,

  I write this in haste as I depart Loxby Manor for the last time. I’ve been granted a lucky opportunity for protection, and I would be a fool not to take it. My monetary troubles will be over soon, and I hope you can rejoice in my newfound fortune. Such is the way in life. One man’s trouble is another man’s gain, or something like that. I shall always remember you stuck your neck out to help me. Consider my leaving straightaway as a favor for you.

  Miles

  Mr. Lacy ran his hand through his hair. “What I don’t understand is if that nephew of mine meant to flee with Miss Cavanagh to the Scottish border”—his eyes flashed as he looked up—“why wouldn’t he simply say so? Moreover, where the devil are they now?”

  * * *

  That night I returned to my bedchamber to find something of a surprise. A square, white card lay propped on my escritoire. The unexpected flash of white startled me at first. That is, until I moved a bit closer.

  Overcome, my hand flew to my mouth, for I knew just what it was.

  Piers had loved to study plants since we were children. He kept a journal where he recorded his various experiments in the garden. He gathered seeds from all over the world, and once the plants grew to adulthood, he’d sketched every inch of the beautiful creations. I used to sit and watch him for hours as he detailed every last curve of the flower, sculpting the delicate shade of the petals. Once I even grew an orange tree in our hothouse from a seed he gave me.

  It wasn’t until our secret courtship that he began drawing the flowers only for me. He would pen out each plant’s Latin name on the back and leave the sketches in various places where I would be sure to find them. I kept each one in a book in my room where I then spent hours admiring them.

  Strange that I’d not thought of those drawings in years. I took the card into my shaky hands.

  A chrysanthemum. The flower of friendship.

  I melted onto the bed, pressing the paper to my chest for a long moment before holding it out once again to read the Latin name on the back, but the words didn’t seem correct. What Piers had written was a phrase, not the flower’s name.

  I’d studied Latin years ago whe
n Piers had been working with a tutor. Slowly, I mouthed out the words he’d written, journeying back into my memories.

  Cras enim a die.

  “Tomorrow is a new day,” I said aloud, proud I’d remembered the vocabulary before the deeper meaning sank in. It was one of the sentences we’d studied together. I ran my finger along the chrysanthemum’s petals, then closed my eyes. He’d remembered too.

  I stood to place the drawing in my bedside table drawer when a flash of light out the window caught my eye. My heart constricted as I rushed to the glass. The glow seemed to move across the edge of one of the remaining walls of Kinwich Abbey, like a ghost, bobbing and weaving in the night, illuminating a dark hooded figure.

  The spectral monk?

  A transient chill slithered up my arms, prickling my hairs to rise. And then nothing.

  The light vanished.

  * * *

  It was two days later when Mrs. Cavanagh received the much-anticipated correspondence from Piers’s uncle Charles, which she promptly shared with the group of us gathered in the drawing room.

  My dear sister,

  I have searched every thoroughfare from East Whitloe to Gretna Green and have come up empty-handed. If the runaways journeyed to Scotland, they most certainly did not come to Gretna Green. I shall make haste back to Northampton where a local innkeeper swears he saw a gentleman that matched Miles Lacy’s description who was accompanied by a person he claimed was his sister. Seline perhaps? The gentleman gave his name to the inn as Fitzgerald. Do not lose hope. I shall endeavor to come up with the pair, although at this point we must assume they are already married or shall be so very soon.

  Your loving brother,

  Charles

  Avery flopped against the back of the sofa. “See, Mama, it is not as bleak as we once thought. Uncle Charles will come up with her.” Though Avery made a show of addressing his mother, I couldn’t help but feel he spoke more for Piers’s and my benefit.

  Mrs. Cavanagh’s face brightened before it dissolved into a heavy sigh. “But to be married to that fiend.” A sly glance up. “What a travesty.”

  Piers crossed the room and took a moment to read the letter himself. He cast a look at me over the paper before folding it. “This does give one hope, but I cannot be easy until we’ve set eyes on Seline. This gentleman Uncle Charles is chasing to Northampton could be anyone. It would be prudent for me to return to the villages a day’s ride north of here and see if anyone has used the name Fitzgerald.”

  Mrs. Cavanagh waved her hands in the air as if fighting a swarm of flies. “Heavens no, Piers. Are you daft?”

  He formed a steeple with his fingers and rested his chin on top. “A matter of opinion, I suppose.”

  Mrs. Cavanagh flicked open a fan. “You’ll simply get all those tongues wagging again, and then where will we be? Your sudden and, pardon me, notorious presence in the district is cause enough, but if you go riding from one end of Kent to the next asking all sorts of questions about Seline, she’ll be ruined straightaway too.”

  The weight of disgrace hung heavy around Piers’s neck as he lowered his head. “I would never wish to cause anyone in this family any further harm, but I fear—”

  “If only you had as much consideration when you chose to avoid that duel.”

  Avery pushed to his feet. “That is enough, Mama. You needn’t drag up the past once again. I’ve grown bored of such a topic. Piers said he had a reason. He’s had reasons for everything he’s ever done, and I for one don’t intend to guilt him into sharing this particular one with me.”

  Mrs. Cavanagh’s hand flew to her mouth to cover an audible gasp.

  Avery measured his tone. “I shall be happy to spend a few discreet days on the road.” Then he turned to Piers. “Besides, it would be better for you to stay at Loxby in case we receive word of Seline’s whereabouts. You’re a much better rider than I, and speed may be a factor if we’re to track her down.”

  Piers nodded, but it was half-hearted at best, his focus settling on the rug.

  Mrs. Cavanagh seemed to recover from her shock rather quickly, waving Avery to come closer. “Send word as often as you can, my dear, even if there is nothing to report.”

  The room felt colder somehow as I watched Avery saunter to the door, Piers curiously still at my side. Perhaps Charles Cavanagh was right, and Seline was simply on the road with Miles Lacy. It would be a great relief to know she was safe.

  No. I stiffened. A nice thought indeed—Seline and Miles deeply in love, possibly already married—but as quickly as the idea had come, it turned to ice in my chest. My gaze fell to the folded piece of paper lying in the center of the small table.

  Interesting that Seline had left a note, just like Miles Lacy, and— The image of my brooch lying in the dirt flashed into my mind, followed by Seline’s haunting whispers. She meant to return to my room that night. I was certain of it. After all, she’d promised to return my brooch. Something or someone had prevented it. And if I was right and Seline’s letter was indeed a forgery, might the note Mr. Lacy had conveniently found days after his nephew’s disappearance be as well?

  I pulled the cross on my necklace back and forth. Someone could be working quite hard to make us all believe she had simply run away. I pictured her riding through the night on her way home from Kinwich Abbey as a terrible thought struck—Seline Cavanagh might never come home.

  Chapter 13

  The first moment I could steal to myself I returned to Seline’s room, wondering all the while why I’d not thought to do so already. If Seline really had come back to the house to leave a note the night she disappeared, she would have invariably taken some of her things with her. Even if she didn’t elope with Miles Lacy and was planning to go elsewhere, she would have needed something.

  Seline’s bedchamber lurked as unnaturally still as it had the fateful night of her disappearance, yet somehow in the midst of lonely shadows and the palpable thrum of silence, her essence remained. A half-burned candle on the bedside table, a book left open on the escritoire, a hairbrush at an angle on her dressing table.

  The door felt suddenly heavy. I inched it shut behind me and made my way across the thick rug. Strange how I could hear the whoosh of my slippered steps and the beat of my heart. Carefully, as if the fabric might come apart in my hands, I opened the heavy chintz curtains at the back window, allowing the bright light of afternoon to flood in around me.

  Seline’s jasmine scent seemed to hang in waves about the room, and I was forced to rub a chill from my arms. It was almost as if she stood beside me, watching me. Goodness. I took a deep breath. I only meant to look about her room, nothing more. I was hardly an intruder to her private world.

  Uncertain exactly what I hoped to discover, I headed to her dressing table and looked over her toilet. I’d paid little attention the night I found her missing. Granted, I had known Seline quite well at one time. We would spend hours together in each other’s rooms, talking, dressing for supper. Surely she hadn’t changed her habits all that much.

  I cracked open the first drawer, shuffling through brushes and various containers of powder and rouge. The second drawer housed a rather fine collection of fans, and the third hairpins and papers. On the table’s surface lived the familiar bottles of perfumes she’d always loved as well as a wooden jewelry box.

  Her jewelry box. A twitch wriggled up my neck.

  Gently, I lifted the lid and scoured over the few pieces inside. Nothing remarkable, which in a way was remarkable. Seline had exceptional taste, and I remembered her begging her father for jewelry when we were younger. My fingers settled on a groove, the very place a necklace might have been kept, as well as spots for presumably missing rings. Perhaps Seline had come home and fetched her favorite pieces of jewelry—or she could have been wearing them that night. I bit my lip. Unfortunately there was no way to know.

  I heard a loud pounding beyond the wall and my hand jerked back. The jewelry box slammed closed, sending a puff of dust into the room.
As if struck by lightning I fell back, unable to move or breathe. Was someone in the hallway? On their way to Seline’s bedchamber? My chest felt numb and I wondered if my heart was beating at all.

  Footsteps, and they were approaching fast. I held so still I thought my feet might take root to the floor, but Seline’s bedchamber door remained shut. The footsteps drifted on, and like a slow-moving waterfall, the tension in my muscles gradually ebbed away. But I could no longer search in relative calm. Whoever was out there might still interrupt at any moment, and then what? I had no reason for invading Seline’s room. Either way, I had to hurry.

  I flew to the wardrobe and ran my hands through her beautiful gowns. If she had taken her jewelry, she might very well have taken a gown. I pushed past one to the next. Were any missing? How on earth could I even tell? I’d not been privy to her wardrobe over the last five years. And she would have had little room in her valise. It was entirely possible she would have selected only one gown to take with her. I threw my hands up, abandoning the wardrobe search, and turned instead to her bedside table. Nothing. Everything. How could I know what was here and what was missing? I’d been a fool to think I might find a clue within her room.

  I flopped onto the bed, taking one final meticulous look over every inch of the apartment in a veiled attempt to discover something before I abandoned the idea entirely.

  It was in that very moment that I noticed the dresser that held her water urn and wash basin and the small item lying next to it—Trotter’s Oriental Dentifrice, or Asiatic Tooth Powder.

  My mouth dropped open, and I stood before racing across the room and seizing the small, round container. Sure enough, Seline had left her tooth powder. I spun back to the dressing table. And there was her favorite lotion, Olympian Dew. No way would Seline embark on an elopement without her beloved toilet.