With desperate speed, she changed into her men’s clothing and packed writing paper and a quill into a sturdy bag. After a few failed attempts with the neckcloth, she cast the linen aside. Not having time for the tiewig, she tucked her hair into a cap. She slowly worked her window open, wincing as the wood frame creaked. Holding her breath, she placed one foot on the rose trellis, then the other, clinging to the window frame for support. She carefully made her way down the trellis, cursing under her breath as the rose thorns poked through and caught at her clothes.
Once she reached the ground, she scanned Rosemead Street through the gate for passersby. Satisfied that the street was empty, she scrambled over the fence, grateful that she wasn’t wearing skirts to hamper her already fumbling progress. Angelica straightened her disguise, lifted her chin, and crossed Rosemead to Number 6, Burnrath House, trying to appear casual. Her heart pounded in her ears as she made her way up the cobblestone walkway, forcing every vestige of her will to maintain her casual stride and keep her from breaking into a run.
The Elizabethan mansion looked ominous and imposing even in the waning daylight. Gray clouds overhead made the chimneys cast strange-moving shadows. Carved of sandstone and roofed with slate, the house was in the shape of an enormous letter E turned on its side. Angelica wondered if the design was intended as a tribute to the virgin queen, or if it was merely a sign of the death of the enclosed courtyard structure that had been favored in medieval times.
Her eyes narrowed at the darkening sky. I pray the rain holds back until I return home. I don’t know how I’d explain wet hair to Mother.
After what seemed an eternity, she cautiously opened the front door, holding her breath as she waited to hear a voice cry out, “Intruder!”
The house was silent, dark, and empty. Mouth dry, she closed the door behind her, wishing she’d brought a candle. She let out the breath she was holding and started forward, skin tingling in anticipation. I am inside Burnrath House at last! She smiled. I wonder if I’ll encounter any ghosts. The thought didn’t bring as much cheer as anticipated, now that she was within the setting of her fantasies. Instead, tiny shivers raced up and down her arms and legs.
Plush Aubusson carpets covered nearly every inch of the smooth hardwood floors. Ornate furniture from the Renaissance graced the place like somber skeletons. No modern Oriental items for this stately home; however, the duke had gone to the astounding expense of installing gas lamps throughout the place.
Angelica stared at the iron and glass devices in awe. She’d never seen gas lamps outside of the theaters and Pall Mall. They must make the rooms as bright as day. Her fingers trembled with the urge to light one, but she hadn’t the slightest idea how to do so. She shook her head, realizing that if she had known, she wouldn’t dare, for someone may see her through the large windows.
All stories and legends of haunted houses took place on the upper floors, so with a nervous smile, Angelica darted up the stairs. The long corridor was dark and abandoned, apart from tasteful paintings decorating the walls. Her heart leaped into her throat with every door she opened, then fell in a mixture of relief and disappointment when she saw the empty rooms with sheet-draped furniture. Cobwebs clung to every angle and corner. The stale, musty odors tickled her nose. Still, her eager imagination conjured up howling specters rising out from the fireplaces, angry at having their rest disturbed. The writer in her demanded a story for these ghosts, and while she explored, she named them and constructed the tales of their gruesome murders.
Her imaginary constable was just collapsing into a faint after seeing the blood-drenched ceiling when she found the library.
“Oh my…” Her breath caught suddenly, and a thrill rushed through her body at the vast array of books in the mammoth chamber. The meager light from the windows gleamed on the high shelves and wheeled ladder. Gas lamps stood in every corner of the room, and two overstuffed wingback chairs sat companionably before an elaborate carved marble fireplace. With such light, one could read all night long if she desired. Angelica let out her breath in a reverent sigh. Burnrath’s library was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen. Like the main room, the library seemed immaculately clean. There was not a cobweb in sight, and the chamber smelled of fresh polish.
The duke must spend all of his time here, she mused, having greater respect for the man, given his obvious love of the written word. She tiptoed to the shelves to see what captured his fancy.
Her eyes squinted in the darkness, but try as she might, she couldn’t read the titles. To her dismay, dusk was quickly closing in. She needed to hurry home. With a reluctant sigh, she hurried out of the library, closing the door softly behind her.
As she made her way down the thickly carpeted stairs, she glanced at the paintings of the previous dukes of Burnrath. Something about the paintings gave her pause. There were no portraits of the wives or children. In fact, the pictures were painted when the men were the same age. No doubt another eccentric family tradition, Angelica thought with a snort. Then her brow furrowed in contemplation as she leaned closer to examine each one. Despite the differences in artists’ styles and the subjects’ clothing, she could almost believe that they were all of the same man.