The maid nodded.
They wound through the house, a twisting maze of stairs and turns. Jane was not sure she could find the way back by herself, even if she had been allowed to go alone. All the dark and puzzling features of fey architecture were clear as they twisted higher, through steps that went nowhere, halls that curved imperceptibly, cleverly subtle mirrors that reflected extra doors.
Jane caught her breath as they went up the steep ladderlike steps to the north attic, Martha’s blue-lit lantern flickering in front of her. She did not know what she expected—a row of skeletons, a murdered wife, a madwoman with a mysterious laugh? The nameless terror of her nightmares?
But Helen’s lurid imaginings were not to be found. It was an ordinary attic, dim and crowded with the history of generations. The air was hot and close, as attics seem to be even in April.
Martha gestured at a grouping of wardrobes, trunks, and hatboxes, covered in dust. “Years of things,” she said, in her usual succinct fashion. She tapped a chewed-on hatbox with her foot. “Got to set more mousetraps.”
“A two-syllable word,” Jane said absently.
Martha looked at her suspiciously. “You look while I sweep. Cook says don’t snoop.”
Jane ignored this and immediately opened the nearest hatbox, the one that had been chewed on. She couldn’t very well find gloves without snooping, could she? But inside was the tattered folds of what might have once been pillowcases, or anything at all, and the remains of a mouse nest. Another hatbox was better equipped, with mothballs and what looked like a fancy pair of men’s breeches, a hundred years out of date. A third hatbox actually held a hat, but no gloves.
“Do you think Grace’s clothing is really still here?” said Jane. “Maybe her family took it.” No particular reason why they would—Jane was probing.
“She just had a da,” said Martha, who was attacking great swathes of cobwebs with her broom. “No need for her things.”
“Poor man,” Jane said, thinking of her mother’s grief over Charlie. “Was he from town?”
“One town up,” said Martha. “They had a shop. Don’t think he has it no more.” Her prods at the spiders dislodged a great pile of dust from the rafters, sending Martha into a coughing fit as it settled to the floor.
Jane had her eye on the large wardrobe against the far wall, and she used the distraction to make a beeline for it, in case Martha would have stopped her. The wardrobe was dark walnut, old and burled. A heavy, old-fashioned piece, massive against the plaster wall. The brass key hung loosely in the lock, and Jane turned it with a click and opened the door.
Inside were rows and rows of gowns. Jane gasped softly at the sight.
They tended toward the cool colors—silvers, blues, and greens, with some gold thrown in for good measure. Jane pulled the nearest one out and found it to be a sapphire blue silk in a corseted style from a hundred years ago. The next one was a cream muslin with green flowers and an empire waist—that style was probably a hundred and fifty years old, or more. Dress after dress, myriad different periods. But the dresses appeared to all be new, or at least stored so immaculately that no fading or yellowing had occurred, and not a single moth or insect had invaded them.
She studied the beautiful dresses, puzzling over them. The obvious answer was that they really were a hundred and two hundred years old—dresses collected from generation after generation of the ladies of the household. Their condition amazed her, but perhaps some fey technology she had never heard of kept the wardrobe sealed and insect-free.
If they did all belong to the former Mrs. Rochart, then she had had odd tastes. Beautiful, but odd. Jane wished Helen were here to see the dresses and give her opinion on their age. She could probably deduce other clues that Jane could not; find the tiny details that hinted at the wearer’s status, or know what kind of outing the dress was for.
Jane’s fingers lingered on the dress she was studying. It was beautiful—the color of a golden flame. She pulled it all the way out. It was one of the most modern ones—pre-war styling, shapeless with layers of golden chiffon floating from the shoulders and dropped waist. Glass beading trimmed the handkerchief hem. It must have been expensive. She held it up to herself, smoothing the gauzy fabric against her plain day dress, wondering if it would fit.