‘What use would anybody else have for them?’ says Millicent. ‘Mark my words, Helena has something foolish in mind and she doesn’t want anybody finding out about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Cecil, I’m going to have to find her and talk her out of it. As usual.’
Tossing the planner on the bed, she stalks out of the bedroom and up the corridor. I barely notice her leave. I’m more concerned with the black smudged fingerprints on the pages. My valet’s been here, and it appears he’s looking for Helena Hardcastle as well.
18
The world’s shrivelling beyond the windows, darkening at the edges and blackening at the centre. The hunters are beginning to emerge from the forest, waddling across the lawn like overgrown birds. Having grown impatient in my parlour waiting for Cunningham’s return, I’m heading to the library to inspect the encyclopaedia.
It’s already a decision I regret.
A day of walking has sapped all my strength, this ponderous body growing heavier by the second. To make matters worse, the house is alive with activity, maids plumping cushions and arranging flowers, darting this way and that like schools of startled fish. I’m embarrassed by their vigour, cowed by their grace.
By the time I enter the entrance hall, it’s filled with hunters shaking the rain from their caps, puddles forming at their feet. They’re soaking wet and grey with cold, the life washed right out of them. They’ve clearly endured a miserable afternoon.
I pass through nervously, my eyes downcast, wondering if any of these scowling faces belongs to the footman. Lucy Harper told me he had a broken nose when he visited the kitchen, which gives me some hope that my hosts are fighting back, not to mention an easy way of picking him out.
Seeing no injuries, I continue more confidently, the hunters standing aside, allowing me to shuffle through on my way to the library, where the heavy curtains have been drawn and a fire set in the grate, the air touched with a faint perfume. Fat candles sit on plates, plumes of warm light pockmarking the shadows, illuminating three women curled up on chairs, engrossed in the books open on their laps.
Heading to the bookshelf where the encyclopaedia should be, I grope about in the darkness, finding only an empty space. Taking a candle from a nearby table, I pass the flame across the shelf hoping it has been moved, but it’s definitely gone. I let out a long breath, deflating like the bellows of some awful contraption. Until now, I hadn’t realised how much hope I’d invested in the encyclopaedia, or in the idea of meeting my future hosts face to face. It wasn’t only their knowledge I craved, but the chance to study them, as one might one’s own twisted reflections in a hall of mirrors. Surely in such observation, I’d find some repeated quality, a fragment of my true self carried through into each man, unsullied by the personalities of their hosts? Without that opportunity, I’m not certain how to identify the edges of myself, the dividing lines between my personality and that of my host. For all I know, the only difference between myself and the footman is the mind I’m sharing.
The day’s leaning on my shoulders, forcing me into a chair opposite the fire. Stacked logs pop and crackle, heat shimmering and sagging in the air.
My breath catches in my throat.
Among the flames lies the encyclopaedia, burnt to ash but holding its shape, a breath away from crumbling.
The footman’s work no doubt.
I feel like I’ve been struck, which was no doubt the intention. Everywhere I go, he seems to be a step ahead of me. And yet, simply winning isn’t enough. He needs me to know it. He needs me to be afraid. For some reason, he needs me to suffer.
Still reeling from this blatant act of contempt, I lose myself in the flames, piling all my misgivings onto the bonfire until Cunningham calls me from the doorway.
‘Lord Ravencourt?’
‘Where the devil have you been?’ I snap, my temper slipping away from me completely.
He strolls around my chair, taking a spot near the fire to warm his hands. He looks to have been caught in the storm, and though he’s changed his clothes, his damp hair is still wild from the towel.
‘It’s good to see Ravencourt’s temper is still intact,’ he says placidly. ‘I’d feel positively adrift without my daily dressing down.’
‘Don’t play the victim with me,’ I say, wagging my finger at him. ‘You’ve been gone hours.’
‘Good work takes time,’ he says, tossing an object onto my lap.
Holding it up to the light, I stare into the empty eyes of a porcelain beak mask, my anger evaporating immediately. Cunningham lowers his voice, glancing at the woman, who are watching us with open curiosity.
‘It belongs to a chap called Philip Sutcliffe,’ says Cunningham. ‘One of the servants spotted it in his wardrobe, so I crept into his room when he left for the hunt. Sure enough the top hat and greatcoat were in there as well, along with a note promising to meet Lord Hardcastle at the ball. I thought we could intercept him.’
Slapping my hand against my knee, I grin at him like a maniac. ‘Good work, Cunningham, good work indeed.’
‘I thought you’d be happy,’ he says. ‘Unfortunately, that’s where my good news ends. The note waiting for Miss Hardcastle at the well, it was... odd, to say the least.’
‘Odd, how so?’ I say, holding the beak mask over my face. The porcelain’s cold, clammy against my skin, but aside from that it’s a good fit.
‘The rain had smeared it, but best I could tell it said, ‘‘Stay away from Millicent Derby’’, with a simple drawing of a castle beneath it. There was nothing else.’
‘That’s a peculiar sort of warning,’ I say.
‘Warning? I took it as a threat,’ says Cunningham.
‘You think Millicent Derby’s going to take after Evelyn with her knitting needles?’ I say, raising an eyebrow.
‘Don’t dismiss her because she’s old,’ he says, prodding some life into the dwindling fire with a poker. ‘At one time, half the people in this house were under Millicent Derby’s thumb. There wasn’t a dirty secret she couldn’t ferret out, or a dirty trick she wouldn’t use. Ted Stanwin was an amateur in comparison.’