“Perhaps he keeps those other papers on him,” I murmured. “If they are valuable or confidential, he may not wish to keep them just anywhere.”
Lee nodded, regarding me still with his head bowed. “That was what I came to tell you, which means it’s now your turn.”
Wonderful. My hands had grown pruney from the damp washrag, and I wiped them anxiously down the front of my apron, careful not to dislodge the pilfered books hidden there. There was no rubbing away the scars on my fingertips, and I kept the marks out of his sight, pressing my palms flat to my skirt.
“I think we are in danger,” I said in a whisper. “But do not raise your voice or show any signs of alarm. If I am right, we must maintain the utmost secrecy.”
“Danger?” His brows shot up, and he leaned in close. “Your wrist; did someone harm you deliberately?”
“No, no,” I assured him, and technically it was the truth. After all, something had harmed me. “Mr. Morningside said some terrible things about Mrs. Eames—that she’s only a widower because she killed her late husband. He claims that she murdered her son, too. I think he means to . . . to exact revenge. Severe revenge.”
Lee’s brows continued to rise, reaching their absolute zenith as I drew out the last two words.
“Good heavens.”
“I think he fancies himself some sort of vigilante. A force for justice above the law. If he knows you’ve done something vile, he punishes you for it.”
“How extraordinary,” Lee whispered. He unfolded his arms and rubbed his chin, but he was starting to look pale. Guilty. “What do you make of such claims? Can he be believed?”
Here I was less certain, yet a pit in my gut persisted, a nasty, guilty pit. For some reason I could not get the image of her huge green ring out of my mind. Such a flourish of excess, such decadence, when she was supposed to be the grieving widow. . . . And if she was to inherit a fortune, why come to the dumpy, drafty Coldthistle House?
Why come here at all, unless, of course, she had been summoned.
“She does come across a bit . . .”
“Strange,” he said in agreement. “So you think she’s capable of murder? Of killing her own child?”
“I really can’t say. The only thing I know for sure is that Mr. Morningside does not have kind intentions toward her,” I said. My gaze snapped to the open door, where I could have sworn a dark shape lingered and then vanished. Palms sweating, I took Lee by the wrist and dragged him deeper into the library and behind a bookcase, concealing us in one of the room’s dusty nooks.
“This is going to sound upsetting,” I whispered. “But you might consider taking one of your uncle’s weapons and keeping it about your person. Just . . . Just in case. I think the proprietor is quite mad, you see, and I don’t know if any of us are safe. We must be careful, quick, and quiet, and you must promise me not to say anything about this to your uncle yet.”
“But if we are all in danger—”
“Promise.”
“O-Of course, Louisa, you have my word,” he said. Then he broke into a nervous smile, glancing shyly to the side. “Lord, I did make you swear to tell me the secrets of this place, didn’t I? This is all rather more than I bargained for.”
Oh, my dear boy, you don’t know the half of it.
“Precisely,” I replied. I had no idea if I was protecting him or damning him by telling him only the partial truth, but I could always reveal more later if it seemed prudent. “But what’s most important now is that you tell me something, Lee. You must be honest, yes? Hold nothing back. . . .”
“What?” he asked, searching my face. “What are you asking of me?”
“You must tell me,” I said, still holding his wrist tightly. “Are there any unspeakable secrets from your past? Have you greatly sinned?” I demanded. “Have you killed?”
Chapter Sixteen
One of the most dangerous things of all is a secret hope.
A secret hope is always buried deep within you, like a disease, one you have no idea lies in wait. It’s always there, ready to wound you, and even if you have some vague conception of its existence, some instinct or inkling, it is ever surprising. The worst secret hope I can remember came from my mother. Her name was Alice. Alice Ditton. She kept my father’s surname out of spite, because in the end they hated each other so much that she stole me away from him in the night.
Actually, I’m not certain the word stole is quite right. Can you really steal something that isn’t wanted in the first place?
It is not a nice thing to admit, but I always knew, even as a child, that my mother was not a balanced person. There was too much of Ireland in her, old Ireland, the superstitious, fairy-believing wild Irish that my city-dweller father and grandparents despised. Once, after we had moved from Waterford to Dublin, a neighbor boy was bitten by a rabid dog. My mother convinced him that the only cure for it was to be touched on the hand by a seventh son.
She meant it. So, unbalanced. And I think that’s being kind.
I can remember her eyes flaring wide as she loomed over poor, sick Danny Burton, saying, “Oh, and if that seventh son be born of a seventh son? Well then, boy, he’ll bring you more than just good health, but good luck for the rest of your years!”
Danny Burton died that week; no telling if he ever found that seventh son.
The point being, I was always keen to the strangeness of my mother. Even if I only ever spoke of it to my imaginary friend Maggie, and only then in guilty whispers, I felt in my heart that my mother was odd. And by association and blood, I was odd, too. Folk rarely warmed to my mam. Tolerance was about the best she ever got. That curse passed to me, too. Excepting Lee and the curious servants of Coldthistle House, most people decided upon meeting me that I was not worth knowing. I swear sometimes I could see them recoil, even if unintentionally, as if there was some invisible black brand upon me that said: BEWARE.
It was the worst and cruelest joke of the world, and I was not in on it.
But my secret desire, always, even in the depths of my hard knowing, was that one day my mother would be different. She would change. The old-country parts of her would fall away, and like a tree shaking off winter’s chill, she would bud and blossom and emerge a fine, sensible woman with a laugh that made you thrill instead of wince. I kept that secret hope locked away tight, so tight and so deep down that it wasn’t until she was really out of my life for good that I recognized that wish.
Here, in the library, I recognized another secret wish even as it, too, became impossible, and this time I knew how the longing would hurt.
“Oh God.” Lee was crumbling before my very eyes. He slid down against the window until he was huddled on the floor. Then he hid his face in his hands. I could tell from the tension in his shoulders that he was holding back a sob. “I killed my guardian. I’m one of the bad people, too. I did a vile thing. I killed him.”