Rue du R——,
1st Arrondissement,
WEDNESDAY
Chère Mme. S——
Trust that our regard for Mr. S——’s memory will allow nothing less than perfect diligence regarding this most delicate of subjects. A local agent must be appointed to make real the fact that thwarting our designs will only lead to unpleasantness, and I should be ashamed to suggest anyone of less standing in the firm than my partner, Mr. Aloysius Swansea. I shall make haste to apprise him of all details, but should you ever require direct contact, he may be found at:
SNEEVES, SWANSEA, AND TURNER
No. 29C Lisle Street, Westminster
Humbly,
Cyrus Sneeves, Esq.
I think it took me eleven seconds to locate a pen and paper and begin a letter to Mr. Aloysius Swansea:
Highgate House,
December 20, 1851
Dear Mr. Swansea,
My name is Jane Steele, and I recently came across documents suggesting that you conducted business with my father, Mr. Jonathan Steele, and my mother, Mrs. Anne-Laure Steele. I would be grateful for any information you could give me upon this topic, and should the written form prove too cumbersome, I can travel to London. Letters will reach me here, but I beg that you address them to Miss Jane Stone, as the unfortunate circumstances of my mother’s unhappy end have necessitated caution in revealing my true origins.
Gratefully,
Miss Jane Steele
The remaining correspondence confirmed what I already knew. I must needs await further instruction—supposing instruction would come. Stuffing the papers beneath my mattress again, I lay down, waiting for sleep to arrive.
No such guest called, however; ants seemed to crawl beneath my sheets, and the dawn greeted a weary soul. Head thinly humming, I stumbled out of bed and splashed enough frigid water over my face to appear human at breakfast.
After all, Mr. Thornfield may have returned.
He had not, though, and I smiled sunnily at Sahjara across the table, a sealed letter resting in the pocket of my dress ready to be posted at my earliest convenience.
? ? ?
Every brittle, branching fork of each bare tree seemed frost-spangled sculptures worthy of auction at Christie’s private parlour that afternoon. Sahjara had insisted I take to riding again—in particular a bay mare far too perceptive for her own good, for she kept questioning me, and I was not accustomed to surrendering the reins to anyone.
The three-year-old bay’s name was Nalin, or “lotus,” and on the sixth day following Charles Thornfield’s departure, she flew over rills and creek beds as if we had crafted a fragile truce. I sincerely hoped so, for I was remembering the beauty of Nature and questioning why I had abandoned it for the narrow streets of a soiled city. Having a horse beneath me again made me feel as if the wide world and myself were more akin than separate, and that as much as I remained a poisonous creature, I was related to the contrary being under my legs. Admittedly I had no proper riding habit, which vexed me only marginally less than it vexed Sahjara; still, my plain grey governess’s disguise, when topped with a cape-backed cloak and a cloth cap, suited well enough for the countryside.
I had given Sahjara a Sunday holiday, so I never thought of returning to Highgate House until my letter had been posted and the sun sagged and the skies—of a woollen complexion all day—began dusting me with powdery motes of ice. These were not the fat snowflakes one so loves to see in wintertime but the ground glass which stings one’s skin, and thus I cut across a familiar clearing to take the road home rather than risking the half-obscured thickets.
The daylight was nigh expired, but the moon had risen, and the lane to Highgate House was scarce ever used save by the occupants—so I never considered how foolhardy it was to steer Nalin into a leap over a stunted hedgerow until it was too late.
We landed, a shadow materialised, and Nalin reared as she emitted a shrill neigh.
My own sharp cry echoed hers as I fought to regain control; but when she bucked the second time, I flew through the air and landed with a heavy thud upon the frozen dirt.
Bloody hell, I thought, and then yelled it aloud, and then enunciated several more expressions learnt in London.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
The shadow approached me; its steps blended with the mocking trill of the last birds left awake in the thickets.
Had I possessed a superstitious spirit, I should have been terrified to look, lest the traveller prove a goblin or a ghoul. One of the advantages to being a cold-blooded killer, however, was that I thought nothing in the woods much more dangerous than I was, so I heaved myself onto one elbow, panting with shock and exertion.
“Stay back!” As if lightning had illuminated my peril, I realised the footfalls were a man’s, and I incapable of flight. “I’ve no money, and a knife in my skirts!”