A frontal attack seemed best, as the cellar was now kept locked during the day—and should I catch Mr. Thornfield at whatever nocturnal activity he had been indulging in, I could claim to have been frightened of intruders sent by the odious Mr. Sack. At any rate, I did not fear my nominal master’s wrath, for he now showed me every courtesy, including the caustic teasing I had come to relish. Two days I waited; then a long crate was delivered to Highgate House and quickly spirited away.
Tonight, I determined, and after pleading the excuse of a headache, I lay awake and fully dressed with my ears tinnily ringing, so hard did I listen for the faintest whisper of sound. Midnight chimed, then one o’clock; at last, a bit before two, I heard a man’s steady footfalls. As I had done when eavesdropping upon his conversation with Mr. Singh, I waited a few minutes until I knew Mr. Thornfield was fully engaged and then slipped from my bedchamber with a fitfully flickering candle.
When I reached the door to the cellar stairs, again I heard the suggestion of movement below; this was all to the good, however, and—finding it unlatched—I opened it.
Where once only rubble and the columns of the house’s foundations stood, here a polished wooden staircase plunged below the earth. Though I glimpsed wall sconces, they were unlit, and the breath seized in my chest at the thought of my taper going out, for the terrain was now an uncharted one.
Step by step I advanced, careful of the faint echoes of my healed injuries, eyes watering as I peered into the gloom. The noises grew louder—what was he doing, this unexpected love of mine, that he waited for the dead of night and hid below the earth’s surface?
I reached the bottom and stopped, suddenly fearful; a queer, sweet reek like badly mouldering apples coated my throat. Shaking minutely, I turned the door handle.
Several horrible things happened at once.
There had been a lamp lit, for its amber ribbon had lined the threshold, but upon my opening the portal, the room was subsumed in darkness. This would not have been frightening had I not been pretending false confidence when I threw the door wide, which snuffed out my own flame . . . but not before I had glimpsed an unholy tableau. A muffled male curse pierced the black curtain at the same time I emitted a strangled squeak—nothing so dignified as a scream—and dropped my candle entirely.
All was sable midnight surrounding me, and I shared the room with Mr. Thornfield and a naked corpse.
I clutched the doorframe to orient myself. More curses followed, then slow, confident steps, until an arm wound about my waist and an urgent hand caught my shoulder.
“Jane, please—are you hurt, or only frightened? Jane . . . I turned down the lamp to prevent your seeing anything you wish not to, but you’re quite safe.”
When I opened my eyes—for in my insensible startlement I had witlessly shut them—I discerned that I could see after all, as the lamp still held a spark of life, though its ghostly sphere now illuminated only Charles Thornfield’s face, the familiar worried line between his brows, and the edge of a great table like a butcher’s where a carcass lay supine.
“I’m all right,” I managed. “The light gave me a turn when it went out, and . . . the . . .”
The truth was, reader, that—though I had created four corpses—I had never lingered over my accomplishments; this specimen was well past its prime, and the candied egg smell was overwhelming enough to choke me.
“Confound it, Jane, you’ve no business here!” Mr. Thornfield snapped. “I gave explicit orders—”
“I heard noises. Pray don’t be angry, I was thinking of thieves, I—”
“And when you supposed ruthless badmashes had invaded, rather than wake the menfolk—who are, I will take the liberty of reminding you, deucedly clever when it comes to sharp objects—you marched down here to challenge ’em to a duel with a bloody pocketknife?”
My mind was a storm cloud, all static and hurtling thoughts. “I was half sleepwalking. I’m sorry.” I steadied myself and gripped Mr. Thornfield’s forearm, looking down.
This was when I noticed: Charles Thornfield was not wearing his frock coat, and neither was he wearing gloves. My lips parted as I studied his fingers spanning my waist; he retreated now I seemed in no danger of falling, but not before I could see that his hands were positively shocking.
There was not a mark on them. Unscarred wrists, one adorned with a silver cuff, led to subtly veined skin, splitting into slender phalanges with well-shaped knuckles. It felt obscene that I could not drag my gaze from them—as if I had happened upon him naked in a woodland pool and refused to turn my back as he fetched his smallclothes.
“What is it, Jane?”
“Your hands, sir. They’re not scarred.”
“I never said they were.”
I wrenched my eyes up. “You must think me a hateful busybody.”
“You haven’t the vaguest idea what I think of you.”
“Forgive me.” My enterprise now seemed detestable. “I’ll not broach the subject again, I don’t care what you’re—”
“Yes, you do!” he exclaimed, shoving a hand over his high brow. “Damn it, I— If we are apologising, then I apologise for accidentally besetting you with waking nightmares. Now, do you wish to see something of my work, or shall I escort you upstairs?”
“Oh, please, if you will have me, I should prefer to . . . to stay.”