Chapter Eight. Secret Confessions

C HAPTER E IGHT

Secret Confessions

THE orangery was situated on the opposite side of the castle from the ruin, set across from an ornamental garden, presumably positioned to better catch the afternoon sun. Though what did one call an orangery that had no oranges? The structure now sat derelict with the surviving flora sheltered by what remained of the glass roof. Vines grew up one side and shrubby plants threatened to take over the remaining soil. Broken glass roof tiles allowed rain in to feed the neglected plants. It seemed Mr. Sharpe’s looted library could not fund the rehabilitation of this part of the estate.

I stepped inside, shoes crunching on the dead leaves that had gathered on the stone floor. “Hello?” I called into the silence, disturbing a handful of sparrows, sending them up to the glass roof before perching on the long-dead branches of a tree.

“Hello?” I called again, creeping past a broken statue of Venus.

“Miss Vaughn?”

I startled, banging my knee on the old iron bench beside me as I turned. Lady Amelia stepped out from a nearby alcove. The girl was dressed all in deep rose with red piping, her golden hair waving stylishly beneath the smart hat she wore. Ruan was right. She did resemble a strawberry tart.

“I didn’t mean to surprise you. I didn’t want to be seen.” Her cheeks flushed a pale pink, clashing with her frock. I glanced around the orangery, wondering who exactly she thought might reveal her presence here.

“I think you’ve accomplished it. I cannot imagine anyone would come out here. This place looks like it’s about to fall in on the both of us.”

She let out a tinkling laugh, which she hid behind a gloved hand. “It’s for the best. My mother would never let me hear the end of it if she knew I’d actually sought you out.”

I placed my hands on my hips, curious about the girl. I’d assumed her a spineless thing, based on how she clung to her mother’s skirts inside the estate. But perhaps she had more backbone than I’d first assumed. “I’m not sure what you think I can do for you.”

She twisted the fingers of her gloves, taking a step closer to me. The scent of her floral perfume thick in the air. “Mother said that the medium killed herself.”

“I’m not sure why you think I’d know anything about it.”

The girl took another step closer. Close enough her skirt brushed against my trousers. I started to take a step back, but my heel struck the wall behind me. I was trapped there, against the stone beside an intricately carved waterspout. The scent of decaying plants and mold burnt my nostrils.

What was this girl after? I didn’t think she meant me any harm, but this was quickly becoming one of the more peculiar encounters of my life. Lady Amelia’s expression shifted again and she flung her hands in exasperation and stepped back in a flurry of emotion. “I am sorry. I am going about this all wrong. Mother says I’m too much of a flibbertigibbet and need to be cautious in my speech but I do not know how to do this any other way.”

I eyed her cautiously, as one would a feral cat who had hopped the garden wall. Her cheeks grew very rosy. “Let me begin again. I…” She puffed up her chest as if about to give a long speech. “I am worried for my mother. She has been behaving most erratically since we arrived here. Before that even.”

Lady Morton? This conversation was getting stranger and stranger. “Erratically how?” I asked, sidestepping away, allowing myself room to breathe. The nervousness of Lady Amelia was contagious. I moved toward the metal bench and took a seat, pulling my knee up beneath my arm and hugging it to my chest.

“We’re here—” She flung her arm wide. “I don’t even know why we are here. Up until last week Mother had been planning to spend the month with my grandfather in Kent. He has an annual hunting party every year. We have never missed it in all my life.”

I frowned, not quite understanding the urgency of this conversation, but I may as well hear the girl out. “Did she tell you why?”

Lady Amelia shook her head. “No. That’s the more peculiar part. At first, I wondered if there wasn’t some matchmaking plan of hers coming all the way to Scotland, but there isn’t a single man between twenty and sixty here unless you count Captain Lennox. I suppose that wouldn’t be an altogether terrible match if that was her intention… He does stand to inherit a title eventually, but he’s old .”

I could have laughed. The girl could do far worse than Andrew Lennox; besides, he wasn’t that much older than I. Possibly a handful of years at most. Though I suppose at seventeen I thought anyone on the far side of twenty was positively ancient.

Suddenly a thought struck me and the humor dried on my tongue. “What happened last week to change your mother’s plans?”

Lady Amelia frowned, little lines forming between her brows. “She received a letter. I remember it clear as day. We were having breakfast talking about the party and Jamison—our butler—came in with the post. She went white as a ghost.”

I caught my lower lip between my teeth and prodded her on. “Do you know what was in the letter?”

“No. She stood and left the room, but not before burning it.”

I swore, smacking my palm on my knee. “Did she say anything else? Do anything strange?”

Lady Amelia shook her head. “The next thing I knew we were packing for a week in Scotland.”

“For the séance?”

“I don’t know. I assume so. Mother doesn’t ask my opinion on things, you see. She tells me what we’re doing and where we’re going and I go…” Her voice trailed off. “You don’t think she’s in danger, do you?”

I caught the inside of my cheek in my teeth. I didn’t know. I’d know a great deal more if I had that letter she’d burnt. Or if I had a clue what the letter contained. Odds were slim of ever finding out as Lady Morton looked at me as if I were a bug beneath a glass. She’d never tell me what was in the missive, and honestly it could have been anything at all. The woman was insufferable. Perhaps she’d gotten the bill from her seamstress or the baker and decided to skip paying it and have a change of scenery instead.

“Why me?” I asked her suddenly.

The girl’s expression dropped from the animated one she’d had only moments before to the shy and skittish creature who often appeared at her mother’s side. “Because I’ve read about you in the papers. They say you’re a lady detective. I think that’s what we need.”

I laughed. For the first time in my life the papers were not casting me in a terrible light. An unconventional one—perhaps—but at least not as a walking scandal. “I’m an antiquarian, Lady Amelia. I deal in old books, not in crimes. What happened in Cornwall was an accident—I certainly don’t mean to make a habit of it.”

She furrowed her brow. “But they’re alike, aren’t they?”

“What are?”

“People and books. They all have stories, tales they want to tell. Some give them up easier than others—but it seems to me they’re the same.”

She had me there. While people were alive, and books were not—there certainly were similarities between the two. Though at times I vastly preferred books to people, as they could be shut and left on a shelf if they grew tiresome. People, on the other hand, had a knack for returning of their own accord.

I plucked at the fabric of my trousers. While I didn’t have firm proof of what was in that missive that she burnt, I could have bet my locket that it had been similar to the one Mr. Owen received. “Keep an eye on your mother. Send your maid around with word if she behaves strangely or if anything seems amiss.”

Lady Amelia blanched. “Then you do think she’s in danger?”

I shook my head, unable to lie. “I do not know, but you need to keep your head down. Don’t go hunting clues, don’t poke around in anything. Leave the matters to the authorities.”

She gave me a bullish look. “Are you leaving matters to the authorities?”

Of course not. I cleared my throat, changing the subject. “Do you know the man your mother asked for at the séance? Arthur McTavish, I think was what she’d said.”

She nodded, wrinkling her delicate nose. “That was the other odd part. Arthur McTavish was my father’s valet from when I was a little girl. He’s been dead ten years. Why would Mama want to speak with him now and not Papa?”

I blew out a breath. That was a very good question indeed.