The Dark Between Part 3

Elsie sighed contentedly.

She always felt safe in his arms. Snuggled against the warmth of his body, she hardly felt the small jolts as they moved from step to step on the staircase. When he finally settled her upon the bed, she struggled to open her eyes, fighting the black wave of sleep that threatened to engulf her again. She wanted to thank him before she gave in to the darkness. She wanted to tell him she loved him, to feel his lips on hers. With great effort she opened one eye.

The man standing above her was a stranger-a boy, rather, with light-brown hair and a smattering of freckles over his nose. It wasn't him. He was gone. She sobbed and turned into the pillow.

The dose of Chlorodyne soon swept away her sorrow, replacing it with happier memories of him-chestnut hair ruffled by the breeze, the familiar crooked smile, his expert hand guiding hers as she applied paint to canvas. She was forever attempting to paint the grotto by the lake, the only place she could be alone with him. The only place she was free.

Photography was easier-for her, more natural. She imagined framing the same scene through her camera lens and felt him standing behind her, his chest pressed against her upper back as his hands steadied her own. She heard the shutter click, and her skin p.r.i.c.kled as his fingers stroked the inside of her wrist before moving along her arm, coming to rest at her waist. Warm lips brushed her cheek as she turned to face him....

Chapter 5.

At first Kate had imagined the school's great arch as a battlement to ward off invaders, with Jones the porter acting as sentinel, but it turned out Mr. Thompson actually lived in the forbidding building. She'd barely had a chance to look about when she'd dashed in to get Miss Atherton's bag. Now she let her eyes linger. Having been Mrs. Martineau's prisoner for two years, she was eager to see what sort of house honest people might keep.

With Asher Beale and the old lady attending to Miss Atherton, Kate found herself alone with Mr. Thompson. Mr. Oliver Thompson. She could have kicked herself for being so thick-skulled. Her father's watch had been inscribed TO DEAR FRIEND AND PUPIL F. STANTON FROM O. THOMPSON. Mrs. Martineau had been right after all-the two were great friends. Had Billy known of this connection when he'd asked for her watch? If so, what had he meant to do with it? She regretted not having the watch with her now. It might have proven useful in her wrangling with Thompson.

She studied him out of the corner of her eye. His beard was biblical and his body withered, but his eyes were clear and stern behind the spectacles. He crooked a beckoning finger.

Kate followed him to the doorway of a study stocked with books-more books than she'd ever seen in one room. Leather-bound volumes of various sizes lined the shelves, just visible behind the ones stacked in front of them. Others were piled on the floor. Several more teetered precariously in untidy stacks upon the desk. Covering the books, furniture, and any spare patch of floor were hundreds of papers.

Mr. Thompson cleared a trail to a wide upholstered chair and transferred its contents-more books-to the floor. "My wife is extremely tidy, but she knew I was set in my ways when she married me," he said casually. "She lets me keep this room as I like, and thus I am always s.h.i.+fting books and papers when I have visitors." He gestured at the chair. "Please have a seat."

She had expected him to be pompous and rude, to have it out with her in the foyer, if not the alley behind the building. But he was treating her like a guest.

She didn't like it. Didn't trust it. She must keep her wits about her in the face of such politeness, even if her heart hammered wildly.

He leaned against his desk, not seeming to care that he crumpled a stack of papers and sent books sliding. "Now," he said briskly, "what's this about your lost situation? And what does it have to do with Frederic Stanton?"

She slumped, suddenly at a loss. When she'd imagined this conversation, she'd cast herself as the angry, injured party. How best to launch into her story now?

"I suppose you don't recognize me," she said lamely.

Mr. Thompson leaned forward to peer at her, lifting his spectacles briefly before placing them back on his nose. "There's something familiar about you, but I can't quite place it."

"I was the spirit at Mrs. Martineau's seance Sat.u.r.day night."

His eyes widened. "Ah."

"She sacked me and I have no place to go." Anger roiled anew in her belly. "It's your fault, you see. You interfered, and now I shall have to beg on the streets."

"You have no family?"

"Mum's been dead two years. She never told me of her people."

"And your father?"

"I only just learned he's dead." She took a breath. "My father was Frederic Stanton."

Mr. Thompson went pale and gripped the edge of the desk, a reaction that sent her heart thudding again. Tears scratched behind her eyes, but she couldn't lose her calm in front of this man. Instead she fixed her gaze upon him, willing her heartbeat to slow.

He took a handkerchief out of his pocket to mop his brow. "As far as I knew, Frederic had no children, but there's no denying you have the look of him. Perhaps that's what seemed familiar about you." He thrust the cloth back in his pocket and spoke gently. "Would you please share more details? I confess to being deeply curious."

"My father ... knew ... my mother before he married."

Mr. Thompson grimaced slightly, nodding his understanding. "Go on."

"He thought her too common to wed, or at least that's what she told me. He didn't abandon her, though. He gave her an allowance and paid my tuition at a proper day school. I didn't know him well, but he was kind when I did see him. Three years ago the money stopped and my mother took ill." Kate paused, feeling her face crumple. "Mum died a year later."

A heavy silence followed. Kate wiped her nose on the inside of her sleeve. When she glanced at Mr. Thompson, she saw a glistening in his eyes, and it made her own p.r.i.c.kle again. "I never knew my father had died. Perhaps Mum didn't know, either. Sir, please tell me when it happened."

He did not hesitate. "He died three years ago, on the first of June."

"How?"

Mr. Thompson shook his head. "Oh, it was a terrible thing. A very shocking and mysterious death." He paused, clearly uncomfortable. "I'm certain it was an accident," he finally said. "A tragic accident."

"But I must know."

He stared at the bookcase behind her. "It was an accident, and that is all I shall say. I hate to dwell upon it. He was a great man, a dear friend, and though three years have pa.s.sed I've still not accustomed myself to the loss." His shoulders softened and he turned to her with a smile. "Let us instead discuss your predicament."

Kate straightened her back, prepared for battle. But before she could open her mouth, he spoke again.

"You needn't look so fierce. I wish to help you, especially now that I know you to be the daughter of a dear friend. I am horrified at the very thought of you partic.i.p.ating in a fraud in order to keep fed and housed. You must stay here for a time, at least until Mrs. Thompson and I find a better alternative."

Kate breathed out, the battle fury rus.h.i.+ng from her body along with the air in her lungs. A small voice in the back of her mind advised suspicion. She couldn't trust the people she knew to do right by her, much less strangers. But she was deflated by weariness and worry.

"We shall put you to work, of course," he continued. "Mrs. Thompson does not hold to the notion that ladies should be leisurely." He looked past her, his eyes brightening. "I may have an idea. Stay there, if you would. I must broach this to my wife before I say anything further."

There it is, she thought as he shuffled from the room. I shall be carrying chamber pots and scrubbing floors. But what else could she do? She had no place to go.

Besides that, she knew the man was keeping secrets from her. There was more to the story of her father's death-Thompson's inability to meet her gaze had told her that much. Secrets, once discovered, could prove quite useful. Kate longed to know what Thompson was hiding, and the only way to do that was to stay at Summerfield College.

She would become a little detective herself.

Asher's room was on the top floor of the arched building, known in the college as the Gatehouse. According to Mrs. Thompson, the ground floor was given to the porter's lodge and tutoring rooms. A suite of private rooms for the Thompsons took up the second floor. Above that were lodging rooms for students, and this was where Miss Atherton stayed. It was also where Mrs. Thompson had placed Kate for the time being, though Asher couldn't imagine why they would offer to house that strange, uncivilized creature. His room was on the west side of the very top floor, with a handsome window looking out over the college garden. As most of the Summerfield students had departed for the long holiday, he had the floor to himself. It was cramped and stuffy, but he waved off Mrs. Thompson's apologies and expressed great satisfaction, particularly with the pleasant breeze that ruffled the curtains when he opened the window.

Asher dressed carefully for supper, brus.h.i.+ng his jacket and recombing his hair several times before he felt prepared to face Miss Atherton at the table.

But when he made his way to the sitting room, she was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Thompson greeted him from the settee; next to her Mr. Thompson smiled. Asher raised an eyebrow at the sight of Kate Poole sitting stiffly in a nearby chair, wearing the same undersized dress as before. She stared back at him until he lowered his gaze.

"It's just us four this evening, I'm afraid," said Mrs. Thompson. "Our niece is still sleeping-apparently this often happens when she takes her medication. She was already quite fatigued from her journey here, poor child." She shrugged. "Ordinarily the college is full of students, and they take turns joining us for supper. It's always merry during term. Things are quieter in the summer."

"Of course," Asher said. "I wonder ... has Miss Atherton suffered from this condition all her life?"

Mrs. Thompson's gaze dropped to the hands in her lap. "Since she was a child of twelve, I'm afraid. It's been a severe trial for the family. Her parents are abroad for the next several months, and my sister thought it best that Elsie not attempt such a journey." When she glanced again at Asher, her expression was curiously blank. "That's why she's at Summerfield, and we are very pleased to have her."

She stood then and led them to the dining room, where an apple-cheeked girl named Millie stood ready to serve them. The offerings were merely decent. Asher had been less than impressed by English cuisine since he'd arrived at his uncle's house, and this food continued the tradition, tasting downright inst.i.tutional in its seasoning and preparation. It didn't seem to bother Kate Poole, however, for she attacked each dish with relish.

"I can't tell you how nice it is to have you here, Asher," said Mrs. Thompson. "We count your father among our dearest friends. How is he?"

"He's fine, thank you," Asher replied automatically.

"I do believe you had just begun to toddle last time Harold was in England. He certainly hated to leave you behind." She leaned forward as though to scrutinize him. "Now you must be nearly eighteen?"

"I am seventeen, ma'am."

"Wonderful! So is Elsie. I know the two of you will grow very fond of each other."

Asher fought to keep his expression neutral.

"And how long do you plan to stay in Cambridge, my boy?" Mr. Thompson asked. "We hope it's a good long visit."

The man's eyes twinkled with this remark. Did he know?

"I'm not certain, sir. I'd planned to tour Cambridge and Oxford-and perhaps the Continent, if my uncle's generosity continues. I've come here from his home in Rye, you know."

"But you must be going back to the States in the fall," said Mrs. Thompson. "Your father once wrote to us of your intention to study at Harvard."

They didn't know, then.

"I won't be studying at Harvard this fall. My father and I had a falling-out, and he's packed me off to England for as long as my uncle will have me."

"Oh dear," murmured Mrs. Thompson.

"In fact," Asher continued, "I'd thought I might enroll at one of your universities. Perhaps even Cambridge."

"One does not enroll at Cambridge-or Oxford, for that matter." Mr. Thompson's tone was gentle. "One applies to an individual college, and each college has its own entrance examination."

Asher straightened in his seat. "I'm hardly daunted by entrance exams."

"Nor should you be, my boy, but I'm afraid you've missed your opening for the Michaelmas term-the examinations for next year will be held in December."

Asher winced. "Oh ... I see."

"You might consider this good news, actually. Most young men going up to Cambridge are a bit older than you, and this delay would allow you some seasoning, not to mention plenty of time to be coached in the exam subjects." Mr. Thompson nodded encouragingly. "Please don't take offense at the suggestion-even our top boys at Eton and Harrow need coaching beforehand."

"Of course," Asher said dully. He might have learned all this if he'd explained his plans more fully to his uncle. Now he would have to return to the man's house and trespa.s.s on his hospitality for much longer than he'd intended. His uncle was a very private man, and the house in Rye was too isolated. His father had known exactly what he was doing when he sent Asher to England.

"Harold never mentioned your interest in an English education," Thompson continued. "What subject would you read?"

"Read, sir?"

"He means to ask what subject you wish to study," said Mrs. Thompson quickly. "Americans don't use read the same way we do, Oliver."

Asher swallowed a groan. Lately, every distinguished greybeard he encountered seemed preoccupied with his plans for the future. What would he study, what would he make of himself? His friends were following in their fathers' footsteps, but Asher attributed that to lack of imagination. When he thought of his father and uncle-men who scribbled at their desks for a living-he knew he could not do the same. "I may very well go into law," he finally blurted, having never considered the notion prior to this evening. "I don't wish to be an academic, if you'll pardon my saying so."

Mr. Thompson smiled. "So no interest in experimental psychology?"

"My father's field? Absolutely not." Asher shuddered. "I can't think of anything I'm less likely to do."

Mr. Thompson glanced at his wife before continuing. "Nevertheless, the prospect of your studying at Cambridge pleases me greatly. Your legal training must be done in America, of course, but a thorough study of history or cla.s.sics would provide a solid foundation. I do hope you'll give serious consideration to Trinity College."

The conversation turned to matters concerning Summerfield, and soon it became apparent that it was Mrs. Thompson, not her husband, who was the true princ.i.p.al of the college. At first this amused Asher. What a fearsome number of females living and working without male supervision! But as he listened to her report on the day-to-day running of the inst.i.tution, he grasped the daunting nature of the task, and how capable she must be to undertake it. Her husband was a lecturer, and it seemed that he enjoyed this role and was favored by his students, but Mrs. Thompson was the authority figure of the pair. It didn't take long for Asher to realize that she made the difficult decisions, managed the budget, and enforced the rules.

"Our latest project, and one we must finish before the new term begins, is our move into the new library." Mrs. Thompson's eyes gleamed with pride. "The old library was a single room, filled to the rafters with books. Now we shall have an entire building-and a beautiful one at that-to house our old books and new bequests, with room to spare for growth in the collection."

Asher noticed Mrs. Thompson raising a thoughtful eyebrow at the Poole girl, but Kate was too fixed upon emptying her plate to be aware of it. He had a sinking feeling that in glancing at the girl Mrs. Thompson was considering yet another project. If this proved true, Miss Poole might be vexing him awhile longer.

Asher was free to leave, of course. He'd fulfilled his obligation by calling on the Thompsons, and it wouldn't be difficult to excuse himself from a longer visit and depart in the morning.

And yet ... it would be nice to see Miss Atherton once more, to speak with her when she was feeling better. Surely this was only polite. How could he take his leave without wis.h.i.+ng her well?

Chapter 6.

Elsie woke the next morning to a familiar p.r.i.c.kling sensation. Something flickered at the corner of her eye, but when she turned toward the movement nothing was there. She took her full dose, allowing the Chlorodyne's thick, peppery sweetness to coat her tongue, and waited for the p.r.i.c.kling to subside. When it did, she brushed and pinned her hair, then dressed as quickly as she could with arms that grew heavier by the minute. Finally she made her way down the stairs.

As soon as she saw the strangers sitting at the breakfast table, she remembered.

They know now. They've seen it.

The boy smiled at her from across the table and then looked away. The girl blushed. Of course they were embarra.s.sed to face her after yesterday's horrible display. How silly she'd been! So happy to see new people, young people who knew nothing of her condition. She should have taken more care. But she'd felt better since arriving at Summerfield-lighter, more clearheaded. Their arrival seemed to herald a new start, an opportunity for society rather than grim isolation.

Now she knew nothing had changed.

She greeted her aunt and uncle, adopting a polite smile before taking her seat.

Her aunt broke the silence. "You look very well this morning, Elsie. How do you feel?"

I feel as though four pairs of eyes are boring into me.