The Dark Between Part 4

Elsie reached for the teapot and poured. She concentrated upon the pot, and her hand did not shake overmuch. "I am feeling a little better this morning, thank you."

"You remember our guests, of course. Asher Beale has agreed to stay with us for a time, and Miss Poole will be helping with our move to the new library."

Aunt Helena was only trying to be pleasant and helpful, so Elsie nodded despite her horror that the two young people would be staying on. "How lovely." As she inclined her head at each of the newcomers, she wondered how long before she caught them staring or heard their cruel whispers. When she took a sip of tea, her hand was not quite so steady as before.

She ate her toast, feeling it scratch her throat as she swallowed but not really tasting it. Her uncle was inquiring about young Mr. Beale's plan for the day. She remembered that the boy had carried her up the stairs and placed her in bed. Had she shamed herself by clinging to him? Her brain was foggy with the dose, but somehow she thought she might have. She looked away from him as he spoke, turning instead to the other stranger. The girl kept her eyes on her plate, not eating the food so much as inhaling it. She was a skinny thing and yet bursting out of the shabby dress she wore.

Elsie took a long swallow of tea and stared through the window at the garden. She was not meant to be at Summerfield, sequestered within its walls among strangers. This was not the place to start over, for the old malady would always be with her.

Nor was she meant to return home to Peverel Place.

A bold thought brought a flutter to her heart. She must find him in London. He had promised he would take care of her. She would find him and together they would lose themselves to London. In such a large city, no one would find them.

Kate hadn't felt full since ... well, since before she could remember. Her belly strained against her lacings-not an entirely comfortable feeling, yet at the same time it was strange and wonderful to have food pressed upon her rather than doled out in minute portions. She'd a.s.sumed the thin bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Thompson were an indication of severe economy in the kitchen, but this was not so. What they could not eat they insisted be taken by the others at the table.

Both Asher Beale and the golden Miss Atherton had frowned and sighed over the food on the sideboard. Perhaps that was the fas.h.i.+onable response to such abundance. If so, Kate would not dream of striving for fas.h.i.+onable status. She would gladly eat until her dress ripped at the seams-a humiliation not far off, given the size of the garment.

It wasn't just the food that made her giddy. It was the small bed in the well-ventilated room-certainly more cozy than the dusty corner of a crowded cottage. It was the hot soak in the large porcelain tub-much preferred to a cold splash in a basin. It was the freedom to wander in the sunlight during the day. Most of all, it was the fact that she would not be hauling chamber pots and scrubbing floors. Instead she would be working with two Summerfield students to move the library collection into its new building. Mrs. Thompson thought the work would take at least two weeks, perhaps longer.

It was a gift. A little breathing s.p.a.ce before she must fend for herself again. For that she was grateful.

But she couldn't let this sudden upswing in fortune derail her from her purpose. She needed a more permanent situation, and instinct told her that a new scheme might reveal itself when she learned more about her father. If nothing else, she would discover whom he'd married and where she lived. She harbored no fantasies of being welcomed into the lady's home and heart. The lady might, however, find her a comfortable situation far away in order to avoid further scandal. And if Kate were to confront her father's widow, she would need to be well armed with information.

What better place to find information than a library?

"Oh no," said Mrs. Thompson, interrupting her thoughts.

Kate looked up to find the woman peering intently at the Cambridge Daily News.

"I warned you not to read the local rag this morning." Mr. Thompson spoke from behind The Times.

"It's just so horrible. I'd prefer not to see Summerfield linked to it in print."

Kate set down her spoon and looked around the table. Miss Atherton had excused herself earlier, and now young Mr. Beale stared at his plate as though deeply pained by the sight of cold eggs. Why didn't he ask about this horrible thing? Didn't he feel a similar sense of dread to hear Mrs. Thompson's exclamations?

"Excuse me, ma'am," Kate finally said. "What is so horrible?"

Mrs. Thompson set the paper down. "Oh, it's nothing to do with us. A few days ago the body of a vagrant was discovered at the Corpus College cricket grounds-quite near here. The police can't even put a name to the poor creature." She shook her head sadly. "He must have wandered over here from Castle Street. One hears of drunkards and beggars congregating in that area."

Kate's spine tingled at the mention of Castle Street. In her mind she saw Billy, his pale, translucent skin turned chalky by death.

"Was it a boy?" she asked.

Mrs. Thompson frowned. "Hmmm?"

"The body." Kate fought to contain her impatience. "Was it a boy?"

"No. It was an elderly man, weakened by drink and hard living." She stared at Kate. "What has you so agitated, Miss Poole?"

"Nothing." Kate's shoulders sank in relief. "I know some boys on Castle End, is all. But they take good care of each other," she said quickly. "They'll be fine, I'm sure."

"I do hope so," said Mrs. Thompson, her eyes troubled.

Once breakfast was cleared, Kate followed Mrs. Thompson to Summerfield Hall, the oldest building in the college. The lady walked briskly, but as Kate was mostly made of legs, she managed to keep pace.

Mrs. Thompson paused before the door of the hall and glanced down at Kate. "I fear your dress may not hold together much longer."

Kate blushed. "When Mrs. Martineau sacked me, she took back the few clothes she'd given me. I came to her in this very dress."

Mrs. Thompson's expression did not change. "I will search out something more suitable later today. I hope you can manage basic sewing, because you'll be hemming tonight."

They entered the former library in Summerfield Hall to find two young ladies scanning the room with forlorn faces. Though not as untidy as Mr. Thompson's study, the room contained shelves of books piled in front of other books, and more piled on the floor. Several opened crates cluttered the remaining floor s.p.a.ce, catching the ladies' skirts as they threaded their way between them.

"Good morning, Miss Freeman and Miss Barrett," Mrs. Thompson said. "I have brought Kate Poole to a.s.sist you with the move." She paused, turning to Kate. "The plan is to organize the books first and then transport them in batches, so as not to re-create this chaos in our new library. The task will involve unpacking the new bequests"-she gestured at the crates-"which will need to be labeled, inventoried, and placed with the previous acquisitions. Miss Freeman and Miss Barrett will show you what to do. I must return to my office to wrestle with the college accounts." She nodded at the three of them and, lifting her skirts high to clear the books, swept out of the room.

Freeman and Barrett were not overly friendly, but as Kate was unaccustomed to warmth, this did not concern her. She spent the morning pulling books from boxes and reading out the t.i.tles so that Freeman could enter them in a ledger. The books then went to Barrett, who marked the spines with letters and numbers. When finished, Barrett then put them in the appropriate stack for later transport.

At midday the two ladies went home to dine-like most students, they did not live in college during the summer holiday-and Kate went to the Gatehouse kitchen for as much mutton stew as she could swallow. The cook beamed to see her appet.i.te, for the summers left her short of eager mouths to feed. Kate decided the only thing that could have improved the meal would have been Billy and Tec sharing it with her, just like the old days in Mrs. Martineau's kitchen.

Was Billy safe at Tec's now? She must contrive a way to visit Castle End without the Thompsons knowing.

She returned to Summerfield Hall before the others, which gave her time to poke about the room. Against the far wall she found the library's collection of bound newspapers, heavy volumes stacked haphazardly. They would take time to sort. With some searching, however, she might locate her father's obituary. Billy had once told her that obituaries provided a gold mine of information to mediums looking to hoodwink their sitters.

And perhaps, Kate thought, with some luck they also might provide useful details to daughters needing to know more about dead fathers.

Chapter 7.

Elsie kept to her room, claiming a headache as excuse for not joining Aunt Helena at the luncheon table. She had much work to do, and it must be done quietly.

First, she retrieved a sober grey dress and fresh underclothes from the wardrobe, all of which she laid out on her traveling trunk for the next morning. Then she pulled her largest drawstring bag from the top drawer. Not much room, but it was all she could allow herself. Everything else must be left behind. One day she might have fine clothes again, when London society recognized his talent, but finery mattered little in comparison to her love for him. For now they could make the most of a simple life.

Elsie opened her jewelry chest and spilled the contents upon the bed. She fished out the sovereigns, along with a crumpled ten-pound note, and placed them in her smaller coin purse. Then she divided the fine jewelry from the paste and cut gla.s.s. The diamond necklace and earrings were gifts from her father, presented on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday. The emerald ring and bracelet were bequests from a favorite great-aunt. She gathered these and a few other valuable items and tied them all within a fine linen handkerchief.

Each piece would have to be sold, but she didn't care.

The coin purse and pouch of jewels went into her bag, along with her necessary toiletries, three clean handkerchiefs, and a spare pair of gloves. She retrieved a sealed bottle of Chlorodyne from her drawer and placed it in the bag. Two bottles remained, but including them would weight her bag overmuch. More could be obtained in London, of course. Elsie had never purchased her own medicine, but she was certain he would know how to procure it.

She stared longingly at the side table, where her camera sat. Though it was compact, it was still too large to fit in her bag. She must travel light-it would not do to leave the house clutching all her favorite things.

But ...

The camera case had a strap, didn't it? She could wear it crossed over her body and still hold her bag. She lifted the strap over her shoulder as an experiment. Yes, she could manage quite well. The familiar feel of the camera at her side only strengthened her resolve.

With everything sorted and tidied away, one problem remained. How could she leave the house without attracting attention? Sneaking out before dawn wouldn't work, for she'd never get past the locks on the iron gate without somehow stealing a key-impossible in a household overseen by Aunt Helena.

The plan required more subtlety than that. And subtle planning was not something at which she excelled.

Elsie took a breath and concentrated, approaching the matter from a different angle. She knew from the servants that a horse-drawn tram carried pa.s.sengers back and forth from the station to Christ's College. She also knew there was an 11:00 train to London, for she'd studied the timetables at King's Cross when changing trains from Ess.e.x. She merely needed to know where and when to catch the tram. The young housemaid-Millie was her name-would be able to tell her and probably wouldn't suspect a thing. She was sweet and rather dim.

The problem of how to leave the house still remained.

Her outing must seem ordinary and innocent. The skinny Poole girl was occupied each day, as was Millie. She couldn't slip away from her aunt or uncle even if they agreed to go out with her. She counted through each member of the household once more. Was anyone left? Only Asher Beale, and he'd be no help at all.

On second thought, however- A knock at the door startled her. She tucked the drawstring bag under the bed and lay back against the pillow.

"Come in."

Her aunt opened the door. In her arms she carried a bundle of material. "How's your head, dear?"

Elsie touched her forehead with the back of her hand. "It's improving, I think."

"Good." Her aunt walked in and sat upon the chair near the bed. She gazed steadily at Elsie before finally clearing her throat.

Here it comes, thought Elsie.

"Your mother didn't explain in detail why you needed to come to Summerfield, but I gather it had something to do with your art tutor."

Elsie looked away.

"You had ... an infatuation with him?"

"I loved him," Elsie whispered after a moment.

"And he returned your affection?"

"Yes."

"Then we must determine one thing if you are to remain here at Summerfield. Is it possible you are with child?"

Elsie blushed, not so much at the boldness of the question but at the memories it evoked. She'd allowed him liberties, and together they'd done wonderful, shameful things that would make her mother faint and her father unlock the gun cabinet. She almost wished she were carrying his child-a link to him that could not fade like memory.

"I am not with child."

"Good."

Elsie risked a glance at her. Aunt Helena did not appear sickened or scornful. Rather, she simply looked relieved ... and oddly hopeful.

"My sister intended your visit to be temporary, but I do urge you to consider staying longer, perhaps as a student of Summerfield College?"

Elsie flushed with embarra.s.sment. "I'm not clever, Aunt."

"Nonsense. You haven't applied yourself. And I've never approved of your father's refusal to give your education the same attention he gave to that of his sons. Such an absurdly outdated att.i.tude toward female intellect."

Elsie sighed. "My episodes unsettle him, I think. After Mother insisted I take the dose, which always makes me slow and sleepy, he just a.s.sumed I was dull-witted."

"That is unfortunate," Aunt Helena said softly.

Elsie hardly knew what to say. She simply didn't care anymore what her father or mother thought. Soon she would be in London, and her parents wouldn't suffer the agonies of their loss very long.

"I didn't mean to upset you, my dear," her aunt said briskly. "I really only stopped by to see how you were feeling, and to show you these." She shook out the material bundled in her arms. One hand held a plain white blouse, the other a brown skirt. "Young Miss Poole's dress is in a terrible state, so I thought we might take in this old skirt and blouse. Do you think they are too plain?"

"The girl is certain to be glad of them."

Aunt Helena nodded thoughtfully and refolded the garments. "Might you have something that would suit her, Elsie? Something a little nicer for evening functions? I don't wish her to feel like a servant. You have many dresses, I know. There must be one you don't favor so much anymore."

"I'm sure I have something, Aunt."

When her aunt closed the door behind her, Elsie glanced at the wardrobe full of dresses she would never see again. Once she was gone, the girl could have them all.

Asher had risen from the breakfast table in low spirits, for his plans had come to nothing. He'd imagined Miss Atherton joining him on his tour of Cambridge-she'd only just arrived herself, hadn't she? Together they could pore over his Baedeker's Great Britain and search out the most revered colleges and historic sites. He'd lain awake half the night plotting it out.

But Miss Atherton had been cold and distant throughout breakfast, rising to excuse herself long before everyone else had finished eating. Asher had stood quickly, banging his knee on the table as he did so. Look at me before you go, he'd thought. Just one glance.

But she'd never turned his way.

The revised plan involved drowning his sorrows at a public house. Asher had even peered into a promising establishment by the river, but its dark, low-ceilinged interior, the air thick with smoke and laughter, made him feel very young and very American. So instead he wandered along King's Parade to Trinity Street.

Having studied his Baedeker's the night before, he recognized King's, Clare, and Caius Colleges. He dutifully admired their handsome facades and garden courts, the ornate chapels with their marble floors and medieval sarcophagi. All this luxury made such a contrast to the Puritan plainness of Harvard.

This had drawn him to Cambridge in the first place-the medieval grandeur of the men's colleges. He'd had no desire to visit Summerfield. An upstart college for spinsterly bluestockings was the furthest thing from his notion of a worthwhile social call, not to mention the fact that a notorious spook chaser resided there.

But his uncle had insisted he pay a visit to Oliver Thompson.

"I don't share my brother's fascination for metaphysical research," Francis Beale had said. "I'd much prefer that phantasms stay in the realm of fiction. However, Oliver Thompson was a Trinity Fellow and remains one of the most learned men I've ever met. Both he and your father would be offended if you did not make yourself known to him while in Cambridge. In fact, Thompson is likely to ask you to stay with him at Summerfield College."

If only that d.a.m.nable Poole girl hadn't ambushed him at the gate, he could have presented his card and left it at that.

He turned back to Baedeker's with a sigh, determined to salvage something worthwhile out of this Cambridge visit. As the morning dragged on, however, he found himself walking past buildings that ordinarily would have made him pause. The medieval walls, gardens, and chapels of each college were blurring together so that he could no longer tell them apart. His senses were overwhelmed, and he was starving.

He purchased a meat pie from a street vendor and sat on a bench near Saint Michael's Church. The pie filled the gnawing void in his stomach, fortifying him to cross the road and take in the grandeur of Trinity College. This was where Oliver Thompson had taken his degree, as had greater minds like Newton and Bacon. Asher stared at the gate for some time, craning his neck to admire the tall, crenellated towers. Above the heavy wooden doors was a statue of the college's founder, Henry VIII. What might one have found in his own town of Cambridge, Ma.s.sachusetts, when King Henry held the throne of England? Meadows and trees?

Nothing so grand as this.

He pa.s.sed through the gate to the Great Court and gaped at its dimensions. As he visited each spot recommended by Baedeker, he paid special attention to the gleaming woodwork in the Tudor chapel, the portraits in the dining hall, and the view of the River Cam from the Wren Library.

He crossed the river, leaving the ornate buildings behind. Beyond the bridge an avenue of linden trees curved over him like the vaulted ceiling of a cathedral. The branches trembled in the breeze, offering fleeting wafts of a heady fragrance. Asher didn't consider himself religious, but in that moment something tugged at his heart-a spiritual ache, if one could call it that.

On either side of the avenue lay a meadow. He veered off the path, avoiding the bees that buzzed through the low-hanging branches, and stepped into the gra.s.s. No one tried to stop him. After several paces he paused, looked around, and sank down. If he lay on his back, no one would see him. He placed his hands behind his head and stared at the clouds. Birds trilled in the trees, but otherwise it was peaceful. One might forget that this wide green s.p.a.ce stood at the center of a busy town.

"This could be mine," he said aloud, closing his eyes.