Page 2 of The Falconer

‘Don’t be silly,’ Catherine says. ‘Besides, I’ve always disliked Miss Stanley. She dipped my hair in an inkpot once during a French lesson.’

‘You haven’t had a French lesson in three years. Goodness, but you can hold a grudge.’

‘Four. My opinion of her has not improved with time.’

She tries to manoeuvre around me, but I’m too quick. In my haste, I bump into the refreshment table. China cups clink together and a few saucers teeter close to the table’s edge. The group of ladies take note and whisper even more.

‘For heaven’s sake!’ Catherine stops. ‘Are you really going to stand here and drink punch while that harridan falsely accuses you of—’

‘Catherine.’

She glares at me. ‘Say something, or I will.’

None of them – including Catherine – realises that the rumour isn’t inaccurate, only understated. I’ve committed murder exactly one hundred and fifty-eight times in twelve months. My tally now grows almost every night.

‘And what would you have me do the next time?’ I ask. ‘Shall I confront everyone who says the same?’

She sniffs. ‘It’s ridiculous, old gossip that’s soon to become stale. People like Miss Stanley refuse to let the topic die because they’ve nothing else to discuss. No one actually believes the horrid rumour.’

I shift from the table then. The Hepburns’ ballroom is crowded with groups of people milling about, enjoying refreshments before the next round of dances begin.

A crystal chandelier hangs in the middle of the room, newly outfitted with electricity since the last time I was here. Floating lanterns drift about just below the ceiling, each glass casing decorated with its own distinct, ornate design. Their inner mechanisms hum as they hover above the crowd. Shadows from the tinted glass play along the floral-patterned wallpaper.

As I study the groups of people in their fine dresses and tailored suits, more than one head swivels in my direction. Their gazes are heavy, judging. I wonder if those who were there for my debut will always see me as I was that night – the blood-soaked girl who couldn’t speak or cry or scream.

I brought misfortune into their tidy, ordered lives, and the mystery of my mother’s death has never been solved. After all, what sort of animal slays as methodically as the one that killed her? What daughter sits next to her mother’s corpse and doesn’t shed a single tear?

I’ve never spoken a word to anyone about what happened that night. Never displayed any outward signs of grief, not even at my mother’s funeral. I simply didn’t respond the way a guiltless girl should have.

‘Come now,’ I murmur. ‘You’ve always been a terrible liar.’

Catherine scowls in the direction of Miss Stanley. ‘They’re just being hateful because they don’t know you.’

She sounds so sure of me, certain that I’m innocent and good. Catherine did know me, once. The way I used to be. Now there is a sole individual alive who truly understands me, who has seen the destructive part of me that I conceal – because he is the one who helped create it.

‘Even your mother suspects me of some involvement and she’s known me since I was a bairn.’

Catherine smirks at me. ‘You do little to improve her opinion of you, what with you disappearing at every assembly she escorts us to.’

‘I have headaches,’ I say.

‘A good lie the first time, but suspicious by the seventh. Perhaps try a different affliction next time?’

She sets down her empty cup. Immediately, the dispenser’s arm picks it up and places it on the conveyer that returns dirty dishes to the kitchen.

‘I’m not lying,’ I insist. ‘The headache forming at my temples right now was caused by Miss Stanley.’

Catherine rolls her eyes.

The orchestra at the back of the room strikes a few practice chords on their fiddles. The strathspey is about to begin, and the dance card that hangs from my wrist is surprisingly full. Aristocrats are nothing if not hypocritical. They have invented a crime and condemned me for it, yet the business of our acquaintance continues uninterrupted. My dowry is a draw many gentlemen won’t ignore.

The result: not an empty spot for a dance, and hours of inane conversation. At least I enjoy the dancing.

‘Your Lord Hamilton is leaving his companions,’ Catherine observes.

Lord Hamilton manoeuvres around a group of ladies near the refreshment tables. A short, stout man about twenty years my senior, Lord Hamilton has a receding hairline and a penchant for cravats of unusual design. He also has an unfortunate habit of patting my wrist – which I suppose is meant to comfort me, but makes me feel all of twelve years old.

‘He’s notmyLord Hamilton,’ I say. ‘Good heavens, he’s old enough to be my father.’ I lean in and whisper, ‘And if he pats my wrist again, I shall surely scream.’

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