Page 75 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“By going back to where the Lethingtons lived, I reckon. Jason would have to have left some traces of himself behind,something to link him more definitely to the man we know as Armande de LeCroix.”
“And when we have the proof that he is Jason, what then?”
Gilly didn’t answer her, but he didn’t have to. Phaedra’s eyes locked with his and saw her own misery reflected there. She wanted to frame one last plea, beg Gilly to give up the pursuit. But she no longer could do so. For Armande’s sake as well, the truth had to be revealed.
She couldn’t believe that her Armande had cut down Hester Searle. But if her lover kept on down the dark road he now traveled, she feared it could lead to madness, the loss of his very soul.
Phaedra bowed her head, silently giving assent to Gilly’s proposal, all the while struggling with her own despair and fear. Seven years ago, Ewan’s vile father Lord Carleton had begun the destruction of the Lethington family. She prayed with all her heart she would not be the one who finished it.
Seventeen
The cottage stood alone, far removed from the other buildings that nestled together in the small village of Hampstead. A thick blanket of ivy crept up the walls, all but obscuring the whitewashed stone, giving the isolated structure the appearance of some outcast seeking to hide misery and shame beneath a heavy veil.
The house appeared deserted in the gathering dusk, the mullioned windows glinting like dark, unwelcoming eyes. Drawing deeper into the folds of her cloak, Phaedra shrank closer to Gilly. The soles of her feet felt worn to the bone after so long a day. They had slipped from the Heath at dawn’s first light, and now it was evening. She had taken great care to avoid Armande, knowing one glimpse of her eyes would reveal to him that she was once more working against him.
She had carried away with her a burden of guilt, weighting her heart with the despairing reluctance of a woman being dragged to the dock to bear witness against her own lover. Trudging along in Gilly’s wake, she had listened while he made inquiries about Jason Lethington, starting at the trinket shop in Oxford Street where Phaedra had spied the candlesticks fashioned by Julianna and had first heard the Lethingtons’tragic story. The little shopkeeper had been as eager as ever to sell Phaedra something “wonderful charming.” Although disappointed to discover that information was all she and Gilly wanted, the merchant had willingly obliged. He had furnished them with the address at which the Lethington manufactory had once stood.
Traveling to that part of London, she and Gilly had discovered the Lethington shop taken over by a confectioner; the chambers where Julianna had once done her designing were now occupied by the confectioner’s burgeoning family. None of these good folk had ever heard of Lethingtons nor showed the slightest interest in their fate. Phaedra had been more than willing to abandon the search at that point, but Gilly had insisted on making enquiries amongst the neighboring shops. They had at last discovered a milliner who was able to help them.
Aye, indeed, she did remember the Lethingtons, the elderly woman had said with a sigh. Such a tragedy. No, she had no idea what had become of Mrs. Lethington or Jason after James’s execution, but she recommended that Phaedra and Gilly visit Hampstead. An old doctor lived there who had been a close friend of the family, having none of his own. If anyone knew where Jason Lethington might be found, it would surely be Dr. Glencoe.
Thus their weary search had brought them at last to the outskirts of Hampstead by this lonely dwelling place. But as Phaedra studied the cottage’s heavy oak door and gloom-enshrouded walls, she shook her head.
“Gilly, this cannot be the right place.” She glanced anxiously up at her cousin. Gilly’s mouth was pulled down at the corners with weariness.
“It has to be, Fae. The vicar was most specific in his directions.”
Aye, she thought, when the impatient young man had been able to spare them a few moments from his Bible and quill pen. Upon entering Hampstead, they had stopped at the vicarage as the most likely place to gain directions to Dr. Glencoe’s dwelling. Although the clergyman had made quite clear his opinion of being disturbed by visitors in the midst of his sermon-writing, he had, in the end, grudgingly pointed out the way.
But despite the irritated vicar’s information, Phaedra continued to look askance at the cottage. As Gilly took her by the elbow, steering her forward, she attempted to hang back.
“I cannot believe anyone lives here,” she said. “Not even an elderly doctor. The cottage looks utterly abandoned.”
But as if to belie her words, a shadowy figure moved behind one of the curtains and set a candle in the window. Phaedra had to swallow her objections and continue on. The light provided no welcoming beacon but only added to the house’s aura of melancholy.
With each step she took, the more of an interloper she felt.
When Gilly raised his fist to knock, she made one last effort to stay his hand.
“Gilly, I am so tired. Maybe we could come back tomorrow. The doctor is likely to be at his supper and as displeased as the vicar was to have strangers come calling.”
Gilly’s arm encircled her shoulders. “I am weary as you, Fae. But this is the first good information we’ve had all day. If Dr. Glencoe was such an intimate friend of the Lethington family, he will be the one most likely to have the proof we seek to link Armande with Jason Lethington.”
The proof she was seeking, yet hoping not to find. No more questions, she had promised Armande, that magic sunlit day by the pond, wanting him both to love and trust her. But it was a promise she had already betrayed past all hope of forgiveness.
She made no further demur, allowing Gilly to hammer upon the oak portal. “What are we going to say to this doctor?” she asked, fidgeting nervously with the clasp of her cloak.
“You just leave that to me,” Gilly said.
The door inched open, allowing a streak of light to escape. She caught a glimpse of gray curls tumbled from beneath a lacy cap, but no more gray than the eyes that peered out at them.
“What do you want?” a brusque feminine voice inquired. Gilly flashed his most ingratiating smile, but Phaedra doubted the woman could see much of it in the growing darkness. “We wish to see the doctor, my good woman.”
The oak barrier shifted enough to permit a hand to emerge holding an oil lamp. The woman directed the glow toward them. Phaedra flung back her hood and shifted her cloak so that the woman might better remark the quality of her garments and be assured she and Gilly were not some wandering vagrants.
The woman asked, “The young lady is ill, then?”
Aye, Phaedra nearly assented, but her sickness was of the heart, well past any doctor’s curing. She kept silent, leaving it to Gilly to reply.
