Page 13 of Court of Shadows
“You seem like a sensible girl,” she said, curling a thoughtful knuckle under her chin. “Lottie never wants to give me advice. She thinks it’s improper for a lady’s maid to weigh in on the comings and goings of her better. But I think she’s a bit of a dullard.”
I was admiring Lottie more and more. It was tempting to claim that I was also dim-witted, but part of me wondered what exactly Amelia had done to land at Coldthistle House. Just being rich and terrible was not crime enough, surely.
“I believe I am quite sensible, aye,” I said carefully.
Amelia sighed and leaned against the window, resting her forehead on the glass. She traced a heart shape over the paneand gazed wistfully at the forest. “Do you think God forgives sin if it’s done in the name of true love?”
I blinked at her for a moment.
Obviously not, considering where you are.
“I... think it would depend on the nature of the sin,” I told her.
Nodding, Amelia shut her eyes and then turned them toward her feet. Then she softly murmured, “Lying?”
“That could be forgiven, I’m sure.”
“Stealing?” she asked.
“Stealing is not all that bad,” I said. That one I meant, as I had done my share of thievery at that very house. Then I remembered that I was to act as her lady’s maid, and she would not want a known thief rummaging through her possessions. “At least, it’s wrong, of course, but I... I can see that being a forgivable sin if love hung in the balance.”
She nodded again, and in a voice so quiet I almost missed it, she whispered, “And murder?”
Now we were getting somewhere.
I was about to answer her, but she put up a perfumed hand, shushing me. Her eyes blazed, and it was as if a different person were staring out at me, not a dainty girl obsessed with bonnets and red blankets, but a crueler creature who had seen and done as much or more as I.
“Aye, you heard me, Louisa, but I will not say it again. And Ibelieve you know of what I speak, for I was not always wealthy and as you see me now, but I knew the sting of hunger and destitution. But I wanted my dear Mason and now I have him, and I would have done anything in the world to lift myself out of that old and ugly life and live in comfort with my true love.”
To that I gave a single nod, deciding it would be better to be her confidante. Clearly I had underestimated Amelia, though now I saw the truth in her eyes.
“Of course you understand,” she added, the fire in her gaze lingering. “When I was small I would see the ladies in their fine carriages go by and I told myself: one day that will be me. Whatever it requires, whatever sacrifice I must make, it will be me. And now you are meeting me, Louisa, and perhaps you will leave this chamber and say to yourself: one day I will have what she has.”
Again, I tried to speak, but Amelia would not allow it.
“No, no, there is no shame in thinking so. Girls like simple Lottie are not like us. She is content to be told she has nothing and she will do nothing about it.” With a flounce, Amelia turned away from the window and trailed toward her bed, sinking down onto it heavily. “Listen to me! Chattering on and on.... And why? I cannot say. But I feel I can trust you, Louisa. Is that so? Can I trust you?”
“Oh, you can spill your secrets to me, miss,” I said with a curtsy. But my mind was only half there. Amelia’s rant hadgiven me an idea, and the sooner I could leave her presence, the sooner I could act upon it. “I am a solitary creature and speak to no one. It’s a lonely place, Coldthistle House, and often silence and secrets are my only company.”
Chapter Nine
The warm, close mustiness of the library was a comfort after Amelia’s endless twaddle. Over many months I had managed to put the place in some kind of order, sweeping the dunes of dust away and shelving the books that had collected on the floor in toppling towers. Nobody had seen me tiptoe down the hall and into the room. Lee was no doubt playing valet to Mason Breen; what Poppy and Chijioke were plotting I could only guess.
I cleared a spot in the back of the library near the windows and behind a row of shelves. If anyone wandered by, they would not see me shirking my chores. Leaving the mysterious letter on the windowsill, I began searching among the rows and rows of books for something useful. Mr. Morningside—or so I assumed, for I could not even imagine what Mrs. Haylam might read in her spare time—had amassed a collection of dramas and romances. I smirked and kept searching, fingers brushing across dozens of love stories. When I had still been at Pitney, it was a common fantasy to think a wealthy, available bachelor was waiting out there somewhere. Those vague notions were for the prettier girls, who had at least a minuscule chance of landing a solid match, one that would at least provide them shelter and his modest income. A vicar, perhaps, or a soldier.
I had never entertained any such dreams, though I had toadmire Amelia’s certainty that whatever grave sin she had committed to win Breen and climb fortune’s ladder was worth it. And here I had a chance to do so by simply reading a letter.
Simply. There was a barrier, of course, to understanding the contents of the note. My parents had taught me snippets of Gaelic as a child, but only as far as it was needed for songs and fairy tales. But I had been taught languages at Pitney, and if I could just find a suitable translation guide, or even side-by-side comparisons of English to Gaelic, I might stand a chance of deciphering the letter.
After all, it was mine. Why shouldn’t I read it? Anyone would be curious, and now the bait of a new and better life hung there, just ahead and above me, shining like a brass ring.
Something in that library would help me reach up and take it. Or so I thought. And hope remained for the first hour of searching, but waned as I slumped into the second. I would soon be missed. Nuncheon was approaching, and if I did not appear in the kitchens to help serve, then Mrs. Haylam would come looking. Nothing about her mood that morning made me want to cross her, and so I glanced through book after book. Each promising book contained nothing but translations without a single passage of Gaelic for comparison. Some, those with titles all in Gaelic that made the fires of hope burn a little brighter each time I glimpsed them, were unintelligible from cover to cover. I was accomplishing nothing other than creating a mess for myself that I would soon need to tidy.
At last, I spied a book with a green cover on the bookshelves nearest to the door. The spine was decorated with gold leaves, and readDagda, The Warriorand just next to that,Dagda, An Laoch. This could contain the side-by-side comparison I might use as a base of knowledge. Breathlessly, I scurried back to my hiding place, crawling into the windowsill and tucking up my knees. Cracking the cover, I flipped through the first few pages, feeling a hot, prickling sensation climb from my chest to my neck and higher. Useless. The book was useless. Another full English translation with little to help me.
That book, perhaps the thirtieth I had found and discarded, made something come loose inside me. Furious, I let out a cry of frustration and hurled the book across the room. It landed with a dull thud in the corner. Nobody came running. I was alone and foolish, red and sweating with anger. I picked up the letter and tore open the seal, cursing at it as I took it in both hands and began to tear, enraged, ripping it cleanly down the middle.
And then I stopped.
