Shana Abe - The Deepest Night

“I understand you’re leaving us soon.”

“Uh … yes. I’m afraid so.”

Sophia reclined sideways along the settee against the windows, ankles crossed, one arm slung over the top. She looked like she was posing for a painting.

“Accompanying Lottie Clayworth to Tewkesbury?”

“That’s right.”

“To help with her sick cousin Gracie.”

There. A jade brocade number. That would do. I grabbed it, shook it out with both hands.

“Not sure how much help I’ll actually be,” I said, working at its buttons. “But when she asked, I thought it was the least I could do.”

“How generous of you.” Something in her tone warned me at last; I glanced up, and she gave her sly cat’s smile. “But, say, here’s a quandary, Eleanore. Charlotte Clayworth doesn’t have any living cousins. Not a single one.”

Damn.

I returned to the buttons, nonchalant. “I don’t think that’s right. She was very specific about it. Perhaps she meant a second cousin, something like that.”

“I’ve known the Clayworths my whole life. There was a Gracie, as it happens, but it turns out she died about forty years ago.”

Damn, damn.

I took a breath. “Perhaps this is—”

“I looked it up in Standish’s Peerage of the Empire to be sure. Lottie is the last of her line. And since she’s going on and on about her dear cousin and dear Miss Jones who’s going to help her, and what a relief it will be not to have to travel alone, I find myself pondering what, exactly, is going on. Are you thinking of robbing her?”

My jaw dropped. “What did you just say?”

“Because as much as I find her a stuffy bore, she’s ancient and obviously potty and I can’t allow it.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” So openly. “Grant me some bloody credit.”

“I’d be glad to.” She abandoned her pose to sit up, regarding me with flinty eyes; the metallic lace sparkled and bit into her skin. “If you tell me what’s really going on.”

“She told me she needed help with her cousin!”

“And I told you she doesn’t have one.”

I was desperate; I darkened my voice. “Yes, she does.”

“No—”

I let loose my gown and grasped both of her hands in mine, holding hard. “Yes, she does. She does, Sophia.” I made a decision. Trying to fool her with my voice hadn’t worked—I might have known it wouldn’t—but I needed her cooperation. I chose my next words carefully. “And Armand will be gone, too. And we are absolutely not going somewhere together for the next few weeks. Do you understand?”

She pulled her hands free.

“Is that it?”

“Yes. That’s it.”

“An elopement?”

I felt the blush climbing up my neck. “No.”

Her head tipped; she looked at me coldly. “That’s too bad. Eloping with him would likely send Chloe around the bend.”

“You can’t tell her. You can’t tell anyone.”

She stood in a swish of satin, walking past me to examine the mess of my things upon the bed. “Aren’t you the most cunning little fraud? We’re just friends, Sophia! Really, truly, honest-to-golly-goody-good-goodness! What a lot of tosh.” She picked up one of my garters, pinching it between two fingers, then let it fall. “You very nearly convinced me. Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, would it?”

“Well …” I struggled to think of an explanation that wouldn’t sound too blatantly false. “You can imagine how it went. Secret trysts, forbidden love. You yourself called it the definition of rebellion, remember? The last thing I needed was for Westcliffe to catch me upsetting her lovely applecart of rules. We weren’t sure whom to trust.”

“I believe my feelings are hurt.”

Like hell they were. “Sorry.”

“How on earth did you manage to induce Lottie to have anything to do with this?”

“It—it turns out she’s more romantic than she lets on.”

Sophia released a throaty laugh. “No, she isn’t.”

“You’re right.” The lies were flowing more smoothly now. “Armand is paying her. I guess her funds are short or something. She agreed to cash quick enough.”

“Now, that sounds like the truth. How very sordid!”

“Sophia, you can’t, can’t tell. Think of the shame poor Lottie’d feel.”

She raked her nails across the covers, then sighed. “Fine. I’ll keep your secret. But you owe me. You and Mandy both.”

“Fine!”

She pushed off the bed and walked to the door. “Tell him to buy you some baubles to go with those frocks. You look naked without them.”

“He didn’t buy—”

She sent me a steely, testing look.

“Right,” I said. “Good idea.”

“Have a nice holiday, Miss Jones. I will be collecting on your debt to me when you get back. Don’t forget.”

I stood there with the jade gown a wrinkled spill at my feet, hearing the dinner gong sound from stories below.

Don’t forget.

Bugger me. As if I could.

Even though the rain descended upon us in a powerful, steady pour, the train station bustled with people. Tranquility’s chauffeur had unloaded our trunks to join the stack beneath the platform awning, but I’d dismissed him before he could hail a porter. I had no desire to lose what few belongings I had to the train to Tewkesbury.

I reached from beneath my umbrella to hand him a pound note and got a cheerful, “Gor’bless, miss!” and a tip of his sodden cap before he left us.

“These three, not that one,” I instructed the porter who approached, likely drawn to Lady Clayworth’s evident wealth, if not her damp glower.

“I do so hate to travel.” She grimaced at all the people splashing past. “Such a bother, all the mud and cinders and the hoi polloi. How does any civilized person abide it?”

“Lottie,” I said loudly, and she faced me. I summoned my dragon voice. “You’re going home now, my lady. You are happy about that. You’re relieved. You can’t wait to get there, and once you’re there, you will feel nothing but contentment.”

“Ah,” she said, her grimace fading.

“You will forget about Gracie and her illness. You will forget my name and my face. Everything now is wholly agreeable, even the rain. In fact, you feel a deep, unshakable joy.”

“How marvelous,” she said, and looked around at the hectic people, the shiny-wet train gushing its smoke, her eyes bright.

“Should anyone at home inquire why you’ve returned, you will tell them you missed Tewkesbury too much to stay away. You’ve missed your friends and servants and the familiar sights of home.”

“Even the ghosts?” she inquired matter-of-factly.

“Er … yes. Even them.”

She gave a nod. “We have so many of them, you know. Oh, that reminds me! She said to tell you good luck. And to thank you for saving her sons.”

My mouth opened, but no sound came out. A corpulent man in an oilskin coat bumped into me without apology, sending me staggering. My umbrella dumped streamers of rain down the side of my skirt. “Who—who said that?”

“Reginald’s wife. Wispy thing. Looks rather like you, doesn’t she? Anyway, I’ve told you, so my duty’s done.”

“Yes.” I gave a small cough. The train let out a whistle, and the porters were calling for stragglers. “Yes, just so. You’re done.”

“Last call!” hollered the steward by the first-class doors.

“Time to go.” I aimed her toward the steps. “Be well, my lady.”

But she was no longer listening. She was boarding the train, looking forward to her future, and I was forgotten, reduced to something even less than a rain-fogged memory. I was a ghost, too.

Armand found me about two hours later.

I was seated on one of the filigreed iron benches lining the platform, snacking on cold fish and chips that I’d bought from a vendor disembarking from the last train.

My feet were propped straight out upon my case, soles to the world. My lips and fingers were smeared with grease and my hat was a soggy ruin, since I’d run out into the storm to stop the vendor without my umbrella. Men of all stations clipped by me without a second glance; respectable matrons, however, had been giving me the evil eye for the past half hour. I was dressed too nicely now to pass for a beggar, so I must have been instead a single young woman of questionable upbringing.

But the battered, vinegary fish was delicious, and the chips even better. I’d eat them every day if I could.

People had been coming and going. I scarcely noticed when a new someone sat on the bench beside me, until he reached for my chips.

“I haven’t had these in ages,” Armand said, taking a bite. “Not since Eton.”

“Leave off. These are mine.”

“Ages,” he said again, and reached for another. I held the cone of oily rolled newspaper out of his reach.

He laughed. “I’ll buy you more.”

“The vendor’s gone.”

“Lora, I’m going to buy us both supper. A huge one. Here in town.”

I lowered my arm, and he ate all the rest. Then he stood, whisking the crumbs from his coat. His hat and shoulders were sprinkled with raindrops; his smile was altogether rakish.

“Come on. The auto’s in the lot, the pubs are open, and I’m starving.”

He’d meant it when he said it’d be a huge meal. It was.

I’d never dined in a pub before. As far as I recalled, I’d never dined in any manner of public place, but if they were all like this one, I’d gladly return.

Everything was dim and smoky and loud and smelling pleasingly of cider and ale. The tables were worn smooth, their deep coffee-colored varnish marked with paler rings upon rings, proof of generations of sweating drinks. I didn’t even mind the electrical lights, since they were mostly over the bar. Our table was lit by a single drippy candle stuck to saucer that had a series of nicks along its rim.