The Dark Days Club by Alison Goodman
Helen shook her head. “It won’t have the same heft or speed as the miniature. We will use the box.”
With grim resignation, Darby clasped it more firmly. “As you wish, my lady. Are you ready?”
“No, don’t tell me. Just throw it, like he did.”
Drawing back her arm, Darby pitched the box into a high lob that sailed up toward the ceiling and then lazily arced down to Helen. It dropped, unsatisfyingly, into her hand.
Darby clapped. “Well done, my lady.”
“No, not like that.” Helen crossed the carpet and pressed the box back into her maid’s hand. “Throw it at me with all your strength and as fast as you can. When I’m not expecting it.”
“But you are expecting it,” Darby said.
That was true. Helen walked to the other side of the room again. “All right. I shall start dressing for dinner and then, at some point, just throw it at me. As if you mean it.”
It was a most exciting toilette. The first missile came as Darby turned from retrieving a fresh pair of silk stockings from the chest of drawers. Although the vigor behind the throw was still too timid, it caught Helen stepping out of her petticoat. Nevertheless, her hand flew up and caught it mid-arc. After some patient urging, Darby’s next throw was far more energetic. It shot out from behind the door of the clothes press, and Helen found herself leaping up from the dressing table chair, clad in only her fresh chemise and stays. The box slapped into her hand at the top of her ascent, and she added a twist on the downward journey to land facing Darby. It was all fluid reflex, a stretching of muscle and judgment that felt new, but at the same time as if it had always been in her bones.
“Did you see that?”
“I did, my lady. You are like a cat.”
They both laughed.
“Make it more difficult,” Helen urged.
Darby nodded, her gray eyes bright with the challenge. “Watch out, my lady. I will not hold back.”
She was as good as her word: the throws came quick and hard. Some were aimed at Helen’s head, some at her feet, and a few even aimed at her back. And each time, Helen scooped and spun and leaped, catching the box with smooth certainty.
Finally Darby threw a particularly fast and nasty pitch at the back of Helen’s head as she viewed her finished toilette in the mirror. She saw it coming—a blur in the glass—and did not even turn around, using the reflection to judge the right moment to raise her hand and grab the box before its sharp edge slammed into her scalp.
“Oh, my lady, that is . . .” Darby faltered.
“Unusual,” Helen whispered.
“Yes.” Darby nodded vigorously. Helen lowered her hand, the box caged in her fingers, and looked at the reflection of her own wide eyes. How could she do this? It was obviously no freak occurrence—she was able to do it over and over again—yet she had never shown any particular aptitude in the shuttlecock and bat-and-ball games she had played as a child. And even this past Christmas, when Andrew had tossed her a bonbon during a riotous game, she had dropped it. That would not happen now. An uneasy correlation formed in her mind: this new ability and the strange restless energy that had been building within her.
She needed to talk to Lord Carlston. Whatever this was, he seemed to know about it. She gripped the silver box, trying to still the sudden trembling in her hand. Silently, Darby came and adjusted a curl that had come loose, her hand resting against Helen’s shoulder in a brief moment of reassurance. Helen met her eyes in the mirror. Darby’s face had the same mix of wonder and confusion that was in her own. But there was also something else: wariness.
“Don’t mention this to anyone, Darby.”
“I won’t, my lady.”
In the reflection, she saw Darby cross herself.
HELEN AND HER aunt and uncle were engaged to dine at Lord and Lady Heathcote’s that evening—a May Day celebration. Dinner started at the fashionable town hour of eight and, as usual, was a drawn-out affair, made especially tedious for Helen. She’d had the misfortune to be placed between a Mr. Pruit, who insisted on delivering a sermon about the evils of dance, and old Sir Reginald Danely, whose pouchy eyes and tooth-sucking attention were reserved for the meat. Neither gentleman offered any distraction from the turmoil of her thoughts. All she could think of was the miniature and her mother and that feeling of . . . rightness when she had stretched and leaped to catch the box. And every question that she asked herself—How can I do this? Why can I do it? Is there a link to Mother?—seemed to lead back to Lord Carlston. She was sure he had answers. Yet, maddeningly, she had no way of knowing when she would have the chance to demand them from him.
Did she dare write and arrange an encounter? Although only a new acquaintance, he was a distant relative, and she could argue that it was in the realms of propriety: admittedly, the far realms of propriety, considering his reputation. The bold idea made her put down her forkload of salmon. Her aunt and uncle would not accept that argument, nor would they let such a letter leave the house. If she did write, she would have to send it secretly, by Darby or the penny post. She picked up her fork again and took a mouthful of the delicately herbed fish. It would be a big risk: keeping a secret from the servants was almost impossible. She trusted Darby, but her uncle had his own spies, and he would, no doubt, come to hear of it before she had even finished writing the address. Such a transgression would have her packed in a minute and exiled to Lansdale, his country estate, to sit in solitude until he arranged a marriage. The possibility turned the salmon to ash in her mouth. She would have to find another way.
Finally the footmen laid out the dessert course—an extensive selection of pastries and sweets from Gunter’s. From the other end of the table, where her uncle and aunt sat, Helen could hear snatches of a heated debate about the terrible Luddite riots: apparently, more weaving machines had been destroyed in Lancashire, and a factory owner killed. At her end, however, the conversation had dwindled into remarks upon the food and snide gossip, neither of which interested her in the least. That was, until Lady Fellowes mentioned the Ratcliffe Highway murders.
“Have you heard the rumors?” she said to Mr. Beardsley at her side and Lady Dale beyond. “It is said there was another murderer involved in those heinous Ratcliffe killings, and that he is still at large.”
Although the conventions of polite dining dictated that Helen confine herself to those sitting to her left and right, she picked up a peach and, on the pretext of peeling it, focused her attention on the conversation opposite.
“No,” Mr. Beardsley said breathlessly, in a peculiarly girlish manner. “How awful.” He gave an extravagant shudder, hands pressed to either side of his thin powdered face. “I still have nightmares from the descriptions in the papers.”
Mr. Beardsley’s theatricality held no charm for Helen, but she did sympathize with his horror. The reports of the Ratcliffe Highway murders had stayed in her mind as well.
Two innocent families—seven people in all—had been brutally bludgeoned to death in December. One of the victims had been a three-month-old baby, little Timothy Marr, whose head had been nearly severed from his tiny shoulders by a vicious slice to the throat. The description had pierced Helen with a cold understanding: there were monsters in the world, for surely only a monster could kill an infant with such brutality. The Marr family had been drapers, and Mr. and Mrs. Marr, their apprentice, and little Timothy had been killed just after their shop had closed for the night. The newspapers had reported that there had been so much gore that it was impossible to pick a way through the narrow premises without slipping and sliding on the blood. Then, just twelve days later, the Marrs’ neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Williamson, and their servant girl had met the same gruesome fate in their tavern—bludgeoned, throats cut, and Mr. Williamson’s hand all but hacked off. It was not unusual for the papers to report bloody murders, but none had been like this before: savage, motiveless killings of respectable peopl
Lady Dale shook her head. “Do not take any heed of the stories, my dear Mr. Beardsley. It is mere scaremongering by the penny press. John Williams was charged with the murders, and his suicide confirmed his guilt.” She arched an eyebrow at her two companions. “But have you heard the latest? We have our own murderer back amongst us. Lord Carlston has returned.”
At his lordship’s name, Helen’s attention sharpened even more.
“Oh yes,” Mr. Beardsley said, face vivid with the new subject. “So handsome. So séduisant.” He gave another shudder, this time of delight. “Mrs. Delacomb was pushing her daughter at him last night. I swear, she was ready to lay the girl out on a platter for the man. Doesn’t she know what he did to his last wife?”
“Honoria Delacomb would push that bran-faced girl at the Devil if there were a chance he would marry her,” Lady Dale said. “She would think Carlston a fine catch—never mind that slight taint of murder.”
Lady Fellowes sniffed. “Well, I would not give a dog I liked to the man.” She reached for a peach. “Although,” she added, her plump hand hovering over the fruit, “one could argue that Miss Delacomb is very much like a bulldog.” She chose a cream-filled pastry instead.
Mr. Beardsley giggled. “It is a lost cause, anyway. No sign of Lady Carlston was ever found and, by law, a missing person is not deemed dead until seven years have passed. Mrs. Delacomb will find that his lordship is still officially married for another three years, at least.”
Lady Fellowes gave a snort. “Oh, please, I must have the joy of telling Honoria that piece of intelligence.”
Lady Dale allowed a small smile. “I doubt that Miss Delacomb has any of the charms that would tempt a man like Carlston, legally or not.” She took a contemplative sip of red wine. “Nevertheless, there are plenty of girls out there who would, and I, for one, do not like the idea of him moving amongst them. Without his wife’s body found, he may be legally untouchable, but I think we all agree his heart is black with sin. I knew him and dear Elise before all the ugliness, and from what I can see, his sojourn on the Continent has not changed him at all. If anything, he is even more cold and vicious.” Lady Dale shook her head, the false curls on either side of her narrow face bouncing in disapproval. “I could never understand why Elise chose him. She was such a sweet girl, and the dear Duke of Selburn was intent upon her too. Do you remember? It was before the old Duke, his father, died. Selburn was still Viscount Chenwith at the time.”
Helen, who had long finished peeling the peach, looked up at that. She had not known that Selburn had wanted to marry Carlston’s wife. Was that why Andrew—ever loyal to his friend—disliked Carlston so much and would not speak of the family tie, even to his sister?
“I remember that the Duke took a horsewhip to Carlston over it,” Lady Fellowes said. “Such a scandal!”
“Yes, but as I remember it, Carlston took the whip off him and beat the Duke near senseless,” Mr. Beardsley said with another delighted shudder. “Brute of a man.”
Helen gasped; no wonder Andrew wanted naught to do with Lord Carlston. Her soft exclamation caught the attention of Lady Fellowes. The woman’s small eyes fixed glassily on her for a moment, then a nervous lick of her lips announced that she had recalled Helen’s connection to Carlston. With a loud clearing of her throat and a flutter of plump fingers, she said to no one in particular, “What an excellent array of fruit. Don’t you agree?”
THE DINNER BROKE up at around one in the morning, but the carriage ride home was far longer than usual, delayed by the last of the rowdy May Day revelers clogging New Bond Street. Helen’s uncle sent both Philip and Hugo to clear a path for the coach, but even with their commanding height and obvious red livery, it took the footmen twenty minutes to perform the task.
It was nearly two by the time Helen entered her bedchamber. As always, Darby was in the dressing room. She was mending by the light of a candle, but on Helen’s entrance immediately set the linen petticoat aside and rose to curtsy. Small lengths of white thread clung to her brown-checked gown, and she absently brushed at them as she took the night candlestick from Helen and placed it on the dressing table.
“Was it a pleasant evening, my lady?” she asked, gathering the cream shawl from Helen’s shoulders. Three deft folds and it was laid on top of the chest of drawers.
“Uneventful,” Helen said, passing over her reticule. “I was at the dull end of the table.”
She held out her hands for Darby to work the lemon kid gloves from them. As her maid untied the right riband, Helen studied her face for any sign of her earlier wariness. None seemed to be in evidence, yet something was on the girl’s mind. Perhaps she was having second thoughts about their plan.
Darby glanced up. “Was the food delicious, my lady?”
Helen nodded. Darby always liked to hear about the dishes that had been served. “There was a good plate of new season asparagus dressed in almond butter, and a chine of well-roasted spring lamb.” She stretched out her fingers as the second glove was pulled off. “And the desserts were from Gunter’s. I had ice cream and a rather wonderful tartlet with strawberries on top.”
“Ice cream!” Darby gave a soft grunt of appreciation. “What flavor was it?”
“Raspberry.”
“Yet it is not even the season,” she marveled. “Did it taste very much like the fruit?”
“Exactly like it.” Helen watched her stow the gloves in the top drawer. “Tell me, Darby, are you still willing to open Berta’s box with me?”
Surprise wiped the late-night fatigue from the girl’s face. “Of course, my lady. What makes you think I would not?”
“I think my ability to catch things has unsettled you.” Helen quirked her mouth to show she shared the disquiet.
Darby picked up the folded shawl, smoothing it. “I must admit it has occupied my thoughts all evening. Forgive me for saying so, but what your ladyship did was not natural. It made me wonder what or who was behind such a strange gift. But I know you are a good person, so I trust that if it has purpose or meaning, then it is from the hand of God and not the Great Deceiver.”
Helen stared at her maid. The hand of God? What a startling thought. “That is quite a pronouncement.”
Darby met her gaze squarely. “Yes, it is.” She bent to open a lower drawer.
A sudden fear caught Helen. What if Darby’s trust was misplaced? What if the extra energy and sudden dexterity were, in fact, the work of the Devil? Perhaps her uncle was right: she was destined to descend into her mother’s unholy ways.
No, she was not like her mother. Admittedly, she also fell short of her uncle’s ideal of female virtue—it was so hard to be that irreproachable mix of innocence, modesty, and unquestioning obedience—but such a failure did not make her an instrument of Hell. After all, she went to church and took Communion every week. If she were an instrument of Hell, surely she would not be able to accept the Host. At the very first touch of sanctified wine or bread, she would have dissolved into flames and howls and sparks of sulfur.
Helen wrapped her arms around herself, the relief of such logic resolving into the amusing image of their vicar dousing her infernal flames. Reverend Haley was a neat man: he would be greatly irritated by such an untidy show of fiendishness. Yet even that diverting vision could not quite shake the new anxiety that burrowed into her mind like a wasp into a beehive. If anyone had lost grace and become an instrument of He
Darby saved her from that unhappy line of thought by withdrawing a thin, flat length of metal from the bottom drawer. She held it up. “For the box, my lady.”
A hoof rasp—what a clever thought. “Well done, Darby. That should do the job.”
“I went down to the mews straight after you left and took it when the groom wasn’t looking,” Darby said. “See, I was always intending to go with you.” She offered the rasp, an expectant look on her face.
Helen took the file and held it up. Although it tapered at the end, it seemed rather thick. “Are you sure it will fit in between the lid and the base?”
Darby exhaled, her hand flat against her heart. “Oh, my lady, what a relief. You are not possessed.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The rasp is iron, and those of the demon and faery worlds cannot abide iron. It burns them if they touch it.” She smiled broadly at Helen. “I am very glad it has not burned you.”
Helen contemplated the cold metal in her hand—trial by iron—and gave a small hollow laugh. “What would you have done if it had?”
Darby shrugged. “I had not got that far. I was sure it would not, my lady.”
Helen handed back the rasp. “I appreciate the confidence.” It was an absurd country superstition, yet she could not help gathering a little comfort from it. It did not, however, quite dispel all her doubt. She crossed the room, trying to walk the unease from her mind and body. “We will wait until the house retires, and then make our way down to the housekeeper’s room.”
And so they waited. Darby picked up her mending again. Helen settled on the chaise longue and turned her mind firmly away from the awful possibility of being an instrument of Hell. Or Heaven, for that matter. Instead she tried to concentrate on a plan to meet Lord Carlston—perhaps he rode Rotten Row, and she could happen upon him during the promenade hours—and at the same time listen for signs that the household had finally gone to bed. She heard the soft tread of one of the housemaids climbing the stairs to the garret, and a little later, the sound of Barnett checking the ground-floor doors and shutters. After that, the house seemed to settle into itself. Eventually even the street noise died down into the occasional rumble of a late-returning carriage.