A Dreadful Splendor (7)
The jostling motion of the carriage had been rattling my bones with each mile for the last hour. At first, I enjoyed watching the dirty smokestacks of the city slowly fade into wide pastures. But as the sun set and darkness descended, the window eventually offered nothing but a reflection of my own face. It seemed like the coach could drive right off the edge of the earth and into the night sky.
Rain began to tap on the roof so heavily it startled Mr. Lockhart awake. He righted himself from his slumped position. “My apologies, Miss Timmons,” he said, checking his watch again. “I’ve been a terrible host, haven’t I?”
“I thought you were my lawyer,” I said, trying not to let my eyes linger too long on the gold chain attached to the watch.
He chuckled dryly, but it collapsed into a cough. He pressed a handkerchief to his lips. “You’re all business, I see. Very good. And since we’re closing in on our destination, I’ll tell you exactly why you’re so desperately needed at Somerset. My lord, Mr. Pemberton, is a most honorable man. Wretchedly, though, he was widowed six months ago.” His shoulders hunched as his voice took on a melancholy tone. “His bride was young, beautiful, and in love. He’s never gotten over the tragedy. Every month he writes a letter to the police, which I then make the journey to deliver in person, and personally beg for them to reopen the coroner’s enquiry.”
“Enquiry? How did she die?”
His face blanched. “Her death was peculiar in circumstance, but the evidence left behind was conclusive. Suicide.”
I had not anticipated that. If a coroner had concluded suicide, I didn’t see what bribing the police would accomplish. “I take it Lord Pemberton is convinced otherwise.”
His lips pursed in confusion. Then an apologetic expression softened his features. “No, my dear. Pemberton is his surname, but since inheriting the title of earl, he is now Lord Chadwick.” He sagged against the seat. “Suffice to say, Somerest Park has seen its share of tragedy. Regardless, his grief over this latest calamity has made him inconsolable and obsessed. He refuses to let her rest and therefore has sentenced himself to an early grave for all the life it’s draining from him.”
I nodded. Inconsolable grief was something I understood.
Mr. Lockhart continued, “My lord will not let his grief subside until he knows his dearly departed love is at peace. I want you to use whatever talents and trickery you possess to give him the closure he craves and end his suffering.”
He phrased it romantically, like this task would be a kindness. But I needed to be certain. “You want me to perform a fake séance to convince your lord I’ve contacted his dead bride beyond the grave?”
“And in return I’ll represent you in court.” He spoke with such simple conviction, almost unrealistically so. Constable Rigby’s smile pulled at the hairs on the back of my neck.
“It’s rather deceitful,” I replied. “Surely, there must be a less elaborate way to ease his pain.”
He touched his beard. “My anguish is authentic, Miss Timmons. I’m ill, very much so. I only wish to help my lord find peace before I part from this world.” His eyes pleaded with me, brimming with a genuine misery I wasn’t expecting. I felt a spasm of guilt for considering hurting him with his own cane.
The carriage took a sharp turn as something brushed against the outside of the window.
“We must have turned down the drive,” Mr. Lockhart said, squinting into the darkness. There was a nervous hitch to his voice. “One last thing before—”
He was interrupted by a deafening clap of thunder, followed by a deluge of rain that stomped against the carriage’s roof like a million boots. I imagined the driver was soaked to the skin.
At last, we came to a halt. I cupped my face and pressed it against the window, but the night afforded no hints of what lay outside.
Mr. Lockhart’s expression was grave. “No matter what you hear or see at Somerset, you must remember, you are the only person capable of giving my lord the one thing money cannot buy him—peace.”
Before I could ask him to elaborate, the door of the carriage opened, bringing in a torrent of water. A footman stood before me, shivering as he held out an umbrella. Another clap of thunder shook the ground. I stepped into a puddle, feeling the water soak through the worn heels of my boots.
I blindly walked forward, head down to shield my eyes from the wind. A gust caught the umbrella, whipping it back just as a bolt of lightning illuminated the scene before me. For a moment I thought it might have been a trick, but then a second flash brought the colossal estate into view once more. One set of eyes could hardly take in the entire building at once. The front fa?ade had more windows than I could count. A pair of stone lions flanked wide palatial steps that led to a massive front door, open and ready to swallow us whole, carriage included.
Mr. Lockhart and I were ushered inside by the soaked footman.
A gentleman in finery greeted us with a slight bow. The entrance hall was larger than Miss Crane’s entire parlour. My attention jumped from vase to statue to gilded artwork. Was this a museum or a home? I hugged my bag against my chest for fear that I’d turn and knock over a priceless work of art. Farther inside, a staircase extended upward, the newel post carved in the likeness of an angel.
The man whom I assumed was the butler took Mr. Lockhart’s coat and hat, addressing him by name. “Your message arrived an hour ago. His lordship awaits you in the study.” He motioned to a doorway over his shoulder.