Wherein the Clues Are Trebled
The usual tangle of half-packed bags, forgotten items, and prolonged good-byes delayed the travelers the following morning, and it was almost noon before they finally set off in Lady Irving’s carriage. Lizzie and Jory, the servants, preceded them in the Rutherfords’ hired carriage with the array of trunks.
Audrina was not prepared for the damage a week of difficult weather could wreak on Yorkshire roads. Absent was the macadam of London, the punctilious care to smooth any path on which wealthy feet might walk. The drive back to the Goat and Gauntlet took hours longer than the drive away from it, on roads of such rutted misery that Richard Rutherford was not the only one fearful of disgracing himself with illness. All the while, the sky seemed to spit and cry with frustration, alternating between drizzle and a heavy rain that dropped like marbles.
The days were at their shortest, and before they caught sight of the yellow-gray building blocks of the York walls, early twilight had blanketed the world and the moon had risen. Waning gibbous, Sophy would say of the moon.
The thought of Sophy and her telescope, offering a look at unimaginable places beyond, brought a watery smile to Audrina’s face. Gibbous again, as though no time had passed since she had looked through the telescope and imagined a world that wasn’t worth more, but was . . . different.
So different, she hardly knew its form. And the only person who might help her trace it was someone she could not have or keep. Someone who would leave and go back to his dutiful shoulds until his life wound down.
At last, the post-house they had been so eager to leave beckoned them back, the lit windows on the ground floor shining at them like an old friend. A chill wind swung the Goat and Gauntlet’s sign until it was a blur, but there was no mistaking the building that had last swum into Audrina’s awareness through a laudanum spell. When the travelers piled out, the innkeeper and his wife welcomed them with some relief.
“Pleasure to have you all stay.” Their host, who introduced himself as Joseph Booth, took wet wraps with an anxious look out of the window. The public room into which they had trooped was almost empty.
Bathsheba Booth performed a neat curtsy. “Everyone’s trying to get home ahead o’ the weather. A powerful snowstorm’s comin’ in tonigh’, so says the mister’s knee. And his knee weren’t never wrong abou’ snow an’ such. Better than a almanac, so ’tis.”
The couple matched as well as any set of chess pieces: both barrel-shaped and simply clad, with strong limbs shaped by constant work. Her graying hair was tucked under a mobcap; his was cropped short about a balding crown.
“We shall require the use of your private parlor,” said Rutherford. “And a simple meal, with—”
“Is anyone awaiting us?” Lady Irving broke in.
“We are to meet a Mrs. Daniel . . .” Audrina trailed off, not knowing the surname for which to ask.
“A Mrs. Daniels? No one by that name, m’ leddy.” Bathsheba Booth tipped her another curtsy. “No one waitin’ a’tall, to tell ye true. If soomeone coomes for ye, I’ll shoo her righ’ up.”
Audrina blinked her way through the bouncing Yorkshire accent. “Thank you, ma’am. That will be very good.”
When the quartet entered the inn’s private parlor, Audrina recognized its simple form from endless days ago. Just being in the room reminded her of being tired, fuzzy-headed, helpless.
Afraid.
She lifted her chin. There was nothing so frightening about a room, after all. It was not as though it contained corpses and ghosts. It was a low-ceilinged space with a gently uneven wooden floor, a mullioned window, and a large table. A clean cloth had been laid over the table, and Mrs. Booth—eager to give her wealthy guests every courtesy—promised to send up tea and coffee, along with what she vowed was a loovely shepherd’s pie.
Once the travelers were braced with hot beverages and hearty food, a variety of reactions began to leak forth.
“Damned wild goose chase.” Lady Irving poured something from a flask—where had she hidden a flask?—into her tea. “Jaunting off to a post-house on the say-so of someone whose name we don’t even know.”
“I didn’t note you making this complaint earlier,” said Giles.
Her ladyship sniffed. “Because we were all far too busy trying to keep our innards under control.”
“Vulgar,” said Giles. One of the countess’s favorite words—when applied to others, that was. Audrina could not help but smile, and after a moment, Lady Irving nodded her approval of Giles’s rejoinder.
“Can you build up the fire a bit, son?” Richard rubbed his hands together. “This chill cuts right through the walls, doesn’t it?”
Giles poked up the fire, but to little effect. “It’s because the window lets in a draft. I noticed and cursed it the last time we were here.”
Audrina marched to the window. “Is that all you did? I can do more than curse it.” She struck the warped sash with the flat of her hand. When this resulted in nothing but a stinging palm, she allowed herself one glare at the window, and then considered its size.
“Hmm.” She unknotted the fabric fillet that laced through her hair. A long, thin rectangle, it was the perfect size and shape for pressing into the gap about the frame. “There, problem solved. Once your hands and feet warm, you may thank me.”
“I’ll thank you now,” said Giles. “I can only hope that if I’d had a pretty cloth sort of thing in my hair, I’d have thought of stuffing it into the window.”
Did he linger over the word pretty? Did he trace the tumble of her hair with his eyes? Audrina touched the tangled curls, feeling somewhat undressed with her hair down.
Fortunately, a distraction arrived in the form of a knock at the parlor door. When the person was bade enter, a bedraggled woman opened the door. With a sigh of pleasure, she stepped inside. “Ooh, this is nice and warm.”
This must be their mystery correspondent. When she closed the door behind her and turned to face them, she revealed herself to be much younger than Audrina had expected, perhaps twenty years of age. Her belly showed noticeably pregnant beneath her too-thin cloak. This visitor had got a soaking outdoors, but her exhaustion seemed to run deeper than one tiring walk. Her skin was pale and translucent, and the shadows under her eyes were purple-dark.
“You’ve brought the puzzle box?” When the young woman nodded at Lady Irving, the countess said, “What’s your name, girl?”
“Kitty. Kitty Balthasar.” She shook her head. “Mrs. Balthasar.” Tilted it. “Mrs. Daniel?”
“Too many names for one person,” Lady Irving replied. “Though I suppose you’re collecting names for two now. Even so, pick something and stick to it, girl. Not Kitty. It’s better suited to a pet than a human.”
The wan face took on a bit of color. “I can’t help what my father named me.” Her crisp accent belied her simple clothing. “If you have a dislike of my name, you’d best talk to him.”
“I’m old and I’m rich and I’m bored, so don’t think I wouldn’t consider it. But”—Lady Irving gestured toward the window—“the weather is terrible, and the innkeeper says snow is coming. I’m not going to hunt anyone down in that mess.”
“Oh!” Kitty’s thin hands crept to cover her mouth. “Oh, Daniel—I didn’t tell him I was coming here. I wanted to surprise him with the money, if I could get some.”
“He’ll be surprised, all right, to find his wife gone when he gets home from the day’s labor,” Lady Irving said drily.
Audrina stood and took the younger woman’s arm. “Do come sit, Mrs. Balthasar, and have something hot to eat and drink.” Kitty’s dark-haired fragility reminded Audrina of her sister Petra. A drifting soul, she was far better suited for the warmth of Italy, where she had lived and studied art for the past year.
Kitty would probably thrive in a warmer clime, too, but for now, a warm beverage would have to do. It was pleasant to—well, not to mother her. That sounded odd for someone only a few years younger than she, someone already married and with child. But to elder-sister her, maybe. To introduce her to everyone in the room, to fix her tea just as she wished, and ease her into a chair that caused her to sigh with contentment. “Thank you, my lady. This babe’s been kicking me something fierce all day. It feels good to get off my feet.”
“When you feel quite ready, Mrs. Balthasar,” said Richard Rutherford, “we would like to see the box you inherited from your mother. Maria was her name, wasn’t it?” He pronounced it in the proper English way, with a long I vowel.
“Yes, sir.” After one more sip of tea, Kitty set her cup aside with a look of regret. “It’s in my cloak, if—”
“Please, remain seated. I’ll get it for you.” Giles was on his feet in an instant, grabbing the wet cloak from the hook near the door. He carried it to Kitty, where with a murmured thanks, she pulled an oilcloth-wrapped package from a deep pocket.
“Who is to have it? You, sir?” As Giles draped her cloak over the back of a wooden chair to dry before the fire, Kitty extended the small parcel in Richard Rutherford’s direction. “Or should I send it to Miss Corning? She was the one who wrote to me.”
“We will all take a look, if we may.” Richard’s calm voice seemed to reassure Kitty, and she handed it to Giles to be unwrapped on the table amidst the leavings of their dinner.
This was how the end of the Rutherfords’ quest would come, then. Not with a fanfare in an elegant setting, but with a rain-soaked cloth beside a half-eaten shepherd’s pie. Audrina had to smile at the thought.
But when Rutherford unwrapped the parcel, Audrina’s smile fell away. “Why, it looks nothing like the other two.”
Judging from the expressions on the others’ faces—ranging from dismay to confusion—they, too, had been expecting a box of glossy, intricately patterned elegance. The lid of this box bore instead a clean and curving inlaid image of a snow-covered mountain behind a wavering sea. The wood was of a yellowish hue, and the front face of the box was adorned with false book spines, seven lined up side by side.
“Is this from Lady Beatrix?” Audrina asked.
“I am almost certain,” Rutherford said, “that it is. This is a Japanese design of which I saw prints, long ago. It’s called a ruiji box, if I recall rightly. Something to do with the false books across the front.” When he picked up the small box with one careful hand, a rattle sounded from inside.
“There’s something in there?” Lady Irving craned her neck, as though the box would spring open at the sound of her voice.
“I believe the rattle we’re hearing is the key.” Rutherford shook it gently. “It’s hidden behind a moving panel, as is the keyhole.”
“So your son’s notes on Miss Corning’s puzzle box won’t help us a bit.”
“His son”—Giles sounded testy—“can manage a thing or two on his own, though his son is quite willing to let you have a try.”
“I’m not done eating.” Lady Irving forked up a bite of what must have been cold-as-rain shepherd’s pie, because she grimaced when the food touched her lips.
“Do you know how to open this, Mrs. Balthasar?” Audrina turned to the puzzle box’s owner.
“No, I never tried. My mother told me there wasn’t anything in there, and she never put anything in it because it was so tiny. It smells good, though, doesn’t it?”
Giles bent over the box in his father’s hand, inhaling. “Sandalwood. Audrina, would you care to see?”
He plucked the box from Rutherford’s hand and gave it to her. Audrina’s hands closed around a solid of surprising weight. When she breathed in, a woodsy aroma stung her nose, followed by a powdery, spicy note that made her blink, unsure if her eyes were watering.
“Do you want to buy it?” Kitty spoke up. “I didn’t know it had a special name. Does that make it worth more money?”
“To the right buyer,” Rutherford said quietly, “it would be worth a great deal. I would like to try to open it, if that is all right with you.”
“It’s all right with me.” Kitty reached for her teacup. “But if it breaks, you will pay for it?”
“Money, money,” said Lady Irving. “Goodness, girl, can’t you think of anything else?”
“I’m sure I could if I had more of it.” Kitty drained her tea, chasing the last drop with her tongue. “Me and Daniel—we just got married, because of the baby. And I’ve been poorly, more and more with every month.” The deep shadows under her eyes stood out like bruises.
She’s afraid. What was it about this simple room that brought such fear to young women? Or no, they were already afraid, and in this plain, isolated parlor there was no distraction from the fact. Kitty’s knotted hands, her frailty, her secret attempt to gain a little money—it all made sense. She was afraid—no, she was terrified—that she might not survive pregnancy and childbirth.
Audrina knew nothing about this particular fear, but she knew about being afraid and pretending not to be. She smiled at Kitty as she would have at Charissa, were her fluttery sister here. Take your time. It’s all right.
Kitty pulled in a slow breath. “I thought if the box is worth something, maybe you would want to buy it. And that would be a nice Christmas surprise for Daniel. It would help, a little, in case . . .”
“In case of need,” Giles finished the sentence when she could not. “Because babies need so many odds and ends.”
“Yes.” Kitty looked relieved.
“Well, let’s see what we have.” Richard Rutherford began to slide seamless panels in a way that had become familiar to Audrina. “Giles, would you care to try it?”
Giles had seated himself next to his father, and he was pressing his hands against the hot metal of the coffeepot. “Go ahead, Father.” As he held the coffeepot, his brows knit; pain rising or easing, Audrina wasn’t sure.
Her scalp gave a prickle, and she hastily twisted back her unbound hair and slung it over one shoulder. Likely his hands were just cold. Not every twinge was a symbol of disaster.
This different style of puzzle box came apart more easily than the other two. Fewer pieces squeaked their protests, and eventually Richard slid aside a panel that revealed a hidden compartment. From there, he extracted a small key, and a few more minutes’ work with the false book spines exposed a keyhole.
“Box three of three? Anyone want to place a wager?” Lady Irving said as Rutherford fitted in the tiny key.
“No, thank you,” he said with great calm, and Lady Irving’s mouth slammed shut.
Just as the box opened.
Inside, the fragrant wood was covered with chiseled letters, just as the other two boxes had been.
“Three of three,” breathed Rutherford as he skimmed the letters. “Sophia Angela Maria.”
“You all should have taken the wager,” Lady Irving whispered loudly.
“What else does it say, Father?”
“Several lines of mixed-up letters. But before that, ‘Now Thou dost dismiss Thy servant, O Lord, according to Thy word in peace.’”
“Because my eyes have seen Thy salvation.” Kitty rose from her chair with a hitch and a shuffle.
“You know this?” Giles asked.
She blinked at him. “Well, yes. Nunc dimittis.”
Her memory prompted, Audrina could recall it now. The Canticle of Simeon. The song of praise from the man who had wished only to live long enough to see the infant Lord. A quotation for an eagerly awaited baby.
All three boxes held quotations from the Nativity story. But why? And what did the scrambled chains of letters have to do with anything?
They all gathered around the tiny box, the remains of dinner forgotten. Silently, Audrina read a string of letters as nonsensical as those from the first two boxes:
UHLRBVQQQDOHBYBDUWWXOQDDSFLB UOLVHOGPRRQQKDOHFWULYRGXOUYK GHLUKGQBOHDHXIPHDKWLWUUONUUR
UYWHJKVUWWH
“We could think about this for ten years and never get anywhere,” said Lady Irving. “You know, the same amount of time young Rutherford took about opening that golden puzzle box.”
Giles’s hands fell from the coffee urn with a thump.
“Or,” continued the countess more loudly, “we could turn this over to my niece Louisa. Lady Xavier, that is. She has a head for puzzles like no one else I’ve ever met.”
“It’s too much to hope that she’s in York.” Nevertheless, Richard Rutherford sounded as though he did hope.
“She isn’t. But she will be in London after Christmas for . . . the wedding. Ahem. You know.”
“My sister’s wedding,” said Audrina. “It is a happy occasion. We need not act as though it is otherwise, and we certainly need not treat it as a secret.”
Her smile was more hopeful than it would have been only a moment before. For if the Rutherfords wanted to go to London, she could accompany them. Perhaps they could leave in the morning, even travel over Christmas. They might just make it back to the city in time.
In time for what, though? For Audrina to wed Llewellyn? Impossible. To hand over to him a fortune her father did not have, in exchange for silence they did not know if he would keep? Impossible again.
“I must be getting home,” Kitty said. “If you’ve seen all you want to. Mr. Rutherford, is the box worth a—a pound to you?” She bit her lip, as though embarrassed to have asked for such a sum.
“Mrs. Balthasar, I’d be a villain if I bought it from you for less than twenty,” said Rutherford.
Kitty’s eyes widened, and she clapped her hands together—but Richard held his up in a staying gesture. “I’m afraid you cannot be going home right now, though. Look at the turn the weather has taken.”
As one, they turned to the window. A window that was newly glassed with ice, and against which snow was battering in a furious white fist.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Balthasar,” he added. “But we are all quite snowbound. Mr. Booth’s prognosticating knee did not lie to us: There will be no leaving this inn for days.”