It was Eli who received the news from a red-faced Dr Fox. ‘What do you mean, she’s gone?’ he asked. ‘Gone where?’
‘She threw herself from the carriage. There was nothing we could have done.’ Dr Fox unconsciously straightened his bow tie and wished he was back in the sanctuary of his office at Brislington House. ‘She is obviously in a far worse state of mind than we at first presumed, but I have every faith that she will be back here by nightfall. After all, where else has she to go?’
‘And if she doesn’t come back?’ Eli was at a loss. It wasn’t right that he should bury his father and lose his sister all in the same day.
‘She will,’ said Dr Fox. ‘And if you could see your way to allowing myself and Mrs Abbot to stay here this evening, then we will make sure this doesn’t happen again.’
Eli installed them in the drawing room. Dr Fox sat gracefully in a chair by the window and picked up a discarded newspaper to read. It was, Eli realised with a pang, the last paper his father had ever read.
Eli wondered, in hindsight, whether it would have been best to have Mrs Abbot wait in the kitchen. She didn’t belong in a drawing room. It was fortunate that Mama was indisposed. The sight of Mrs Abbot seated broad and heavy on the delicate cream sofa would have proved the final straw for her.
The house was quiet and smelled of sadness and decaying flowers. Temperance lay in her darkened chamber, overcome with shock and shame. A small draught of laudanum had calmed her enough for Jane to help her out of her mourning gown and into a robe.
How could Alice have done such a vile and wicked thing? Every time Temperance closed her eyes she saw the same thing; Alice plunging headlong into Arthur’s grave and the expressions of horror on the faces of the gathered mourners.
Temperance whimpered and tossed her head from side to side. Even the cool cloth that Jane laid upon her forehead did nothing to banish the terrible images from her mind. At least Alice was out of the way now, locked up safely, hidden from prying eyes and the gossip-mongering. But even so Temperance wondered, with fear clutching at her heart, could she ever undo the damage? Would Bridgwater’s finest ever grace her drawing room now?
Eli thought it would be better not to inform his mother of Alice’s disappearance. Not yet anyway. Alice would be back soon. Dr Fox seemed certain of it. And what was the point of distressing Mama further, if the problem could be dealt with quietly and discreetly?
Eli paced the house. He couldn’t settle. He couldn’t find a place to be. It was too lonely in his bedchamber, knowing that apart from Mama’s room, all the others along the corridor were empty now. The library reminded him too much of Papa, with the cracked leather armchair still bearing his shape, and the books, half read, still open on the table. He couldn’t bring himself to open the door of the study, knowing that inside would be the whole essence of his father: the sweat of him, the echo of his voice in the corners of the room, and the marks of his pen on a hundred sheets of paper. Eli couldn’t bear the thought of the drawing room either; he had nothing to say to Dr Fox and Mrs Abbot.
So he found himself in the kitchen, sitting at the scrubbed wooden table, watching nameless servants going about their work. He was amazed. Life had come to a standstill upstairs, but down there, amidst all the scurrying and washing and kneading and stirring, you would never know the house was in mourning. He took some comfort in that, and tried for a while to imagine that nothing had changed, that his life was still as easy as it always had been. He ate a slice of sweet gooseberry pie that someone placed in front of him and drained a jar of beer. He wished he could escape on horseback to the moors and ride forever, and never have to face this new way of living. He knew that soon there would be lawyers and business meetings and he would have to prove himself in a man’s world.
But for now, the kitchen was his haven, and he sat and watched the comings and goings and waited for Alice. The hours passed. The afternoon drifted into evening and still there was no sign of Alice. Candles were lit and the servants sat warily at the table and shared their supper of cold meat and pickles with Eli.
The kitchen quietened, and gradually emptied, until only a couple of servants remained, stoking the fire and scouring pots. Eli knew then that he couldn’t hide any longer. With a heavy heart he climbed the stairs to the main house and made his way to the drawing room. Dr Fox was asleep in his chair, his legs still neatly crossed, his hands folded in his lap and his trim beard resting on his chest. Mrs Abbot was asleep too, sprawled out on the cream sofa, her chins shuddering with every snore.
Eli coughed loudly. Dr Fox’s head jerked upright. ‘She is back?’ He looked hopefully at Eli.
‘She is not,’ said Eli. ‘And I would like you both to leave now.’
Dr Fox raised his eyebrows. ‘If … if you are sure,’ he said. ‘But is there nothing else we can do to help?’
‘You have done enough,’ Eli said. He was trembling with the effort of keeping his temper. He felt like a young boy again, who hadn’t got his own way. He wanted to stamp his feet and yell loudly, then run to Mama so she could sweet-talk him and tell him everything would be all right. But he wasn’t that boy any more and Mama was the one who needed him now. He reached for the decanter that sat sparkling on its silver tray, and splashed an inch of amber brandy into a glass. He took a deep breath and poured the burning liquid down his throat. He gasped, then turned back to Dr Fox. ‘You have lost my sister,’ he said, ‘and unless you are going to search the streets and back alleys and poorhouses yourself, then I would like you out of my house!’
My house. It was his house now, Eli realised: the bricks, the mortar, the furnishings, the servants – all of it. He was responsible now, and the knowledge of that made him nauseous. He nodded to Dr Fox and glanced over at Mrs Abbot, who was struggling to her feet. ‘You can see yourselves out,’ he finished. Then he dashed from the room and just made it to the potted fern that sat at the bottom of the stairs as the brandy surged from his stomach.