“Lady Nightingale, I did not expect to see you again so soon,” he said, “I assure you that His Lordship’s belongings are well on their way to joining you in Scotland. I thought you would be there already. Your furniture may arrive ahead of you.”
He looked questioningly at Seth, clearly not the male companion he expected. But then he assumed that Charlotte was Amelia, not suspecting that there were two identical Nightingales.
“Hullo again. Yes, I can see that you are all hard at work. I merely wished to see if any correspondence that His Lordship and I have not yet seen had arrived. I would despair to miss an important letter while we are on the road. Scotland is such a long way.”
“I don’t know if anything has arrived in the last week, Lady Nightingale, but if it has, it will have been put in His Lordship’s study to be posted on,” the man reassured.
“Thank you...” Charlotte stumbled, not knowing the man’s name, “...my good man,” she recovered.
He gave her a bow, and Charlotte and Seth hurried past and into the house.
“Where do you suppose the study is?” Charlotte whispered for his ears alone as they stood in a dark entry hall, paneled in black wood and with furniture of the same coloring. It looked like it had been decorated in the sixteenth century with Dutch landscapes on the walls for good measure.
“If we see a servant, we will ask. They will not ask us the obvious question because it will seem ludicrous. You are Amelia Nightingale as far as they are concerned,” Seth assured her.
He led her along the hallway, and they tried doors to either side, revealing a dining room, breakfast room, and sitting room. Heading upstairs, they went through bedrooms and a music room before ascending another, smaller staircase. At the top was a library with a small study off it. A pile of envelopes sat atop a large desk in front of an ancient fireplace of blackened stone.
Seth took up the envelopes, flipping through them. Suddenly, his eyes lit up. “This… this is a Scottish post-mark; look,Glasgow,” he lifted the post eagerly.
“Should we open it?” Charlotte asked.
Seth gave her a look before tearing it open and taking out the contents.
“A solicitor in Glasgow confirming the rental of a property somewhere calledChatlerehault,” he noted. “Sounds French.”
“Any idea where that might be?”
“None whatsoever, but if the agent dealing with it is based in Glasgow, I imagine it is nearby. We might find an atlas of Great Britain in the library that will tell us.”
Seth dropped the letter, seeing nothing in it that indicated where Chatlerehault’s house was. Charlotte had picked up another.
“This one is from Scotland, too!” she exclaimed. “The return address is a hospital. The writer is Doctor Frazier McGill of the McGill Avondale Hospital. His address is somewhere called…Strathaven! My uncle thought it was somewhere beginning withStrath, remember?”
She grew excited as she began tearing it open, and Seth felt the same surge within him. If they could only discover where Strathaven was, perhaps they could finally track Amelia down.
How far is Glasgow, I wonder? I wish I had paid more attention to my geography master at school. I think there is at least one range of hills between here and there. But Glasgow is a busy port; perhaps a ship could be had.
Charlotte unfolded the letter slowly, smoothing its creases with care. “He writes to confirm a place at the hospital for Lord Beswick’s betrothed…” Her voice faltered, just slightly. “Amelia Nightingale.”
She paused. Her expression appeared to mirror Seth’s own internal turmoil. Amelia was betrothed to Luke Hadley? And she was hospitalized?
Charlotte blinked once, but her face didn’t shift. She continued, voice quieter now. “And he gives directions as to how it may be found.”
He stepped forward, sensing the undercurrent. “Where?”
She didn’t look at him.
“Take the Carlisle road north along the strath of the Clyde,” she read, almost flatly. “Turn west at the Kilmarnock crossroads, then follow the Avon valley. Strathaven is five miles along the river. The hospital’s on the hill beyond it. Chatelherault lies five miles further.”
When she finally looked up, her expression was unreadable. But something in her eyes had gone distant. “If… if it is of the same illness that she wrote of in her letters, it could be more serious than she let on… My mother, she was around the same age when…” her words trailed off in her somber musing.
Seth studied her a moment. “Or, it might not be serious at all,” he tried to comfort her gently. “She traveled here in your stead six weeks ago, didn’t you say? It was around the time of that terrible rainfall, if I recall correctly. It could be a cold. Exhaustion, most likely.”
She gave a faint nod. “Perhaps.”
Seth didn’t press further. She was holding herself together, barely—but with Charlotte, that meant more than it did for most. Her restraint was a kind of desperation.
They stood like that for a long beat—silent, close, the weight of the news pressing between them.
