Graham tipped his head at him. “Good night, sir.”
He stared down the road long after the carriage departed, unused to the suddenly buoyant feeling in his gut. He hadn’t felt this light since the day he’d left home as a lad of fifteen. But this time, it was a legitimate joy. A decision he’d not carry around like the ball and chain he already wore—one that tethered him to a weighty regret.
THREE
“I had often, when at home, thought it hard to remain during my youth cooped up in one place, and had longed to enter the world, and take my station among other human beings.”
Clifton, a suburb of Bristol
If houses had souls, this one was clearly bound for Hades. Ameliahesitated on the carriage step and frowned up at her childhood home. Early evening shadows added to the dreariness of the soot-darkened yellow brick, and the more her gaze roamed from foundation to soffit, the more her brow scrunched. The whole facade of Balfour House needed a good scrub down. As did the windows. Rows of mullioned glass stared at her with dull, empty eyes. Black. Devoid of life. Not a particularly warm homecoming after twenty years. This close to twilight, why were no lamps lit? Surely Mrs. Kirwin had received the correspondence detailing her arrival.
Then again, a letter was no guarantee the old housekeeper would remember even had she read it. A dear woman. An industrious labourer. But the sort who sometimes forgot what she was doing while in the midst of doing so.
Amelia descended to the pavement, followed by Betsey, when a queer prickling spidered along her spine. Securing her bonnet with a firm grip, she whirled, only to find the street behind her empty in the waning daylight. Strange. She would’ve sworn to a magistrate that someone stood at her back, eyeing her with a ferocious scrutiny.
No doubt fatigue from the long journey plagued her. She dropped her hand. Though the London to Bristol mail coach had made good time, such a cross-country trip taxed even a seasoned traveler such as herself. Add to that the recent sleepless nights, during which a surprisingly recurrent grief for her father hit in waves, and it was no wonder she imagined things.
She started to turn back to Betsey when the odd sensation tingled afresh. This time she snapped her gaze upwards. And there. Behind the first-story window of the neighbouring house, a drapery swung unsettled, as if suddenly set free. Amelia pursed her lips. Clearly someone took an interest in her arrival. Hopefully that someone was not Mrs. Ophidian. But no. After all these years, the old woman must surely be at rest in St. Andrew’s graveyard. Immediately, Amelia drew a cross over her heart in reverence of the dead.
“—to your chamber. Miss?”
The tail end of Betsey’s words wagged against her ear. Snubbing the neighbour’s window, she faced her maid instead. “Pardon?”
Betsey narrowed her eyes, probably searching for the cause of such blatant woolgathering. “I said I shall oversee the unloading and have your things brought directly up to your chamber. Mayhap a hardy cup o’ tea will set you to rights after such a bone-rattling ride. I’ll be along shortly thereafter, if you please?”
“Yes, thank you.” Amelia dashed up the few steps to the front door, giving no quarter for any further examination from Betsey. She reached for the knocker just as the door swung open to a mobcapped, pale-eyed spectre from her past.
“Oh, my stars! Can it be?” Mrs. Kirwin slapped a hand to her chest. “Let’s have us a good look, now, shall we? Why, it’s my little Miss Amelia all grown up. And the very image of your saintly mother, no less. Come in. Come in, child!” She stepped aside, fingers fluttering. “Mercy! I’m giddy as my Great-Aunt Gusta. I have so longed for this house to be a home again, like when your dear mother graced these halls. And now with you and Master Colin returning, why…I’m certain these walls will once more ring with laughter.”
Though she very much doubted that, Amelia smiled at the old housekeeper as she entered. She had no idea what she’d face when she met her brother at the docks tomorrow night, for she hadn’t seen Colin these past seven years. What sort of man had he grown into?
“Thank you, Mrs. Kirwin.” She handed over her hat, already thinking ahead. If she could schedule Colin’s procedure for early next week, she just might make it onto the next ship to Cairo. “As lovely as it is to see you, I feel it fair to inform you I will be staying only for the duration of my brother’s surgery and recuperation, which hopefully won’t be too long.”
“I’ll take you both for as long as possible and be glad for it. This is a dream come true, all these dear people and, well, bonnets, even!” She waved Amelia’s hat in the air, a big grin adding creases to her lined face. “When your father—God rest him—was in town, he were out till all hours and then off in the morn with naught but a sip of coffee. Oh! Fiddle-faddle! That reminds me.”
Hiking her skirts, the housekeeper dashed past Amelia, bonnet bobbing against her thigh. Did she even realize she yet held it? “I’ve forgotten to instruct Cook on breakfast for the morn,” she called over her shoulder. “Your room’s been aired, miss, and…”
The woman’s voice faded as she disappeared down the corridor. Amelia couldn’t help but smile while she pushed shut the front door Mrs. Kirwin had neglected to close. The old servant was exactly as Amelia remembered her.
But the house wasn’t. She unbuttoned her spencer as she wandered first into the sitting room then to the dining room. Though this was by no means a small residence and was certainly larger than many could afford, neither were the rooms as cavernous as she recalled. She ran her finger along the waxed mahogany table where, as a child, she’d never been allowed to eat. Things could not help but be different all these years later.
No domineering father.
No mother lying dead in her bed.
A brother, now a man, whose face caused children to scream.
She snatched back her hand. Enough with the morose. A mischievous quirk twitched her lips, and she scurried down the back passage and out the door into the jungle. The rainforest. The outlying reaches of Northern Mongolia. Or anything else her seven-year-old mind imagined while listening on the top stairs whenever Father and Mother entertained. And, surprisingly, the back garden was still all those things, minus the frigid clime of the Mongols, of course.
Picking past ankle-high horseweed and overgrown ivy, she hurried to the iron trellis near the rear wall, her favourite place in all the world. Unmindful of her gown and the damp soil, she dropped to her knees and peered into the space hidden by a screen of clematis with glossy green leaves. She couldn’t fit into her hidey-hole anymore, but that didn’t stop her from closing her eyes and breathing deeply of dirt and moss and memories. How many times had she squirreled away here, dreaming of voyages to the farthest reaches of the earth? Sailing on uncharted seas and journaling about species undiscovered or foreign races no white man had ever seen. Even at such a tender age, she’d known she was never meant for a life of smothering convention.
The overhead churring of a nightjar popped her eyes open, and she sighed. So much for wandering the wide, wide world. For now, anyway.
With her sight acclimated to the growing darkness, a patch of red caught her gaze on the ground between trellis and wall. What was this? She pulled out a wooden ball covered in chipped paint and frowned at the child’s toy. She’d never owned one, and Colin had been far too young for such a plaything when they’d quitted the house all those years ago for the country.
Rising, she brushed the creases and stray soil from her skirt as she surveyed the area. The wall behind and the one to the south were both in good repair, too high for a small child to scale. The back gate appeared sound and properly locked. Pivoting, she faced the north wall.
Aha.
