“Right.” Eliza bit the inside of her cheek. Her eyes went to the suit Malcolm was wearing—one she’d never seen before, his pinstriped trousers at the height of fashion. “New suit, husband?”
“Yes, do you like it? I visited the tailor when I was in Southampton. I’ve had it on order and had the final fitting yesterday.”
“I’d imagine a fine bespoke suit is much more important than comfortable quarters for our staff, isn’t it?” she said scornfully. “Shirley and Turner could both do with raises and a day off now and then.”
Malcolm folded the paper and smacked it down upon the table as if he were crushing a gnat. Eliza flinched. “Shirley, eh? I see you’ve been getting on. Look. You are now a member of the aristocracy and must act it. Not like a bloody Marxist. Appearances rate more than how one treats their servants.” Malcolm cleared his throat and adjusted his cravat. His voice softened. “Our family has been under enough scrutiny. Since we’ve lost the townhome to Eastleigh—gossip, no doubt, thatwill soon make its way to the London scandal sheets—it’s ever more imperative that you make an effort to fit in. You must do your best to dress well, show impeccableEnglishmanners, and ingratiate yourself with the wives of my peers. This is your duty as a viscountess. You’re not meant to be cavorting with the servants.”
Tears welled in Eliza’s eyes. “But this is where I become confused, husband. I behave and dress modestly during the day, as you’ve asked, only to have you tear my clothing off me in my chambers. I show concern over my sister’s housing situation after you say she can stay on at Sherbourne House only until she’s married, and then you say—that very evening!—of course Lydia must stay on, regardless. Surely you’ll forgive me if I’m feeling a bit ... flummoxed.” Eliza took a deep breath. “And then there’s the matter of the bloodypipes. And my hearing things that supposedly aren’t there. I heard it again last night. Something was in my room, Malcolm. Something inhuman. I’m beginning to question my sanity!”
“You’re becoming hysterical.” Malcolm’s voice rose and he shifted in his chair, shaking his head. “It is nothing more than the settling noises of an old house. Your fits of passion do not suit your station. You must endeavor to maintain a sense of dignity.”
“Andyoumust endeavor to be consistent! You go from being the most ardent and sensitive of lovers to being an insufferable toff who keeps secrets from me and implies I’m mad for thinking there’s a ghost in my chambers. Well, thereisa ghost! And none of your lies will convince me otherwise!”
Eliza stood and flounced out of the room, ignoring Malcolm’s platitudes. She raced up the stairs to her room, where she threw herself onto the mattress and screamed into her pillow like a spoiled child. After indulging in a few moments of self-pity, she wiped her eyes, washed her face with rose water to calm the redness, and rummaged beneath the bed for Ada’s diary.
June 9th, 1876
Today, I was informed my allowance has been diminished to two shillings a week. Two shillings! What can one buy with so little a sum? My husband has lost again at the card tables, I’d wager. He is a wicked, wicked man, ruled by his impulses and possessed of a foul temper.
At this, Eliza laughed.
My angels are my keenest joy. They are growing much too quickly. I can no longer keep up with Gabriel, who went from crawling to running and hopping about like a tiny jackrabbit. He torments his brother so, and I am worn thin by their wee battles.
July 1st, 1876
Thomas finally tired of my complaining and put in an advert for a companion. Our new Beatrice is such a blessing. And so merry! Her presence takes me out of my dark thoughts. Best of all, she loves my bairns nearly as much as I, and with much more patience. At long last, I have a friend, one who endeavours to know me as I am.
July 30th, 1876
I had quite a conversation with Bea today. She thinks Galbraith and my husband are lovers. Malcolm had toddled into the library, and she went to fetch him. The door to Thomas’s study was cracked. She heard giggling and peeked through. There was Galbraith, engaged in a state of undress with her pinafore off, big, sagging breastsfalling over the top of her corset. Thomas was all red-faced in his chair watching her pinch and pull at them, his old poker in hand, abusing himself.
Am I foolish for being relieved? If it keeps that awful old man distracted and away from me, I am ever so glad. Have at him, brave Galbraith! You are a far more formidable woman than I. And ugly, besides.
August 8th, 1877
The Isle of Wight reminds me of home. I covet Scotland. I long for mist-veiled mountains and the sound of the waves crashing over the firth. This house is irredeemably dark and close. Even the brightest noonday sun cannot pierce its gloom.
Beatrice came with us to the regattas today. I dressed Malcolm and Gabriel in their matching sailor suits and did my best to cover my bruises with my yellow lawn. It’s stiff and itches so, but it has long sleeves. Beatrice wore blue. It suits her well. I tried to convince her to sit for the portrait the boys and I made, but she demurred, saying her hair was too mussed by the wind. She’s a silly little hen, but we take great pleasure in one another’s company. We converse only in French around Thomas and whisper our secrets behind Galbraith’s back like naughty schoolmates. It’s great fun.
After the races, we took the boys for strawberry ices and sat watching the yachts move back and forth over the water as the sun fell like a stone and painted the Solent crimson. Bea told me she has a bloke back home on Guernsey, a longshoreman named Dan, but he’s stoppedwriting. It’s made her a bit maudlin. I tell her there are many loves in life. And she is yet so very young.
I pray she will have much better fortune in love than I.
I only hope she won’t leave me when she does find a husband.
Eliza closed the diary on her finger. The more she read Ada’s words, the more she felt a certain kinship to her. It was almost as if Ada were speaking aloud in the room—her presence felt that real. “Where are you? What happened to you?”
CHAPTER 22
Eliza was planning an experiment. Tonight, if the ghost knocked again, she would answer. She’d refused to go downstairs for tea, even though Malcolm had lingered by her door for a ridiculous amount of time. Instead, she’d spent the better part of the afternoon coming up with a code and key she could use to commune with the spirit. Even though hunger gnawed at her stomach, she was determined to avoid the kitchens until the rest of the house was sleeping. She was being petty, and she knew it, but spending another tense hour across from her husband at dinner was not her idea of a pleasant evening.
She’d nearly finished reading Ada’s diary—the pages toward the end had been ripped from their binding, and there was a gap in entries from shortly before the twins’ third birthday to their twelfth year, as if Ada hadn’t cared to journal their childhood. Strange for an otherwise devoted mother. Eliza had begun a chronology of events within her notebook, carefully constructing a timeline from the evidence in Ada’s diary as well as the anecdotes she’d gathered from Shirley and Sarah.
The final entries were almost illegible. Ada’s messy handwriting was now a shaky scrawl that showed growing evidence of a tremor. Eliza scrutinized the words with her magnifying glass.
March 25th, 1887
My sons are growing into young men.
