There was a small Chippendale bureau against the wall with a water-stained tintype on top. Eliza picked it up and held it in the beam of the lantern. Malcolm and Gabriel—chubby babies both—seated in a pram with stoic expressions. She studied the photo for a long moment before replacing it. In the drawers beneath, she found nothing but the dusty wings of a dead moth and a few old postage stamps.
She stepped into the open corridor and paused. For a moment, around the corners of her eyes, there was a flickering—not unlike the wavering hallucinations she often had with her migraines. The same sort of flickering Freddie had mentioned. She turned her head, trying to re-create the phenomenon, but the walls remained still. “How queer.”
When she lifted her lantern and went through the remaining door, her breath caught in her throat. Inside, it was as if the wings of time had been held down and punctured with a lepidopterist’s needle. The room was a shrine—so much so it felt like Ada would emerge from behind the silk dressing screen in the corner of the room, her green eyes widening in surprise at Eliza’s intrusion. The bed was turned down, its duvet pushed aside, as if someone had just risen from it. A china teacup sat on the nightstand, rings of evaporated tea staining the inside. Eliza opened the drawer beneath, and her stomach dropped. Inside was anovel. The very book she’d been reading when Albert drowned:The Portrait of a Lady.
Despite the sickening jolt the book triggered, she was drawn to take it. She slid it into the pocket of her dressing gown, alongside the precious keys. As she did, she had the sudden, uncomfortable feeling of being watched. She slowly turned.
Someone else was in the room.
Eliza jumped, her heart pummeling.
And then she laughed. She wasn’t seeing anyone else at all, but her own reflection in Ada’s dressing table mirror, her hair frizzing around her head like a lion’s mane. She took a moment to calm herself, then went to examine the items on the vanity. Long strands of black hair were caught in a silver brush, untarnished despite its age. Eliza picked up a beautifully etched perfume atomizer and spritzed it. This was how Ada had smelled—like attar of roses and warm cinnamon.
Next to the toiletries, a portrait of the twins and their mother by the seashore sat in an oval frame. They were older in this photo—around three, by her reckoning. One of them gazed up at Ada with a rapturous expression while the other scowled at the camera, his arms crossed beneath the bib of his sailor suit.
In the photograph, Ada’s face was placid, inscrutable, the mere hint of a smile playing on her lips. She was so young. Fragile.
“Where are you?” Eliza whispered. “What happened to you?”
There came a soughing hiss from the hall, like something being pulled across the floor. Too late, Eliza realized the flame inside her lantern was dying, its paraffin spent. After one final flicker, she was plunged into deep and total darkness.
In the dark, blind, all of Eliza’s other senses came to life. Her eyes picked up every shadow, her ears perked at every sound. She drew in a shakybreath and pushed her back against the wall, her hand still clutching the useless lantern. With a whimper, she felt her way to the balcony, the peeling wallpaper coming off in her hand like a corpse’s leathery skin.
The hissing sound came again.
As if drawn by a magnet, Eliza’s head swiveled to follow the noise. It had come from the right side of the gallery—the section she had yet to explore. One of the doors stood open there, its portal a blackened maw in the already dark space. That door hadn’t been open when she’d first entered, she was certain of it. Her heart thudded in her ears, in her throat, in her head. Shirley was right. She shouldn’t be in here. Not alone. Not at night.
Suddenly, a painful, very human groan echoed from the open door. Eliza’s adrenaline surged. She dropped the lantern and hurtled toward the entrance of the ballroom, relying on memory to take her over the broken section of the balcony. She slammed the heavy door behind her and leaned against it to catch her breath, passing a trembling hand over her hair.
There came a hollow thud from the other side, as if someone had struck the door with the heel of their hand. A growl, feral and low, vibrated through the wood. Fear climbed through the soles of her feet and threaded through her limbs, cold as a January day. Eliza ran to her room, found her long-forgotten rosary beads in her dressing table, and knelt at the foot of her bed to pray as fervently as a frightened child.
CHAPTER 31
Eliza brushed her hair in the glass, judging her reflection harshly. She looked wretched. Her eyes bore dark, puffy circles beneath them, their rims red. She hadn’t slept well since her night in the south wing. The house, now that she was alone with only Turner and Shirley, seemed to be closing in around her. Malevolent whispers, whether real or imagined, followed her down the halls, day and night. She often stayed awake until morning blushed over the horizon, too frightened of the spirits to sleep once the lights had been turned down. She was no longer a skeptic.
It had been nearly a fortnight, and she hadn’t received word from Malcolm since he’d left for London. She had no way of knowing where he was staying. He’d sent no forwarding address or contact. The war, despite his optimism, looked to be a long one. The papers screamed out their headlines, relaying news of grueling warfare and a growing body count in the Transvaal. The empire had won its first battle at a harrowing cost. Though she was relieved Malcolm was not in any physical peril on the front, Eliza was beginning to lose hope she’d see her husband anytime in the near future.
There was a knock at her door, and Eliza put down her hairbrush. “Yes, what is it?”
“Your sister is here, mum.” It was Shirley. “Shall I tell her to come back later?”
“No, no, that’s quite all right. I’ll be down in only a moment. Have her wait in the conservatory. I could do with some sunshine.”
Despite the October chill, it was warm and humid inside the conservatory. The fragrance from the tropical flowers surrounding Eliza and Lydia gave the illusion of an exotic summer paradise.
The high gothic arches of the hothouse ceiling sparkled with dew, and condensation clouded the glass walls, making the courtyard beyond an impressionistic blur of yellow and red. Somehow, Lydia had managed to procure coffee with chicory, and Eliza was now enjoying her first real café au lait in months. She took a long drink, savoring the sweet taste.
Lydia shifted in her seat and looked at a spot over Eliza’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to call on you unannounced. I only came because I have news.”
“Don’t be silly. You know you’re always welcome. Now, tell me your news.”
“I’ve received a letter from my mother.”
Eliza’s coffee cup hovered before her lips, the steam curling around her face. “Really?” That answered the question of where the coffee had come from. “She’s well, I hope. How did she come to find you?”
Lydia gave a rueful smile. “All this time, she’s been in New Orleans, Liza. She went to the farm, looking for me, and spoke with the new owners.”
“I’m surprised she hadn’t come by before.”
