Malcolm was coming home! Her relief tempered the momentary irritation she felt at his lack of endearments. He was safe and well, and that went a long way toward lifting her bad humor. But it meant she only had a few more days to freely investigate the strange happenings in the house. She had to hurry.
When she got back to Havenwood Manor, sending Turner and Shirley into a flurry of preparations for their master’s return, Eliza went directly to her room. She took the hollowed-out book she’d found in Ada’s room and sat on the edge of the bed, holding it in her upturned palms. She closed her eyes, hoping for a psychic impression. Nothing but dizziness and a wave of nausea coursed through her. Unlike Lydia, divination wasn’t one of her gifts.
She took out the items within the book, laying aside the macabre image of Gabriel and flipping it over so she wouldn’t have to look upon it again. She picked up the locket and ran her fingertips over the front. It was heavy and well made, with its inlay of plaited dark hair woveninto a flat herringbone pattern, a heart-shaped medallion made of polished silver at its center. She pushed the clasp, and it sprung open with a click. Inside there was a portrait, not of Gabriel—as she’d expected—but another man. He wore a derby, its brim tilted, the crisp line of his jaw accented by a high, starched collar. His full lips held an easy smile.
Eliza turned over the locket. Engraved on its back was an inscription:
Mon coeur est à toi, pour toujours.My heart is yours, for always.
Eliza’s weariness was replaced with sudden excitement. This wasn’t memento mori at all, but a love token. Had this man been Ada’s lover?
She closed the locket and picked up the book again. Shook it. Nothing. But some pages seemed thicker than others, especially toward the back, past the clever hand-cut cubby. She ran her fingers along the binding, her thumb flicking through the pages near the end. Her intuition proved right; instead of Henry James’s words, thin pieces of onionskin tracing paper adhered to the original pages and flyleaf, their surface figured with letters. The lines were printed neatly, without break or punctuation. Eliza smiled.
It was a code. Nowthisshe could manage.
She rushed to her escritoire and gently prized the vellum from the book’s pages using her letter opener. She pulled out her notebook, hurriedly flicking past her other notes. Within an hour, she’d deciphered the crowded, encoded writing. The letters corresponded to the alphabet, in reverse. Only, instead of English, the words were written in French. Her excitement growing by the moment, she translated the messages. They were love letters—erotic, intense, gloriously descriptive love letters.
I think of you, spread across the whiteness of your bed on those long summer days when the great house grew quiet and still around us, your body an invitation for my lips to kiss. How I long to ply you through your cries, your eloquent whimpers of pleasure maddening me to my ownend. Are you touching yourself now? Are you remembering how well I loved you as you read these words? Hasten to me once more, my darling, when the harvest is done.—M
How I long for you, my sweetest love. The taste of your lips. The feel of your soft breasts and the press of your hips against my own. Our love is pure. Do not let them keep us apart. They will not. You are my only joy—a need that courses through me, demanding satisfaction. What torture it is to be kept from you!—M
I went to Winchester, as always, but you did not come. I waited in our little room at the top of the stairs as the hours grew long and my patience grew short. I waited until my obligations to this hellish life forced me to leave. Have you abandoned me altogether? I am lost. If you do not come to me soon—I cannot fathom what I should become capable of in my grief!—M
Eliza drew in a shallow breath. The pieces were falling into place at last. Her intuition had been correct. She opened the locket and traced the picture of the man in the derby hat with her fingertip. If this mysterious “M” was indeed Ada’s secret lover, these concealed love letters could be proof of a motive for murder.
CHAPTER 36
In anticipation of Malcolm’s return, Eliza took more time with her toilette than she had of late, winding a strand of black pearls through her neatly braided and coiled hair. She felt and looked haggard, despite her rouged cheeks and mouth—as if she were cheap fabric torn in half. She spritzed on her favorite lilac perfume and went down to the drawing room, where she took up her needlepoint and arranged herself on the chaise in what she hoped was an alluring fashion.
Malcolm came through the door a little after twelve o’clock, followed by a puff of frigid air. She sprung from the chaise to greet him, standing on tiptoe to kiss both his wind-chilled cheeks. His hair was neatly combed, and he’d grown a moustache since she’d seen him last. It gave him a devilish air. She wasn’t keen.
“Did you miss me, darling?” he asked, giving her a tight-lipped smile.
“I have! But I’m not sure you missed me. I was hoping at least for a letter. Your telegram was rather spare.”
“Drat. I’m so sorry. I’m ever doing things to make you cross, aren’t I?”
“Yes. And I’m not so sure about your new moustache, husband.” Eliza arched a brow. “You look a bit like a villain in a vaudeville.”
“Oh? A bare upper lip isn’t the fashion in London, I’m afraid. I was only endeavoring to fit in. If it displeases you, I shall shave beforedinner.” He kissed the top of her head, his brows drawing together. “You look frightfully pale, darling. Have you been unwell?”
Eliza sighed. Ever one with the stunning compliments, wasn’t he? “I haven’t had much of an appetite lately, that’s all. But Shirley’s made a wonderful luncheon in celebration of your return. Come see.”
They went to the dining room, where the table waited with a tureen of lobster bisque. Malcolm pulled out her chair and Eliza sat, snapping her napkin open. “How was London?”
“Dreadful. The past week has been just a bunch of old men sat round smoking cigars and whinging about the defeat at Ladysmith. I’m glad to be home, although I’ll likely have to return before the week has gone.”
Eliza frowned. “So soon?”
“Wars are tedious business, love, and we must do our part. As I’m no longer in the military, this is my way of serving the empire.”
“Seems as if it would be the easier thing to let the Boers have their full independence,” Eliza murmured, garnering a sharp look from Malcolm. “Surely the loss of life isn’t worth gaining a few gold mines in the queen’s interest.”
Shirley swung through with a platter of fresh, crusty baguettes. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Malcolm. “Good to have you home, your lordship.” She spooned soup into their bowls and ground fresh pepper over the top.
“Ah, good day, Mrs.Duncan. Have you been keeping my wife occupied?”
“Oh, she’s been right busy indeed, sir. Keeping company with the local ladies. She even hosted a party on Samhain.”
