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  David winked at Lucinda, and she gave him her lightest, brightest smile yet. He returned the smile, tightening the link that existed between them.

  Once the carriage had pulled up the drive to the front of the house, David helped the ladies out and to the main door, which was painted a bright red. Up close, the disparity between the two halves of the house was even more marked. One side of the house’s windows were clean and the shutters painted the same bright red as the door. The other side of the house looked like an abandoned ruin.

  The door was answered by a very decorous butler, dressed in an old-fashioned livery and wearing a white wig. He accepted David’s card and led the party into a summer sitting room directly adjacent to the main entrance. The dark oak furniture was heavy and out of fashion, but in impeccable condition. Not a speck of dust could be seen in the room.

  “I will let Mrs. Burntwood know you have arrived.”

  They waited for several minutes before an older woman of surprising proportions was wheeled into the room in a chair. Wisps of thin gray hair lay across her large brow; the rest of her hair was covered by a white, lacy cap. She wore a purple dress equal to her size and station. Her jaw was slack, but David could see she had sharp eyes that did not miss any detail of her visitors.

  David, Lucinda, and Mrs. Patton stood. David walked toward the startling old lady and said formally, “Mrs. Burntwood, may I introduce myself? I am Mr. Randall, and this is Mrs. Patton and Miss Leavitt. You were so kind as to respond to the letter Miss Leavitt wrote inquiring after the deceased authoress, Mrs. Smith.”

  The old woman sniffed, her keen eyes catching their every movement. At last she spoke in a gravelly voice. “You are my guests. Please do be seated.”

  Lucinda sat in the chair closest to where Mrs. Burntwood’s wheelchair was placed. David took his seat beside her. Mrs. Patton made herself comfortable on a horsehair sofa.

  “What do you fancy folk want to know about Mrs. Smith?”

  “Anything,” Lucinda said. “Everything.”

  Mrs. Burntwood laughed, an unsettling sound, almost a cackle. “You’re an eager young miss, I’ll give you that. Well, the first thing I should tell you is that Bertha was no missus. Never married, and as far as I know, she never even had a suitor.”

  “Her name was Bertha Smith?” Lucinda clarified.

  Her question was met by another cackle.

  “Heavens bless me. Bertha’s mother were a Smith. Bertha were born simply ‘Bertha Topliffe.’ I suppose she wrote under Smith for anonymity. Though only the good Lord knows why. You’re the first folks to try to track her down.”

  David could see Lucinda swallow, her face falling. She clearly had been expecting something different. “Mrs. Burntwood, if it is not too impertinent,” he inquired, “may I ask in what capacity you knew Miss Topliffe?”

  “She were my paid companion,” Mrs. Burntwood said. “For more than twenty years. Started off as a governess, but couldn’t keep control of the children. She was too apt to be lost in her thoughts. Not ideal for a woman in charge of minding the little ones.”

  “Did you know that she was an authoress, Mrs. Burntwood?” Lucinda asked.

  Mrs. Burntwood nodded and her many chins jiggled. “The publisher demanded fifty pounds to help cover the cost of publishing her first book, A Tale of Two Towns. I paid half. And luckily it were a success, and Bertha paid me back every ha’penny. A good girl she was. A good companion.”

  Lucinda nodded. “May I ask how she died?”

  Mrs. Burntwood shook her chins again. “I dunno. The doctor thought it was something wrong on the inside. He bled her a fair bit. I even took her to Bath to drink the waters for several months. But Bertha did not improve. She wasted away to practically nothing, and then she died.”

  “We are sorry for the loss of your companion,” David said empathetically.

  “She were a good girl. Very obliging. She’d read to me for hours if I asked her. That’s what got her started on novel writing. One day she said, ‘I can imagine a better story than this.’ ‘Write it,’ I said, ‘Then you can read it to me.’ And she did. Listened to my advice on how to improve it too. She were a good girl.”

  “This question no doubt seems very silly,” Lucinda began, glancing at David, “but do you know by chance if she intended Miss Eurydice Emerson to marry Lord Dunstan or Mr. Thisbe?”

  Mrs. Burntwood gave another loud cackle. “Can’t say I do. She were so sick at the end that she fell behind on getting her chapters to the publisher. I kept telling her that Lord Dunstan was the only one worth considering, but she kept defending Mr. Thisbe. Probably because her brother were a clergyman. She liked all his sanctimony, I suppose. If Bertha ever made up her mind, she never told me. And the last pages she gave me to read, I sent on to her editor.”

  “Did Miss Topliffe leave behind any other papers or letters, anything that might be of interest?” David asked.

  “I sent all her letters and personal papers to her brother, Mr. Elisha Topliffe. He’s the rector of St. Ivy’s parish.”

  “How very helpful you have been, Mrs. Burntwood,” David said, and looked at Lucinda to see if she wanted to ask anything else. Lucinda shook her head slightly.

  Mrs. Burntwood must have seen their unspoken exchange, because she lifted her large hand and said, “You can’t be leaving already. I’ve ordered tea from the kitchen. Now, tell me alls about the exciting life of London society. I am keen to know what goes on nowadays.”

  David did as he was asked and spent the next half hour sharing society anecdotes with the old woman. Lucinda looked distracted, and Mrs. Patton fell asleep. David was right in his original assessment—Mrs. Burntwood was an intelligent woman. She wanted to know the specifics, as well as the lineage, of every person mentioned. David did his best to satisfy her, and in return Mrs. Burntwood provided him with an array of sweetmeats and biscuits.

  At last, David stood. “Mrs. Burntwood, I am afraid we really must leave. But it has been an honor to make your acquaintance, and we deeply appreciate all the information you shared about Miss Topliffe.”

  Lucinda stood next to him and said in a monotone voice, “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Burntwood. Mrs. Patton, are you ready to depart?”

  David watched Mrs. Patton jolt upright as if she’d been awake the whole time. The party took their leave of Mrs. Burntwood and left the house. David assisted the ladies into the carriage, giving Lucinda’s hand a small squeeze of encouragement as he did so. Mrs. Patton noticed her pale countenance and suggested Lucinda sit on the same side of the carriage as David.

  “We don’t want you getting sick, Lucinda,” Mrs. Patton said solicitously. “What would your father say?”

  Lucinda sat next to David in silence for several minutes, looking out of the window. David memorized the silhouette of her face, then glanced at Mrs. Patton to see if she was still awake. Her eyes were closed, her head slightly forward.

  He bumped his elbow into Lucinda’s arm. “Are you disappointed?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “I guess I was looking for Eurydice Emerson. Someone young and handsome, with the world at her feet. In control of her own destiny.”

  “And you found Miss Bertha Topliffe,” David said. “Former governess, companion, and spinster.”

  “It makes me want to discredit everything she wrote,” Lucinda said passionately. “What did she know about real life? She lived in such confining circumstances. Her slice of the world was so very narrow, her choices so very few.”

  “Perhaps she imagined the lives she wished she could have had.”

  Lucinda seemed to digest this. “Why is it that people are so much more fascinating in fiction than they are in real life?”

  “I disagree,” David said, and gave her his cockiest smile. “No one in print is half as fascinating as me.”

  “I shan’t agree, because it would only pamper your vanity,” Lucinda said.

  “You haven’t disagreed.”

  “If only we were alone,” Lucinda b
egan, eyeing Mrs. Patton across the seat.

  “Lucinda, you are making me blush,” David whispered.

  “I wasn’t—I didn’t say—You should not tease me, David,” Lucinda managed at last. “I am having a very disappointing day.”

  David moved his knee to touch hers, briefly. “I know,” he said. “I was simply trying to cheer you up.”

  Lucinda pressed her knee against his and nodded. She let out a loud sigh, and David could see her thoughts spinning behind her eyes. At last, she said, “I do not understand why Mrs. Burntwood did not simply write in the letter for us to inquire after Mr. Elisha Topliffe, of St. Ivy’s rectory.”

  “That’s simple enough,” David said. “The old lady wanted a visit.”

  “From complete strangers?”

  “I’ve found that some people, whatever their age or sex, need company,” David said thoughtfully. “She was a lonely old lady who wanted visitors, and in return she gave us information in our search for your authoress.”

  “I am so disheartened,” Lucinda said. “I am not sure if I wish to continue.”

  “That is a pity,” David said. “I suppose I will have to visit Mr. Topliffe all by myself. Without yours, nor Mrs. Patton’s, most excellent company.”

  Lucinda gave him a reluctant smile.

  “You’ve changed a lot since we were children, but you haven’t changed that much,” David said in a tone so low that Lucinda had to lean closer to him to hear. “And the Lucinda I know will not be content with an unfinished story. Even if she doesn’t like the ending, she will want to know it all the same.”

  “Are we discussing Miss Topliffe’s story or Miss Emerson’s?” Lucinda asked.

  “I believe they are one in the same.”

  Fifteen

  THE LANGUOR THAT ACCOMPANIED THE visit to Burntwood Folly clung to Lucinda all the way back to the hotel in Reading. She barely touched her dinner and claimed a headache afterward, excusing herself to her room. She did not undress, nor did she lie in her bed, but rather paced back and forth from the door to the window. From the window to the bed. From the bed to the door. Circling her cell over and over.

  Silently, Lucinda cursed the restraints put on women by society. What real choices had Bertha Topliffe had? She was wellborn enough, but without money. Her options in life were few: become a governess, a companion, or a wife. Nothing else was genteel enough for the daughter of a gentleman. Yet Bertha had dared to dream of more. She’d written novels and found a publisher, only to die from an unknown internal complaint. And even at the time of her death, she had still been the companion of an old lady. Had Bertha ever truly escaped the lot into which she was born?

  Lucinda was not the daughter of a gentleman, but she had the advantage of money. And money meant more now socially than it ever had before. But, if anything, her options were even fewer than Bertha’s. Her only option was to marry, preferably to someone of good birth and social standing.

  It simply was not fair.

  If she had been born a boy, she could have had her choice of vocations. She could have traveled on the train without a companion. Even walked down the street by herself. Such a simple luxury she would never experience.

  Lucinda had let herself believe that discovering the end to Eurydice’s story would somehow complete her, would complete that chapter of her life from finishing school where the only ray of hope was a few pages of story in a monthly magazine. She thought it would allow her to continue on to the expectations of her new life. But she felt unfinished, like the story. Finishing school had taught Lucinda how she was supposed to behave and what she was allowed to think, but both her heart and her mind rebelled against their rigid rules. Their demeaning dictates.

  How could she ever be a complete person if she couldn’t be her true self?

  Lucinda heard a light knock at her door. She paced back to it and opened it. David stood in the hall. He pressed a finger to his lips and then whispered, “Would you care to go on a walk with me?”

  “Yes,” Lucinda whispered back. “Why are we whispering?”

  David pointed to Mrs. Patton’s room, and Lucinda instantly understood. She reentered her room and picked up her bonnet. She tied it haphazardly underneath her chin. She ought to have grabbed a shawl, but it was already so hot outside, and she didn’t want to add any more clothing to her body than what was already there.

  Lucinda followed David out of the hotel. He stopped outside the front door. He looked at her so closely that she felt her temperature rise.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Your bonnet,” he said finally. “Might I retie it for you? You look rather lopsided.”

  Lucinda stuck out her chin in response. David deftly untied the knot and repositioned the bonnet on her hair, then meticulously tied the bow underneath her chin on the left side. Lucinda had not realized she was holding her breath until the moment he let go of her ribbon. She slowly exhaled, feeling the delightful tension between them. He offered his arm, and she did not hesitate to take it.

  The sun was setting in the distance, giving the buildings and surrounding green fields a golden glow. They walked down the street next to the River Kennet, and Lucinda found the sound of water calming. They continued to stroll down the cobbled street until they saw where a part of the river split off into a small canal. One side was diverted north toward ruins; the other side of the river continued its path east.

  “Shall we keep to our path or go see some specters in those ruins?” David asked.

  “Definitely the specters,” Lucinda said. “I wonder what that building once was? It looks like it might have been a castle.”

  “I do not know,” David said, leading her down a narrow street toward the ruins.

  The path ended abruptly, so they turned west for a few steps before heading north down another short street. On one side there was a building that looked as if it had partially collapsed; there were wooden trusses supporting the structure. It appeared to Lucinda as if the building were being rebuilt from the outside in.

  “Whatever happened here?” she exclaimed.

  To Lucinda’s surprise, it was not David but another gentleman who answered her. “Abbey Gateway collapsed in a gale earlier this year, ma’am.”

  Lucinda saw a man walking out of the structure. He had a substantial brown beard and wore a pair of narrow spectacles and the clothes of a gentleman.

  “Sir,” David said, bowing his head. “I am Mr. Randall. And you are?”

  “Sir George Gilbert Scott,” he said, doffing his hat to Lucinda. “I’m the architect in charge of restoring Abbey Gateway to its original glory.”

  “So, those ruins over there were part of an abbey?” Lucinda asked.

  “The abbey’s chapter house, commissioned by Henry I, it was, nearly seven hundred years ago,” Sir George explained.

  “Of great antiquity, then,” David responded.

  “And historical significance,” Sir George said, puffing his chest out a little. “This here gateway that I’m restoring was used as a schoolroom, and the famous Miss Austen attended school here with her sister.”

  “That is fascinating,” Lucinda said. “I adore Miss Austen’s works. Emma is my favorite.”

  “The Reading Corporation also recently acquired the Forbury and created the gardens just there,” Sir George said, pointing his stubby finger directly northeast of the ruins. “It’s certainly worth a visit.”

  “Then we shall visit it,” David said. “Thank you for your information, Sir George.”

  They continued to stroll arm in arm. They left the road and took a gravel footpath toward the great stone ruins, following a dilapidated rock wall that must have connected originally to the abbey. They entered the main building underneath a stone arch. It looked to have once been at least two stories high. There was no sign of any roof, and some of the remaining stone walls were higher than other parts. Light streamed through arched openings that once must have been windows, and green plants were growing right out of the thi
ck stone walls.

  “I wish to amend my earlier statement,” David said.

  “Yes?” Lucinda prompted.

  “This is a much more promising site for ghosts than Burntwood Folly.”

  Lucinda laughed, the sound echoing off the crumbling walls. “This location certainly has an atmosphere to it. Look, through that arch, I see the Forbury Gardens that Sir George mentioned. Shall we go explore them before it gets too dark?”

  “Lead on, Lucinda.”

  They walked down another gravel footpath to the gardens, which had a lovely fountain bubbling water from the top with four spokes of walking paths surrounding it. Formal flower beds in long rectangles and perfect circles were full of bright yellow, red, white, and pink blooms, and they passed exotic trees of several varieties that Lucinda could not name.

  “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

  David gave the gardens a critical look. “It’s rather too well kept for me.”

  “You’d prefer something overgrown.”

  David turned to look her in the eyes. “Yes, overgrown with a nice big thornbush to push you into.”

  Lucinda laughed. “That is not very gallant of you, David.”

  “I need an excuse to be near you,” he said.

  Lucinda removed her arm from the crook of his elbow and turned so she stood directly facing him, so close she could feel his warm breath on her cheek.

  “I am near now.”

  David put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her toward him, closing the small space between them, and gently placed his lips on hers. Once. Twice. And then a third time. Just lightly, like a soft breeze.

  Then he looked at her, their noses nearly touching, a silly grin on his face. Lucinda was quite sure the expression on her face was equally sappy, but she couldn’t help herself. She had never felt this way before. She’d never been kissed before. It was as if her insides were a bubbling fountain of happiness in the garden of her heart.

  A twig snapped, and Lucinda pulled away from him. David blinked at her in surprise, and she inclined her head toward a pair of men walking through the park. He nodded ever so slightly.