The Anatomist's Wife (17 page)

Philip exchanged some words with him that I did not hear, struggling with my grief
as I was. Then he moved to speak with the footmen and searched the hole for anything
else.

Gage rose to his feet, his face pale and drawn, and crossed the short distance to
me. I swiped at my cheeks and took deep heaving breaths, trying to gain control of
myself. All I could think about was how swiftly that baby’s life had ended. Had the
infant cried? Had she made any sound at all?

I felt sick and disoriented and angry. Angry that someone could be capable of such
savagery. We weren’t dealing with a murderer, but a monster. A sick, twisted human
being who waltzed through the halls of Gairloch Castle and dined next to us at the
table, and then marched outside to disfigure Lady Godwin and her child. Killing the
viscountess would have killed the baby, too. But this fiend wasn’t satisfied with
that. He had to viscerally defile motherhood and terrorize the child by wrenching
her away from the only warmth she had ever known and burying her alone in the cold,
dark ground.

Gage sat next to me, pulling me toward him. I allowed him to cradle my head against
his chest while I sobbed. It was an unexpected comfort, and made me weep all the harder
for the security and compassion he gave me when the child had been given none.

When my emotions settled, he and Philip guided me between them back down the path
toward the castle. Darkness had begun to fall, so Philip lit one of the lamps to show
the way while leaving the other for the footmen, who were re-covering the hole. I
clutched both of their arms and allowed them to lead me on, resting my head against
Gage’s shoulder when it became too heavy for me. At the orangery, he passed the tiny
bundle to Philip. Then, with one last troubled glance at me, my brother-in-law set
off toward the western hall block and the chapel.

“Come on,” Gage said, wrapping his arm securely around me so that I did not stumble.
“Let’s get you inside. I think maybe a hot bath would make you feel better.”

“I don’t want a bath,” I protested, my voice hoarse from the spent emotion. “I don’t
want to return to my room.” I couldn’t lie in the dark and allow images of Lady Godwin
and her tiny unborn child to play over and over in my mind. That way lay only madness.
“My studio,” I insisted before Gage could question me.

“All right,” he agreed, although from the tone of his voice I could tell it had been
reluctantly.

Revived by his acquiescence, I pointed him toward the servants’ entrance, hoping to
avoid the other guests. The fewer who knew what had been uncovered tonight the better,
particularly if the murderer was watching. One look at my distressed features and
the dirt staining Gage’s clothing, and the killer would know exactly where we had
been and what we had found.

I glanced up at the castle’s looming facade, frightened I would see a pair of eyes
staring out at me. I trembled, and Gage wrapped his arm more tightly around me.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

W
hen we reached my studio, I realized I did not have my key. I groaned. It looked as
if I would have to return to my bedchamber after all.

“What’s wrong?” Gage asked.

“It’s locked.” I reached out to twist the handle in illustration and the door swung
open.

My mouth dropped open in shock.

Gage stepped closer to peer into the dim interior. “I take it that should not have
happened?”

“I
always
keep it locked. There are volatile chemicals in here. I can’t have people wandering
in and knocking something over and setting fire to the castle, or opening bottles
and inhaling poisonous fumes. Think of the children.” I could hear the panic building
in my voice.

He squeezed my arm gently. “Stay here.”

I watched in trepidation as he inched closer and pushed the door wider. The muted
light of gloaming filtered through the large windows, blurring the lines of the furniture,
canvases, and easels. He eased one step into the door and reached back under his frock
coat to extract a pistol from the waist of his trousers. I wondered if he always carried
the weapon. His free hand gestured for me to slide out of view of the door. I considered
disobeying, for if I moved, then I wouldn’t be able to see what happened inside, but
common sense reasserted itself. He wanted me out of the intruder’s line of sight,
and thus out of firing range should they also have a gun.

Gage crept into the room, and I held my breath, listening for sounds of a struggle.
In my mind, I pictured the layout of my studio and imagined him moving quietly around
the room, weaving through my mess of easels and canvases, both finished and unfinished.
There was a crash and I jumped. I heard his faint curse and strained to hear any other
sounds. When there was only silence, I began to worry.

Had Gage been attacked by the intruder? Was he injured? Fear gripped my chest in its
tight fist, squeezing the breath from my lungs. I glanced down the corridor, trying
to decide what I should do. If something had happened to Gage, his attacker likely
knew that I was out here waiting for him. Would he harm me as well? Should I run for
help?

My limbs tensed, eager to take flight, but I stopped them from moving. If I ran, the
intruder would escape without my identifying him. And then who would be blamed for
Gage’s injuries or, worse, death?

Me. The only person who was known to have been with him. The person who was already
the prime suspect for Lady Godwin’s murder in most minds.

If Gage had been harmed, I could not leave him, nor let his attacker get away. I had
to stop him.

I reached up and carefully extracted the ivory comb from my hair. As far as weapons
went, it was a rather innocuous choice, but it was the sharpest object I had on hand.
A few tendrils of hair fell down around my face, and I blew them aside. Then, taking
a deep breath, I took one tentative step toward the doorway, sliding along the wall.
My palm was sweaty around the comb, so I gripped it tighter, feeling the bone bite
into my skin. When I reached the threshold, I closed my eyes and said a prayer for
courage. Leaning forward, I peered around the door frame to see into the room and
shrieked.

Gage flinched back and reached out to take a hold of my arms. “Kiera. It’s just me.”

I pressed my hand over my pounding heart and leaned forward to rest my forehead against
his chest.

“Are you all right?”

I lifted my head and swatted him. “When I heard the crash, I thought someone had attacked
you.”

He smiled softly, clearly not injured by my slap. “Sorry. I tripped over something.”
He glanced behind him. “I hope I didn’t damage anything that cannot be replaced.”

I saw the dim outline of a twisted canvas and began to push past him, until I remembered
why he had been fumbling around in the dark in the first place. I looked up at him.

“There’s no one here. If someone broke into your studio, they’re long gone now.”

I moved to carefully light one of the covered lanterns set on the tables near the
door. My hands still shook from my fright. “What do you mean
if
?”

He reached for the lantern on the opposing table and began to light it as well.

“Be careful with that,” I snapped.

He looked up at me and nodded. “Are you certain you locked up the last time you were
here?”

“Yes,” I stated emphatically, angry that he would question me on this. “As I told
you, I
always
lock the door when I leave, even if it’s only for a moment.” I picked up the canvas
he had managed to both kick and step through. Fortunately, it was only the background
of a portrait I had started months ago and never returned to. I tossed the ruined
canvas to the side and knelt to examine the other canvases leaning against the wall
near it.

“Who else has a key to this room?”

“Mrs. MacLean.”

“No one else?”

“No,” I replied testily. “No one else has cause to possess a key.”

“Perhaps Mrs. MacLean had the room cleaned and forgot to lock up.”

I stood to look back at Gage, who was picking up various jars from the shelves storing
my pigments and examining them. “I don’t allow anyone to clean this room.” He glanced
back at me. “If it needs tidying, I do it myself.”

He looked back at the jar of deep red madder in his hands and set it carefully back
on the shelf. “These pigments are that poisonous?”

“Some of them, yes,” I replied, moving toward him. “It’s the fumes. They are the most
toxic while I am mixing them. That’s why I wear gloves and do it outside.” I reached
out to pick up a bottle. “Once the linseed oil is added in the right increments to
make the paint, it stabilizes into something that is much less harmful. However, I
still do not want my nieces and nephew stumbling upon it and ingesting it.” He nodded
his understanding. “I’m much more worried about the maids knocking over a bottle of
turpentine and setting the entire castle ablaze.”

He grimaced. “Yes. I suppose that would be bad.”

I raised my eyebrows at his understatement, and he smiled more genuinely. Uncomfortable
with the softness in his eyes and the memory of his arm around me as he guided me
into the castle, I turned away to face the rest of the room.

Breathing deeply, I inhaled the familiar, comforting scents of my studio. Fumes that
to someone who was not an artist choked and burned the delicate hairs of the nose,
welcomed me like a favorite, four-course dinner. For cooks, the smell of herbs and
fresh ingredients made their noses tingle and their mouths salivate. For an artist,
the scents of linseed oil and turpentine awakened the mind, making it stretch and
search for a brush and canvas. After a difficult day, it was like coming home to a
loved one. It grounded me like nothing else ever could.

My studio was housed in one of the turret rooms, so the stone walls were rounded.
Large windows alternated with stone columns on most of the wall surface because the
turret projected out of the corner of the east block of the castle. At my request,
Philip had also installed a skylight at a southeast angle on the slanted roof to provide
me with more light. It was by far the best art studio I had ever occupied, even with
the small amount of Highland sun I contended with in winter. At my childhood homes
and Sir Anthony’s London town house, I had made do with the conservatory or a small
bedroom.

“Can you tell if anything is missing?” Gage asked.

I turned toward my finished canvases first. It seemed likely that if anyone wanted
to take something from this room, it would be a painting they could sell, not a raw
pigment anyone could purchase in Edinburgh, London, and at least another dozen places
in Britain. Apparently, he had the same idea, for he stood over my shoulder, studying
each painting as I sorted carefully through the canvases propped against the wall
underneath the southern-facing windows out of the reach of the sun’s rays. As much
as I needed light to create my portraits, so the finished paintings needed to be protected
from it to keep the pigments from fading. They all seemed to be accounted for, so
I moved to examine the works in progress, currently propped on my three easels, and
left Gage to continue studying the finished images.

I sighed in relief as I flipped the canvas cover back over the portrait I had begun
of the children and Philip’s dogs lying together in a pile. None of the objects worth
monetary value were missing. Canvases, linen, pigments, brushes, and other supplies
could be replaced. Of course, some of those items were quite expensive—like the set
of brushes that had been specifically weighted for my hands—and new canvases took
time to treat. I frowned and moved to sort through my equipment, grateful I had taken
inventory only the day before.

“Lady Darby.”

Gage’s voice sounded funny behind me, and I hesitated a second before turning, somehow
knowing I was not going to like whatever had tightened his voice.

His face looked pained. “Do you know what this is?” He held up a crumpled white apron
that looked as if it had been smeared in carmine paint. If not for the discoveries
over the past few days, I might not have recognized it immediately for what it was,
but visions of Lady Godwin flashed through my mind and I knew exactly what stained
the fabric.

I gasped and clutched the edge of the table behind me. “Where did you find that?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Against the wall behind these paintings.”

I could feel the blood drain from my face. “That’s not mine. I . . . I don’t know
how it got there.” My voice was thin and reedy to my ears. I shook my head in denial.
“Please, Gage. You have to believe me,” I pleaded. “That’s not mine. S-someone must
be trying to blame me.”

He crossed the room toward me, still holding the apron in front of him. I shrank away
from him, my eyes darting back and forth between him and the blood-splattered fabric.
His face was controlled and pale. What was he thinking? Did he believe me, or did
he think me culpable of such crimes? Was he going to have me locked in my room? If
he did, I would be as good as dead. I would never be able to find the actual killer
and prove my innocence. The procurator fiscal would pronounce me guilty and see me
hanged, or thrown into an asylum where I would wish for death.

I gasped for air, wondering if I could run, if I should run. Or would that be the
final nail in the coffin, so to speak, for Gage? Would he see that as an admission
of my guilt?

My arms strained against the table to hold me up as my legs threatened to give way.

He stopped a few feet away from me and stared down at me so intently that I felt his
gaze to the depths of my soul. I couldn’t look away, even if I had wanted to. I just
couldn’t break eye contact with the man who held my future in his hands. With every
ounce of my being, I silently begged for him to understand. Begged for him to trust
me.

“Gage, please. It’s not mine,” I pleaded again.

His pale eyes softened, and the corner of his mouth creased. “All right, Kiera,” he
murmured, shaking his head almost in bewilderment. “Maybe I’m crazy, but I believe
you.”

I crumpled to the floor as the breath I had been holding left me in a shuddering sigh.
He believed me. I almost couldn’t trust it. No one beyond my family ever believed
me. I cradled my head against my knees and trembled in relief, smothering the sound
of my sobs.

“Hey.” Gage placed his hand gently on my shoulder as he sank down beside me.

“Thank you,” I gasped between tremulous breaths. “Thank you.”

He smiled sadly at me.

I sniffed, swiping at my nose and eyes with the palm of my hand. He handed me his
handkerchief and I took it, as mine was already sodden from my tears at Lady Godwin’s
baby’s grave.

“I’m sorry,” I said, hearing the husky timbre of my voice. “I don’t normally cry so
much. In fact, I don’t think I’ve wept so many tears in years.”

“Did you cry at your husband’s funeral?” he asked evenly. Too evenly.

I hesitated for a moment. “No,” I finally confessed. I had often wondered what that
said about me. I wondered what Gage would think of my admission. I looked up to find
him studying my profile. His gaze was soft, like a caress. My breath fluttered inside
my chest and my skin grew warm. I turned away.

“Now will you please tell me what happened to you after your husband died?” he queried
gently. I stiffened. “I told you that I believe you are innocent, and I do. But I
need to understand, Kiera. I need to know what all these people are accusing you of.”

It was the third time he had called me by my given name, but for some reason it affected
me differently this time. Perhaps it was because of the warm inflection of his voice
or the proximity of his mouth to my ear. Or the fact that he actually believed in
me. All I knew was that the sound thrummed through me as if a hand had brushed down
my spine.

He was right. He deserved an explanation. Not because I wanted him to keep my name
out of the investigation when he spoke to the official from Inverness, not because
I wanted to prove my innocence once and for all, but because he trusted me. He believed
in my honesty and goodness, and because he was willing to do so, I owed him the truth.
And, astoundingly, I realized I wanted him to know.

“Everything is as Philip told you,” I began, staring at the mauve skirts of my gown.
“Sir Anthony was a renowned anatomist and a friend of my father’s, who arranged our
marriage. None of us realized why exactly Sir Anthony was interested in me. I suppose
my father assumed it was my appearance and normally quiet disposition. At the time,
I hadn’t cared whom I married so long as he promised to allow me to continue painting.”
I plucked at the dove-gray piping down my skirt. “Of course, Sir Anthony neglected
to tell me until we were wed that there was a provision to his promise.”