The Dark Between (6 page)

It wasn’t just the food that made her giddy. It was the small bed in the well-ventilated room—certainly more cozy than the dusty corner of a crowded cottage. It was the hot soak in the large porcelain tub—much preferred to a cold splash in a basin. It was the freedom to wander in the sunlight during the day. Most of all, it was the fact that she would
not
be hauling chamber pots and scrubbing floors. Instead she would be working with two Summerfield students to move the library collection into its new building. Mrs. Thompson thought the work would take at least two weeks, perhaps longer.

It was a gift. A little breathing space before she must fend for herself again. For that she was grateful.

But she couldn’t let this sudden upswing in fortune derail her from her purpose. She needed a more permanent situation, and instinct told her that a new scheme might reveal itself when she learned more about her father. If nothing else, she would discover whom he’d married and where she lived. She harbored no fantasies of being welcomed into the lady’s home and heart. The lady might, however, find her a comfortable situation far away in order to avoid further scandal. And if Kate were to confront her father’s widow, she would need to be well armed with information.

What better place to find information than a library?

“Oh no,” said Mrs. Thompson, interrupting her thoughts.

Kate looked up to find the woman peering intently at the
Cambridge Daily News
.

“I warned you not to read the local rag this morning.” Mr. Thompson spoke from behind
The Times
.

“It’s just so horrible. I’d prefer not to see Summerfield linked to it in print.”

Kate set down her spoon and looked around the table. Miss Atherton had excused herself earlier, and now young Mr. Beale stared at his plate as though deeply pained by the sight of cold eggs. Why didn’t he ask about this horrible thing? Didn’t he feel a similar sense of dread to hear Mrs. Thompson’s exclamations?

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Kate finally said. “What is so horrible?”

Mrs. Thompson set the paper down. “Oh, it’s nothing to do with us. A few days ago the body of a vagrant was discovered at the Corpus College cricket grounds—quite near here. The police can’t even put a name to the poor creature.” She shook her head sadly. “He must have wandered over here from Castle Street. One hears of drunkards and beggars congregating in that area.”

Kate’s spine tingled at the mention of Castle Street. In her mind she saw Billy, his pale, translucent skin turned chalky by death.

“Was it a boy?” she asked.

Mrs. Thompson frowned. “Hmmm?”

“The
body
.” Kate fought to contain her impatience. “Was it a boy?”

“No. It was an elderly man, weakened by drink and hard living.” She stared at Kate. “What has you so agitated, Miss Poole?”

“Nothing.” Kate’s shoulders sank in relief. “I know some boys on Castle End, is all. But they take good care of each other,” she said quickly. “They’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

“I do hope so,” said Mrs. Thompson, her eyes troubled.

Once breakfast was cleared, Kate followed Mrs. Thompson to Summerfield Hall, the oldest building in the college. The lady walked briskly, but as Kate was mostly made of legs, she managed to keep pace.

Mrs. Thompson paused before the door of the hall and glanced down at Kate. “I fear your dress may not hold together much longer.”

Kate blushed. “When Mrs. Martineau sacked me, she took back the few clothes she’d given me. I came to her in this very dress.”

Mrs. Thompson’s expression did not change. “I will search out something more suitable later today. I hope you can manage basic sewing, because you’ll be hemming tonight.”

They entered the former library in Summerfield Hall to find two young ladies scanning the room with forlorn faces. Though not as untidy as Mr. Thompson’s study, the room contained shelves of books piled in front of other books, and more
piled on the floor. Several opened crates cluttered the remaining floor space, catching the ladies’ skirts as they threaded their way between them.

“Good morning, Miss Freeman and Miss Barrett,” Mrs. Thompson said. “I have brought Kate Poole to assist you with the move.” She paused, turning to Kate. “The plan is to organize the books first and then transport them in batches, so as not to re-create this chaos in our new library. The task will involve unpacking the new bequests”—she gestured at the crates—“which will need to be labeled, inventoried, and placed with the previous acquisitions. Miss Freeman and Miss Barrett will show you what to do. I must return to my office to wrestle with the college accounts.” She nodded at the three of them and, lifting her skirts high to clear the books, swept out of the room.

Freeman and Barrett were not overly friendly, but as Kate was unaccustomed to warmth, this did not concern her. She spent the morning pulling books from boxes and reading out the titles so that Freeman could enter them in a ledger. The books then went to Barrett, who marked the spines with letters and numbers. When finished, Barrett then put them in the appropriate stack for later transport.

At midday the two ladies went home to dine—like most students, they did not live in college during the summer holiday—and Kate went to the Gatehouse kitchen for as much mutton stew as she could swallow. The cook beamed to see her appetite, for the summers left her short of eager mouths to feed. Kate decided the only thing that could have improved the meal would have been Billy and Tec sharing it with her, just like the old days in Mrs. Martineau’s kitchen.

Was Billy safe at Tec’s now? She must contrive a way to visit Castle End without the Thompsons knowing.

She returned to Summerfield Hall before the others, which gave her time to poke about the room. Against the far wall she found the library’s collection of bound newspapers, heavy volumes stacked haphazardly. They would take time to sort. With some searching, however, she might locate her father’s obituary. Billy had once told her that obituaries provided a gold mine of information to mediums looking to hoodwink their sitters.

And perhaps, Kate thought, with some luck they also might provide useful details to daughters needing to know more about dead fathers.

Chapter 7

E
lsie kept to her room, claiming a headache as excuse for not joining Aunt Helena at the luncheon table. She had much work to do, and it must be done quietly.

First, she retrieved a sober grey dress and fresh underclothes from the wardrobe, all of which she laid out on her traveling trunk for the next morning. Then she pulled her largest drawstring bag from the top drawer. Not much room, but it was all she could allow herself. Everything else must be left behind. One day she might have fine clothes again, when London society recognized his talent, but finery mattered little in comparison to her love for him. For now they could make the most of a simple life.

Elsie opened her jewelry chest and spilled the contents upon the bed. She fished out the sovereigns, along with a crumpled ten-pound note, and placed them in her smaller coin purse. Then she divided the fine jewelry from the paste and cut glass. The diamond necklace and earrings were gifts from her father, presented on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday. The emerald ring and bracelet were bequests from a favorite great-aunt.
She gathered these and a few other valuable items and tied them all within a fine linen handkerchief.

Each piece would have to be sold, but she didn’t care.

The coin purse and pouch of jewels went into her bag, along with her necessary toiletries, three clean handkerchiefs, and a spare pair of gloves. She retrieved a sealed bottle of Chlorodyne from her drawer and placed it in the bag. Two bottles remained, but including them would weight her bag overmuch. More could be obtained in London, of course. Elsie had never purchased her own medicine, but she was certain he would know how to procure it.

She stared longingly at the side table, where her camera sat. Though it was compact, it was still too large to fit in her bag. She must travel light—it would not do to leave the house clutching all her favorite things.

But …

The camera case had a strap, didn’t it? She could wear it crossed over her body and still hold her bag. She lifted the strap over her shoulder as an experiment. Yes, she could manage quite well. The familiar feel of the camera at her side only strengthened her resolve.

With everything sorted and tidied away, one problem remained. How could she leave the house without attracting attention? Sneaking out before dawn wouldn’t work, for she’d never get past the locks on the iron gate without somehow stealing a key—impossible in a household overseen by Aunt Helena.

The plan required more subtlety than that. And subtle planning was not something at which she excelled.

Elsie took a breath and concentrated, approaching the matter from a different angle. She knew from the servants that a horse-drawn tram carried passengers back and forth from the station to Christ’s College. She also knew there was an 11:00
train to London, for she’d studied the timetables at King’s Cross when changing trains from Essex. She merely needed to know where and when to catch the tram. The young housemaid—Millie was her name—would be able to tell her and probably wouldn’t suspect a thing. She was sweet and rather dim.

The problem of how to leave the house still remained.

Her outing must seem ordinary and innocent. The skinny Poole girl was occupied each day, as was Millie. She couldn’t slip away from her aunt or uncle even if they agreed to go out with her. She counted through each member of the household once more. Was anyone left? Only Asher Beale, and he’d be no help at all.

On second thought, however—

A knock at the door startled her. She tucked the drawstring bag under the bed and lay back against the pillow.

“Come in.”

Her aunt opened the door. In her arms she carried a bundle of material. “How’s your head, dear?”

Elsie touched her forehead with the back of her hand. “It’s improving, I think.”

“Good.” Her aunt walked in and sat upon the chair near the bed. She gazed steadily at Elsie before finally clearing her throat.

Here it comes
, thought Elsie.

“Your mother didn’t explain in detail why you needed to come to Summerfield, but I gather it had something to do with your art tutor.”

Elsie looked away.

“You had … an infatuation with him?”

“I
loved
him,” Elsie whispered after a moment.

“And he returned your affection?”

“Yes.”

“Then we must determine one thing if you are to remain here at Summerfield. Is it possible you are with child?”

Elsie blushed, not so much at the boldness of the question but at the memories it evoked. She’d allowed him liberties, and together they’d done wonderful, shameful things that would make her mother faint and her father unlock the gun cabinet. She almost wished she
were
carrying his child—a link to him that could not fade like memory.

“I am
not
with child.”

“Good.”

Elsie risked a glance at her. Aunt Helena did not appear sickened or scornful. Rather, she simply looked relieved … and oddly hopeful.

“My sister intended your visit to be temporary, but I do urge you to consider staying longer, perhaps as a student of Summerfield College?”

Elsie flushed with embarrassment. “I’m not clever, Aunt.”

“Nonsense. You haven’t applied yourself. And I’ve never approved of your father’s refusal to give your education the same attention he gave to that of his sons. Such an absurdly outdated attitude toward female intellect.”

Elsie sighed. “My episodes unsettle him, I think. After Mother insisted I take the dose, which always makes me slow and sleepy, he just assumed I was dull-witted.”

“That is unfortunate,” Aunt Helena said softly.

Elsie hardly knew what to say. She simply didn’t care anymore what her father or mother thought. Soon she would be in London, and her parents wouldn’t suffer the agonies of their loss very long.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, my dear,” her aunt said briskly. “I really only stopped by to see how you were feeling, and to show you these.” She shook out the material bundled in her
arms. One hand held a plain white blouse, the other a brown skirt. “Young Miss Poole’s dress is in a terrible state, so I thought we might take in this old skirt and blouse. Do you think they are too plain?”

“The girl is certain to be glad of them.”

Aunt Helena nodded thoughtfully and refolded the garments. “Might you have something that would suit her, Elsie? Something a little nicer for evening functions? I don’t wish her to feel like a servant. You have many dresses, I know. There must be one you don’t favor so much anymore.”

“I’m sure I have something, Aunt.”

When her aunt closed the door behind her, Elsie glanced at the wardrobe full of dresses she would never see again. Once she was gone, the girl could have them all.

Asher had risen from the breakfast table in low spirits, for his plans had come to nothing. He’d imagined Miss Atherton joining him on his tour of Cambridge—she’d only just arrived herself, hadn’t she? Together they could pore over his
Baedeker’s Great Britain
and search out the most revered colleges and historic sites. He’d lain awake half the night plotting it out.