looking for Catherine and Mr. Pierce? Did he think he saw them, and was eager to join them after all? If sitting here beside him is not enough for me, it seems it is certainly not enough for him either.
Cyrus taught me that no man would ever want me for anything other than my family’s money, and this was something that I always accepted about myself. But with Mr. Barrett I saw a brief glimmer of hope, that maybe, just maybe, there was more for me. A heaviness presses against my chest.
“Miss Montrose, are you all right?” His gaze has been darting about, ever watchful, as if at any moment he expects someone to materialize from the trees. But now it lands on me.
“What?” His eyes have lost some of their distance. I color, sure that he could read my thoughts as I stared at him. “Oh, yes. Fine. I’m fine.” But I’m not. There’s something wrong, I can feel it. I’ve been jealous before, angry, but this is more than just a passing melancholy mood. It’s as if a dark mist is creeping at the edge of my mind, curling gnarled fingers around me, fogging my thoughts with terrible and ugly feelings. I take a shaky breath, trying to ignore the sensation.
He doesn’t look convinced. “You’re very pale. Are you sure?”
“Am I?” I attempt a careless laugh but it comes out in a choke. “It’s just the heat. I think maybe I need to lie down.”
Mr. Barrett is already on his feet offering me his arm, and I shakily accept it. “Let me walk you back,” he says, peering down into my face. “I’m afraid that I’ve said something to upset you.” He looks genuinely remorseful.
The dark mist curls further into my mind—I can’t think straight. My temple throbs. I must get away from this place, this man. I don’t like the dark turn my thoughts have taken sitting out here with him. I don’t like the jealousy and anger that’s simmering beneath my breast. My heart beats hard, every palpitation a threatening command of Just go. Just go. Just go. Deep within me I know that if I don’t leave, all of that anger and frustration will come erupting out of me in a way I can’t control. Just like that day with Tommy Bishop, a singsong voice says in my mind. Just go. Just go.
But what do I have to be so angry about? I try to shake the fog from my mind, to remember what we were speaking about even a few moments ago. All I know is that I can’t be here right now. I have to leave.
“No, no. Please, stay with Emeline.” I wave off his polite concern. “I just need to get out of this heat and rest.”
Mr. Barrett takes a sharp breath, and I follow his line of sight. Emeline. Emeline is gone.
In the midst of my jealousy and anger, I forgot to watch her, to make sure she was all right. The dark thoughts dissipate, a hundred snakes slithering back from whence they came, as a knot of unease settles in my chest.
She must have gotten bored while Mr. Barrett and I were talking, ignoring her. “She can’t have gotten far,” I say, though my voice trembles, belying my misgivings.
Mr. Barrett is already snatching up his coat, his jaw clenched tight and eyes scanning the surrounding trees. He heads off back into the woods, and I have to jog just to catch up with him. His tense silence compounds my uneasiness and I start to feel real panic. What if she got lost in the woods going back to the house? What if someone, some malicious vagabond wandering through our property stole her away? My blood goes cold. What if those words in the mirror weren’t my imagination at all, but some sort of warning? I hike my skirts to my knees, running as Mr. Barrett increases his pace.
We are just coming up the hill toward the summerhouse, when a crashing in the trees stops us. My heart leaps to my throat and Mr. Barrett comes to an abrupt halt, putting out a hand to keep me back.
The brush rustles with movement, and then a moment later out tumbles a giggling Catherine, Mr. Pierce on her heels.
I let out a deflated breath, relieved that it wasn’t something malevolent, but irritated that we’re losing time looking for Emeline when it’s only Catherine making a spectacle out of herself.
Mr. Barrett parts his lips as if he wants to ask his friend what they were doing, but one look between them tells the whole story; Catherine’s hair is unkempt, her color high and Mr. Pierce’s collar is undone. But there’s no time to chastise her for her careless, lewd, behavior.
“Lydia!” Catherine looks up at me in surprise, a tipsy smile lingering at her lips. “What are you doing here?”
“Emeline is missing,” I snap at her.
The smile fades as Catherine’s gaze flicks between Mr. Barrett and me. She looks more annoyed than worried. “I thought you said you were going to watch her.”
I bite my tongue and resist the urge to take her by the shoulders and shake her. She’s right, but there’s no time to bicker about it.
Mr. Barrett takes charge. “August and I will go back out to the road. Miss Montrose, you and your sister go back to Willow Hall. Send word if you find her before us, and we’ll do likewise.” His tone is commanding, and I’m too sick with worry to do anything other than obey.
MY KNEES GO weak with relief when we come back down the hill and around the front of the house to see Snip dozing in the sun on the lawn. A little ways away a horse has been carelessly hitched to the fence; Mother must have a caller, and Emeline has joined them. My heart rate slows. All that worry was for nothing after all. Emeline is safe and sound.
“There,” says Catherine in a grumble. “She just went back to the house. You needn’t have made such a fuss and driven Mr. Pierce away.”
I grit my teeth. “Why don’t you go find Mr. Barrett and Mr. Pierce and let them know that Emeline is safe? They can’t have gotten far.”
Catherine looks as if she wants to argue, but then clamps her mouth shut. An opportunity to have both Mr. Pierce and Mr. Barrett to herself is simply too good for her to pass up, so she turns on her heel and stalks off to the road.
I take a deep breath, watching her go before I square my shoulders and go inside. I hate having to be the one to discipline Emeline, but someday she’ll get herself into real trouble if she doesn’t learn to listen, and God knows Mother won’t be the one to do it. I only hope that Emeline isn’t pestering Mother’s caller.
But when I step into the parlor, it’s not one of Mother’s callers that Emeline is bombarding with questions.
“Cyrus?” At the sound of my voice the young man that had been lounging by the window with a bored expression springs up. What on earth is he doing in New Oldbury, in our parlor? It’s almost as outlandish as if Napoleon had stormed in for a cup of tea. But here he is standing before me in his fine double-breasted coat, his short black hair usually so trim and precise, sticking up at odd angles.
“Lydia,” he says, with his honey-smooth voice. “Forgive me for intruding, but Miss Emeline was kind enough to invite me inside.” He runs a hand through his ruffled hair and flashes me an apologetic smile. “I’ve just arrived from Boston and haven’t even gone to my inn yet. I wanted to see you first.”
I don’t even know how to respond to him. Is this the same Cyrus Thompson who said he could never see me again? The same Cyrus Thompson who sealed my family’s
