C. Archer - The Wrong Girl

Sylvia stopped at a closed door. "This is your room."

"I'll never find my way out again. Or is that the point?"

"I see it'll take some time before you realize we're not going to harm you."

"You may not harm me, but you do intend to keep me prisoner here."

"This door will never be locked," she said, opening it. She said nothing about the front door and others leading outside, and I didn't ask. I suspect it would be something she wasn't allowed to discuss.

So who was forbidding her? The mysterious other person I was about to meet?

The bedroom was nothing at all like my attic one. Not only was it considerably larger and not covered in woolen hangings, but it was lavishly furnished. Paintings and tapestries hung on the walls, and the walls themselves were papered in a rich, deep burgundy. There was rather a lot of furniture, most of it beautifully made from dark wood, but it all looked comfortable, particularly the canopied bed with its swathes of crimson fabric covering the tester and cascading down the posts to form curtains.

"It's very grand," I said.

Sylvia fluffed up the cushion on one of the chairs. "We thought it appropriate for the daughter of an earl."

Would I be removed to the servants' quarters if they learned I was really plain Hannah Smith?

"It's a little chilly in here," she said. "Do you want the fire lit?"

"No. Don't trouble yourself."

The fireplace didn't look as if it had been lit in years. Perhaps it hadn't been. Perhaps I was the only visitor the room had ever seen. It did have the musty smell of a closed room, and the bedcovers and all the cushions looked crisp and new.

"Did you do these yourself?" I asked, indicating the embroidered cushions.

Sylvia smiled. "Yes. I painted most of the pictures too."

I studied the paintings. Some depicted ruins that resembled the ones I'd seen earlier, and others were of the lake or woods. They were a little dark and ethereal for my taste with stormy skies and an abundance of tangled vines, but they suited the house itself. "I hope you haven't removed them from your own room for me," I said.

"Oh no, I've done many more. They're in every room."

"You're very prolific."

"Oh, I meant every room that we inhabit. Most of Frakingham is empty. We don't need all of it."

"Who are 'we' exactly?"

She set the cushion down on the chair and arranged it just so, then rearranged it again. "Jack and me, of course, and Uncle August."

"Jack's father?"

"No."

"So he's Jack's uncle as well as yours?"

"Yes, of course. You do ask a lot of questions." She opened one of the cupboard doors. "There is a selection of gowns here, and jackets. They should all fit nicely as long as Jack was right."

I frowned. "Right about what?"

"Your measurements. He assured me he could tell your size just by looking at you."

"Jack first appeared at Windamere two weeks ago. Don't tell me you've had them all made since then based on the guess of someone who's only seen me a few times and at a distance?"

"Not all of them were made new. Some are altered ones of mine. I hope you don't mind. As to the fit...Jack's rarely wrong."

How irritating. "An expert on women's sizes, is he?"

She flashed me a mischievous grin. "I think you've made an impression on him. He almost smiled earlier, and when you get to know him better, you'll learn that he smiles rarely."

"I don't wish to get to know him. I wish to go home." It sounded petulant, but I didn't care. The Langley cousins might have been all solicitude toward me, but fear tightened my chest. Besides, I wanted to see Vi again. She must have been frantic with worry.

Sylvia turned suddenly and strode to the dressing table situated in the bay window. Her fingers lightly caressed the silver-capped perfume bottles, the combs, brushes and a silver candlestick and trinket boxes. It was as if she sought comfort in the familiar objects, or perhaps it was merely a way of avoiding eye contact with me. "You'll find unmentionables in the drawers."

I came up beside her and looked out the arch window. I could just see the lake and the ruins off to one side. Beyond that were wooded hills and little else. The village the cousins had spoken of must be in another direction. My soul thrilled at the sight of a new vista, so different from the one I had stared at every day for years. Yet I felt a stab of sorrow and the cold lump of unease too. I might never see the view over Windamere's park again.

"How old is this place?" I asked. Talking about the history of Frakingham might keep my nerves under control. Hopefully.

"The estate itself is ancient. People have been living and worshipping here for centuries." She pointed at the ruins. "That was Frakingham Abbey. It belonged to the Cistercian order, but was abandoned and fell into ruin around the time of the Dissolution of the Monasteries. It's rather a pleasant place to picnic now in the summertime."

"It looks eerie."

"I suppose it does." She looked at my crossed arms as I hugged myself. "Don't worry. There are no ghosts here that we know of. Indeed, this building is only about sixty years old, although you wouldn't know it."

"I thought it was medieval."

"Not at all. The previous Lord Frakingham wanted a grand house built in the Gothic style. He bankrupted the estate in the process, and his heir had to sell it when the place began to need repairs."

"Your uncle bought it?"

She tilted her chin and her eyes flashed. "He did. He's a self-made man, Uncle August. He worked his way up from nothing to be able to afford this. The son of a grocer now living in the same house that a lord built. Imagine that!"

"Yes, imagine." I had no idea how expensive it would be to buy something on the scale of Frakingham, but it must be considerable. Few Englishmen who hadn't been born into the upper echelons of society could afford it. No wonder Sylvia was proud of her uncle. "I'd like to meet him. Now, if you please." Commanding her allowed me to command my own trepidation as the full extent of my situation sank in. Well, to a certain extent at least.

Sylvia bristled. "Demands won't get you anywhere with Uncle. As it happens, he wants to see you immediately anyway. Let's get you ready." She spun me around and scanned me from head to toe. "These clothes are so drab. They won't do. Uncle August expects women of your status to dress accordingly. He likes order, you see." Her nimble fingers unbuttoned my jacket. "Servants ought to dress like servants, shopkeepers like shopkeepers and ladies like ladies. I'm surprised your father doesn't too. I'd have thought an earl would be more of a stickler for these things than Uncle."

"Who knows what Lord Wade thinks," I muttered as I allowed her to take off my jacket. There was no point in arguing with her, either about who my father may or may not be or about what I should wear to meet her uncle.

The prospect of meeting him filled me with foreboding. What sort of man inspired a nice girl like Sylvia to fumble nervously with the hooks and eyes on my dress? What sort of man had his niece and nephew kidnap for him?

"Uncle August's rooms take up the entire top-most floor of the eastern wing of the house," Sylvia said as we hurried up the stairs. It was growing late in the day and being almost winter, the sun had already begun to set. The stairwell would have been dark if it wasn't for the small candle-shaped gas lamps attached to the walls. "There are a few things you ought to know about Uncle August before you meet him. First of all, he can't walk."

"How does he get about?"

"In a wheelchair."

"How did he lose the use of his legs?"

"It was an accident of some sort. He doesn't like to talk about it, and you're not to ask him."

That was like telling a fish not to swim. Yet I would hold my tongue, for now. My situation was too precarious to jeopardize it. "So he doesn't walk, but he lives all the way up here?" We'd reached the landing on the top floor. Sylvia had told me that the Langleys used only the eastern part of the house. Her uncle occupied the second floor, Sylvia, Jack and I had rooms on the first, and the ground floor was where the dining room could be found along with the formal drawing room and a more intimate informal parlor. Staff quarters were at the rear of the house with the kitchen and other service rooms.