The Bride of Time (2 page)

Besides, it wasn’t the woman in the painting that drew her back to the little gallery time and time again. It was the view through that little painted window of the rolling patchwork hills and the manor house half-hidden in the mist. There was something familiar about those hills. She would stare and stare, praying for the mist to lift so she could have a better view, wishing she could walk those hills; if she could only escape to that wild Cornish wilderness of misty moors in a time gone by.

Last Tuesday, standing before that canvas, she’d almost mesmerized herself into believing she was able to feel the thick, sweet grass under her feet. She could almost smell the heather-laced wind drifting past her nostrils from the splotch of violet the artist had suggested peeking through the mist. How far would her imagination take her today? Far enough to escape her meager existence—far enough to reach those double doors on that sprawling manor?

As she climbed the back stairs to her little cell, the image of the artist who had created the painting ghosted across her memory. It almost made her misstep on the narrow winding stairs. Giles Longworth looked a man to be reckoned with, with his eyes as black as sin, his mahogany hair that appeared to have been combed by the infamous Cornish wind worn rather long, waving about his earlobes, and his broad shoulders straining the fabric of his poet’s shirt. The curator had described him as a mysterious fellow. But then, he would have to be in
order to conceive the work of art that had so taken her over, for it had done just that. She’d thought of little else since she first clapped eyes upon “The Bride of Time.”

The curator had said some accused Longworth of sorcery, that dark, evil things were attributed to him, not the least of which was the murder of several local women, as well as Longworth’s wife and her lover, and that he’d kept his nephew locked away in the Abbey. Some even said Longworth was a werewolf, because of the way the women were savaged, with their throats torn out. But the Cornish folk were at best a superstitious lot, and none of this was ever proven, of course. However, as with most colorful tales, they grew over the years and only gained notoriety after Longworth’s mysterious disappearance following the completion of “The Bride of Time.”

Tessa never mentioned Giles Longworth to the others at Poole House. He was her secret. She would not share him with the vicious, jealous cats she’d found a home amongst. She was becoming more and more sorry she’d mentioned the little gallery and the painting at all. At four and twenty, she was still naïve enough to imagine she could win over folk like Bessie, Cook and Mrs. Atkins. It would be her undoing one day; she was certain of it.

Having reached her chamber to find her door ajar, Tessa slowed her pace. Reaching with one finger, she eased the door open wider and peered inside. “Is someone there?” she asked, coming face-to-face with Mrs. Poole and Gibbons the butler rummaging through her dressing chest. She opened the door wider still. “I beg your pardon?” she said. “Those things are mine!”

“Are they, then?” Mrs. Poole asked loftily. “Then perhaps you might like to explain how you’ve come by
this?” She held out her hand, palm upward, exhibiting a pearl brooch.

The woman reminded Tessa of a hooded cobra. Her reptilian eyes were glaring down her nose accusingly, her piled-high, Gibson-style coiffure trembling as she bristled, emphasizing her overlong neck. Could the woman actually imagine that she, Tessa LaPrelle, had stolen the brooch, or that she was dunce enough to have left it in an unlocked drawer if she had? Stupid with astonishment, Tessa stared.

“See that?” Mrs. Poole said to the butler. “Not a blink of remorse! That is the thanks I get for hiring a French girl!”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Tessa said, her back ramrod-rigid. “I am as English as you are. My father’s father was half-French, and even he was born here. I am not ashamed of my French ancestry, since I take from it what little culture my English ancestors have denied me.” It was bold talk, of course, but that didn’t matter. Her situation was lost no matter what; that was obvious. “Speak to me as you will, but I will not allow you to malign my name.”

“Well!” Mrs. Poole erupted. “I never did! Here you stand, caught out red-handed with my brooch, and you dare to speak to me in that manner?”

“I did not take your brooch, ma’am. I do not presume to know how it got in that drawer, but I did not put it there. Never once in all the months I’ve been here in your employ have I gone beyond the green baize door!”

“This is the thanks I get for giving you this fine room to yourself!” Mrs. Poole railed.
Fine room?
The window glass was cracked, as were the chamber pot, pitcher and basin, and the mattress was nothing but a bag of straw.
Fine room indeed!
“I should have put you in with Lizzie and Bessie, and made you sleep two to a bed, but no, I
let you have this here, and this is how I am repaid—with thievery!”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but perhaps you should have done. You did me no favors putting me here. I have been punished by the others below stairs since the day I came for being ‘privileged.’” She gestured toward the brooch in the woman’s outstretched hand. “If you want to sort that out, you might inquire of them as to which one put it there to be rid of me!”

“I’ve heard enough of this,” Mrs. Poole said, thrusting Tessa’s cloak and bonnet at her. “Take her below to the wine cellar and lock her in, Gibbons. Then fetch the bobbies from the Yard. Let the magistrates sort her out. I wash my hands of her.”

The butler had hold of Tessa’s arm before she could blink. Steering her out into the hallway, he led her farther down the darkened stairwell toward the lower regions where the wine was kept. Tessa’s mind was racing. This couldn’t be happening, but it was. She was innocent, but there was no way to prove it. She couldn’t let them lock her away.

She waited until they’d reached the level of the rear servants’ entrance to Poole House, then shoved the aging butler just hard enough to make him lose his grip while steadying himself against the wall. Racing out into the fog, she ran from the house, down the walk, through the gate in the ornamental spiked-iron fence that surrounded the stately town house, and burst out onto the avenue, leaving the servants’ entrance door flung wide behind her.

It was the wrong thing to do, of course. Running would only seal her fate. But convinced that there was no justice to be had for someone like her, Tessa didn’t credit that. With Mrs. Poole’s shrill voice and Gibbons’s rasping bark echoing in her ears, Tessa ran blind in the
fog that hadn’t burned off with the dawn in the direction of Threadneedle Street, and the little gallery.

There didn’t seem to be any in pursuit, and after a time she slowed her pace. She still had her cloak, but her bonnet had been lost when she fled. No matter. The cloak was hooded, and she slipped it around her. Mornings were cool in London on the cusp of September, especially in the fog. The sodden damp could penetrate the finest of mantles, and hers was hardly that.

Her heart was hammering in her breast as she passed the little tea room just around the corner from the gallery. Tatum’s Gallery. Had she mentioned the name to the others? She couldn’t remember. If she had, they would surely know where to find her. What was she even doing here? She should be making her way out of the city while the fog still abetted her escape. London fogs were unpredictable. They could linger for days, or lift in a heartbeat. But no, she had to reach the gallery—the only scrap of safe ground in her entire world. Her only sanctuary, where she could forget for just a little while once each week on Tuesday, not who she was, but who she wasn’t.

The curator had just unlocked the doors when she reached the gallery. Motor cars and horse-drawn carriages clogged the street already, barely visible behind the milling fog. From somewhere nearby, a bobby’s whistle sounded. He couldn’t be looking for her—not yet. It was too soon. Nevertheless, she ducked inside the gallery and went straight to the alcove designated for “The Bride of Time”—but it was gone! So was Longworth’s eerie self-portrait, and his other works as well. Different paintings hung there now. It was as if Giles Longworth’s works had never been.

Tessa rushed at the curator. “Where are the paintings that used to hang here?” she begged the astonished man.

“W-why, they’ve been sold, miss,” he stammered.

Tessa’s hand fell away from the man’s arm. “When?” she asked. “Who bought them?”

The poor man looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Twice he opened his mouth as if to speak, and shut it again. It was clear he wasn’t often set upon by young ladies.

“Please, sir,” Tessa persisted. “Was it a local buyer?”

“Actually…no,” the man said. “It was a young couple from Yorkshire. I did not make the sale personally, my business partner did. Look here, are you all right, miss? You’ve gone white as the fog of a sudden.”

“I’m quite well, thank you,” Tessa lied. It wouldn’t do to call attention to herself now, when any minute bobbies might swarm over the place, seeking her.

Other patrons began trickling in, and Tessa moved off to browse the various collections. There was a station nearby, where she could take a horse-drawn bus out of the city proper. Deciding on that, she approached the door, only to pull back when a swarm of bobbies poured into the gallery. Patrons and curate alike gathered around them. Should she as well? Probably, but she was not so brave. Guilt was written all over her face, which was odd, because she was innocent. Nevertheless, she didn’t need a mirror to tell her she’d gone crimson. Her ears were on fire from the hot blood that had rushed to her head when the bobbies stormed in. If only she hadn’t lost her bonnet.

Reeling into a conve nient alcove, she hugged the shadows, hoping for a rear exit. All such establishments had them. They opened into narrow alleyways and mews in that quarter. Now to find it.

“Service class, about so high?” the curator was saying, illustrating her height to the officers. He craned his neck toward the gathering. “Why, a young woman answering that description was here just a moment ago…”

All at once the little gallery was swarming with police and curious patrons. Escape through the main door was impossible. A crowd had already begun to form outside. All over a silly pearl brooch that had been recovered. She’d made the right decision in running after all. These people were relentless.

Tessa’s eyes snapped in all directions, and finally came to rest upon the rear door. It was too far. The loo was closer, and she reeled inside and locked the door behind her. There was no other exit, only a small stained-glass window above the commode. She climbed up and lifted the latch, acutely aware of the sound of muffled voices leaking through the scarred paneling.

“She couldn’t have gone that way,” the curator said. “See? The bolt is intact. She must have slipped out the front.”

There wasn’t a moment to lose. The alley was vacant, and she shimmied through the little window and jumped to the cobblestones below. The shock to her knees as she landed on the hard, uneven stones pulled her up short for a moment. Then, racing through the fog, she rounded the corner and slowed her pace. There was no choice. Her right leg had taken the brunt of the shock and she favored it, limping, leaning upon the slimy, fog-drenched façades of several buildings before she was able to walk without making herself conspicuous.

Behind, the sound of bobbies’ whistles amplified by the fog grew distant. That they were still in pursuit amazed her. But why wouldn’t they be? Anxious to make an example of her, they would certainly press charges. The fact that she’d run had sealed her fate with the law. There was no way for her to prove her innocence now. She had to get out of the city; but how? It was too risky.

She pressed on, scarcely able to make out the shapes of buildings lining the road. The tall, square silhouette of a church bell tower loomed up before her. She’d
passed several like it since she left the gallery. She was tempted to seek sanctuary inside just for a little while. The sky showed signs of brightening. She was about to lose the protection of the fog.

Then, all at once, the sun abandoned trying to poke through and slipped behind a cloud. The sky grew darker and darker. The fog grew denser…and deeper. She couldn’t see the church now. She could barely see where she was going. Somehow, she’d gotten onto a narrow lane that was softer underfoot, and kinder than cobblestones to the knee she’d jammed jumping from the gallery loo window. This road wasn’t all that well traveled. Tufts of grass marched down the middle, and the edges encroached upon the gravel from both sides. Could she have gotten out of the city so soon? It wasn’t likely. If only she could see through the thick, milling fog.

A wind seemed to rise out of nowhere. It blew the hood back off her head and plucked out the tendrils that always wreathed her face in damp weather, but it wasn’t strong enough to chase the fog. All at once a mournful howl broke the silence, echoing from somewhere close by. The heart-stopping sound raised the short hairs at the back of Tessa’s neck, and she quickened her step despite the limp. She hadn’t gone far, when the sound of what she took to be a horse-drawn bus approaching broke the silence that had fallen over the lane, and she moved off to the shoulder, overgrown with bracken and gorse, for fear of being run down. Shielding her eyes, she strained the milling vapors for some sign of the vehicle, for it was coming on at a rapid pace, but it was several moments before she saw the haloed glow of the carriage lamps. It wasn’t a bus at all. It was an old coach lumbering along the path.

The driver reined in at sight of her. “Halloo!” he
called. “Would you be the new governess for Longhollow Abbey, then?”

“Longhollow Abbey?” Tessa breathed.

The coachman set the brake and climbed down. Flinging the coach door open, he set the steps. “Well, get in then,” he said. “You was supposed ta wait at the coaching inn for me ta fetch ya. Didn’t nobody tell ya it ain’t safe ta walk these moors after dark?”

As if on cue, the plaintive howl pierced the quiet again, setting Tessa in motion. It was closer now, and she scarcely limped while scrambling into the carriage. It didn’t matter where it was going; the coach was carrying her away from the city and away from what ever was making that god-awful sound. But Longhollow Abbey…He’d said Longhollow Abbey, and it wasn’t after dark. It couldn’t even be noon yet! Was the man in his cups?