Beyond the Grave (16 page)

"You'd better join me if you don't want me eating your share of supper." No answer. "Andrew Buchanan's ghost sends his regards."

The door opened faster than I could blink. His eyes narrowed and his lips pressed together. "That was a joke," he said flatly.

"No, it was a ruse to get you out here. It worked."

I sat at the table and poured wine into the glasses. I handed him one. "Let's say a toast."

He took the glass. "To?"

"To working together." I sipped, but he didn't. "What's wrong?"

He set the glass down. "I'm not sure it was a good idea to collaborate on this investigation." He held up a hand as I began to protest. "But we are, and there's no going back. Let's not discuss us working together, but rather what we know."

I sighed. "You're so stubborn, Lincoln."

"You say that as if you're not."

I lifted the platter lid to reveal a selection of cheeses, nuts and fruit. "In what way?"

"For one thing, you've continued to call me by my first name even though I forbade it."

"You call me by my first name."

"That's different. You work for me, not the other way around."

"I think people who kiss one another ought to be on first name basis, don't you?"

He had no response and we ate without speaking for several minutes. Even though I'd won a point, I felt as if it hadn't been worth it. I preferred to talk to him instead of sit in silence.

"I think we ought to summon Buchanan's spirit," I finally said. "We need to know for certain if he left Emberly Park alive."

"Agreed."

"Really?"

"I see no other option, now. You can summon him after supper." He pointed at the bowl of nuts. "Eat."

I picked up an almond, somewhat stunned that he'd changed his mind about calling Buchanan's spirit. He'd been so against it before. "I think he's the baby's father. The rumors Seth heard were probably true, and Marguerite was the woman Buchanan put ‘in the pudding club,’ as Seth called it. There's that, and now the scuffle at the baby's mausoleum…it's too much of a coincidence."

He didn't seem surprised, so it must have occurred to him too.

"Marguerite also seems to be fond of him," I added. "Too fond for a sister-in-law, if you ask me."

"I hadn't noticed." He nodded slowly, however, as if he thought the idea had merit.

"Buchanan must have recently learned that the baby was full-term. He then came here to find out for certain, and confronted his brother about it. Why not Marguerite, I wonder?"

"We don't know that he didn't. They may have spoken prior to the argument."

"What a tangled family," I said. "Marguerite was, and probably still is, in love with Andrew, yet Andrew was in love with Julia. And Julia is in love with you."

He flinched. I picked up my glass and sipped, watching him over the rim. He met my gaze. "Charlie…Julia's feelings are irrelevant."

"Not to her."

He spread his fingers out on the tablecloth. "That's not what I meant."

For a self-assured and articulate man, he had a lot of difficulty expressing himself when it came to matters of the heart, both his and others'.

"Julia and I are no longer, and never will be, together. She was a mistake I will not repeat."

I snatched up my glass and stood. "Ah, yes, mistakes," I bit off. "You said that kissing me was a mistake. At least I am in illustrious company with the lovely dowager." I spun away and marched to the hearth. Damn him for making me feel this way, like a pathetic, silly girl with an inappropriate infatuation. I hated him for it, yet I hated myself more for allowing him to affect me so.

I lifted the glass to throw it into the fireplace, but found my hand enclosed in Lincoln's. He stood close behind me. His breathing sounded ragged, like my own.

My heart stopped beating.

"Different mistakes," he murmured. "Very different."

I angled my face to look up at him. His stubbled jaw was very close to my eye. It was hard as rock. I kissed his throat above his collar and felt the throb of his blood against my lips, the tiny shudder ripple across his skin.

"This is not a mistake, Lincoln," I murmured. "You don't feel—"

He wrenched himself away. "Don't pretend to know what I feel."

Hot tears stung my eyes as he turned his back to me. "I know you better than you think," I whispered. "I felt your body respond to me. I saw the heat in your eyes."

He dashed a hand through his hair. "It doesn't matter what I feel," he growled. "Don't you see that?"

"No."

"We cannot be together."

I crossed my arms, wishing that could somehow keep the pieces of myself from fracturing. I didn't want to shatter in front of him. If I did, and he walked out, I couldn't bear it. "But you want to be with me," I said, without conviction. I wasn't entirely sure of his feelings, despite saying so. A few small signs might prove he desired me, but he was a man and I was a woman and we were alone. Of course his body would respond to my attentions. It was only natural. But anything more…I didn't know.

"Yes." His voice cracked.

My heart soared. Giddiness swamped me. "Then be with me, Lincoln. Lie with me."

He spun round. There was no heat in his eyes, no sign that he cared for me or wanted me. Only anger, cold and fierce and raw. "No. It would mean the end of our friendship, of working together. Of this."

I rubbed my arms. "It doesn't have to be."

"It will, whether we want that or not. This will pass, Charlie, this…need. I'll see to it."

I spluttered a harsh laugh. "You'll
see
to it? There is no switch to turn feelings off and on, Lincoln. That is absurd."

His back straightened. His nostrils flared. Had I offended him? Angered him further? It was difficult to tell. "Don't suggest we act upon these feelings again. There is a line between us. Do not cross it if you want to continue to help me investigate Buchanan's disappearance."

I watched as his face slowly lost its hardness and his fists unclenched. My own temper also dampened, making way for confusion. I wasn't even sure my feelings were hurt. He did, after all, admit that he desired me. That was something, a base, of sorts. But I was no longer certain how to act on that desire. It seemed that forcing him to do so was a sure way of awakening his temper.

"Raise him," he said shortly. "Then we'll part for the evening and return to London tomorrow."

I nodded and sat by the fire. "Afterward…" I swallowed. "After I raise Buchanan's spirit, will you continue to want me to work with you? Or have I destroyed all chance of that now?"

He rested his elbow on the mantelpiece and stared down into the glowing coals. "Your necromancy comes in handy, from time to time, and I admit that your questioning of Edgecombe today was inspired. You think and act quickly, and you're good with people, whereas I'm not. We work well together." His fingers twisted around one another and he glanced at me before once more staring at the fire. "I'd be a fool to shut you out of the investigation now, and any future ones."

"Thank you," I said, smiling, despite myself. "I appreciate it."

"Buchanan's middle name is Myron. Let's begin."

I blew out a breath and dragged my thoughts away from Lincoln to the task at hand. "Andrew Myron Buchanan, do you hear me?"

No white mist rushed out to me. The air in the room didn't shift and the only sounds came from a dog barking in the distance. I set my glass down on the table and tried again.

"This is a message for the spirit of Andrew Myron Buchanan. Please come to me here in this room and talk to me. I need to ask you some questions." Still nothing. I shrugged at Lincoln.

"Try again," he said.

"I wish to speak to the spirit of Andrew Myron Buchanan. Can you hear me? There is nothing to fear. I just want to talk." I waited then shook my head. "He's not here."

"Then he's not dead."

T
he train left early
the following morning. We had the compartment to ourselves. I thought Lincoln might demand we find one that had other passengers in it, to insure we weren't alone, but he didn't. He sat with his newspaper raised so I couldn't see his face.

I tried to concentrate on my book but ended up looking out the window while we sped through the countryside. I liked it immensely and didn't particularly want to return to London yet. While the city would always be my home, I wouldn't mind visiting Oxfordshire again. Or perhaps going to the seaside next time. Lincoln had even said he'd take me. I wondered if he now wished he'd kept his mouth shut, or if he even remembered making such a promise. He certainly wouldn't keep it. After our discussion the night before, such a journey would be too inappropriate.

"Lincoln," I said and waited until he lowered the paper. "You may regret bringing me along, but I want you to know that I'm glad I came."

He folded the paper and set it on the seat beside him. "I don't regret bringing you. I told you last night, we work well together. I don't want to lose that." He turned to the window. "I do regret not insisting Seth or Gus come. Having others around might have kept us from…indulging."

"Perhaps." I wasn't so sure. I think we would have stolen a few moments away from the others to
indulge
, as he'd put it. Some things were inevitable, like time ticking forward or the ebb and flow of the tide. There was no way to stop them. "Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you. Despite our unfortunate exchange last night, I've enjoyed being in the countryside."

He picked up the newspaper. "I noticed."

My face heated. Thank goodness he wasn't looking at me. I opened my book but couldn't concentrate on the words. "You must think me foolish," I mumbled. "It's just grass and trees, after all."

He unfolded the paper and began to read again. I'd thought the conversation over, until he said, "It's not just grass and trees. Not anymore."

I puzzled over what he meant for the rest of the journey home.

C
ook made
a special celebratory cake for our return, decorated with little cream swirls piped onto the top through a calico bag. "House was quiet without you, Charlie," he said, finishing the final swirl with a flourish.

I set out four plates, cups and saucers on the kitchen table, and another on a tray for Lincoln. He'd gone straight to his rooms upon our return, and I doubted we'd see him for the rest of the day. "That's sweet of you to say so," I told him. "This cake looks far too lovely to eat."

"Speak for yourself," Gus said, holding out a plate for the first slice.

Cook placed it on another plate then handed the plate to me. "Ladies first."

Gus rolled his eyes and waited for the second slice. "Seth, you take afternoon tea up for Death. I've been mucking out stables all morning."

"And I've been in here helping Cook." Seth poured cups of tea then returned the teapot to the tray. "I want to hear all about Emberly Park when I get back."

He was saved from footman's duties by the entrance of Lincoln, carrying a letter. He looked refreshed after our journey, his hair loose, his tie, coat and waistcoat discarded. I found it difficult to meet his gaze. So much had happened between us since we left Lichfield, and I wasn't yet certain how to proceed.

"I'll join you all," he said, handing me the letter. "Charlie, this concerns you."

"You're receiving letters about me?"

He hitched his trousers at the knee and sat opposite. "It's from an orphanage in France."

"France?" I scanned the letter and passed it back to him. "It's in French. What does it say? And why are you receiving letters from French orphanages?"

"I wrote to several charitable organizations there and asked for names and addresses of orphanages, poor houses and lying-in hospitals for unfortunate women. I then wrote to each of those, inquiring about a woman known as Ellen who gave birth to a daughter eighteen years ago and gave her up for adoption to an English couple. I included as many details about Holloway as I knew."

I stared at him. He'd done that? For me? Or for himself? "When did you begin your inquiries?"

"Two months ago."

When I first came to live at Lichfield. So perhaps not for me, but to find my mother on the ministry's behalf. Still, he was telling me now when he could have kept the information to himself.

I wasn't the only one stunned into silence by Lincoln's admission. The other three had stopped what they were doing to stare at him.

"France," Seth said with a slow nod. "That's why the Calthorn woman found the information to give to Frankenstein. He took advantage of her self-imposed exile to Paris and asked her to do exactly what you did—make inquiries at orphanages and the like."

Lincoln accepted the slice of cake from Cook. "It seems likely he already knew to look in France, perhaps because Ellen was French. The response in this letter also explains why Frankenstein didn't know precisely where to look for you in London." He pointed to a line on the letter that I couldn't understand. "The matron explains here that the baby she suspects is the one I'm interested in was adopted by a vicar based in London. There was a fire some years ago and all records were lost, but she remembered you."

"Why?" I gripped my teacup harder in both hands. I felt like my eyes were huge as I stared at him, holding my breath as I awaited his answer. "They must see hundreds of babies."

"The matron states that Ellen Mercier was unlike the other mothers who are forced to give up their children. She spoke well, with an educated accent, and her clothes were well made and of good quality, although they were old and worn. Matron suspects Ellen was from a good family but had fallen on hard times, perhaps as a result of her pregnancy."

"She did not marry Frankenstein," I whispered.

"No. As an unwed mother, doors would have been closed to her."

"Perhaps even the door to her father's home."

He nodded as he watched me. After a moment, he turned the letter over and pointed to the small, neat writing near the top. "She describes Ellen Mercier's appearance here. 'Small in stature and figure, with features to match except for her large eyes that one couldn't fail to notice.' Like you."

"Yes," I whispered.

"But her eyes were brown."

"Mine are blue, like his." I wished I'd found out more about my mother from my father, before his death, but there'd been so little opportunity, and now he was gone. "Does the letter say what happened to her?"

"The matron notes that Ellen left in something of a hurry. She was upset at having to give you up, but she felt certain it was for the best. It was very hard for her to walk away, but she was very sick and knew she couldn't look after you. The matron says Ellen begged her to give you away to a nice, respectable family, one who desperately wanted a child of their own to love. When the Holloways came to them a few days later, wanting a daughter, she didn't hesitate to give you to them. You were a good baby, content, and the right age. The matron suspects your mother probably wouldn't have lived very long. She was too ill."

He watched me very closely, his gaze never leaving my face. I wanted him to hold me, comfort me, but I knew I would get no affection from him now. He'd made his stance clear.

"Why were the Holloways in France looking for a baby?" Seth asked.

"Aye," said Gus. "What's wrong with an English one?" Seth smacked his arm, spilling some of Gus's tea. "What's wrong with that question?"

Cook swore under his breath, gave me a pointed look, and smacked Gus's other arm.

"The matron doesn't know for certain," Lincoln said, "but she implies that the Holloways wanted to pass the child off as their own, after an extended tour of the continent. Apparently it happens frequently. Holloway claimed their decision to 'save a poor French babe,' as he put it, was made on a whim the day before, but matron said it can't have been. They already owned a perambulator and some baby clothes. With the previous day being a Sunday, they couldn't have purchased anything. They must have been planning an adoption for some time."

"Blimey, this matron has a good memory."

"She asks how you are, Charlie," Lincoln went on. "She's very interested to know how you turned out. If you'd like to write to her, I can translate for you."

I nodded dumbly, even though I couldn't think of a single thing I wanted to say to her at that moment. Thank you, perhaps?

"There is one final thing she notes. Your mother left something, with the stipulation that it would remain with you, but the Holloways wanted nothing from your past. She asks if I want it sent over."

"Yes," I said quickly. "Yes, please, tell her to send them." I rose, hardly knowing what I was doing. I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts. The woman who'd given birth to me seemed more real now, not an unknown, vague figure. And she had loved me enough to do what was best for me.

"Excuse me," I said with a weak smile for them all. "The cake was lovely, Cook, but I'm not hungry. I'll finish it later."

"You ain't started," Gus noted.

"Shut it," Cook hissed.

I left and headed…somewhere. I hardly knew where to go. Outside, perhaps. I needed some fresh air. But Lincoln caught up to me before I reached the front door.

"Charlie, a moment."

I stopped and looked up at him. I was very aware of my full eyes, my tight throat. My emotions were close to the surface. Close to spilling over. Speaking with Lincoln might not be the best thing for my tender nerves at that moment.

His fingers brushed mine so briefly that I wondered if I'd just imagined it. "I'll take you." The words tumbled from his lips. I'd learned that he spoke that way when he said something on a whim, without much forethought.

"I'm not going anywhere in particular." I waved in the general direction of the front door. "Just outside for a walk."

"I mean to France."

"France?" Surely he wasn't serious. And yet he looked so earnest, so sincere.

"After we've found Buchanan, we'll travel to Paris together and retrieve your things from the orphanage."

I became aware that I was staring at him rather stupidly, my mouth ajar. "Lincoln…don't say things you'll regret later."

He clasped his hands behind his back. "Hopefully before winter comes, when the crossing is rougher. Sea voyages are unpleasant at the best of times."

"I wouldn't know." I waited for him to retract his offer, but he didn't. He simply stood there, as if he were waiting for me to speak. "Lincoln, I…I don't know what to say."

"There's nothing to say." He turned and marched off. His fingers twisted together at his back, the knuckles white.

I wanted to run after him, take his face in my hands and kiss him. But instead I simply called, "Thank you."

He stopped at the base of the stairs but did not turn around. He rested a hand on the balustrade. After a moment, he finally said, "My pleasure." Then he took two stairs at a time and disappeared from sight.

I
didn't stay
outside for long after it began to rain. Upon returning inside, Lincoln found me as I headed to my rooms.

"You're here," he said simply. "Good. Collect your coat and gloves if you want to come with me to Harcourt House."

"We're going to confront Lord and Lady Harcourt?"

"Yes."

"What if the dowager's there? You wanted to shield her from what we'd learned about her. I don't think we can do that if we reveal what we know."

"We can't, and it was a futile and misguided suggestion on my part. I should have listened to you." He gave a stiff nod. "You said there might be a link between her, The Alhambra and Buchanan's disappearance, and you've been proven right. I'm sorry I doubted you, Charlie."

He strode past me, leaving me staring at his back. I wasn't sure which shocked me more—that he was wrong or that he admitted it.

I hurried up the stairs. The cool air outside had cleared my head. I no longer felt stunned to stupidity by the news in the letter; I was energized by it. I felt more whole—complete. Before, it was as if I were reaching into the dark and finding emptiness. Now I felt like I carried a small lamp and could see a person nearby, almost within reach. I very much wanted to go to the orphanage with Lincoln. It spurred me on to find Buchanan and finish our business faster. Confronting the Harcourts was a good place to start.

Seth and Gus both drove us since they claimed to have nothing better to do. I suspected they simply wanted to get away from the housework and gardening. I traveled in the cabin with Lincoln and pretended not to feel awkward as he watched me from the opposite seat.

"You're happy," he hedged when we were almost at Harcourt House.

"I am."

"Because of the news from France?"

I nodded, smiling.

"You didn't seem happy when I told you in the kitchen."

"It came as a surprise, that's all. It took some time to sink in."

"Good." He hooked the curtain with his finger and tugged it back as far as it would go. He peered out at the elegant Mayfair houses. "I was afraid my actions had been thoughtless and made you unhappy."

I frowned. He seemed genuinely concerned that he'd upset me by seeking out information about my mother. "Lincoln, you've given me quite a number of gifts. This cloak for one thing, gloves and hats. The chatelaine most recently too."

He let go of the curtain and gave me his attention.

"But none of them are as special as the gift of that letter."

He returned to looking out the window and our gazes locked in the reflection. "It cost me nothing," he said, breaking the connection.

"It would have taken you considerable time to write all those letters to France. That's not nothing."

"The information is from the matron, not me. You can show her your gratitude when you meet her."

I shook my head and smiled. "You're impossible."

"And you're not like any female I've met."

I laughed. "Then you need to go to more balls and dinners."