Blind Trust (26 page)

“I
am
a madwoman,” she said.

It was not the last time she fell. She'd been right; the sidewalk was solid ice. Time after time she would have to grab onto a tree or a fence to keep herself upright during the terrible gusts of wind. She almost turned back, but Darcy was determined. She was sure things would be better on Fifth Avenue; at least she could catch a cab or a horsecar.

But when she finally reached Fifth, the funnel of wind that bore down upon her made her gasp, and she saw with tearing eyes that it would be impossible to find a cab or squeeze onto one of the horsecars, which were not only crowded but few and far between. Looking down the avenue, she saw one abandoned near Thirty-seventh Street, the horse probably led off to the stable. She saw other abandoned vehicles, left at odd angles in the street, the horses gone. But there was some traffic on the avenue, hacks and carts still trying to make headway. They appeared and disappeared through the whirling snow.

The force of the storm was unlike anything she had ever felt. Surely it could not continue with this frenzy. Surely the winds would abate, the snow would slacken. It was March, too late for such weather. This must be a fierce, short squall, she told herself. She turned right, toward uptown, and immediately staggered back from the force of the screaming wind.

Her veil had frozen with sticky flakes on the short block there, and she had pushed it over her hat in order to see. Now, fully into the northwest wind, her eyelashes iced over within minutes, and she had to stop and cup her hands over her face every few steps and breathe in sharp puffs to thaw them. Darcy tried turning backward and walking, as she saw a couple of other women doing, and that seemed to help. At least here on Fifth there were no telegraph wires down to trip over, for they weren't allowed on this fashionable street.

When she did face the snow, it was no soft delight against her cheek. It felt like sharp needles hitting her skin, and she noticed that some of the men and women hurrying past had blood on their faces. Ash and dirt mixed with the snow as it was flung into their faces, and she saw one woman, her eyes streaming tears, wander blindly into a drift over her head near a basement entrance of a house. Darcy started to struggle toward her but a policeman was already moving, dragging the woman out of the drift and rubbing her bright red ears with snow to thaw them.

Navigating over the cross streets was bad work. Often Darcy allowed whatever male was handy to help her. She envied their flat boots, so much better than the delicately curved heel on her smart boots. She dreaded the point where she would have to cross the icy blasting corridor of Fifth Avenue. She had seen one woman try, go over in a flurry of skirts and petticoats, and slide into the path of an oncoming cart. She would have been trampled underneath the wheels if a passing gentleman hadn't rescued her, falling down himself in the process.

Darcy picked a spot to cross where two gentlemen were standing, waiting until a horsecar went by. It was packed with people, but they might as well have been walking, for the two poor horses were making scant headway against the wind. They stamped and slid on the icy pavement, and finally the conductor and the male passengers got out and pushed. The car slowly and inevitably slid into a snowbank, and the passengers got out, straightening their scarves and ducking their heads against the wind. Some undoubtedly headed home, but Darcy imagined many did not; she knew that if they didn't show up for their jobs, Claude and men of his ilk would fire them.

The two gentlemen next to her eyed each other and the avenue. Darcy tugged on one man's sleeve.

“May I cross with you, sir?” she screamed, and pantomimed her object, for the wind snatched her words and sent them down Fifth Avenue. Whether he had heard or not, he nodded and tried to smile, though his beard and mustache were almost completely iced over.

The two men, with Darcy sandwiched in between, inched their way across Fifth. The three of them were almost knocked flat in the middle of the avenue, but they managed to slide their way to the opposite side. Relieved, Darcy clung to a hitching post and nodded her thanks. The men bowed and the younger one shouted an offer to escort her to her door. Darcy refused with thanks and went on her way again. She had only three more blocks to go.

There were less people on this part of Fifth, Darcy noticed as she struggled against the wind. She cupped her hands over her ears to warm them, for though she'd forsaken high style to tie a woolen scarf around her head to keep her hat on, the scarf was encrusted with snow and ice and was now most likely freezing her ears faster than the wind would have done.

But she was so close now. She had to discipline herself not to hurry, for she'd never be able to keep her footing. She would have found it amusing that she was looking so forward to reaching Claude's house if she didn't feel like a solid column of teetering ice. Any shelter would be welcome. Especially since Claude wouldn't be there. Like Lemuel, he would have struggled downtown to his office early this morning. And for that, Darcy was relieved. She would need time to thaw, change into dry clothes, and take a shot of Claude's best cognac before she plunged back into the storm again.

Perhaps it was the thought of comfort that distracted her. But most likely the ice was just too slick, and the wind cooperated at that moment by gusting with such force that it actually lifted her off her feet. Darcy felt herself propelled toward the bank of snow that lay against the fences to the houses on her left—except that the fences had been long covered, and the snow in some places was over her head. She landed in one of the drifts, and the wind tore her scream from her mouth.

Angrily, Darcy pushed at the snow and only succeeded in driving herself deeper into it. She discovered that, hampered with her wet skirts, now like iron, it was difficult to move at all. Any struggle seemed only to bury her farther into the drift. Irritation changed abruptly to fear. She knew that she could freeze to death in here, not found for hours. There was no friendly policeman in sight to help her out.

Panic shot through her, and she moved her arms furiously. Her fingers hit something to her left—something hard and smooth, curved. A railing? But the thing moved in her hand, and she tugged, feeling sweat bead up on her face with effort and panic, incredible in this cold.

An umbrella. It came loose, and she eased it across her body until it was free of the snow. Then she hoisted it upward like a flag, and moved it back and forth. Holding on for dear life with both hands, terrified the wind would snatch it away, she kept it aloft.

Presently, two round blue eyes underneath a solid horizontal line of crystallized eyebrow peered over the mound of snow. “Good Lord! Begging your pardon, miss. Let me give you a hand if I may, miss.”

“If you would be so kind,” Darcy screamed, and a meaty hand grabbed hers and hauled her forward. She almost pitched to the sidewalk, but the hands grabbed her waist and steadied her.

“Begging your pardon, miss.”

It was a driver whose cart could go no farther. He'd been in the middle of unharnessing his horse in order to walk him back to the stables when he saw the waving umbrella. “Awfully clever, that,” he shouted admiringly, and would brook no argument but saw her safely to the door of Claude's mansion. With shaking fingers, Darcy removed her glove to fish in her bag. She pressed a silver piece into his hand and thanked him.

She rang the bell. The door was eased open by Tolliver, the butler.

“Mrs. Statton,” he said, surprised. But he did not move out of the way.

She'd been afraid of that, that Claude had ordered the servants not to admit her. Darcy summoned up her dignity, the imperial manner Claude had pressured her to adopt. Raising her chin and ignoring the wet and tattered feather that hung over one eye, she swept past him without a word.

“I'll need hot tea and towels, Tolliver. In my room, directly. Mr. Statton is at his office?”

“Yes, madam, left early this morning.”

She handed him her ice-crusted coat and scarf, her bedraggled hat. “He is to be home for tea. Please inform the chef. I'd like something special, if he can manage it.” She didn't know what she was saying, but she kept talking, giving orders, smoothing her wet hair, desperately hoping that Tolliver would believe that she and Claude had reconciled and Claude had neglected to tell him. And what could he do? No messages could get downtown today.

So the blizzard turned out to be a blessing, in a way, for the servants didn't dare question her arrival and could not get confirmation from the master. Darcy went up the stairs, the hem of her skirt trailing snow on the Persian carpet runner. She would bathe—it would look odd if she did not, and besides, she was chilled to the bone—and leave orders that she was not to be disturbed. Then she would try to get upstairs to Claude's office.

The first step was Claude's bedroom. The key had to be there. She'd given much thought to that. Closing her eyes, she had remembered nights she'd returned to her room in her ball gown, Claude having said he would be working late. He always went to his room first—she remembered hearing the click of the door shutting as he came out again. Claude could have gone to his bedroom for many reasons, but somehow she felt he would keep the key there. He hated superfluous items on his person; he hated to carry things, to have things in his pockets. He was a neat, fastidious man without ornamentation of any kind. That, he reserved for his wife.

It was the slimmest of chances, but what else did she have? Darcy sat in her bedroom until she was sure Solange had gone back to her room in the servant's quarters. Her hair was still damp, spreading out over her shoulders to dry. Her fawn-colored dress, put away because it was from last season even though hardly worn, was thick velvet lined with cashmere. She was finally warm and relatively dry, and she was ready.

The corridor was dark, as though it were night. Darcy slipped down it, making no noise. She eased open the door to Claude's room and hurried inside, her velvet skirt rustling in the silence. It was cold and dark, the heavy curtains drawn against the storm, the fire long out. Darcy surveyed the room, standing against the closed door. She thought quickly. The top drawer of the bureau, of course. It was meticulously arranged, she knew, sections for handkerchiefs, collar stays and shirt studs, and the dress watch that he used in the evenings—thinner and more elegant than the everyday watch, the top delicately chased.

She carefully went through the handkerchiefs, the studs, and the second drawer of French socks before she thought of it. Claude's other watch! Of course! Yanking open the first drawer again, she took it out. She opened one side, and the face was revealed. Then her fingers followed the delicate seam around the other side, feeling for another catch. There was none. So he only kept the key in his daytime watch.

Disappointed, Darcy replaced the watch and resumed her search. But there were no keys in the bureau. No keys in the small satinwood desk, no keys in any pockets in the huge wardrobe. No keys in the nighttable. No keys.

Time was running out. It had taken her an hour and a half to walk to Claude's. Thirty minutes to bathe and change and give Solange enough mending to keep her busy for several hours. And the storm hadn't abated; she could hear the wind, still howling outside the windows. She would have to leave shortly; she'd missed lunch, of course, but she should be back at Lemuel's in time for tea. Unless she had to stay. But somehow Darcy could not face being trapped in the house with Claude during a snowstorm. Difficult as it was, she would have to wait more long days before attempting this again. But by that time, the servants would know that there was no reconciliation.

What should she do? Darcy thought frantically. Stay or go? Try to force the lock on the door? Why not? she realized. Claude would not be in a position to protest if she found evidence linking him to Dargent, or evidence that he was Dargent himself. She picked up the ivory and gold paper knife on Claude's desk.

The hallway was dark and deserted. Darcy crossed swiftly to the small door around the corner that led upstairs. She tried the knob and it turned. The door was unlocked.

She almost laughed aloud in relief. Why hadn't she checked the door first? Then she frowned with her next thought: why would the door be unlocked? Claude had left it unlocked that day she'd slipped upstairs only because he knew he was returning within minutes. Could a man who forgot nothing have neglected something so important as locking his private office before he left for the day?

Darcy pondered the question, but really there was nothing for it but to go on up. She slipped inside, shut the door behind her, and climbed the dark, narrow stairs. It could be midnight, not midday, by the look of things. Or rather, the way things would look, if she could see past the nose on her face. She wished she had brought a lamp, for her heart was beating fearfully. Suddenly panicked in the enclosed space, she hurried her steps and felt the wood of the door at the top with relief. She pushed it open.

She still could see nothing. The curtains were drawn here, too. She could smell the ashy burnt aroma of a recently lit fire. The space was wide and open, and even with no lamps lit she was sure that Claude wasn't there. She'd been afraid that he had returned without the servants knowing and come up here. But the place was empty; she could feel no human presence here.

She inched her way across the carpet. There was a lamp on Claude's desk, she knew. It should be just ahead, a few feet ahead and slightly to the left …

Her foot hit something. Something soft, yielding. Looking down, she could see it now, gathering form in the grayness. A human form. Someone was lying on the floor, face down. Someone who was very still, still as death …

Darcy shoved her fist against her mouth so that she would not let loose the scream that had formed in her belly and was now filling her throat. Her chest felt too tight, too small for her thundering heart. Panting with her panic, she inched down. Her fingers searched for the wrist. It was Claude, of course it was Claude, she'd known that it was her husband from the moment she saw the still, black form.