Lord Ingram had to hold her by the arm for them to return to the carriage.
Instead of taking the backward-facing seat, as he always did, he sat down beside her and allowed her, once again, to lean on him. This time she even buried her face in his sleeve.
“It’s all right,” he said again and again. “It will be all right.”
It might not be. They could all meet a horrible end, and Fate would laugh at those who had the audacity to assume otherwise.
And yet, somehow, his patient, kind voice, the soothing iterations of his reassurance, and even the soft, starch-scented wool of his greatcoat comforted her.
It’s all right, she began to repeat silently after him. It will be all right.
9
Excerpts from reports by Theresa Felton, as dictated to [Redacted]
(Part of the Garden of Hermopolis dossier)
August 1883
I think I’ve been here long enough—four months—to say these are some peculiar people. Not eccentric, just awfully quiet-like. No one says anything to me about themselves. Not about their days, not about their aches and pains, not about how so-and-so is wonderfully good-looking or downright annoying.
Now there are hoity-toity ladies and gentlemen who won’t speak to the likes of me, a mere charwoman. But even the servants in this commune here aren’t any friendlier. They never ask about pubs in the area, which ones have good ales or make a proper Sunday roast. Surely, out of sheer boredom some of them should make conversation, shouldn’t they? What’s there to do out on these headlands, and them servants not even the ones interested in this foreign religion here?
And I rarely see them with one another either. When I clean I look out of the windows a lot—keeping an eye on those around Miss Baxter is part of watching out for her, innit? I hardly ever see more than two people walk together. And even those who do walk together—well, I don’t want to say they don’t enjoy one another’s company, but they always look so serious and no one ever just bursts out laughing.
Still, all in all, they seem to be decent people. And not any odder, if you ask me, than any other collection of folks who don’t need to work for a living. No one gives me a hard time. No one, that is, except Miss Baxter.
Nothing I do is ever good enough for her. If I clean thoroughly, she says I take too long. If I work fast, then I’m sloppy. To tell you the truth, I’m beginning to dread going into her place.
May 1884
Miss Baxter is the same. I see her about once every other week. She still finds my work awfully lacking and I still dread working for her.
This probably isn’t my place to say but I really don’t see how anyone can take advantage of Miss Baxter. I haven’t met everyone at the Garden and maybe Miss Fairchild will be a fair old battle-ax if she ever recovers her voice. But I’ve worked for rich folks and wellborn folks and folks that are both and I can’t say I’ve ever met anyone who makes me feel half so useless.
Miss Baxter is the sort that if she doesn’t find faults with you, you’re on your knees thanking the Almighty. I don’t know who’s grand enough or stupid enough to try to get the better of her.
I still haven’t been allowed into the library or the sanctuary. Once I asked Mr. Kaplan’s valet whether he’d seen them from the inside and he very huffily told me that he hadn’t and had no plans to!
I’ve also asked Miss Ellery a second time whether those places need to be thoroughly cleaned once in a while and she said again that the members would do that and I didn’t need to concern myself.
If it’s all right with Mr. de Lacey I don’t think I’ll ask anymore. Every place I’ve worked, I’ve left with glowing letters of character. I should hate to be thought of as being too nosy.
August 1886
I saw Miss Baxter only once this month—usually I’d see her twice—and when I saw her, she was feeling unwell.
Of course everyone is under the weather sometimes, but Miss Baxter has always been so imposing that I couldn’t imagine her ever suffering from ill health. But here she was, looking almost green in the face.
Mrs. Crosby was with her that day—it was the first time I’d seen someone else in her lodge. Later, when I saw Mrs. Crosby again, I asked about Miss Baxter. She assured me that Miss Baxter was better, that she’d simply eaten something that disagreed with her.
And I suppose that’s that.
September 1886
Again, I saw Miss Baxter only once this month. And again, she was taken to her bed. Miss Fairchild was with her this time. Since Miss Fairchild doesn’t speak, I asked Dr. Robinson—I mentioned him in spring, when he first joined the Garden—about Miss Baxter.
Dr. Robinson wasn’t any more concerned about Miss Baxter’s health than Mrs. Crosby was earlier. He said that she was recovering from a bout of mild pneumonia and required only time and good beef tea to be back on her feet.
But I’m bothered. Maybe I shouldn’t be, but I am.
October 1886
Last time I said that I was bothered. This time I’m really bothered. That’s three months in a row now I’ve seen Miss Baxter laid up. My heart trembled a bit when I saw her on the settee by the fire, buried under a pile of blankets.
Mrs. Crosby was with her again. Later, I asked her about Miss Baxter, telling her that these past three months I’d only seen Miss Baxter laid up. Mrs. Crosby said that I just stumbled on the few days Miss Baxter was feeling poorly. And that Miss Baxter wasn’t even ill this time, but merely suffering from an unusually uncomfortable monthly.
I don’t know that I believe her. But I also have no way of proving her wrong. I just don’t feel right about it. Goodness knows Miss Baxter has never been nice to me. But she’s grand—scary-grand, like a tiger stalking through the forest. If you saw a tiger lying on the ground, being badly off, even if you were scared of tigers, you’d still feel bad for it, wouldn’t you?
The following report was written in its entirety by Theresa Felton
It’s been ages since Mr. [Redacted] came and took down my report. I hope he’s all right. Please send him or someone else.
I won’t write much as writing is hard for me, but I’m more worried than ever about Miss Baxter. I last saw her at the beginning of October. At the end of that month, I last spoke with Mr. [Redacted]. Since then, all of November and December and most of January have gone by. That makes it at least three whole months I’ve only heard, but not seen Miss Baxter.
I can explain what I mean but it would be too much trouble to write down. Please send someone. Mind you, I can’t prove that anything is wrong, but I feel downright uneasy.
“At least it’s good weather,” shouted Mrs. Watson. “Why, the sun feels almost warm!”
Charlotte, too, had her face tilted back to feel the hardly discernible prickles of heat on her skin.
London remained cold and wet, but here in the very southwest of Britain, winter seemed to have quietly departed. The sky was a clear blue dome, the breeze cool but not biting. The sea undulated gently, and the small boat they had hired cut through the waves with the flair of an experienced footman gliding across the floor of a ballroom.