Page 88 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

Stefan took my hand next, looking at me with a significance that I knew was meant for my understanding only. He brushed his fingers briefly over the palm of my hand, a tender gesture that left me feeling queasy. I gave him the sort of shy smile I imagined a secret engagement may produce.

“Miss Fox,” Helena called. “Come and sit by me, I’ve had a drink poured for you already.”

With some reluctance I did as I was told.

“I hope you didn’t injure yourself?” Helena asked from beneath the wide brim of her hat.

“Only my pride,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m useless at tennis.”

“Yet I hear that you’re a fantastic horsewoman,” she said.

“I-I don’t think the two skills are really connected,” I said, puzzled by this line of questioning.

“No, I daresay you’re right,” Helena agreed lightly. “Though so often those who are good at one sport are good at many. Take my poor husband, for example. He was a sporting man. There wasn’t much he couldn’t turn his hand to in that arena. He could ride, shoot, hunt, fish, play tennis, cricket, rugby … the list was endless.”

“He sounds like an impressive man,” I managed.

Helena seemed to think this over. “I suppose he was, to some.” She looked me dead in the eye. “His daughter was just like you, though; brilliant in the saddle, hopeless at tennis. A difficult girl, that one, always making trouble.”

My blood ran cold, as her eyes held mine, luminous, unreadable green pools. “Well, Lady Scott-Holland,” I replied, my voice feather-light, “it sounds as though you are not terribly sorry that they are both gone.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Miss Fox,” she agreed silkily. “Though I do hate to sound like the wicked stepmother.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

That night I lay awake again, tossing and turning. I had spent the rest of the day in fear that Helena, like a coiled snake, was about to strike. My nerves were shredded.

I tried to reassure myself that whatever she might suspect, she couldn’t know anything for certain. My relationship and personal history with Nick must be enough to cast doubt on what would be a wild (though accurate) theory. Society had accepted me as Miss Fox, and Helena would be careful about rocking that particular boat.

Still, her words clanged through me and I couldn’t sleep. Once more I was chased by anxieties and questions. Only this time I didn’t want to worry about them alone. This time there was something that I could do about that.

I told myself it was a stupid plan. Inappropriate, terrible, bound to end in disaster.

But I knew that I was going to do it anyway.

I padded out of bed and put on my dressing gown. Then I headed for the hallway. This was my house, after all, and I was the one who knew its secrets. I also knew which room Nick was staying in. There was no chance that Helena had any idea about the tunnels, I thought idly, as I knocked along the wooden panelling. Most of the upper floor of the house was connected if you only knew where to look.

I knew where to look. After all, I had been a very solitary child with plenty of time on my hands.

I heard the telltale hollow sound under my knuckles and pressed against the corner of the panel. It swung open with a thin creak, and I held up my candle. The space was smaller than I remembered – though actually I suppose it was more the case that I was bigger. It was dark, and I could see cobwebs.

I didn’t have to do this, I reminded myself. But it felt like if I didn’t tell Nick the truth now then I might not ever tell him. Here and now, in the inky darkness, I finally had the courage, and that courage might not stick around in the hard light of day. These hours after midnight so often felt that way … like a time for secrets.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the cold, dark space, and let the door swing shut behind me.

The less said about my time navigating the tunnel, the better. It was probably only a couple of minutes, but it felt like longer. As an enterprising child I had carved my own coded directions into the wooden tunnel with my pen knife, and so I was thankfully sure of where I was going. I placed my fingers over one of the small symbols, a moment of communion with the young me, the one who had been left here for so many hours by herself.

When I reached the panel that opened up into Nick’s room, I hesitated. Breaking into a man’s room in the middle of the night was certainly not the behaviour of a proper young lady.

But that ship had definitely sailed.

Slowly, I pushed the door open. Beyond it was only darkness. Silence.

“Nick?” I whispered. “Nick? Are you awake?”

“Iris?” A startled voice came from the shadows. “Is that you? Where are you?”

I stepped through the door, holding my candle in front of me. “I’m here.”