Page 35 of Bane Bloom

No reply came, and I knocked again. Still nothing.

Worry overcoming my sense of propriety—what if he was ill?—I gripped the handle and pushed open the door. Empty. Even the stove was dark.

“Where can you have gone?” I murmured uneasily.

Thomas’s mattress rested on a wooden frame under a window that had bits of cloth stuffed in chinks around the edges. Again I noticed the stack of books on its sill. Curiosity getting the better of me, I stepped closer. The Pickwick Papers, Frankenstein, The Lady of the Lake, and The Prose or Younger Edda (Norse mythology, how fitting).

Though I knew Thomas wasn’t born a servant, it still surprised me to find he was reading the same titles any gentleman in London might. All of these but Mary Shelley’s dark novel could be found in my father’s own collection.

I couldn’t make out the bottommost title in the stack, so I moved closer. It was in fact a wooden box, the edge decorated with an inlay of bell-shaped lily of the valley blossoms. I reached out and ran a finger over the design.

Lilies again.

My heart beat faster. What I did then, I’m not proud of. Looking back, I think the day had left me in a somewhat desperate state. The fright from the near drowning. The unanswered questions. My isolation in the strange, empty house. The things I’d read in Prudence’s diary. The continued friction between Thomas and me, and his disappearance.

Holding my breath, I set the candlestick on the windowsill and knelt on the bed. I lifted the books from the box and set them aside.

The box lid bore the same lily inlay, only larger. I removed it with trembling fingers, releasing a familiar herbal fragrance into the room. Inside was something wrapped in yellow cloth. Carefully I took it out, disturbing some dried leaves that were strewn over it, and unfolded the wrapping. The object inside was a crudely formed doll.

I first thought it made of wood, but by the weight and texture of it, I realized it was a different kind of plant matter—a very thick root. Or rather a set of roots, forming the doll’s trunk and limbs. A face had been crudely carved at the top of the central root.

It struck me what this must be: Mandrake. The plant was a member of the nightshade family, and the lore associated with it went back even to ancient times. Mandrake roots were said to scream when dug up, and they were used to make dolls for magical workings. This was the extent of my knowledge, but I would certainly consult Plant Lore of Britain; I wasn’t sure I’d be able to wait until morning. Had Thomas made this doll? Or perhaps his mother? For what purpose?

After wrapping the doll again, I replaced it, picked up the dry leaves I’d dropped—the source of the herbal scent, which I realized was familiar because it was the same scent carried by the teacup plant in my room—then put everything back the way it had been.

I went to the window on the opposite side of the hut and looked out at the lake. The moon had now climbed high enough in the sky that the night was almost returned to twilight. The surface of the lake reflected like mirror glass, though a ripple trailed along the beach as a family of ducks swam in a row toward the pines. My eyes picked out an odd shape on the same stretch of beach I’d crossed to meet Thomas at his boat. Whatever it was glowed faintly in the wash of moonlight.

Not whatever but whomever.

With a gasp I spun, running out of the hut without the candlestick. Heart thumping, I navigated around the rowboat and picked my way down the beach.

When I got there, I found . . . nothing. Confused—dismayed—I walked along the shoreline to the first pine tree and then back again, still finding nothing.

The figure I’d seen had been real! Even from the window, I had noted details. A woman in a light-colored dress, dark auburn hair soaked through and twisting like a rope over her chest. One pale forearm resting on her stomach. The drape and folds of her dress—her yellow dress.

Her gorse flower–bright dress.

Prudence’s mother had been wearing yellow when she drowned. She had been laid lifeless on this beach.

The diary had put it all into my head.

I sank down on the shingles, hugging my arms around my chest. My breaths came in quiet gasps, and my heart pulsed like beating wings.

“She was there.” My voice, edged with fear and frustration, rang in the stillness. I covered my face with my hands, shaking my head.

If I could no longer trust what I saw, or know the difference between what was real and what wasn’t, how was I to go on? Panic crested, and my eyes flitted over the beach and the water, again seeking Thomas and his solid presence.

He’s been gone ages now. What if I’ve imagined him, too?

Head bowed and shoulders slumping, fingers knotting together against my black muslin skirt, I murmured, “Oh, Papa.”

Sudden longing for our house on the Thames filled me. The smell of Papa’s paints, even the spirits he used to clean his brushes. The voices and footfalls of people passing on the cobblestones beneath my window. Nancy humming, mornings, in the kitchen. I even missed Hattie and her featherbrained observations.

What business had I out here in this wilderness?

“Outsiders don’t belong here.”

A tear slid down my cheek, and I raised my hand to muffle a sob.