“He has never said as much, but that’s what I’ve understood by a gleam in his eye, and a quickening of interest, once I became of marriageable age. It was he who contrived to introduce me to a number of wealthy young men, until Archibald Adcocks took the bait. And he pressed me to accept, although I was inclined to wait.”
“Regardless of what Mr Harcourt believes-”
“I know. And you’re right, I don’t believe it of myself. Mr Harcourt imagines, because he kept himself so coldly distant, repelling my natural affection, and sent me to day school rather than risk my becoming too close to a kind governess, that I never was loved, and never loved anyone, since my father died.
“But there was a girl at school… My guardian may have no idea how passionately girls can love each other, but I’m sure you will,” she said, with a look that should have made me blush. Instead, it made me smile.
We looked at each other like conspirators. “I take it your friend remains alive and well?”
“Indeed, and still my dearest friend, although we’re now more temperate in our emotions… or, at least, the expression of them. So, you see, I know my affection is not dangerous.”
“And yet you seem to think that by becoming engaged to marry you, Mr Adcocks signed his own death warrant. And that Mr Randall is under threat for the same reason.”
“Yes…” She looked thoughtful. “But not because of my feelings for him, or his for me. It’s something else. Marriage to anyone would take me away from this house, would remove me from my guardian’s collection. That’s it!” she said, and stood up.
“What is it?”
“He thinks marriage is the only way he might lose me. He’s never imagined I might simply decide to leave.”
I stood up, too, to face her. “I don’t understand.”
“Mr Harcourt is scarcely sane when it comes to his collection. He cannot bear the thought of losing a single piece of it. He is happiest when gloating over it alone, and whenever he has a chance to add something new. Although he admits potential buyers, he only wants their envy and admiration as they view his objects – he will never agree to sell an item, no matter how much money he is offered.
“And while he has been talking about my marriage since I was sixteen, and began pushing me at eligible bachelors on my eighteenth birthday, driven by thoughts of what he thinks will happen when I am once more part of a family, greedily imagining how his collection will grow after the violent, accidental death of my husband… yet he knows this will be possible only if he lets me go. In his twisted mind, I am part of his collection, and the thought of losing me, even only temporarily, and in aid of gaining more, is terrible to him.”
“His mind is divided?”
“I am sorry, Miss Lane. You should not have been brought into this. There was no need for William to enlist the aid of a detective. I should have realized that I am the only one who can end this madness.”
She started back to the house and I followed. Although I had no idea what she intended, I felt that we were approaching crisis.
She raised her fist to rap on the heavy oak, but at the very first blow the door to her guardian’s study swung open.
Harcourt was at the far end of the room, by the window, displaying something in a flat wooden box to Jesperson. They both looked around sharply as we entered, Harcourt startled and annoyed. Clearly, he had not expected us, and I could only assume that he had neglected to shut the door properly.
“What’s the meaning of this disturbance?” he demanded, hastily shutting up the box.
“I must speak to you.”
“Let it wait. We have company.”
“I am happy to have witnesses.” She took a breath. “I shall not marry.”
I had tensed myself against the negative atmosphere upon entering the house, and had been particularly reluctant to enter Harcourt’s study, expecting it to be the epicentre of the unrest, yet as I slowly followed Miss Bellamy, I found that what had been unpleasant and discordant was now harmonious. Using the metaphor of scent, consider bonfire smoke. A great waft in the face is horrible, but at the right distance, the scent of burning leaves and wood is pleasant.
“You’ve rushed in here to say that? I am at a loss to understand why,” Harcourt replied coldly. “Your change of heart is of no interest to me. I suggest you write to Mr Randall.”
“You don’t understand. I mean I shall never marry.”
His eyes bulged. “Are you insane?” Suddenly, he turned on me. “What have you been saying? What sort of mad rubbish, to turn her mind?”
“Miss Lane had nothing to do with it,” Flora said swiftly. “I have been thinking matters over for the past several days, and only now decided to tell you-”
“Oh, very likely!” He had been casting a venomous glare on me, but now stared coldly at Jesperson. “I’m afraid I must ask you to take this female person away, immediately.”
I could see that my partner was at a loss: should he leap to my defence, invent excuses, or pretend to a masculine solidarity that might leave the door open for future visits? Although I didn’t want to leave Flora alone with Harcourt, I didn’t know what we would achieve by trying to stay, so I left the room, just as Flora was demanding, “Am I not allowed to have my own friends?”
“As long as I’m your guardian, Flora, you will do as I say. You’ll have nothing more to do with that female, and you will not break off your engagement. We’ll forget you ever said anything about it. Mr Jesperson, if you please!”
As they emerged, with Flora in the lead, I was surprised to see the hint of a smile on her face. She winked at me before turning on her guardian again.
“So, I am to be your object and meekly allow your will to prevail in everything, until my twenty-first birthday changes everything?”
“That will change nothing,” he said scornfully. “You don’t imagine you’ll be anything different than you are now? Than you’ve always been?”
She flinched, but held steady. “In the eyes of the law.”
“The law.” He snorted. “The law is an ass. It has nothing to say about you. It has no idea what you are.” His gaze on her was horrible.
“I may as well go now,” she said quietly.
“Go? What are you talking about?”
“You are right that a few months will change nothing. You are pleased with the situation; I am not. So I shall leave.”
She looked from me to Jesperson, saying, “If it’s not too much trouble…”
He was swift to take her meaning. “Of course, come with us. Any help we can give-”
I heard the rattle, and saw that the Chinese vase was rocking violently back and forth, until it tilted too far and fell, shattering against the hard floor, and spilling its burden of umbrellas and walking sticks.
Only one of the sticks did not come to rest with everything else on the floor, but shot through the air, straight at Jesperson.
If it had struck where it aimed, against his throat, I have no doubt it would have killed him, but he was quick. Almost as if he’d expected the attack, he stepped lightly aside, his arm rising, fluid and graceful, to catch the handle.
Unlike an ordinary thrown object, the stick continued to move after it was caught, writhing and struggling to escape while he gripped it more firmly, frowning as he looked for a thread or wire and tried to work out the trick of it.
Certain there would be no invisible thread, I looked instead at Harcourt. His expression was nothing like those I’d seen on the faces of mediums or mentalists; he looked utterly astonished, and thrilled. If he had caused the stick’s activity, it was through a power hidden from his conscious mind, something he did not suspect and could not control.