Knowing it’s a trap, but in no position to argue, I wipe the sweat from my brow and wedge myself into the small chair opposite her, much to the delight of the assembled ladies. She could have forced me into a guillotine and I would have been more comfortable. I spill over the sides of the seat, the low back offering so little support that I tremble with the effort of keeping myself upright.
Unmoved by my suffering, Evelyn crosses her arms on the table and pushes a pawn across the board. I follow it with a rook, the pattern of the middle game weaving itself in my mind. Although we’re evenly matched, discomfort is digging holes in my concentration, my tactics proving too ramshackle to overpower Evelyn. The best I can do is prolong the match, and after half an hour of counters and feints, my patience is exhausted.
‘Your life is in danger,’ I blurt out.
Evelyn’s fingers pause on her pawn, a little tremor of her hand sounding loud as a bell. Her eyes skirt my face, then those of the ladies behind us, searching for anybody who might have heard. They’re frantic, working hard to scrub the moment from history.
She already knows.
‘I thought we had a deal, Lord Ravencourt,’ she interrupts, her expression hardening once more.
‘But—’
‘Would you prefer I leave?’ she says, her glare strangling any further attempts at conversation.
Move after move follows, but I’m so perplexed by her response, I pay little heed to strategy. Whatever’s going to happen tonight, Evelyn seems to be aware of it and yet her greater fear seems to be that somebody else will find out. For the life of me I can’t imagine why that would be and it’s clear she’s not going to open her heart to Ravencourt. Her disdain for this man is absolute, which means if I’m to save her life, I must either put on a face she likes or press forward without her help. It’s an infuriating turn of events and I’m desperately trying to find a way of reframing my argument when Sebastian Bell arrives at the door, provoking the queerest of sensations. By any measure this man is me, but watching him creep into the room like a mouse along a skirting board, I struggle to believe it. His back is stooped, his head low, arms stiff by his sides. Furtive glances scout every step, his world seemingly filled with sharp edges.
‘My grandmother, Heather Hardcastle,’ says Evelyn, watching him examine the portrait on the wall. ‘It’s not a flattering picture, but then she wasn’t a flattering woman by all accounts.’
‘My apologies,’ says Bell. ‘I was—’
Their conversation proceeds exactly as it did yesterday, her interest in this frail creature prompting a pang of jealousy, though that’s not my principal concern. Bell’s repeating my day exactly and yet he believes himself to be making his choices freely, as I did. Likely then I’m blindly following a course plotted by Daniel, which makes me, what... an echo, a memory or just a piece of driftwood caught in the current?
Flip over the chessboard, change this moment. Prove yourself unique.
My hand reaches out, but the thought of Evelyn’s reaction, her disdain, the laughter of the assembled ladies, is too much. Shame cripples me, and I jerk my hand back. There’ll be further opportunities, I need to keep watch for them.
Thoroughly demoralised and with defeat unavoidable, I dash the last few moves, putting my king to the sword with unseemly haste before staggering from the room, Sebastian Bell’s voice fading behind me.
15
As ordered, Cunningham’s waiting for me in the library. He’s sitting on the edge of a chair, the letter I gave him unfolded and trembling slightly in his hand. He stands as I enter, but in my desire to put the Sun Room behind me I’ve moved too quickly. I can hear myself breathing, wheezy desperate bursts from my overburdened lungs.
He doesn’t venture to help.
‘How did you know what was going to happen in the drawing room?’ he asks.
I try to answer, but there isn’t room for both words and air in my throat. I choose the latter, guzzling it with the same appetite as everything else in Ravencourt’s life, while staring into the study. I’d hoped to catch the Plague Doctor while he chatted with Bell, but my futile attempt to warn Evelyn dragged on longer than I expected.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised.
As I saw on the road to the village, the Plague Doctor seems to know where I’ll be and when, no doubt timing his appearances so I can’t ambush him.
‘It happened exactly as you described it,’ continues Cunningham, staring at the paper in disbelief. ‘Ted Stanwin insulted the maid and Daniel Coleridge stepped in. They even spoke the words you wrote down. They spoke them exactly.’
I could explain, but he hasn’t got to the section troubling him yet. Instead, I hobble over to the chair, lowering myself onto the cushion with a great deal of effort. My legs throb in pitiful gratitude.
‘Was it a trick?’ he asks.
‘No trick,’ I say.
‘And this... the final line, where you say...’
‘Yes.’
‘... that you’re not Lord Ravencourt.’
‘I’m not Ravencourt,’ I say.
‘You’re not?’
‘I’m not. Get a drink, you’re looking a little pale.’
He does as I say, obedience seemingly being the only part of him that hasn’t thrown its hands up in defeat. He returns with a glass of something and sits down, sipping it, his eyes never leaving mine, legs pressed together, shoulders bowed.
I tell him everything, from the murder in the forest and my first day as Bell, right through to the never-ending road and my recent conversation with Daniel. Doubt flickers on his face, but every time it seems to have a foothold, he glances at the letter. I almost feel sorry for him.
‘Do you need another drink?’ I ask, nodding towards his half-empty glass.
‘If you’re not Lord Ravencourt, where is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is he alive?’
He can barely make eye contact.
‘Would you rather he wasn’t?’ I ask.
‘Lord Ravencourt’s been good to me,’ he says, anger flashing across his face.
That doesn’t answer the question.
I look at Cunningham again. Downcast eyes and dirty hands, a smeared tattoo from a troubled past. In a flash of intuition, I realise he’s afraid, but not of what I’ve told him. He’s afraid of what somebody who’s already seen this day unfold might know. He’s hiding something, I’m certain of it.
‘I need your help, Cunningham,’ I say. ‘There’s lots to do and while I’m shackled to Ravencourt, I don’t have the legs to do any of it.’
Draining his glass, he gets to his feet. The drink’s painted two spots of colour on his cheeks and when he speaks his voice drips with the bottle’s courage.
‘I’m going to take my leave now and resume service tomorrow when Lord Ravencourt has...’ – he pauses, considering the right word – ‘returned.’
He bows stiffly, before heading for the door.
‘Do you think he’ll take you back when he knows your secret?’ I say abruptly, an idea dropping into my head like a stone into a pond. If I’m right and Cunningham is hiding something, it may be shameful enough to use as leverage.
He stops dead beside my chair, hands clenched tight.
‘What do you mean?’ he says, staring straight ahead.
‘Look beneath the cushion of your seat,’ I say, trying to keep the tension from my voice. The logic of what I’m attempting is sound, but that doesn’t mean it will actually work.
He glances at the chair, then back towards me. Without a word he does as I say, discovering a small white envelope. Triumph twists a smile from my lips as he tears it open, his shoulders sagging.
‘How did you know?’ he asks, his voice cracked.