She put the bowl down and retched, clawing her fingers into the wood as she made herself swallow, swallow, swallow. She felt sick. Yolk and spit stuck to her jaw.
“I walk the path of the student,” she gasped.
By the time she dragged the rug back over the circle and stashed the basket out of the way, she could hear movement downstairs, Mrs. Purl’s voice distant but unmistakable. Jane looked her reflection over in one of the murky panes of glass and scrubbed at her face with the inside hem of her gown. Her hair was frightful, and she looked hollow-eyed, worse than Augustine had after a night of torment.
Was she going to be able to keep this up for six more nights? How soon before Mrs. Purl was not so understanding anymore?
She made her way downstairs, creeping through the halls. She could at least reset her hair. That, by itself, would do much to disguise her privations. She was halfway to the bedroom door when Mrs. Purl rounded the corner.
They both stopped, regarding each other in silence.
“Breakfast is waiting for you,” Mrs. Purl said at last. “The one you requested, the hare.” Her tone was perfectly polite, but Jane recognized the look in her eyes from the carriage ride the day before. She had questions.
Ah. Salaries. “Of course, thank you. I’ll be sending over a letter to the bank today, too, for your pay.”
More silence. Then, “Pardon, ma’am, but would you not prefer that I send for a carriage? It would be faster.”
“I…” She could think of no real excuse; Mrs. Purl was right, except for the ritual prohibitions that Jane could not bring herself to speak of. “If Dr. Lawrence returns while I’m out—and I had wanted to spend the day improving the master bedroom. There is much to be done. A letter—a letter should work—” It sounded feeble, even to her.
And what would Mrs. Purl think? That Jane’s excuses hid that there was no money? Or that Jane did not respect her the way Augustine had?
This was only the first day. She must get better at this. Plan better. Control everything.
“Of course, ma’am,” Mrs. Purl said. “Please let me know how I can be of assistance.”
Don’t let me sleep. Forgive me everything. Send for a plumber. But she could not risk workmen at the house, not where they might see her madness or hear Augustine’s cries, not until this was done—just as she could not go to town, just as she could not seek support.
Mrs. Purl didn’t move, and Jane smiled. She smiled until her jaw ached. And then, giving in, she passed Mrs. Purl in the hall and left the second floor without redoing her hair.
After all, she was dressed, wasn’t she? She must be ready to face her day. She crossed the foyer and didn’t look toward the cellar. She sat down and didn’t acknowledge the place set across from her by a hopeful—or superstitious—Mrs. Luthbright.
She ate her hare stewed with blood and a riot of disparate herbs. It was bitter but warm, nourishing. She thought of Augustine starving in the cellars beneath the house and set her fork down.
She fled back up to the third floor.
Mrs. Purl was already hard at work in the master bedroom, no doubt because of Jane’s comment. Jane joined her, but was almost immediately at a loss for what to do. She looked at the empty wardrobes, the wood in need of polishing, the curtains caked in dust. She looked at the empty hearth, where Mrs. Purl had found the impossible bag.
Mrs. Purl made as if to speak several times, then left without a word.
Jane tried to see the room as it must once have been, when the Lawrences were in residence, when Lindridge Hall had not yet been spoiled. But the air was stale. The plaster was crumbling and water-spotted.
She could see no trace of Augustine.
She sank onto the musty couch pushed up against one wall. Her hip pressed into something hard along the side of one cushion. Frowning, she slipped her hand into the crevice. Her fingers brushed over a rigid, rough surface several inches long and only half an inch wide, entirely out of place, and she drew it out with trembling fingers.
It was a small, thin volume. Opening it, she saw the unlined pages were covered in clear, precise script, the handwriting completely different from Augustine’s. Possibly feminine. His mother’s? But as she leafed through it, she caught sight of a name. Be serious, Elodie! started one page. Jane’s throat tightened, and she sat up, placing the diary in her lap.
Elodie Lawrence, the next page said. What a handsome name! But to tell the truth, it still doesn’t sound like me, and I suspect Augustine will always feel more like a brother than my husband. Is that wrong? I always knew we would marry, but the daily reality of playing in creeks together, of growing up by our parents’ hearths—it outweighs that sort of indistinct certainty. Elodie Lawrence. I shall have to get used to it.