“No, we’re not too far yet from my husband’s house. I’ll walk back,” she said.
He frowned, looking past her. “Are you sure, ma’am? This isn’t weather to be out in.”
“I will be out either way,” she said. “Find your horse and get yourself somewhere dry, sir. I’ll be safe.”
The driver hesitated, then tipped his hat and turned from her, taking off at a jog. He looked over his shoulder only twice, both times at his carriage.
Her case—where was her case? It was no longer on the back shelf. She peered over the edge of the road for it down below, but it wasn’t there, either. Turning in a wide circle, she finally spotted it thrown some distance behind the carriage. There was nothing in it to combat the rain, except for a hat, and she didn’t relish the thought of soaking the rest of her clothing just to get it out. So instead, she hefted it into her arms and began to walk.
The slip that had formed so disastrously on the surface of the road with the initial rains was quickly giving way to true mud, and as she walked, the weight of her gown and her case made her boots sink in deep. Each step was met with a great sucking pull at her soles, and she quickly moved to the shoulder of the road, so that the grass might provide her some protection from the earth’s covetousness. Half a mile was nothing on a sunny day, or when she intended to be out in bad weather, but now, with the rain beating on her shoulders and thunder cracking the sky every few minutes, every yard was a small victory. The night chill was settling fast into her bones, rattling in her chest. She clawed her fingers more tightly around the case, hugging it to her.
At last, she rounded the bend and saw Lindridge Hall looming once more out of the darkness. Night had descended entirely, and only one light burned in the manor’s many windows. But between the lightning flashes and a lingering, unearthly grayness from above, she could make out its form. She hurried for it, nearly tripping over her sodden skirts, and threw herself upon the doorstep.
Dropping her traveling case at her feet, she brought her fist down on the heavy wooden door, and waited, panting, for a response. The cold tore at her lungs. The portico shielded her from the rain, but not from the winds, and she was growing more frigid every minute that passed.
She banged on the door again, her hands stinging. Then, desperate, she retreated from beneath the portico and craned her head back. The light in the window was still there, unchanging. There were no shadows moving in front of it. No other sign of life.
But that made no sense; she hadn’t been gone more than an hour, and even if Mrs. Purl and Mrs. Luthbright had gone home before the storm crashed upon them, Augustine must still be inside. Surely he wouldn’t leave somebody to freeze on his doorstep. And yet the front door remained resolutely shut, and Jane realized she was afraid.
She was stranded. The cold felt colder, her hammering pulse heavier and more final. She had to get inside. But he would never hear her shouting through the stone walls.
She returned to the door and tried the latch.
It gave.
Jane stumbled inside, holding back a relieved sob, and dragged her case in behind her with a dull screech across the polished floor, into the thick darkness of the foyer. The door shut behind her. Small blue lights danced in the dark overhead.
The gasoliers. She felt her way to the wall, then along it, hands questing across the wallpapered plaster. There would be a switch. There would be a—
Her fingers found a dial, set in an ornate housing, and she twisted it. Light sprang into being, bathing the foyer in a soft glow.
She sagged against the wall, then pulled away, afraid of staining the paper.
“Augustine!” she called out, retreating back to her case, shivering as her soaked gown clung to her skin. “Augustine, it’s me, Jane! Are you there?”
A dull noise echoed from above. She grabbed her case and hauled it with her up the stairs, to the second floor, down the hall to the study. She lit the gas sconces with the dials she passed, blessing Mrs. Purl for leaving them all lit with a pilot instead of extinguishing them for the night. It was the only path she was certain of, and she hoped, desperately, that that was where the light had been shining from.
That it was Augustine who had made the noise.
“Augustine!” she called again, and again there was no response. Her skin was gooseflesh. All she wanted was a hot bath, a change of clothing. If she doubled back, if she went to his room … she could do that herself, couldn’t she?
But why hadn’t he come to the door? For all he knew, she could have been a patient. She could have been Mr. Lowell. He was so dedicated a physician; why hadn’t he come?