“Yes,” he replied after a moment’s thought. “Yes, several years ago. How strange, though, I can’t imagine how we didn’t have the hearth cleaned.” He shoved his free hand into his pocket, but not before she noticed a tremor in it.
He hadn’t known about the bag? Or he hadn’t imagined she would find it?
“Augustine?”
“Sorry, it was a particularly unpleasant case,” he murmured. “Difficult to think about.” He stopped at the entrance to the dining room, turning and smiling up at her. “I did miss you,” he said. “Greatly.”
“And I, you,” she said, half by reflex, half by desire. She hated herself immediately for it.
He must have seen the frustration in her. “There’s a carriage,” he said. “Down at the end of the drive. Are your things packed?”
“No,” she said. “I had intended to stay tonight.”
“The roads are clear now,” he said, glancing not to the front door but to the stairs. “Jane—”
“Let us go in for dinner,” Jane said. “I will pour us claret.”
And she left him there without listening for argument. He followed faithfully.
The dining room was cleaner than it had been on their wedding night, the windows polished, the curtains drawn back to admit the gentle afternoon sun. There were no cobwebs, no dust hanging in the corners, and even the upholstery had been scrubbed. The wine glasses were newly cleaned, and she tried to feel pride in it as she poured the wine at the sideboard. The feeling didn’t come.
They sat down at the table in silence, and a few minutes later Mrs. Luthbright emerged from the kitchen and laid out several steaming dishes for them. Augustine murmured a few words to her about sending the carriage away. Jane hid behind her meal, eating without taste. Each bite went down hard, scoring her throat.
How to begin?
When the cook had left, Jane decided to come at it from the side, the way it had struck her. “You know, Mrs. Luthbright believes the house is haunted.”
His fork scraped against the ceramic of his plate as he gathered up more morsels of stewed venison. Sitting back in his chair, he chewed, swallowed, without expression, without hurry.
Jane’s heart beat harder.
“I didn’t know she was the superstitious type,” he said, once he’d washed down his food with wine. “Do you agree with her?”
She resisted the urge to glance at the nearest window, searching for a woman with red eyes. “I don’t really know,” she said. “I haven’t given it much thought.”
“And does Mrs. Purl share Mrs. Luthbright’s fears?”
“No, she doesn’t,” Jane said slowly. “Though she did say her husband has asked several times if you entertain guests.”
“Mr. Purl is a notorious drunk,” he said.
“So I’ve heard.” Now. She must ask him now. Steeling her spine, she leaned in slightly. “Who is Elodie?”
His face went still and ashen, the way it had when Mr. Renton’s life had slipped away beneath his scalpel.
When he gave no answer, she pressed the attack with dispassionate logic. “I finished going through your ledger books. Mr. Lowell included your personal expenses, I suspect not at your explicit request. The payments to the Pinkcombes—what are those for, Augustine?”
She expected him to beg out of answering, to tell her it wasn’t appropriate dinner talk or that it was personal. Not suited to their potential lurking audience. But Jane didn’t care; better to keep on, to corner him. She reached for one of her earliest hypotheses, ridiculous though it felt.
“Is she your child?” Jane asked.
His eyes shot open, and he … laughed.
“Lord, no,” he said, shaking his head.
She flushed, embarrassed. He was keeping something from her; what did it matter if an explanation seemed out of character? What did she know of his character at all, really? “Well,” she said, struggling to keep her composure, “who is she, then?”
“Was,” he corrected, laugh failing in an instant, his expression turning to a grimace. “She was a patient I wasn’t able to help.”
“A patient,” Jane repeated.
The way his face fell. Like when Mr. Renton died.
“I feel uniquely responsible for what happened to her. I’ve been trying to make amends with her family ever since, but they always turn it down. I suspect they hate me for trying, but I can’t leave it.”
“Was she the woman who lived here for a time? Who died?” Jane asked, desperate to prove to herself that something here was amiss.