And then, as she climbed the stairs to the bedroom, she saw it. There, bright pink against the pale skin of the top of her left foot, were the faint dotted burns of candle wax.
It hadn’t been a nightmare at all.
Augustine had lied.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JANE STOOD IN the doorway to Augustine’s bedroom, looking at the rumpled sheets, her heart so in tumult that it seemed to be numb with the constant turning. They had lain together last night, and it had been sweet, and gentle, and passionate; she had been so glad to trust him, so glad to learn there were missing details, details that made it all make sense.
She wanted it all to make sense.
Why would he lie about Jane collapsing in his study? She knew he had lied, and yet the lie itself vexed her. He hadn’t known what she had seen. Even now, though she could still conjure up the image, she couldn’t name what had happened. Ghosts? Spirits? They did not fit into her orderly world, and surely they could not fit into his.
And yet he had not wanted her to stay at Lindridge Hall at first. He had been transfigured when she found him hiding in his study on their wedding night. He had been afraid, as afraid as she had been to see the woman in the window behind him. And now he had lied to her, elaborately and emphatically.
When she’d come up with her marriage plan, she’d somehow thought it would be simple. That there would be no drama, no uncertainty. And perhaps, if she’d chosen a different man …
Her heart ached. She didn’t want to choose a different man.
She wanted Augustine to be who she’d thought he was. That man would not have lied. That man would have confided in her. The day Mr. Renton had died, they had bared their souls to each other. They had worked together through blood and loss, and when she had looked into his eyes she had felt safe. She had felt seen.
Had that been a lie, too?
No. No, there was something she was missing, some variable that, once solved for, would put all of this into alignment. They would laugh, as they had last night.
But she could not stand the sight of their bed.
She dressed quickly, movements sharp enough to nearly tear the delicate lace neckline of her plum gown. She did not look at the bed, and as soon as she was suitably put together, she took up her valise and left the bedroom, shutting the door tight behind her.
The house seemed to grab at her as she descended toward the foyer, splinters in the floorboards catching at her skirt hem. Shadows reared up into unearthly, half-remembered forms.
This was not a place for her. She no longer wanted to be at Lindridge Hall, this desiccated funereal husk. Yesterday, her shield had been built up high and firm, ready for the assault of what the name Elodie might mean. Now it lay in ruins around her, dismantled by her desire and trust, leaving her vulnerable. Her time in this house had brought her nothing but fright and grief.
The roads were once more open. Sending for a carriage from town would take too long, but though she was too poor a rider to ask for Mr. Purl’s horse, perhaps she could beg one of the nearby tenant farmers to take her back to Larrenton by cart. Perhaps, once away, once back in the rhythms of town, the ache of betrayal would fade. Augustine could explain what had happened. She could understand. They could balance the two sides of their equation, confusing lies against honest passion.
She reached the foyer and had taken a few steps toward the kitchen when she paused, the flesh between her shoulder blades tensing. Jane turned toward what felt like a thousand eyes upon her and saw only the empty hallway that led back to the locked cellar door. The world went still around her, and she could hear Augustine’s voice whispering in her ear, feel his breath hot upon her throat.
Nothing at all. It’s dangerous. The tunnels could collapse.
Her feet moved without her willing them, her hands remembering the unnaturally cold bite of the padlock. If he could lie to her so completely that he erased her from the previous night, then what of his reassurances? His promises?
She could not trust them. She could not trust him, not now, not in this house.
The hallway settled around her, its lights dim, all sound from the rest of the house muffled. The padlock gleamed as she drew closer. The chatelaine rested heavy against her skirts, useless, and she stared at the gnarled wood of the door. The answers to her questions were beyond it. She knew without knowing how, a sharp hunger rising in her.
But just as she reached out to touch the lock once more, the door shuddered with a deep, insistent boom. She jumped back, staring, as another came, and another. The door did not move, though surely something inside was striking it, striking it, striking—