My resolve stuttered and almost failed as I beheld what lay within.
Mason lay upon Edward’s bed, curled on his side in the fetal position. The sheets were spotted with red, his face twisted in agony. My mind raced to catch up, weaving together the images before me.Blood. He was hurt.
“Who did this to him?” I asked, turning on Edward. “Did—”
“I did not, Jane,” he said, his brow darkening. “Why would you think such a thing?”
“I don’t know what to think of you anymore, sir,” I replied, glancing fretfully at Mason.
“I’m going to fetch the doctor,” Edward said coolly. “I need you to care for him until I return.”
“But we should call an ambulance,” I protested, but he held up a hand to silence me.
His eyes warned me not to argue. “I will go to the village and fetch the doctor.” Turning to Mason, he leaned over and murmured into his ear, “You must not talk to her on pain of death, Richard. Do you hear me?”
The man nodded, his expression tight and his eyes screwed shut.
I was struck dumb, and my mouth fell open. It was blatant now. I was purposely kept from the mysteries locked away within this house and in Edward’s cold heart. The realization stung as if I were the one wounded on that bed.
Edward glanced at me, his expression closed, and said, “Remember. No conversation.”
Then he strode from the room, leaving me alone with Mason. Why he should think I had the skill to care for a wounded man was beyond me. Considering our secret entanglement, perhaps I was the only one he could place this burden upon. This event,this violence, was meant to be kept as secret as our affair.
Glancing at Mason, I frowned, but he was too out of it to say much of anything, even without Edward’s command.
Filling a basin with cold water from the bathroom, I set it on the bedside table and doused a face washer. Wringing out the material, I folded it up into one long strip and placed it across Mason’s forehead. He moaned as the material came into contact with his skin, but his eyes didn’t open.
I urged him onto his back, and he rolled over without complaint, revealing the severity of his wounds to me. Beholding the blood that coated his skin and the bed below, I paled. He wasn’t just hurt. This was… Who had done this violence to him if not Edward?
Lifting the torn pieces of Mason’s shirt away from the wound on his arm, I dabbed gently at the blood with a clean cloth, cleaning as much of it away as I could. Glancing at his face, he was still unconscious or asleep—I didn’t know which—so I moved onto cleaning the gash as best I could to help promote clotting lest he bled to death.
The more worrying violence was the deep gouge in his side. Rolling up his shirt, I repeated the same process. Here, his flesh had been torn viciously, and now that it was clear of blood, I could see something had stabbed into his side. It was worrying indeed, but at least the bleeding seemed to have slowed to a mere trickle. That bode well.
Deciding to leave the wounds uncovered and open to the air, I drew a chair to the side of the bed so I could keep close watch over Mason. I curled up in it and watched the rise and fall of his chest as he slept.
The night twisted around me, a pale and bloody spectacle lay within reach, and my thoughts wandered to ghosts and murderers let loose in the halls of Thornfield.
I’d heard the same manic laughter that had led me through the halls of Thornfield to the fire that almost took Edward’s life. I’d heard a scream in my dream as if it was born above my very room, and I began to suspect it hadn’t been in my mind after all. Was it Grace Poole who had wrought this harm? If she was capable of such treachery, then why was she allowed to roam the halls as freely as she did? I wanted to see the good in all things, so I began to formulate excuses and alibis for the strange maid. Surely, it wasn’t her?
And what of Edward’s anger at the sight of his old friend? I couldn’t forget the rage that had passed through his eyes and the way he dragged the man from the dining room. The mystery was only deepening, and not one of these clues led me to solve the riddle. I was going around in circles.
I had to have faith Edward would reveal the events of this night to me once he returned, although I knew the chances of it were slim. I still had to try for my own peace of mind.
Outside, the wind had picked up and was blowing a gale across the moor. It rattled the windows every now and then, and I could feel it tickle my skin. Glancing around the room, my eye settled on the tapestry to the right of the bed. It was medieval in appearance and hung from the ceiling to the floor as was the style in those days. Most grand manors and houses held such treasures, and so did Thornfield, but beholding its beauty wasn’t why my gaze was drawn.
Rising to my feet, I stepped around the foot of the bed and stood before it, watching the fabric as it was sucked into a hollow space and then blown outward as the wind’s fingers let it go. I hardly took stock of the image portrayed before me as I curled back one side of the heavy tapestry.
To my surprise, I found a hollow recess in the stone wall behind with a door set into it. It was crude, and I realized this must be an older part of the mansion. Thornfield had many renovations over the past decades as it was turned into a hotel, and all sorts of nooks and crannies were uncovered. It must be an old servant’s entrance, and I fancied it opened onto stairs that would lead to the upper floors.
In centuries past, the staff used to live and work up in the eaves of great houses, using doorways such as these to quicken their path around their abodes. Remembering the upper floor Alice had shown me on my first day here, I knew it would lead me to those dusty, unused sections of the manor.
I wasn’t afraid, not at first, so I raised my hand and curled my fingers around the doorknob.
“Don’t!”
I turned in fright, my heart racing at the sudden burst of sound from behind me. Mason held his hand out, his expression twisted in panic.
“Don’t, Miss,” he said with a gasp.