Page 89 of The Heir
I’ll read one.
She bit her lip. She closed the desk up carefully, put the key back on the mantel, and crossed to the window.
I can read one. If there’s nothing to the purpose, I’ll put them back and not risk any more . . .
Victoria sat down tailor-fashion on the carpet, awash in moonlight. She pulled one letter from the packet, unfolded it carefully, and began to read.
And when that was done, she read another. And then another.
And then another.
Her neck ached and her eyes blurred and her breath came fast, as if she’d been running.
The curtains stirred, and her head jerked up. There in the shadows stood a tiny woman in a black dress. She scowled at Victoria, and Victoria’s throat closed.
This one was Mary Tudor, Bloody Mary, and she pointed toward the boudoir with one heavily beringed finger.
Victoria scrabbled at the letters, gathering them up, and stuffed them into her night robe. She ran—lightly, silently—back to her bed and dove under the covers.
“Vickelchen?” murmured Mama sleepily.
“I’m here, Mama,” she answered. “Right here.”
Chapter 39
Jane decided that morning was actually the safest time for her to search Father’s desk. The servants would be busy getting the house ready for the day, and Father would be dividing his time between reading his newspapers in the library and having breakfast. Mother, of course, did not rise before ten. Ned might be up earlier, but if he was, he’d be about his own business.
Where Liza was and what she was doing was something Jane tried very hard not to think about.
Jane left instructions for Betty to rouse her at six. Betty did, although it came with a running stream of complaints about Jane and her erratic habits. Jane apologized while she stood to be dressed. She apologized again while her hair was being done. She gave Betty an extra five shillings for all her patience.
Meg brought her tray with chocolate, tea, and toast because breakfast would not be fully ready for at least another hour. Jane apologized again.
The maids left. Jane swallowed her chocolate and wolfed a piece of toast. Then she sat for a while, waiting for something terrible to happen. Because it must happen. Despite her newfound ability to look Father in the face and lie, part of her still could not accept that she planned to break into his desk and rummage through his private papers.
But nothing did happen.
Jane descended the stairs to the first floor. The corridor was empty. The sound of the servants laying out breakfast drifted up from the ground floor.
Father would still be in his bedroom. He woke at half seven, unless there was an urgent summons from the palace. And there had been nothing. Betty would have said. Or Meg would have.
Surely, they would have said.
Jane gritted her teeth and walked down the corridor.
Father’s study was the last door on the right. It was the farthest from the street, because Father required perfect quiet for his work. The door, Jane knew, would be unlocked. Why would it be locked? No one in the house would disobey Father’s wishes and come in here without being explicitly sent for.
Jane did not let herself hesitate. She opened the study door, stepped over the threshold, and closed the door softly behind herself. She stood in the dim, still room, trying to breathe. For an absurd moment it seemed impossible that she was still in the same house or that she could be the same person.
Stop it, Jane. Look around you. It’s just a room.
It was paneled in dark wood. It was spread with good carpets. The draperies were pulled shut, but there was enough light to see by. A full-length portrait of Mother and Father hung over the fireplace mantel. Mother sat unusually upright in a richly upholstered chair. Father stood beside her in his scarlet and gold uniform, looking every inch the soldier he used to be. He had a hand on Mother’s shoulder. Jane had always thought her face looked like he was squeezing her just a little too tight.
No dawdling.
Although Father did not lock the study door, he did lock the desk, because he kept a strongbox with the household money in there. There was no need to go hunting for a copy of the key, however. Jane had found it years ago. She’d been a little girl, playing hide-and-seek with her dolls because neither Ned nor Liza would play with her. At that moment, she’d been acting as her doll Flossie, who was very mischievous. Flossie had decided to hide in Father’s study, up on the mantel, behind the clock. She’d knocked the clock and the key off, and Jane had been caught trying to put them back.
She’d been shut in her room for three days with only bread and milk for meals. She never saw Flossie again.
