Page 8 of The Hollow of Fear
Dr. Wrexhall walked them out. “I trust you will understand, Sir Henry, Lady Holmes, that we do not publicize our work here. The villagers are still under the impression that this is a family residence. Everything we do, of course, is based on the latest scientific methods and the most humane of principles; but I’m afraid there are and will always be those who would not understand and who would not wish to coexist peacefully with us in their midst.”
Livia could think of two such people listening to him right now—her parents would have been outraged had there been such an establishment neartheirresidence.
“But of course,” said Lady Holmes. “We understand perfectly.”
“Excellent, ma’am. You may expect weekly reports.”
“We eagerly anticipate them,” said Sir Henry.
Liar.
He wouldn’t bother with them at all, and neither would Lady Holmes. At last they had achieved their hearts’ desire: They had got rid of Bernadine in a manner that was more or less acceptable and they needed never think of her again.
But Livia would keep a close eye on the reports. She would visit whenever she could. And she would not allow Bernadine to be forgotten.
Otherwise, how would she ever face Charlotte again?
Usually Livia looked forwardto her annual visit to Mrs. Newell’s. Mrs. Newell was Sir Henry’s cousin, and whatever entrée to Society the Holmes girls had possessed was due more to her popularity than to any stature their parents could claim, based on either lineage or connections.
In recent years, Mrs. Newell had tired of town. But she still liked to keep in the know. Besides a voluminous correspondence with everyone who was anyone, she also hosted house parties after the end of the Season.
Sir Henry and Lady Holmes were almost never invited—Mrs. Newell did not care for their company. But she had a soft spot for Livia and Charlotte. This year, for the first time, Livia would attend alone.
She had dreaded the possibility that her parents would not allow her to go, which Mrs. Newell had prevented by sending a railway ticket, already paid for—and her own maid to accompany Livia on the journey.
But her absence from home meant that she would not be on hand when the first two reports arrived from Moreton Close. And there was no guarantee her parents would save them for Livia’s return, even though she’d specifically requested that. Lady Holmes was liable to throw them into the grate out of pique that she herself hadn’t received an invitation to Mrs. Newell’s. As for Sir Henry, Livia wouldn’t put it past him to destroy those reports as they came through the door—he who had long been revolted that he’d produced a child like Bernadine.
She would not be surprised if he was now erasing all traces of Bernadine from their lives.
As she boarded the train, however, foremost on her mind wasn’t Bernadine, but gratitude that Mrs. Newell’s maid had produced a ticket of her own and would not be sitting with Livia.
That—and a stomach-churning anxiety about the small package in her handbag.
Sir Henry didn’t bother with the mail—which too often contained such unpleasantness as notices from creditors—until midday. Lady Holmes was a late riser due to frequent intimacy with her supply of laudanum. Livia, then, was usually the first person to sort through the morning post.
This morning, she had risen unusually late, having stayed up packing the night before. As soon as she’d seen the two items addressed to her, she’d heard Lady Holmes stomping down the stairs. There had been barely enough time to hide them under her skirts. And she’d remained at table an eon so that she could leave without anyone seeing them.
After that there had been only enough time to dress and leave. But now, finally, some blessed privacy.
But no sooner had she given thanks for that solitude than a local squire’s wife and her daughter entered the compartment. Livia was obliged to engage in pleasantries. The squire’s wife was horrified that Livia, after what had happened to Charlotte, was traveling alone—her protestations about the maid that had been sent to accompany her fell on deaf ears. These mere acquaintances declared their intention to forego their own plans and chaperone Livia all the way to Mrs. Newell’s, with the further insinuation that Livia might not be, in fact, headed to a respectable relation’s house.
She almost wept with relief three stops on, when the maid came to check on her. That happened to be her would-be rescuers’ stop, and they detrained rather reluctantly. At last alone in her compartment, it was several minutes before she was calm enough to take out the letter and the package.
The handwriting on the letter she didn’t recognize, which most likely meant that it was from Charlotte, who could write in different hands. And they had devised a system whereby Charlotte sent her pamphlets, with a letter sometimes concealed inside glued-together pages.
But as exciting as it always was to receive word from Charlotte, the one Livia had been dying to open was the small package.
She had become better at not thinking about the young man who had arrived in her life like a surprise present—excitement, allure, and more than a hint of mystery. They had met three times. Two had been delightful,joyousoccasions; and then came the fateful third encounter, during which he’d revealed himself to be Mr. Myron Finch, her illegitimate half brother.
And she had been shattered by the revelation—and nauseated to have felt a great deal of incestuous sentiments for this bright, personable young man.
Only to collapse in relief when Charlotte had sent message that he wasnottheir brother.
All that had happened near the end of the Season. She had met Charlotte only one time afterward, the night before the Holmes household left London. And she had, very deliberately, mentioned neither their illegitimate half brother nor the man she had fallen in love with who wasn’t, thank God, Mr. Myron Finch.
Her intentional lack of inquisitiveness meant that she’d failed to learn what Charlotte knew about him. But Livia had harbored other hopes: Shortly before that meeting with Charlotte, he had sent her a beautiful, hand-illustrated bookmark of a woman in white reading on a park bench, which had been exactly how they’d met.
It hadn’t seemed overmuch to expect that he would write to her at some point. But the bookmark had signaled the beginning and the end of their correspondence.
