interrupted. When she had seen them, they'd been dragging the chest to the carriage house.
“Definitely from it,” Mary said. “I watched them till they were out of sight. Then I saw the doctor come out of the carriage house. I sneaked down the stairs and watched him go into his study.”
Leaning forward in anticipation, Darcie waited for Mary to finish the story, but her friend just sat on her bed, staring into space, her fingers splayed across her throat. There was something in her expression that made Darcie shiver.
“What happened then?”
Mary started at the sound of Darcie's voice, as though she had forgotten she was not alone. “He was there only a short time, Dr. Cole was, then he came out again, and I followed him down to the entry hall. Poole was nowhere in sight. The doctor let himself out, and I ran to watch him through the front window that looks out onto the road. You know the one.”
Darcie nodded.
“The doctor himself climbed up to the box and drove the carriage, no John Coachman in sight. It was that morning that I found the bloody handkerchief, tossed on the study floor beneath the desk,” she whispered, her voice tight. “And Janie never came back to bed. Not that night or any other. I never saw her again.”
“You can't mean that you think Janie was in the trunk? That Dr. Cole drove her away in the carriage?” Darcie exclaimed, running her palms up and down along her upper arms, vainly trying to vanquish the horrible chill that shot through her.
“I don't think anything.” Mary hugged herself and looked away. “All I knows is he was gone for a day and a night.”
“But you do think something!” Darcie exclaimed as any number of scenarios and denials clambered through her brain. “You cannot mean to imply that Dr. Cole perpetrated some evil upon the girl?”
Mary pressed her lips together.
“If you think it, why do you stay on here? Why not leave?” Darcie asked, though she knew the answer. It was not so easy to find a place. She knew that better than most. And if Mary left here without securing a character, her task would be that much more difficult. Still, if Mary truly believed Damien had done something terrible to Janie, how could she not leave? “Mary—”
“I've nothing more to say,” Mary cut her off. The window rattled wildly in its casing, caught in the fury of the burgeoning storm, and Mary's gaze darted frantically to the window and back.
“Mary, please—”
Mary shook her head, her eyes wide, the pupils dark, and Darcie read the panic in her gaze. Rain drummed against the roof and slashed at the window. Mary’s face was chalk pale, her lips bloodless. With a sigh, Darcie let the matter drop, unwilling to press her friend's fragile nerves any further. Clearly, she would get no more answers tonight.
In silence, the women slid beneath their coverlets. The day had been long and tiring, and Darcie’s lids felt heavy, her eyes gritty, and all that Mary had told her jumbled her thoughts. Rolling to her side, she closed her eyes and willed her breath to come slow and even, her mind to seek a calm place. But the lovely oblivion of sleep eluded her and she was left to toss restlessly about. The patter of the rain was steady. The howl of the wind found the chinks and cracks in the walls.
With a sigh, Darcie threw back the sheets and swung her legs over the side of the narrow bed. Taking up her shawl, she wrapped it around her shoulders, rose, and tiptoed to Mary's bedside. Despite her blatant fear of the storm, the other woman was fast asleep, curled on her side, her hands tucked under her cheek. Treading silently, Darcie slipped from the room.
A book, she thought. Surely Damien would have a book that she could read, something that would calm her and help her sleep. Perhaps a volume of poetry. He had told her that she might borrow anything that caught her fancy. With that in mind, she made her way in the direction of his study.
She took no candle. The way was
“Definitely from it,” Mary said. “I watched them till they were out of sight. Then I saw the doctor come out of the carriage house. I sneaked down the stairs and watched him go into his study.”
Leaning forward in anticipation, Darcie waited for Mary to finish the story, but her friend just sat on her bed, staring into space, her fingers splayed across her throat. There was something in her expression that made Darcie shiver.
“What happened then?”
Mary started at the sound of Darcie's voice, as though she had forgotten she was not alone. “He was there only a short time, Dr. Cole was, then he came out again, and I followed him down to the entry hall. Poole was nowhere in sight. The doctor let himself out, and I ran to watch him through the front window that looks out onto the road. You know the one.”
Darcie nodded.
“The doctor himself climbed up to the box and drove the carriage, no John Coachman in sight. It was that morning that I found the bloody handkerchief, tossed on the study floor beneath the desk,” she whispered, her voice tight. “And Janie never came back to bed. Not that night or any other. I never saw her again.”
“You can't mean that you think Janie was in the trunk? That Dr. Cole drove her away in the carriage?” Darcie exclaimed, running her palms up and down along her upper arms, vainly trying to vanquish the horrible chill that shot through her.
“I don't think anything.” Mary hugged herself and looked away. “All I knows is he was gone for a day and a night.”
“But you do think something!” Darcie exclaimed as any number of scenarios and denials clambered through her brain. “You cannot mean to imply that Dr. Cole perpetrated some evil upon the girl?”
Mary pressed her lips together.
“If you think it, why do you stay on here? Why not leave?” Darcie asked, though she knew the answer. It was not so easy to find a place. She knew that better than most. And if Mary left here without securing a character, her task would be that much more difficult. Still, if Mary truly believed Damien had done something terrible to Janie, how could she not leave? “Mary—”
“I've nothing more to say,” Mary cut her off. The window rattled wildly in its casing, caught in the fury of the burgeoning storm, and Mary's gaze darted frantically to the window and back.
“Mary, please—”
Mary shook her head, her eyes wide, the pupils dark, and Darcie read the panic in her gaze. Rain drummed against the roof and slashed at the window. Mary’s face was chalk pale, her lips bloodless. With a sigh, Darcie let the matter drop, unwilling to press her friend's fragile nerves any further. Clearly, she would get no more answers tonight.
In silence, the women slid beneath their coverlets. The day had been long and tiring, and Darcie’s lids felt heavy, her eyes gritty, and all that Mary had told her jumbled her thoughts. Rolling to her side, she closed her eyes and willed her breath to come slow and even, her mind to seek a calm place. But the lovely oblivion of sleep eluded her and she was left to toss restlessly about. The patter of the rain was steady. The howl of the wind found the chinks and cracks in the walls.
With a sigh, Darcie threw back the sheets and swung her legs over the side of the narrow bed. Taking up her shawl, she wrapped it around her shoulders, rose, and tiptoed to Mary's bedside. Despite her blatant fear of the storm, the other woman was fast asleep, curled on her side, her hands tucked under her cheek. Treading silently, Darcie slipped from the room.
A book, she thought. Surely Damien would have a book that she could read, something that would calm her and help her sleep. Perhaps a volume of poetry. He had told her that she might borrow anything that caught her fancy. With that in mind, she made her way in the direction of his study.
She took no candle. The way was
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