“Such is the magic of theatre,” Sally agreed, tidying away the costumes. “To experience all the other people we could be.”
“But lonely too. To wear a disguise.”
“True.” Sally paused, her hands molding some ornate fabric. Her features softened into a dreamy look. “It’s a sublime miracle to go without a mask, and to be loved anyway. To have someone with whom one can be utterly oneself and accepted unconditionally.”
Something tugged at Thea’s heart. “Are you in love, then? Who is he?”
But somehow, she had once more chosen the wrong words. Sally’s face hardened and she shoved the costume into a clothes press, slammed it shut, and spun to face Thea.
“Do you mean to stop me or send me away?” Sally demanded.
“If you’re in love, that’s a happy occasion, not a crime.”
“I have committed no crimes.”
Thea bit back her questions. It didn’t matter to her. Sally was not her friend. Luxborough was not her husband. Thea did not belong here. She would leave soon and they would all hate her anyway.
“Forgive me, my lady. I shall leave you to your choice,” Sally said with stiff politeness and then she marched off too. Yet again, Thea was alone.
That afternoon, the rain poured down and Thea returned to the library shelves to seek another book to occupy her mind. None of the books in her room could hold her interest for a page, and while she suspected the problem lay with her, it was much more agreeable to blame the books.
But she hardly even saw the books at her fingertips, as her mind skipped from one question to the next like an overexcited dancer at a ball. There was so much about Lord Luxborough and Brinkley End that she did not understand. About what really happened to Katharine, and why no one would speak of it, and what lay in the Forbidden Woods, and how Martha Flores fit in, and what secrets Sally hid, and what Luxborough had been doing in the garden the night before, and why he blew so hot and cold.
While trying to subdue these futile thoughts, she came across a collection of familiar Gothic novels. Nostalgia had her opening The Mysteries of Udolpho, thinking fondly of when she and Helen had read the adventures of Emily St. Aubert.
But Katharine had read this too, Thea saw, as she flipped through the pages: Scores of sentences and fragments were underlined. Opening a page at random, she read an underlined sentence: “It was impossible for her to leave.”
What particular meaning could that have?
Turning to another random page, she read another underlined fragment: “I shall be murdered!”
And then another—“gloomy prison”—and another—“horrors of a prison”—and another—“remained a prisoner.”
Thea thought again of the awful defacement of the family Bible, of Katharine’s name behind bars, and how it reflected these terrifying fragments that Katharine had underlined.
Flipping faster and faster, Thea scanned the pages, finding dozens of such fragments, underscored with ragged black lines: “menaces of her husband… terror had disordered her thoughts… he had a heart too void of feeling… Fly, then, fly from this!”
“Countess.”
Thea yelped and her hands jerked so hard the book flew up into the air. It landed on the red carpet, open to a page marred by accusing lines. Lord Luxborough stood motionless inside the library door. His gaze was fixed on the book on the floor, his expression as bleak as old stone. Thea gripped her skirts and held her breath, as he raised those weary, shadowed eyes to meet hers. Her heart pounded so hard, she was sure he could hear it, the thumps competing with the ticking of the clock.
He knew. He knew what lines Katharine had highlighted, and the messages that lay within.
But all he said was, “Pray, excuse me.”
Then he bowed and left, closing the door behind him.
Thea did not move, her eyes on the ticking clock. When five minutes had passed, she scooped up the book and ran back to her room. Barely stopping to catch her breath, she threw herself onto a settee to study the underlined phrases.
Unsurprisingly, Luxborough did not join her for dinner, and Thea ate hurriedly and returned to the book. The fragments Katharine had chosen in this particular novel clustered around a single theme: terrors and prisons, locked doors and a cruel husband.
And if Katharine did mean something by this, then the vengeful, menacing husband, who had “a heart too void of feeling,” was the earl.
Even later, as Thea lay in bed, the rain drumming against the windows, the phrases played over in her mind like a sonata. Perhaps something sinister was afoot at Brinkley End after all. The house and estate were lovely, but a lovely facade could hide horrors, just as an ugly facade could hide kindness.