A Cold Legacy. Megan Shepherd

raised a frozen hand to my hair, pushing the soaked locks out of my face. “My name is Juliet Moreau, and this is Lucy Radcliffe. Let me show you the letter of introduction from Elizabeth …”

      I tried to unfasten my buttons to pull out the damp letter, but my fingers were too numb. The fire in the main hall wasn’t enough to chase away the chill. As I fumbled with my many layers of clothing, a clock ticked from some unseen room, highlighting the silence. I glanced at Lucy. I hadn’t expected such a sullen welcome to Ballentyne, and for Lucy’s part, she looked ready to run back outside and take her chances with the storm.

      Another door slammed from deep within the manor and I whirled to the entryway. The Romany woman turned slowly to a back corner, where low male voices and heavy footsteps approached.

      Montgomery and Balthazar entered, hands clasped behind their necks like prisoners of war. A gray-haired manservant with a thin face like a starved fox followed, pointing a rifle at the backs of their heads.

      “Wait!” I cried. “We’re friends of Elizabeth!”

      The manservant ignored me. “I found two pistols on ’em and this rifle. They’ve a man wrapped in chains in the carriage. A prisoner, most like. We should alert someone in Quick to telegram the police.”

      My heart fluttered wildly.

      “He’s not a prisoner!” My words were sharp enough to shock them. The man cocked his head toward me and I saw he was missing his left ear; there was only a jagged scar in its place. Lucy shrank closer to me.

      “His name is Edward Prince and he’s gravely ill,” I continued. “We’ve only chained him so he doesn’t harm himself in his delirium. He isn’t a threat and neither are we, so you can lower that rifle and drop this talk about sending for the police.” I tore at my damp layers until I found Elizabeth’s letter and thrust it at the young woman. “It’s from Elizabeth. It says—”

      “I can read,” she said coldly, opening the letter.

      Lucy clung to my side. She was normally so much bolder than I, but she was mistress of the tearoom and salon. Here, in this last bastion of civilization before the upper wilds of Scotland, was the first time I’d ever seen her rendered speechless.

      The woman finished the letter and exchanged a glance with the manservant. “It is as they say it is,” she said. I’d expected the letter to ease her suspicions, but if anything, her voice sounded even colder than before. Regardless, he lowered the rifle.

      Montgomery took off his hat and wiped his wet hair back. “Balthazar, fetch Edward and our trunks, if you’d be so good.” Balthazar shuddered like a wet dog and turned to go. Thunder crashed outside and the chandelier dimmed, plunging the foyer into low light before the howling wind let up and the chandelier flickered back to full power.

      “My name is Valentina,” the woman said curtly. “I’m second in charge after the housekeeper. This is Carlyle, the gamekeeper. We aren’t used to Elizabeth sending guests, certainly not wards.”

      “Yes, well, here we are dripping all over your floors,” I said with an uneasy laugh. “Is there a place we might dry off and warm ourselves? I think we’re all nearly frozen through.” I couldn’t stop shivering, and it wasn’t just on account of the cold.

      Valentina nodded toward the roaring grand fireplace. “Wait here. I’ll tell McKenna you’ve arrived.” She exchanged another glance with Carlyle, who followed her out of the foyer.

      We were left alone in the silent hall. Watery old portraits hung high above our heads, looking down on us with eyes that seemed all too real. My skin rippled as if the house had eyes and ears, and all were trained on us.

      At last Lucy broke her silence to stomp off toward the fire. “Would it kill them to offer us a towel?” she hissed under her breath. “Some tea? You’d think we were lepers.”

      I was glad, at least, that she’d found her voice again. We huddled around the fireplace, holding our hands toward the flame. Montgomery hung his oilskin coat on a hook by the fire.

      “Elizabeth warned me they were out of practice with polite society,” I offered.

      Lucy scoffed. Behind her, a faded threadbare boar loomed in the heavy tapestry. “Out of practice? More like they were both raised by wolves. I can’t imagine, if Elizabeth were here, she’d tolerate their behavior. A rifle to Montgomery’s head!”

      I rubbed my hands together in front of the fire and thought of the first time I’d met Elizabeth. She’d dragged me through a kitchen window and dumped me on a hard stone floor. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised by our reception after all.

      “Well, we are imposing on their goodwill,” I said. “I’m just grateful to be out of that carriage. Besides, Elizabeth should arrive in a few days—”

      A door slammed again and Valentina returned, though without any sort of towel or blanket for us to dry ourselves. If she noticed that we were all soaked to the bone and shivering, it only seemed to give her perverse satisfaction. “Carlyle will help your associate unload the carriage and carry the sick gentleman upstairs. McKenna said to bring you down to meet the rest of the staff. You’ve arrived at an unfortunate time. We’re in the middle of a funeral.”

      Lucy’s face went white. “Who died?”

      Valentina’s mouth quirked, the first flicker of emotion we’d seen other than sullenness. “The last group of strangers who came to this door.”

      I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

      “Follow me,” she said. “The ground is frozen until spring thaw. We can’t bury our bodies until then, so we hold our funerals inside.”

      I hesitated. “Inside? But where?”

      Valentina met my eyes, and I realized that I wasn’t certain that I wanted to know where, exactly, the bodies were kept. Nor that Ballentyne Manor was anything like the safe haven I’d expected.

      “You’ll see for yourself. I hope for your sake—if you truly are the mistress’s ward—you have as strong a constitution as she does, Miss Moreau.”

       4

      Valentina led the way down the damp cellar stairs with a candle in one hand, despite the line of electric lights running alongside us.

      “Best not to rely on the electricity,” she explained over her shoulder. “The lights have gone out on me too many times when I’m down here alone, and it’s blacker than the devil.”

      The farther we descended, the colder the air grew. My breath fogged in the dim lights. No wonder they stored the bodies here—the temperature and sulfuric gases released from the bogs would preserve them in near perfect condition until the spring thaw, and the stone walls would keep away the vermin.

      Montgomery was close behind me, but Lucy trailed at a distance, holding her hem high so as not to drag it on the slick stones of the spiral staircase. At last we reached the bottom, where the distant sound of a droning voice came from a room ahead that glowed faintly in the electric lights.

      “It was the plague,” Valentina said.

      “Plague?” Lucy asked.

      “The ones that died. The plague killed them. Beggars following the winter fair circuit. Several women and children among them, too.”

      She spoke casually enough, as though dead children were as common as the sheep dotting the landscape. Lucy gasped, but Valentina’s straightforward attitude didn’t bother me. Back in London, it was all high tea and polished silver. Very refined, very polite. At least these people, sullen though they were, didn’t deny the dangers around them.

      Lucy lifted her skirts higher, as if the plague might be lurking in the damp stone underfoot, and Valentina smirked. We followed her through an open