At that moment I heard a shout from the bushes and Allegra was calling to us. I turned and saw the three girls.

“We’ve come rather a long way,” said Alice almost apologetically. “Then Allegra thought she saw you.”

“Shouldn’t you have a groom with you?” I asked.

Alice looked at Allegra who said: “I dared them.”

Napier had not spoken. He seemed scarcely aware of the girls.

“It’s time we started back,” I said.

And we rode home, Napier and myself ahead; the girls keeping that discreet distance behind us which was so disturbing.


* * *

“It’s a beautiful story.” said Alice. “I felt I knew all the people…especially Jane.”

They had been reading Jane Eyre—a task set them by Mrs. Lincroft and they had been commanded to write an essay commenting on the book and comparing it with others.

Mrs. Lincroft had said to me: “Sir William has had a bad night and he’s a little fretful this morning. I feel I should hover over him. Could you go to the schoolroom for an hour or so?”

I had readily agreed, thankful to have something to do. I was disturbed by my conversation with Napier. He was very interested in me, I did not doubt that; what I did doubt was the depth of his emotion. I knew so little of him. But I had to admit that had he been free I might have been eager to discover more; that but for Edith I would have been willing to allow him to show me whether it was possible to forget the past.

“Have you completed your essays?” I asked.

Alice laid hers before me, three neat pages. Allegra had done half a page and Sylvia barely one.

“I shall leave these for Mrs. Lincroft to see,” I said, “since she set the lesson.”

“We were to discuss the book together and the characters,” Alice explained.

“I liked it,” said Allegra.

“Allegra liked the part about the fire, didn’t you?” said Alice, and Allegra nodded, suddenly sullen.

“What else did you like?” I asked the girl.

She shrugged her shoulders and said: “I did like the fire. It served them all right. He shouldn’t have shut her up should he…and he went blind.”

“Jane was very good,” said Alice. “She ran away when she knew he was married.”

“He was very upset then,” said Sylvia, “but it served him right, didn’t it? He didn’t tell her he was married to someone else.”

“I wonder whether she really knew and pretended not to,” suggested Allegra.

“The author would have told us if she had,” I pointed out.

“But she is the author,” put in Alice. “Jane is writing the book. She says I…I…She might have wanted to pretend.”

“And she might not have told us,” added Sylvia triumphantly.

“Still, she did go away when it all came out that he had a mad wife.” Allegra’s dark eyes were on my face.

“Which,” said Alice, “was the right thing to do, wasn’t it, Mrs. Verlaine?”

Three pairs of eyes were fixed on my face. Questioningly? Accusingly? Warningly?


* * *

A few days later I was having dinner with Mrs. Lincroft and Alice when the bell in Mrs. Lincroft’s sitting room began to ring violently.

She looked startled. “Oh dear, what can be wrong?” she said. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “They should be halfway through dinner. Do go on, Mrs. Verlaine. Omelets should be eaten immediately.”

She left me with Alice, who continued to eat her food I did the same.

“He doesn’t usually send during dinner,” said Alice after a short pause. “I wonder why he has today. Sometimes I wonder what he would do without my mother.”

“I am sure he relies on her.”

“Oh yes,” agreed Alice in her most old-fashioned manner. “He would be quite lost without her.” She looked at me anxiously: “Do you think he appreciates that, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“I’m sure he does.”

“Yes, so do I.” She seemed satisfied and returned to her omelet.

After a while she said: “And Sir William is very good to me too. He takes quite an interest. But although my mother is a good housekeeper, she is still only a housekeeper. Some people remember that. Mrs. Rendall for one.”

“I shouldn’t worry about it.”

“No, you wouldn’t because you’re wise and sensible.” She sighed. “I think my mother is as much of a lady as Mrs. Rendall. No, I think she is more.”

“I’m glad you appreciate her, Alice,” I said.

The door opened and Mrs. Lincroft came in, looking distinctly worried.

“Have either of you seen Edith?”

Alice and I looked at each other blankly.

“She’s late for dinner.” Mrs. Lincroft glanced at the clock. “Twenty minutes late. They’ve held up serving. It’s so unlike her. Where could she be?”

“She’s in her room, I expect,” said Alice. “Shall I go and see, Mamma?”

“Someone has been there, child. She’s not in her room. No one remembers seeing her since luncheon. One of the maids took tea up to her at four o’clock. She always has it at that time…and she wasn’t there.”

Alice had risen. “Shall I go and look for her, Mamma?”

“No, finish your dinner. Oh dear, this is alarming.”

“She’s probably gone for a walk and forgotten the time,” I suggested.

“That must be the case,” agreed Mrs. Lincroft. “But I must say it is unlike her. Sir William is really annoyed. He so dislikes unpunctuality as Edith knows.”

“Your dinner is getting cold, Mamma,” said Alice anxiously.

“I know, but I must see if I can find her.”

“Perhaps she’s taken the trap and gone visiting someone,” I suggested.

“Not alone,” said Alice. “She was frightened of horses.”

We were startled, both Mrs. Lincroft and I. It was the use of that word “was.”

Mrs. Lincroft said hastily: “Yes, she is scared of the horses and always was. I wish I knew where to look for her.”

It seemed rather a fuss, I thought, just because she was late for dinner. But it appeared she never had been before. But why shouldn’t she have gone off visiting a friend and forgotten the time? I suggested.

“She doesn’t go visiting friends. Whom would she visit? I expect she’s gone out for a walk…sat down somewhere and dropped asleep. She’s been acting a little absentminded lately. That’s what it is. She’ll turn up soon and be in such a state because she has offended Sir William.”

But she did not turn up, and it was borne home to us that Edith, like Roma, had disappeared.

7

I shall never forget the rising tension in the house as the hours passed and Edith did not appear. Napier was composed—the most calm of us all. He said that there must have been an accident and the sooner we discovered what the better.

He arranged a search party consisting of himself and five of the menservants and they went off in separate directions in three parties of two. We searched the house—the great cellars, the butteries, pantries, the outhouses which I had had no idea existed before. With Alice and Allegra I went through the attics; dusty cobwebs clung to our clothes and even our faces, while spiders scuttled out of sight alarmed and disturbed by the unexpected intrusion.

Alice held the candle high and her face thus illuminated had an ethereal quality; Allegra’s dark eyes were enormous with excitement.

“Do you think she’s hiding in one of the trunks?” suggested Alice.

“Hiding? From what?”

“From whom?” said Allegra on a note of hysteria.

We opened the trunks. The smell of mothballs; old-fashioned garments: gowns, shoes, hats; but no Edith.

From the top to the bottom of the house, down to the cellars where Sir William’s wine was racked in order of its age and excellence. More cobwebs—an occasional cockroach scuttled across the stone flags, but still no Edith.

We were all gathered in the hall, a strange and silent company; the maids wide-eyed, their caps askew. Nothing like this could have happened since the day when they brought Lady Stacy in from the copse…and a short while before that when beautiful Beau had lain dying by his brother’s hand.

But no one was going to accept this as such a tragedy yet. Edith was lost—nothing more. She had, said Mrs. Lincroft, gone for a walk, had tripped and hurt her ankle. She was lying somewhere. The searchers would find her.

But the search parties came back one by one, and none of them had found Edith.


* * *

All night we waited. The searchers went out again. I heard them calling her name; it sounded uncanny on the night air.

Mrs. Lincroft had made some coffee which she insisted the searchers drink on their return before they went out once more to look. Practical as ever, she was determined to keep up our spirits. Edith would be found, she insisted; and she went on assuring us that this would be so.

“Shouldn’t the girls go to bed?” I asked.

With a nod she directed my gaze in their direction. Alice and Allegra were sitting in a window seat, leaning against each other, fast asleep.

“Better not to disturb them,” she said.

So we left them and talked in whispers of what we could do next.

Sir William sat back in the chair which Mrs. Lincroft had padded with cushions. She said to him: “Do you think, Sir William, that we should inform the police?”

“Not yet. Not yet,” he said fiercely. “They’ll find her. They must.”

And we sat and waited; and when Napier came back without her I could not take my eyes from his face; but I could not read what was written there.


* * *

Edith had gone and no one knew where. It was the great mystery of Lovat Mill. Nothing else was talked of.

It was certain now that she was not in the neighborhood for a thorough search had been made and there was no trace of her. Yet her personal maid had gone through her wardrobe, and nothing seemed to be missing but the clothes she had worn on that day.

As the next day wore on and there was no news of her Sir William agreed that the police must be informed. Police Constable Jack Withers, who lived next door to the small constabulary, came to see us. He asked questions such as when had we last seen her and had she been in the habit of taking lonely walks. When it was revealed that she was an expectant mother Jack looked very wise and said that ladies in such conditions often got odd notions into their heads. That was the answer to the mystery. Mrs. Stacy would turn up, he was sure of it. She had merely got an odd notion into her head.

Sir William was inclined to favor this view, because—I felt sure—he wanted it to be so.

The next day he was less well and Mrs. Lincroft was occupied in looking after him. The doctor came and said that shocks like this were not good for a man in his state of health.

“If only Edith would come back,” fretted Mrs. Lincroft, “he would be better immediately.”


* * *

I walked out looking for Edith. I did not believe she had gone off on an odd fancy. I could only guess that she had gone for a walk and had had an accident.

How like this it must have been when Roma disappeared. And what an uncanny coincidence that two women should have disappeared in the same spot!

I was afraid, afraid of something shadowy and intangible, for fragments of thoughts kept coming and going in my mind.

My footsteps led me to the copse where in the ruined chapel Edith had gone to meet her lover. I stood here—those eerie walls about me; through that gap the light had shown. Had it been Edith’s lover signaling to her? No. They were such a simple, uncomplicated pair. They should never have found themselves in such a position; they should have met in happier circumstances, fallen in love and married. Edith would have made a good clergyman’s wife—gentle, kind; she would have listened sympathetically to the troubles of her husband’s parishioners, but instead of that she had been forced into a tragedy which was too much for her.

“Edith!” I whispered. “Roma. Where are you?”

Fearful thoughts came into my mind. Napier’s face close to mine touched with passion. “There must be a way,” he had said.

And Roma…what of Roma? What had Roma to do with Edith?

Something, I insisted. It must be something. Two people could not disappear…in this very place. Napier could have had no interest in Roma.

There I had admitted it. Did I really believe that Napier knew something about the disappearance of Edith? It was absurd. Edith had had an accident. She was lying somewhere.