Secrets in the Mist Read online

  A sick feeling of dread took hold of me, and I moved toward my window. The fens spread before me, swallowing the light from the hazy summer moon. I wanted to deny the possibility, to argue that the brooch could just as easily have fallen off after I’d returned to the cottage, but I knew with an unsettling certainty where it was.

  I’d chosen to take the marsh paths because they were the quickest route between Greenlaws and home. I’d reasoned that they would be safe because it was daylight, and I’d even breathed a sigh of relief when I’d emerged unscathed, without any sign of trouble from the Lantern Man. But I’d been wrong.

  I had never thought of myself as superstitious, but under these circumstances it was difficult not to believe some kind of magic or trickery was at work, for I was going to have to venture back into the fens. There was no doubt about it. I couldn’t leave my mother’s brooch lying somewhere among the grass and reeds until dawn. It could sink into the bog at high tide or be carried away by some small creature. There was every chance it already had, but I couldn’t think about that. I refused to.

  Just as I refused to contemplate just what sort of mischief awaited me at the hands of the Lantern Man should he find me in the marsh after dark. Again. I’d had every intention of heeding his warning to stay away, but my mother’s mourning brooch was more important. I’d already lost too much. I wouldn’t lose that, too.

  I crept through the kitchen, grateful for once for the worn soles of my boots that made little sound. Soft snores carried through the door to Mrs. Brittle’s room, letting me know her slumber was uninterrupted. I grabbed the tinderbox and lantern from the shelf by the back door, and winced when the metal handle squeaked. For a breathless moment I thought I had woken Mrs. Brittle and would have to explain myself, but then the whistle of her snore began again.

  I closed the door softly behind me and made my way through the garden and out the gate. A welcome breeze brushed across my skin, almost shockingly cool after the heat of the day still trapped in the house. The moon hung low in the eastern sky, its light veiled by thin, gossamer clouds, but I could see the mist condensing from the moist summer air already beginning to spread its tendrils through the reeds.

  I knelt at the edge of the fen to light the lantern, trying to ignore the voices clamoring inside my head telling me to turn back. It wasn’t easy, with the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I felt vulnerable and exposed, nervous that someone might sneak up behind me while I struggled to light the wick with shaking hands.

  When the fire finally caught, I closed the glass panel with a snap and stood. Holding the lantern high, I swiveled left and right, searching the lawn around me and the edge of the marsh. I couldn’t see any eyes peering out at me through the tall grasses, but that did not mean they weren’t there. I inhaled sharply, gathering my courage, and plunged into the fen.

  I moved as quickly as the task allowed, sweeping the lantern from side to side to search the path and the soggy edges. I wanted to push aside the marsh grass that lined the trail in some places, but I knew that was a waste of time. If the brooch had fallen into such a patch I would never find it.

  I was ever conscious of the time passing and the number of steps I was taking deeper into the fen. I prayed I’d dropped the brooch closer to home than to Greenlaws, but there was no way of knowing. I could be at this for hours. The thought rattled my already shaky nerves.

  At each turn in the path I had to talk myself into moving forward. I feared that someone stood around the bend, lying in wait for me, and the further I journeyed into the marsh, the worse that feeling became.

  When I reached the bend in the path just before it paralleled the River Yare, the spot where I had first seen the lights from the Lantern Men, I stopped dead. My feet seemed unwilling to move forward.

  I shivered, wishing I’d brought my cloak. I pressed a hand to my heart, trying to slow my breathing. It escaped in short staccato puffs, sharp bursts of sound in the stillness around me. Even the ever-present wind that blew off the North Sea through the Broads, rustling the marsh grass, seemed to have ceased.

  That’s when the prickling sensation began—up my back, over my shoulders and neck, and into my tightly bound hair. I stiffened and tightened my grip on the lantern.

  He was here.

  For a moment, neither of us moved, and I became aware of almost a sense of resignation, of relief, stealing over me. What I’d feared had happened, and I realized—if I was honest with myself—that I’d been expecting it.

  I was the one who finally moved, pivoting so that I could face him. The Lantern Man stood just a few feet away amidst the thickening fog. As always, his face was hidden in shadow. Would he ever let me see what he looked like? Perhaps I should be grateful he hadn’t. Perhaps it was only his disguise that kept me safe and allowed him to let me go.

  He stood staring at me, and the silence stretched so long that I began to question whether this was the same man. The thought made my heart leap in alarm. After all, I knew that first night there had been more than one man with a lantern, and from this distance I could see nothing to reassure me he was the fellow I’d already confronted twice.

  However, the longer we stood regarding each other, the more certain I became that it was him. I’m not sure how. I just knew it, deep in my bones.

  “I warned you to stay out of the marshes,” he said, his deep, resonate voice washing over me.

  I swallowed against the stickiness coating my mouth. “Well, I…I would have,” I stammered as he took several steps closer, the folds of his dark cloak swirling around his legs. “If…if it weren’t so important.”

  He stopped just outside the circle of light cast by my lantern, and shifted to the left so that the moon was positioned over his shoulder, casting his features in deepest shadow. I considered raising the lamp so that I could see him better, but I knew he would stop me. Whoever he was, he was strong and tall. That was obvious in the breadth of his shoulders and the sense of restrained energy conveyed in his stance.

  I could feel his eyes travel over the skin of my neckline, across the bodice of my gown and down my arm to the lantern. Though he never physically touched me, the weight of his stare was as tangible as if his fingers had followed that trail. It made my stomach flutter.

  “Looking for something?”

  My head reared back, and I could just barely see his firm lips as they curled upward.

  “Perhaps a brooch?” He pronounced the word strangely, but I understood him.

  “You found it?” I gasped, taking a step closer to him in eager relief.

  He didn’t move to stop me, even though the light of my lantern now revealed the cleft in his stubbly chin.

  His arm lifted and he slowly opened his hand. The garnets of my mother’s mourning brooch sparkled up at me.

  I reached for it, but he pulled his hand back. I looked up at him in alarm.

  “Did you honestly think I would just return it to you?” His voice rippled with amusement.

  “Well, I…” I stumbled over my words, recalling just who I was facing. I wished I could see the expression in his eyes, but they were hidden in the deep shadows of his hood. He’d cautioned me to stay out of the marsh, that if I didn’t there would be consequences. “What do you want?”

  He took another step nearer, allowing the light of the lantern to clearly reveal his mouth, and simultaneously wrapped his fingers around my wrist to prevent me from lifting it higher. I startled at his warm touch.

  “How about a trade?”

  “A trade? For what?”

  I’m not sure what I expected him to say, but it certainly wasn’t the words I heard next.

  “The brooch for a lock of your hair.”

  It took me a moment to grasp the implication of his words, but when I did all the heat that my body seemed to have absorbed just by standing in such close proximity to him drained away, leaving me cold. “My hair?”

  “Yes.”

  The myth of the Lantern Men was not the only bi
t of folklore those of us living among the fens were told as children. Mrs. Brittle had warned me of the dangers of a lock of hair—a bit of nonsense I had dismissed. Until now.

  Legend said that if you freely gave someone just a few strands of your hair, it gave them power over you. Because I’d never truly believed it, I’d never bothered to ask Mrs. Brittle just how far-reaching that power was; but from the manner in which she’d spoken of it, I’d deduced it wasn’t a small matter. However, I had read Sense and Sensibility. It was, in fact, my favorite book. I couldn’t help but think of Marianne. Of the lock of hair she’d given Willoughby. And how the power of her love for him, and her despair at his marrying another, had led to the foolish actions that almost caused her death.

  Was this how it began, then? Was this the reason the Lantern Man had not already harmed me? Had he been biding his time, waiting for a moment just like this? A moment wherein he could enthrall me?

  My common sense reasserted itself, telling me it was ridiculous—that possession of a lock of hair granted no magical qualities—but I was shaken. After all, Lantern Men weren’t supposed to be real either, and yet here stood a man masquerading quite convincingly as one, his rough hand gripping the tender skin of my wrist. I had to fight to keep my imaginings from overcoming my reason.

  “But why?” I finally managed to ask.

  I could not truly see his eyes, but I swore a glint entered them. “I think you know why.”

  My chest tightened. “Surely there’s something else—”

  “No.” His voice was firm, brooking no argument.

  My mouth drifted closed as I considered the choice before me. I’d already come so far and risked so much to find my mother’s brooch. Could I really return home without it? The idea of doing so left a hollow feeling in my chest. I knew it was just a piece of jewelry, a lump of gems and metal and hair, but it was also my last link with my mother, especially now that I’d come to the conclusion that the pianoforte must be sold. It was a part of me I wasn’t prepared to lose, I realized, even if there was a chance that agreeing to the Lantern Man’s terms could place me in even more peril.

  I nodded slowly and reached up to unpin a tendril of my hair.

  He stopped me. “Allow me.”

  Too overcome to protest, I began to turn around, but he halted me again, pressing the brooch into my hand. My fingers tightened around the gold and stone warmed by his palm, welcoming the bite of the metal into my flesh. He shifted to stand behind me and I heard the snick of what must have been a knife opening.

  Belatedly, I realized that perhaps I should have been more alarmed by the idea of this man hovering over me with a knife, but I was so dazed by what was happening that I could only stand there stiffly. I felt a tug at my scalp as he pulled a strand of my hair loose from its pin. The back of my neck prickled as I imagined him folding the hair around his blade and slicing upward. The long tendril of my hair landed between my shoulder blades, and I realized he must have only taken a small snippet from the end.

  I glanced over my shoulder to find him tucking the lock of my hair inside his cloak. While he was distracted, I twisted, hoping to glimpse all of his face, but he pivoted with me. His hands fell heavy on my shoulders, holding me immobile.

  I sucked in a rasping breath, worried I’d angered him. The marshes were silent—the hush of the already still night augmented by the dampening effect of the fog that had continued to gather around us. I had the disturbing thought that if I screamed the sound would be swallowed up by the dense air almost before it left my mouth.

  I felt the brush of the fabric of the Lantern Man’s cloak hood against the back of my head, and then the heat of his breath feathered over my cheek. My heart fluttered in my chest as I braced for his words.

  “Now, you will listen to me.”

  Before I could react, the pressure on my shoulders suddenly vanished and a chill replaced the warm gust of his breath against my skin. By the time I had the presence of mind to turn around he was gone. Only a swirl of mist marked his passing.

  I opened my hand and stared down at the dull gleam of mother’s brooch, wondering if this encounter had all been an illusion. Perhaps the mist had momentarily mesmerized me, bringing my own fears to life.

  But then I felt a tickle against the back of my neck. I reached back to touch the single strand of hair trailing down my back. The tip was blunt, the ends crudely cropped.

  Chapter 8

  I

  woke later than usual the next morning. Through my open window I could see that the sun had already risen high in the sky, burning away the lingering fog that swathed the fens. I dressed slowly, twisting my hair up into a tight knot, and affixed my mother’s mourning brooch firmly to my bodice. But rather than hastening downstairs, I sat staring at myself in the reflection of my mirror.

  I could not pretend I wasn’t shaken by what had transpired in the marsh the night before, just as I could no longer pretend that everything in our household would resolve itself without my interference. Father was drinking more than ever, barely able to function without it as far as I could tell. Eventually he was going to cause us to lose this cottage or drink himself into an oblivion so deep he never woke. I was one more crippling fine, one more harsh winter, or perhaps just one more bottle of brandy away from destitution.

  I knew that Robert and Kate would not let me starve, but I could not stay with them indefinitely. Not unless I married Robert. The idea held less appeal than I expected, given that I’d been heartsick over him what seemed like such a short time ago. If nothing else, I certainly didn’t want his hand to be forced. I didn’t want to spend my entire life wondering if he’d wed me only out of pity and obligation.

  I was beginning to accept that I needed to leave the marshes, at least for a time. There was nothing left for me here but remembered heartache and painful memories. Perhaps if I put a little distance between myself and the fens, I could gain some perspective.

  I pressed a hand to my quavering stomach.

  And escape the Lantern Man, whoever he was, and this strange hold he seemed to have on me. Whatever forces were at work—supernatural or, more likely, not—I couldn’t continue to deny the danger he posed. A bit of distance could only be good. Unless he followed…

  I shook my head, unwilling to think of it.

  So, it was decided. Sooner or later, depending on Father, I would leave. Which meant I needed other options.

  I ran my fingers over the garnets in my mother’s brooch, watching them flash in the reflection of the mirror.

  We hadn’t always been poor. Once upon a time, my mother had been Lady Eve, beloved eldest daughter of the Earl of Pembroke. But her family had not approved of my father, an unfashionable second son of the third son of a viscount, a man with very few prospects. Why my mother’s family allowed the marriage and gave them her not-insignificant dowry—with which they’d bought this cottage—I didn’t know, but they had cut off all contact with her after.

  Consequently, I knew almost nothing about my mother’s side of the family, and that which I had gleaned from comments I’d overheard my parents make was not very complimentary. Despite my and Father’s strained circumstances, I had never tried to contact them, but perhaps it was time. Maybe if I wrote to the earl he would feel at least some filial responsibility to his granddaughter and find me a place in someone’s household. I could work as a governess or a companion if I had to.

  In any case, there was no risk in writing, except my hurt feelings and wounded pride—sentiments that were less important when faced with the prospect of homelessness and starvation. I would ask Mr. Fulton, my father’s solicitor, to look into the matter while he was making inquiries about selling the pianoforte. Surely he could locate the earl for me, and perhaps advise me on the best way to approach him.

  I pulled out a sheet of foolscap and dashed off the message before folding it into a tight square. Then I grabbed my poke bonnet from the top of my dresser and padded down the stairs. I hesitated at the door
to my father’s study, knowing he was likely inside asleep in his chair. But the letter had to be sent today, so I rapped before entering.

  Father’s head rested on the back of his chair, his neck exposed and his mouth gaping open like a fish. Soft snores rattled up from his throat. His frockcoat and cravat were discarded, tossed over the arm of an old horsehair settee. An empty bottle of brandy set at his feet.

  I felt an uncomfortable stab of fury. He should be the one sending this note, not me. But it was clear that if things were left to him I would find myself standing on the side of the road, all of my remaining possessions packed into a valise as I watched him be carted off to debtors’ prison, or worse.

  I pulled open the top right drawer of his desk and took out the sealing wax. Rather than light a candle, I kneeled over the hearth, stirring up the embers enough so that I could heat the red wax. Once a sufficient amount had dripped over the letter, I approached my father. Lifting his limp hand, I pressed the signet ring still attached to his pinky finger to the wax.

  He snorted and blinked open his bloodshot eyes as I released his hand. I returned the sealing wax to the drawer and tucked the missive into my pocket before he could see it.

  “Ella?” my father slurred, swiping a hand across his mouth. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” I replied. “Just looking for my book.” I lifted a random leather volume from the corner of the desk.

  He stared at me, as if trying to comprehend what I said.

  I pressed the book between my hands, irritated and anxious to make my escape, but the sight of him bleary-eyed and disoriented with his hair standing on end twisted something inside me. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable upstairs?” I asked more gently than I felt.

  “Probably,” he replied. He pushed himself upright and leaned forward with his elbows braced on his knees.

  Again I wanted to leave, but my feet remained rooted to the spot. This was my father, after all. Regardless of what he’d done, that hadn’t changed. It never would. I sighed, as frustrated with myself and my tender emotions as I was with him.