“Sterling can. He’s an artist. Do you remember her well enough, Sterling?”
“Yes, I believe so.” Her husband got up, went around to the desk, and opened a drawer. After pulling out some paper, he sat down and immediately began to sketch.
Swindler thought it might be the first break he’d had in two days. He gave his attention to Frannie. “Did you notice anything that might be helpful while you were visiting with her?”
“I’m afraid not. I only spoke with her in the parlor.” Her face suddenly brightened. “Oh.”
“What?”
“Agnes went to her rooms to alter the gown.”
Five minutes later a very nervous Agnes was standing in front of Swindler and wringing her hands.
“Did you notice anything?” Swindler asked.
“Like wot?”
“Anything unusual.”
The young lady shook her head, then scrunched up her face. “Well there was one thing I thought odd. She changed into the gown in her sitting room. The door to her bedchamber was closed. We didn’t go in there. But then, when I was finished with my sewing, she opened the door and went to look at herself in the mirror.”
“Did you see anyone else in there?”
“No, but…I could see a dress draped over a chair in the corner. The thing is, it looked exactly like the dress on the sofa in the sitting room-the dress she’d taken off to put on the gown. I thought maybe it was her favorite dress, so she wanted two of them.”
“You probably have the right of it. Thank you, Agnes. That’s all I need,” Swindler said. He walked to the window and gazed out on the night.
“What are you thinking?” Frannie asked.
“I don’t know what to think. Do you have dresses made that look the same?”
“Before I was married, when I spent my night at Dodger’s, my dresses were very similar.”
He remembered. Drab and blue.
“Jim, what if Elisabeth didn’t die as Eleanor claimed?” Frannie asked quietly.
He shook his head. “No, the grief over the loss of her sister was not false. I know true grief when I see it.” He’d seen it in his eyes often enough as a lad.
“Here you are,” Greystone said, holding out a sketch.
The likeness was uncanny. Swindler felt as though someone had reached into his chest and torn out the heart that had started to grow there. “Perfect,” he said, and he could have sworn the temperature in the room dropped several degrees.
“What are you going to do, Jim?” Frannie asked.
“I’m going to find her, if it takes me the remainder of my life.”
Chapter 13
Standing near the edge of the cliffs, Emma Watkins watched the whitecapped swells from the sea and the darkening sky herald the approaching storm. With the strengthening wind surrounding her, she breathed in and absorbed the fury of the tempest. She almost wanted to fling herself into the turbulent water just to be surrounded by something other than the dull, somber nothingness that had become her life since she returned from London.
It was as though she and Eleanor had left behind their laughter, their joy, their very essence, as though they were little more than empty shells going about their daily rituals only because failure to do so would bring them a slow agonizing death.
Food contained no flavor, greeting the day no joy. Sleep came in fits and starts. In the two weeks since they arrived at their small home, she’d lost track of the number of nights she heard Eleanor cry out when her sister eventually found sleep.
Fear of discovery didn’t hammer at them. Emma thought it might even be a relief to face up to what they’d done. No, to their everlasting surprise, remorse was making a banquet of them. Where once they’d laughed and shared silly secrets, their shared dark secret weighed them down.
Every morning, Emma began her day by writing a letter to James, explaining why she’d left. A letter she never sent. She fought not to envision the expression on his face when he returned to her lodgings to discover she was no longer there. She tried to convince herself that he deserved that betrayal. From the beginning she’d known his attentions were an attempt to seduce her into confiding in him. A thousand times she wished she had.
Following the ball, during the hours she spent in his arms, she’d decided she could trust him with anything. She’d prayed that Eleanor had not possessed the strength to carry through with her part of the plan. She was going to convince her sister that they needed to tell James everything, that he would help them see justice done.
But when she’d been arrested, she knew it was too late. The deed was done, their course was set.
James would despise her for her role in Rockberry’s demise. How could he not?
So she and Eleanor had packed their trunk. Emma had gone to the street and hired two boys to carry it out. Then she asked Mrs. Potter to make her a meal for the journey, and while Mrs. Potter was in the kitchen preparing it, Eleanor had sneaked out.
Simple. The three sisters had always found it simple to switch roles, to pretend to be each other.
But never had Emma regretted their skill more.
With a sigh snatched by the wind, she turned and began walking back to the cottage. A few sheep, cows, and chickens grazed about. They had long ago sold the horses. The only place they needed to go was to the village, and it was reached with an hour of walking. They’d had a light buggy for traveling when their father and Elisabeth were alive. But now it sat unused-the same as their laughter.
Opening the door into the front room, she felt the loneliness of the house even more. Perhaps tonight she would write a letter to James and thank him for the wonderful time he’d shown her in London-even if his ultimate goal hadn’t been to impress and charm her, he’d given her precious memories she’d never forget. Perhaps this time she would send it.
Remorse and guilt gnawed at her, and she wondered if James had deduced everything. How long would it take him to realize he’d been duped? And when he did-dear God, she didn’t share Eleanor’s conviction that they were both safe.
She walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. “Well, I do believe we have a storm coming up.”
She came to an abrupt halt at the sight of Eleanor pumping water into the sink, then scraping a rough brush over her hands with a vengeance.
“Oh, Eleanor,” Emma said as she hurried over and wrenched the now red-stained brush free of her sister’s hold.
“I can’t get his blood off, Emma. No matter how hard I scrub. My skin feels so slick and dirty.”
“It’s not his blood, sweeting. It’s yours.” Gingerly, she guided Eleanor to a chair at the table. “Sit down while I fetch things.”
After gathering up the cloths and salve, she joined her sister and very carefully took her hand. Then, as gently as possible, she cleaned the raw, oozing flesh.
“It’s not my blood, it’s his,” Eleanor insisted.
“I’m going to clean it off, put salve on your hands, and wrap them up. His blood won’t come back after that.”
“You said the same thing yesterday.”
Emma lifted her eyes to Eleanor’s. “I’ll do it properly this time, but you mustn’t remove the bandages until the wounds heal.”
“They start to itch and burn. They hurt.”
“When that happens, come to me and I’ll take care of them.”
Nodding, Eleanor turned her head to look out the window. “Oh, my God, Emma, he’s here.”
Emma didn’t have to ask who. She heard the despair in Eleanor’s voice. And when she dared to peer out the window, her heart leapt at the sight of James riding astride a large brown horse. How often had she imagined him arriving to sweep her away and into his arms? Just as quickly, her heart crashed into the pit of her stomach. If he swept her away at all, it would be toward gaol.