“I’ve never heard such an extraordinary, disturbing tale in my life!” Ellen exclaimed when she’d finished reading.
“Nor have I.” Indeed, I felt shaken and ill, as though I had absorbed the malignancy in Isabel’s words as I transcribed them. What miserable degradation had she undergone; with what obscene depravity had she behaved! I was disgusted by Isabel, even as I pitied her. Setting aside my pen and notebook, I said, “How glad I am that I didn’t tell Mrs. White about the hidden passages in the book.”
“Who can be this man that forced Isabel to do those things?” Ellen asked.
I now confronted my suspicion that had turned to mortal certainty as Isabel’s tale unfolded: Her unnamed master could be none other than the man I knew as Gilbert White. How well the description fit him! He must have discovered that Isabel had escaped his domination; he must have feared she would ruin his plans by refusing to obey him. He must also have guessed that Isabel had written their history, and he wished to destroy it to prevent exposure of his misdeeds. Had he not impersonated her brother to procure assistance from me, the last person to speak with her? Had he not also searched her mother’s house? This seemed ample, damning proof that Gilbert White had killed his slave and pursued me solely to obtain her last testament.
I had other evidence which was less tangible yet more compelling: I had personally experienced the force of Mr. White’s allure. Hence, I understood how he could have gained such power over Isabel that she would do his bidding, however evil. That I had let this man into my life, and desired him as Isabel had! What awful sins might he have seduced me into committing?
“My dear, what’s wrong?” Ellen asked anxiously. “Your face has gone so pale!”
I was overcome by disgust at my own gullibility and my terror of Mr. White. I grew lightheaded and collapsed on the bed, my heart palpitating; yet I could not tell Ellen why. I had said nothing to her of Gilbert White, for fear that she would tease me as she did whenever a potential suitor entered my life, and I did not want her to know how I’d been duped. Nor did I think it wise to share with her my suspicions about this dangerous man.
“Isabel’s story gave me a bad spell,” I said. “Whatever shall I do with the book?”
“Give it to the police,” Ellen suggested. “If the mysterious master killed Isabel-and if he really is going to bring disaster upon the kingdom-then the police need to know.”
“But the London police think Isabel was the victim of a random attack,” I said. “I doubt that a fantastic account scribbled in an old book could convince anyone to believe otherwise. Besides, nowhere does Isabel name her master.”
All I could add was his assumed name and his description. I knew not where Mr. White was to be found. Of one thing was I certain: He would eventually find me.
“Then what will you do?” Ellen asked.
I knew I must do something, for the book had shown my situation to be much more serious than I had fathomed. That Isabel’s master had subjugated the prime minister signified that her murder and my own troubles were but superficial manifestations of a far-reaching conspiracy, and that the impending disaster must be of vast proportions.
“I must identify and locate Isabel’s master,” I said.
Ellen stared in astonishment. “You? Why, the very idea!” She giggled merrily. “Oh, this must be one of your jokes, for how could you attempt such a hazardous task on your own?”
I could not explain that my only protection against harm was to deliver Gilbert White to the authorities before he found me. Nor could I admit that I wished for revenge upon the man who’d tricked me. I felt a new strength, fueled by anger, and a great determination to bring about his downfall.
“I am not joking. Someone must prevent the disaster,” I said, “and who else is there but I?”
Exasperation colored Ellen’s features. “This is another of your ambitious schemes, then. You should nip it in the bud, or you’re sure to be disappointed.” Her admonition eroded my determination, for who was I to pit myself against a murderer who apparently had the prime minister under his power? “Remember how you wanted to be an author, and it never happened.”
After insisting that she believe this, I could hardly contradict her now. Still, she had reminded me that I had the talent to write a famous novel and thus achieve what no one had expected of me. I sat up as renewed self-confidence flowed through me like an invigorating tonic.
“I must at least try to find Isabel’s master,” I said, “for I am certain that everyone connected with Isabel is in danger from him, and I the most of all because I was her last companion. And I have her journal, which I believe he seeks because he thinks it reveals his secrets.”
“But how can you hope to succeed, when the journal gives no particulars about this mysterious individual?” Ellen asked.
After some thought, I said, “I shall work with the facts about Isabel that we’ve gleaned today. The Charity School she attended is a place to start.”
“It’s been many years since Isabel left the school,” Ellen said. “How can it have any bearing on her recent life?”
“Perhaps she kept in communication with the Reverend and Mrs. Grimshaw,” I said. “Perhaps she told them things that she didn’t tell her mother. Perhaps the school is part of the master’s evil business. Instead of returning home tomorrow, I will travel to Skipton.”
“Such a bold, drastic move!” With a gasp of horror, Ellen flung out her arms as if to restrain me. “My dear, you mustn’t! If the school is indeed associated with Isabel’s master, you could be walking straight into the lion’s den!”
“If it is, then it’s the last place he would expect me to go,” I pointed out. “I shall be safer in Skipton than at home.”
“But what would you do at the school?” Ellen demanded. “You can’t just walk in and start asking questions.”
Indeed, I knew not how to go about obtaining facts from someone who might wish to hide them. Ellen and I argued: She chastised my impulsiveness and unladylike bravado, while I stubbornly upheld my opinions. At last Ellen sighed in weary frustration.