The Deepest Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

glanced up idly at the headmistress (clearly I was only a schoolgirl, and thus insignificant) but then just continued on with whatever they were doing, chatting or reading or staring out the windows as they (probably) pondered their great gobs of money.
    We found our seats. I sat back and closed my eyes, hoping Westcliffe would take it as a sign I was far too weary and delicate for conversation.
    No such luck.
    The train gave a hard whistle to signal our start, and everything lurched and gradually settled again.
    “I do not wish for you to feel apprehension at our upcoming appointment with the duke,” Mrs. Westcliffe said over the rising whine of the wheels.
    I opened my eyes. She was gazing not at me but at the wall ahead of us, walnut paneling heavily varnished and a brass plaque that read Mind the Cinders . Beyond our window, the world was slipping by, faster and faster.
    “No, ma’am,” I said.
    “I realize that on the last occasion you saw him, matters were … extraordinary. His rational mind had retreated beneath the unbearable grief of his eldest son’s demise.” Now she did shoot me a look, sharp and pained. “His Grace is a good man, Eleanore. One who, under ordinary circumstances, would never harm a soul.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Do not be afraid of him.”
    “No, ma’am,” I said, looking her square in the eyes. “I’m not afraid.”
    She returned her gaze to the wall. “I also wish for you to know that I have appreciated your discretion in the matter. Prudence and kindness are the hallmarks of a lady, ones we foster at Iverson with great diligence.”
    “Of course,” I agreed, without even a trace of sarcasm.
    England past the window glass was green and blue, smeared up close, crystalline in the distance, all trees and cloudless sky.
    “A good man,” Westcliffe repeated to herself, very softly, as the train rocked along the tracks.
    I couldn’t help but feel for her. She loved the duke, I knew she did. And both of us knew that him loving her back was as impossible as a slum girl turning into a duchess.
    Richardson Home. That was the name of the duke’s madhouse. My own had had an equally oblique title, but names are dismal hiding places, really, and there was no getting around what either building actually was.
    Richardson turned out to be a peachy-stoned, Georgian sort of prison, with a good long lawn opening up behind its iron gates and a few spindly trees peppering the grounds, but no hedges or ditches or anything but flat grass from here to there.
    Again: no place to hide.
    We were escorted inside by a burly, broken-nosed man who was obviously not a butler, although he was dressed as one. I noticed Mrs. Westcliffe delivering him a sidelong glance as he accepted our wraps, but all he did was ask our names and then disappear behind a door—also burly, composed of wide oaken planks and steel studs—leaving us standing alone like almswomen in the foyer.
    “My!” said Mrs. Westcliffe, but not too loudly.
    The foyer was plain stone, unfurnished and chilly; I’d bet those walls were ruddy thick. I hugged my arms over my chest, then rubbed at my cold nose. Westcliffe drew her spine straighter and stared fixedly at the oaken door.
    If she was willing it to open, it worked. The man who came out now was nothing at all like the make-believe butler who’d gone in.
    “Ladies,” the new man greeted us. He was short and pudgy and nervously blinking, rather like a mouse spotting a pair of cats before him at the last second. But he kept coming forward, and with his very next step the stench of rancid grease from his hair pomade nearly flattened me.
    Westcliffe was shaking his hand, introducing us both. I nodded at the right moment, then eased behind the headmistress and tried to breathe shallow breaths.
    This, then, was the duke’s personal physician. This fidgety, fat, smelly man.
    For the first time ever, I think, I felt a thread of sympathy for His Grace.
    The doctor led us through the