Beth's Story, 1914 Read online

  As soon as dinner was over, I excused myself from the table. I just had to tell Shannon about Gabrielle and Helena’s strange behavior—even if it meant sneaking downstairs for the second time in one day.

  I hurried down the stairs as quietly as I could, glancing behind me more than once to make sure that I was alone. If I were discovered downstairs again, Mr. Harrison would surely tell my parents, which would make it impossible to solve this mystery before Shannon’s time ran out.

  I knocked on Shannon’s door, holding my breath until she opened it. Her eyes grew wide with surprise. “Lady Beth! Again!” she said as she pulled me into her room. “What are you doing here?”

  “So much happened at dinner tonight!” I said gleefully. “Just wait till you hear!”

  Shannon listened attentively while I told her all about Gabrielle’s and Helena’s behavior.

  “I agree that it does sound very odd,” she finally said. “But please don’t get your hopes up too high, Lady Beth. There is still no proof that they are involved.”

  “There’s no proof yet,” I corrected her. “But tomorrow, I’ll find some. I swear it!”

  Then I noticed that Shannon’s valise, still neatly packed, was waiting by the door. “Shannon,” I began. “What—are you—”

  She seemed to understand what I was trying to say. “Mr. Harrison said he would make a decision about my departure tonight,” Shannon said in a quiet voice. “I expect that he or Mrs. Morris will be along directly to tell me. So I—I thought it best to be ready to leave at once.”

  My heart clenched. “Oh, Shannon, I’m sure he’ll let you stay through the party tomorrow!” I told her. “Oh, he must—”

  “Shh!” Shannon said suddenly.

  I listened carefully, but I didn’t hear anything except the jangle of Mrs. Morris’s keys.

  Mrs. Morris’s keys!

  If she were on her way to Shannon’s room—

  If she discovered me down here—

  Shannon shook her head, warning me not to make a sound. Then she grabbed a candle in one hand and pulled me into the hallway.

  “There’s a passage over here,” Shannon said in a rushed whisper as she led me around the corner. “Walk forward for a hundred yards—”

  “A passage?” I repeated.

  “Hidden, in the wall,” Shannon said softly in my ear. “It’s safe. Dark, though. You’ll want to watch your step. The candle will help. There will be a door—”

  “Has anyone seen Shannon?” Mrs. Morris’s voice carried down the corridor.

  Shannon tapped on a spot in the wall. To my amazement, a door sprung open where no door had been before!

  “Is that—”

  Shannon didn’t wait for me to finish my question. “Go!” she whispered urgently as she placed the candle in my hand and pushed me through the doorway.

  The last thing I heard was Shannon saying, quite clearly, “Yes, Mrs. Morris, I’m on my way.”

  Then she pulled the secret door closed, leaving me alone in the dark.

  I’d never been somewhere so dark in all my life. The faint halo of light from the candle cast creeping shadows around me, but it didn’t help illuminate my path.

  I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. Shannon wouldn’t send me somewhere unsafe, I reminded myself. If I’ve ever trusted Shannon before, I’ve got to trust her now.

  My fingers were trembling as I reached for the wall. The stone was damp and cold. My hand recoiled, but I forced myself to hold on. I needed the wall as my guide to know where I stepped. Anything, really, could be hiding within this darkness. Rats. Spiders. Things that should never see the light of day.

  I shuddered in spite of myself. The sooner I was out of this passage, the better. The passage wound this way and that, but I carefully moved forward, step by step. I tried to be brave—I tried as hard as I could—but being alone in the dark was one of the most terrifying things I had ever experienced.

  If Mrs. Morris sends Shannon away tonight—

  If the candle extinguishes—

  If I lose my way in the blackness—

  And no one knows where I am—

  Would I ever find my way out?

  I strained my ears, listening for any sound that might tell me where I was—the rumble of Father’s and Uncle Claude’s voices as they chatted in the smoking room; the clanging of the flues as the housemaids lit the evening fires; the splashing of suds as the scullery maids scoured pots and pans. But the thick stone walls made the tunnel soundproof; I could hear nothing.

  Suddenly, my fingers slipped into a crevice within the wall. It must have been a place where the mortar between two stones had begun to crumble. The space was narrow, scarcely wider than my fingers. I felt a smattering of gritty dust . . . the sticky threads of a cobweb . . .

  The binding of a book . . .

  A book!

  My heart started pounding as I grasped the book between two fingers and gently eased it out of the crack. Who would hide a book in this secret passageway?

  I held the book close to my candle and peered at its tattered leather cover, which had been warped by dampness. The pages were slightly stuck together but otherwise appeared to be intact.

  Suddenly I was struck by an astonishing thought: Could this be the missing journal of Great-Grandmother Elizabeth? I squinted at the spidery handwriting on the page. But the passageway was too dark; I couldn’t read a single word.

  I was so eager to examine the book in better light that I forgot how scared I’d been just moments before. I started to run through the rest of the passageway. When the path began to slope upward, I slowed my step so that I wouldn’t miss the door that Shannon had mentioned. Then my fingers brushed against what felt like a wooden frame. I paused and held the candle as closely as I dared.

  Yes. There was a tiny door tucked into the wall.

  I pressed my ear to the door and listened closely. Oh, if only Shannon had told me where in the house this passage would take me! What if I opened this door and burst in on Father and Uncle Claude in the smoking room? Or Mother and Aunt Beatrice in the parlor? How on earth would I explain why I was scurrying through the walls of Chatswood Manor like a mouse?

  Several long, slow minutes ticked by. At last, I took a deep breath and eased the door open. Then I stepped, blinking from the brightness . . . into the library!

  I laughed aloud in relief. I should’ve known that Shannon would make sure I found my way to an empty room—and indeed, even with a house full of visitors, the library got precious little use because Chatswood had so many other rooms to gather in. I tucked the book under my arm and escaped to my bedroom, where I found Shannon waiting for me with my nightly tray of drinking chocolate and biscuits.

  “Oh, good, you found your way!” she cried. “I was worried, Lady Beth. I thought perhaps I ought to go in after you.”

  “Shannon! You’re still here!” I exclaimed, just as happy to see her as she was to see me. “I was so afraid that Mrs. Morris would send you away.”

  Shannon shook her head. “No, milady—or perhaps I should say not yet,” she replied. “Mr. Harrison has decided that I may stay on through tomorrow, in order to help you get ready for your birthday party.”

  “That’s splendid news!” I said happily.

  “And”—Shannon leaned closer to me, lowering her voice—“Mrs. Morris said that he changed his mind quite suddenly, during the course of dinner.”

  I gasped. “So Mr. Harrison noticed how strangely Gabrielle and Helena behaved, too! Oh, Shannon, he knows you’re innocent! And so he’s giving me time to clear your name!”

  “Well, I don’t know about all that,” Shannon said. “I’m just glad to help you through tomorrow. Here, milady, let me take the candle from you. And what’s this under your arm?”

  I didn’t want to tell Shannon about the book. Not yet anyway. Not until I knew what it was. So I tossed it on my bedside table and said, “Just a volume of poetry I found in the library after I exited the secret passageway—a
little something to read before bed. I’d like to change into my nightgown now, please.”

  “The blue one is ready, Lady Beth.”

  “Thank you,” I said as I examined it. “Shannon, I see no trace of the stain you mentioned. Where was it?”

  “I’ll not tell,” Shannon said playfully. “I’m ever so glad that it finally succumbed to my efforts. I’ve never met a more stubborn stain.”

  “You’re a fine one for keeping secrets after all,” I told her as Shannon began to unbutton my gown.

  When I was ready for bed, I bade Shannon good night. Alone at last, I sipped my drinking chocolate and started to read.

  Tis so cold tonight that I am writing with gloved hands, longing to huddle under my blankets. But since the girls have taken such pains to teach me to read and write, a little practice before bed is the least I can do. I’ll need to find a good place to hide this journal. I suspect that Nancy takes liberties with my side of the room. Nothing I own is safe from her prying eyes, and what Nancy knows, the rest of the house soon knows, too. And I can’t imagine that the family would look kindly on me keeping a journal, even though I keep it for only myself.

  I squinted at the page in confusion. Could this have been written by Elizabeth? But who was Nancy? Elizabeth would’ve shared her room with Katherine—if she shared a room at all. And I couldn’t imagine that any of the Chatswoods would’ve been upset about Elizabeth keeping a journal. Was it possible this journal belonged to someone other than my great-grandmother? I decided to keep reading.

  A lovely day with the girls was ruined by the events at tea this afternoon. Mildred, the newest housemaid, took more than her fair share of toast, and Emily decided that she would be punished for it. The housemaids have locked her in the basement for the whole night, with orders to launder every piece of linen the family has dirtied! It was an ugly scene, Mildred shaking and crying as they shut the door to the basement and bolted it. When it was time to retire, she was very much on my mind, but I knew that I mustn’t enter the basement or I’d face Emily’s wrath as well. I slipped through one of the under-passages so that I might see for myself how Mildred fared. She did not expect to see me—she doesn’t yet know about all that hides within these walls—and I nearly frightened her half to death, poor girl. It took a great deal of convincing before she believed that I truly was Essie Bridges and not some ghost come to torment her. Of course that nasty Gertie has filled her head with frightful stories about this house and its past. But I reassured Mildred that there’s no such thing as ghosts, and I left her with a few extra candles and a pot of chamomile tea to soothe her nerves as she worked. I’m glad that a housemaid’s life is not my lot, but I can’t stop thinking of poor Mildred. Now, safe in my room, I am full of regret that I didn’t do more for her.

  A wave of disappointment washed over me. So the journal hadn’t belonged to Elizabeth after all. But the more I thought about what I read, the less disappointed I felt. After all, this journal was still an exciting secret I had discovered! Who was this Essie Bridges? She must’ve been a servant at Chatswood—but when? A quick glance through the rest of the journal revealed that it didn’t have any dates written in it. What was Essie’s role, if not housemaid? A lady’s maid? A kitchen maid? A scullery maid? Who were “the girls”—other servants? Or maybe her daughters?

  And what did she mean by “all that hides within these walls”? Were there even more secret passages? Or perhaps something else entirely?

  There was only one way to find out.

  I nibbled one of the biscuits Shannon had brought me and made sure that there was an extra candle at my bedside. Essie’s writing was faint and hard to read, so the night ahead of me would be a long one. But I was determined to stay up as late as possible; I wanted to devour every page of the secret journal.

  When I awoke the next morning, sunlight was streaming through my windows. I had stayed up very late reading, and it took me a moment before I suddenly remembered: my birthday party! It was just hours away! There was surely a whirlwind of activity downstairs, and no doubt Shannon would be along shortly to get me ready for the day, but until then. . . .

  I reached for Essie’s journal.

  What a happy Christmas the girls had! Their mother outdid herself in selecting their presents: lovely boots with bright shining buttons, velvet and satin hair ribbons, and a book of verses with beautiful pictures in it. And there was one special gift for each girl. Sparrow received a new paint set with a wonderful assortment of colors and three fine brushes, while Lark was given a bottle of India ink and a leather book comprised of blank pages. I know the girls will spend many hours quietly absorbed in these pastimes through the cold winter ahead. I was very grateful for my own gifts: a new apron, a brush-and-comb set, and a packet of fine, sharp needles for mending. I’ll surely put those to good use!

  A knock at my door forced me to shove the journal under my pillow.

  “Still abed, milady?” Shannon asked as she entered my room. “Did you stay up too late reading?”

  “Reading?” I repeated, trying not to sound too alarmed. How did Shannon know about Essie’s journal?

  “The volume of poems from the library, milady.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, relieved. “Yes, I suppose I did stay up rather late.”

  “Today will be a busy one, Lady Beth,” Shannon continued. “All the house is in a tizzy preparing for your birthday party. I daresay that you’ll be so worn out from dancing tonight that you’ll be fast asleep before your head touches the pillow!”

  I simply smiled as I slipped out of bed so that Shannon could begin my toilette. It was going to be a busy day for me.

  But not in the way that Shannon expected.

  The housemaids always tidied the upstairs bedrooms after breakfast, so I knew there would be no way for me to read more of Essie’s journal in private. Instead, I decided to go downstairs to see what else I could discover about the mystery of the Trufant locket.

  Through an open door on the side of the house, I spotted James, the chauffeur, who was crouched down polishing the motorcar. And best of all, he was alone.

  “Hello, James,” I said as I approached.

  James was startled by my voice. When he realized who had addressed him, he scrambled to his feet. “Lady Beth!” he exclaimed. “What are you—beg pardon, what can I do for you? Did you, ah, are you going somewhere?”

  “No, not today,” I replied. “I was hoping that I might have a word.”

  “With me?” James asked, looking even more confused.

  “Yes. It’s about Shannon.”

  At that, James nodded knowingly. “What a bad business,” he said sadly. “She ought not to be dismissed, Lady Beth, if you don’t mind my speaking plain.”

  “Not at all, James. I agree with you. I think that Shannon’s been framed,” I confided.

  James leaned against the motorcar as I spoke, staring at me intently. The more I told him, the darker his eyes grew, until he looked as serious and handsome as a hero from a novel. It’s no wonder that I’ve heard Jennie and Nora giggling just because he tipped his cap to them.

  “Well, I’ll be honest with you, Lady Beth,” James finally said. “I’m certain that Shannon is innocent. She’s always been a good one. Not like some of them wretched housemaids—always full of mean-spirited gossip, with nary a kind word.”

  “Is that so?” I asked.

  “You can count on it,” James told me. “They stop right quick when I’m around, but I’ve heard enough to know that most of them plumb hate one another.”

  “Do you think one of the housemaids stole the Trufant locket?” I asked eagerly—perhaps too eagerly. For James immediately lifted his hands and said, “Now, now, that’s not what I meant. Chatswood Manor is not a house that employs people of low character. We haven’t had a theft here since long before my time.”

  “So if it’s not one of our staff,” I said slowly, “then it must be Lady Gabrielle and Helena.”

  “I can’t speak
ill of Lady Gabrielle,” James said firmly. “It’s not my place, and besides I don’t know her a whit. But I can tell you my impression of that Helena—she’s an odd bird.”

  “Go on,” I encouraged him.

  “It was the night the Trufants arrived,” he began. “At first I felt a bit of pity for Helena. We could all see that Lady Gabrielle was running her ragged, and you could tell just from the sight of her that Helena was exhausted. So Helena missed the servants’ meal, and by the time she finally came down for a bite to eat, Mrs. Beaudin was in bed. Now, I don’t know how they do it in France, but Helena marched herself right into the kitchen and started eating the biscuits that Mrs. Beaudin had fixed for your birthday picnic.”

  “Did she really? She ate them?”

  “Aye, she did. I saw it with my own eyes—she stood there at the counter pushing them in her mouth faster than she could breathe. And it was wrong for her to do that! On your first day of service you learn that there’s food for the family and there’s food for the staff, and the two are not the same. But I still felt sorry for her. She must’ve been awfully hungry to do such a thing.”

  I was quiet for a moment. It had never occurred to me that the staff might work so hard that they were forced to skip meals. Or that they had to eat different food than the family. I had always assumed they ate the same delicious food we did.

  “As it turns out, Mr. Harrison was making his nightly rounds before retiring, and he almost caught Helena in the act! But wouldn’t you know, that Helena is a sly one. She simply brushed the crumbs from her apron and said that she had served the biscuits to Lady Gabrielle, and that she always had a plate of biscuits before bed.”

  “But Gabrielle has strawberries before bed. I heard Helena tell Mrs. Morris on the day they arrived. So . . . she lied to Mr. Harrison? Just like that?”

  “That she did. And I made a note to myself—I thought, James, don’t be trusting that one. Anyone who lies that easily—and that quickly—is not to be trusted!”

  A brief surge of anger swelled in me—oh, that Helena! Lying to Mr. Harrison—on her first day at Chatswood Manor! Now there was no doubt in my mind that she was involved in the disappearance of the Trufant locket. But why? And even more important—how would I prove it?