Belladonna

LATER THAT EVENING, FULL FROM SUPPER AND HER HEAD POUNDING from the events of the day, Signa was relieved to find Elaine waiting in the sitting room to help her get ready for bed.

“Good evening, Elaine,” she told the young woman, who could perhaps be only a few years her elder.

The maid kept her eyes downcast and her chin low, offering the smallest nod. “Good evening, miss.” She had a cotton chemise laid out for Signa, who extended her hands to have Elaine work off her white kid gloves and help her into her nightwear, as she’d done every evening.

Signa’s tongue burned with a thousand questions, but she needed to tread lightly to get the information she was after. A Lady’s Guide to Beauty and Etiquette did little to instruct her on what sort of interactions with staff were considered acceptable, likely because anyone in the position of reading the book should already know. Her uncle had a handful of servants on staff and spoke to them very little, yet Signa didn’t trust his tactic of pulling his shoulders back and holding his nose in the air, for what good would that do when she wanted Elaine to relax and be open with her?

“Have you been with the Hawthornes long?” Signa asked as she moved to her vanity, offering a friendly smile as Elaine took hold of an ivory brush and set to work combing boar bristles through Signa’s hair.

“Not long, miss.” The tension in Elaine’s shoulders signaled that the maid was as hesitant to say the wrong thing as Signa was. It took Signa clearing her throat and waiting in an uncomfortable silence before Elaine added, “Missus Lillian hired me a little over a year ago, God rest her soul.” She paused her brushing to cross herself.

“As her lady’s maid?” Signa hoped there was enough genuine curiosity in her voice to steady the woman’s nerves. If the pain of prying information from Elaine was any indicator, the servants and the occupants of Thorn Grove didn’t often converse.

“Not hers,” Elaine clarified, “but for the young miss, Blythe. The previous lady’s maid left to retire by the sea.”

“Thorn Grove is a rather dreary place, isn’t it?” Signa mused. “I can understand why the sea would appeal.”

“Aye, miss.” Elaine’s voice fell low and grave. “They say this place is haunted.”

Ah, now they were getting somewhere. “My family’s home was seaside,” Signa told her, not needing to fake the longing in her voice. “It’s called Foxglove. I remember very little of it, for I was a child when I visited. I do look forward to inheriting it, though I must admit that the idea of maintaining a home so large sounds rather daunting. I imagine it’ll take ages to hire a full staff.”

Elaine’s hand hesitated for a single moment before she resumed her brushing, and Signa knew her words had done the trick. For who would choose the dreary Thorn Grove over the seaside Foxglove? If there was a chance for her to earn a place there, Elaine would want it. Which meant that Signa now had someone else on her side, whether Elaine realized it or not.

“You’re quite skilled,” Signa added. “It’s a wonder you have time for both myself and Miss Hawthorne. I’m sure that’s no easy task.”

This time Elaine didn’t hesitate. “Thank you, miss. Though I admit that the young Miss Hawthorne does not require much these days.”

Signa searched the maid’s face in the vanity’s mirror. A tiny, concerned crease knitted between her brows. Her sadness seemed genuine, and Signa realized that in the entire time Elaine attended her, she hadn’t once believed she was speaking with a potential killer.

“No,” Signa said with a sigh, already feeling as though her lead was slipping through her fingers. “I suppose she doesn’t. Just help dressing, and her medicine, I presume?”

Elaine nodded. “It’s easy enough to get her ready. Her tea and meals are made in the kitchen. I merely drop them off. So don’t worry, miss. You’ll never be wanting for my time.”

Though that did little to comfort her, Signa smiled and asked, “I know the rumors of the late Mistress Hawthorne. But tell me, Elaine, are there rumors of any other ghosts at Thorn Grove?” It was a passing thought, but one that grew with severity the longer she held to it. Why wouldn’t there be more spirits at Thorn Grove when the Hawthornes had owned it for generations?

When Elaine made herself small and set the brush down upon the vanity, Signa felt her suspicions confirmed.

“The servants talk about seeing a man in the library,” she said. “They say the books fall from the shelves on their own, but I’ve never been inside to see it myself.”

Signa hadn’t even known Thorn Grove had a library. But if there was another spirit in Thorn Grove—perhaps one who could talk—then it could be worth paying it a visit.

Once Signa was deemed ready for bed, Elaine made her way to the sitting room to retrieve a tray with a piping-hot teapot, a tiny pot of honey, and a biscuit. Just as Signa was reaching for her tea, a dark square slipped beneath her door.

Elaine’s forehead pinched as she bent to pick it up, brandishing a black envelope with a beautiful golden wax seal. “Perhaps it’s from one of your cousins?” Elaine guessed.

Signa took it, smoothing her finger over the delicate parchment. She somehow already knew that was wrong. “Or perhaps it’s from Miss Hargreaves, detailing my lesson plans for tomorrow.” That didn’t feel right, either, but it was enough for Elaine to nod, satisfied.

Though Signa wanted more than anything to tear open the letter, she tucked the envelope into her lap and casually reached for the honey. “Thank you, Elaine.” She kept her tone casual and polite, but full of what she hoped was obvious dismissal.

“Have a good evening, Miss Farrow.” With a final passing glance at the envelope, Elaine bowed her head and saw herself out.

The moment the door shut, Signa tore open the letter. Written upon thick parchment in the most beautiful script she’d ever seen were three lines:

Meet me in the stables at the eleventh hour this evening, and dress warmly.

We ride to Grey’s.

—S