but she went on an outing with Mr. Hall after the lesson.”
Lydia set the doll down and began looking through a stack of papers on the table—Jane’s penmanship practice, several drawings, the start of a report about fireflies. She straightened several books and returned them to the bookshelf, bending to retrieve a wrinkled piece of paper that fluttered to the floor.
She started to fold the paper and place it back between the covers of the book, then stopped. Black ink spread across part of the page like a cobweb. Her heart thudded as she smoothed out the paper.
The neat handwriting blurred before her eyes. A wave of dizziness, of disbelief, swamped her.
No. No no no no no no…
“Lydia, what is it?” Her grandmother’s voice rose with increasing alarm. Steeling her shoulders, Mrs. Boyd stalked into the room and grabbed the letter from Lydia’s hand.
Lydia sank to a chair as her grandmother read the letter. The message was already branded into her brain, splashed with terror.
Dear Jane,
Lydia Kellaway was once a student of mine at the University of Leipzig in Germany. I suggest you ask her should you seek further elucidation.
Sincerely,
Dr. Joseph Cole
The paper fell from Mrs. Boyd’s hand. The older woman lifted her head, all color drained from her face.
“What,” she said, the word tight as a knot, “is the meaning of this?”
Nausea swirled through Lydia’s belly again. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Did not know what to do next. “He… he’s back. He’s here. In London.”
For an instant, Lydia thought her grandmother might strike her, but Mrs. Boyd merely pinned her with a glare as dark as the ocean floor.
“How long have you known?”
“I just found out.”
“And what of this?” Mrs. Boyd jabbed her cane viciously at the letter, rending a hole in the paper.
“I don’t know.”
Pulling herself from a stupor of despair, Lydia stood. She began opening the desk drawers and cabinet, pushing aside boxes containing Jane’s treasures. She fumbled through the low bookshelf, riffling pages of books in search of something she didn’t want to find.
Her fingers closed around a crumpled stack of letters, each marked with the same distinctive scrawl. Lydia’s vision lost focus; her head throbbed with a pain shot through with a dozen years of sorrow and regret.
She held up the letters. “Who delivered these to Jane?”
“Delivered?” Mrs. Boyd shook her head. “No one has delivered anything to Jane.”
Lydia’s grip tightened on the papers, crushing the edges into her palms as she read the topmost letter.
Dear Jane,
St. Martin’s Hall is easily accessible. I will arrange to be present at the time you suggested.
I request that you bring the document with you so that I might see it, as you seem to believe it most categorically concerns me.
Sincerely,
Joseph Cole
Lydia lifted her head to look at her grandmother. “Where did she and Mr. Hall go?” she whispered.
“To see the preparations for the educational exhibition.” Mrs. Boyd’s frown deepened like a gash carved into a cliff. “Jane told me earlier that she wished to go, and Mr. Hall kindly agreed to take her. I’ve tea arranged with Mrs. Keene or I would have accompanied them, but—”
Lydia broke from her helplessness like a stone released from a slingshot. She shoved the papers into her pocket, pushing past her grandmother in the doorway.
“Lydia!” Mrs. Boyd’s shout carried down the corridor as Lydia flew downstairs and out the front door.
She ran toward Baker Street and the cabstand, her grandmother’s shrill call drowned out by the fear screaming inside her head.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Twilight blanketed Long Acre, the front entrance of St. Martin’s Hall concealed by a mass of traffic—pedestrians, carriages, carts, and wagons all swarming about like bees in a hive.
“Accident or something, miss,” the cabdriver called. “Can see it from up here, looks like a cart crashed into something. Can’t go much farther.”
With a curse, Lydia pushed open the door. She tossed two shillings up at the driver and darted past the people clustered around to gape at the accident, shoving her way through a group of constables. She pressed forward, inhaling sharply when she saw Sebastian hovering near the entrance to St. Martin’s Hall.
“Sebastian!”
He looked up, worry clearly etched into his features. “Lydia, what—”
“Jane.” Lydia came to a halt before him. “Where is Jane?”
“I don’t know. That’s just it. She was with me all afternoon, then went to look at a display while I helped Castleford at the Chinese exhibit. When I went to find her, she was gone.”