Page 15 of All of Us Murderers
“In the sense of the poets. Awful and magnificent and sublime. Like the fall of Satan in Paradise Lost. That’s what it makes me feel: pity and terror.”
“Oh,” Zeb said. “Gosh.”
“And the cruelty of the monks, the evil of it. No wonder the ghost walks. No wonder it comes to punish wrongdoers and leaves its writing on the wall.”
Zeb had forgotten that. “The ghost does that, doesn’t it? In the book, I mean. It writes on the walls in blood.”
“Yes, the ghost does that,” Jessamine said. “Did you see what Hawley saw?”
“There wasn’t anything there.”
“Of course not. I knew there would not be.”
“Sorry?”
“Don’t you remember? The words can only be seen by the guilty one. A message just for him, or me, or you.”
“That’s in the book. In this case, there just wasn’t anything there.”
She frowned a little. “You think the ghost is a story, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Zeb said. “I don’t believe in ghosts. Or disappearing writing, or disembodied footsteps, or any of it.”
“But I have seen it. How can you dismiss the evidence of my eyes, and Cousin Wynn’s, and Mr. Grey’s, and so many others’?”
“I’m not saying you didn’t see something. I’m saying, I don’t believe what you saw was the spirit of a dead monk.”
She pushed her chair back and stood. “I think you are calling me a fool, and if not, you are calling me a liar. Which is it?”
Zeb blinked. “Neither. I just don’t believe in ghosts. If you do, that’s your affair, but I don’t think there’s anything to be gained by discussing it.”
Jessamine was staring at him with big, hurt, rejected eyes. “I thought you understood. Or, at least, that you would understand if you listened. I did think you would listen. Oh, I cannot bear it!” She left the room hastily; Zeb would almost say ‘fled’. He thought he heard a sob.
“That went well,” he remarked to himself.
He spent the rest of the afternoon in the library. The weather turned to gusts of rain that splattered against the windows and drove his fellow guests to look for comfortable places to sit. That, regrettably, meant Bram turned up.
He came in with a heavy tread and irritable movements, looked over, and snorted. “What are you doing?”
“Just my accounts. Robbing Peter to pay Paul, as usual.” Zeb pulled his papers together as he spoke.
“As I would expect. Feckless and irresponsible.”
Zeb had had all the unpleasant conversations he needed for the day. He tried to focus on getting everything into his satchel as Bram mooched around the shelves with the sort of dissatisfied air that demanded to be asked what was wrong.
“What the blazes is up with you?” Zeb snapped.
“Have you taken my cigars? I had them in the smoking room.”
“Of course I have not. Why would I take your cigars?”
“You endlessly interfere with other people’s things. I dare say you have half a dozen of Wynn’s matchboxes on you now.”
That was a gross libel: he’d only pocketed one. “I detest cigars,” he pointed out. “And I haven’t even been in the smoking room. It reeks of those rancid perfumed things of Wynn’s.”
“Well, my cigar case is gone. And I am quite sure I put a box in my luggage, but it is missing too.”
“You probably meant to pack the box and forgot. I do that kind of thing all the time.”
“You may. Some of us are rather more competent,” Bram said.
“I’m not the one looking for his cigars,” Zeb retorted, and stalked to the door.
As he reached it, Bram said, “Wait. This marriage business. What are your intentions?”
“Exactly what I told you. I’m not going to marry Jessamine.”
“And do you stand by what you said? That this idea of Wynn’s is misconceived?”
“I think it’s terrible, but it’s none of my business.”
“I agree,” Bram said. “Naturally Wynn is concerned for her future. But she is a pretty girl, if a foolish one. Elise believes she could very well find a more suitable situation—one more appropriate for her character and parentage—given the opportunity.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Consider her background. Breeding will out. Let her but have a little time in London and the problem will take care of itself.”
“Still don’t understand.”
Bram made an irritable noise. “With a reasonable sum settled on her, she will doubtless make an appropriate marriage. Alternatively, and to speak plainly, I can well imagine her as a mistress, but not that of Lackaday House. Elise has proposed taking her to London and making introductions, and I imagine her future will resolve itself very quickly. We are putting that proposition—I mean a visit before any marriage is decided—to Wynn. I hope we can count on your support.”
Zeb took that in. He could imagine Elise dangling charming young men at Jessamine until she fell in love with one, all the while quietly telling those men that she came from a long line of easily seduced young fools. A housemaid’s granddaughter, my dear, a bastard’s bastard. Ripe for plucking.
At best, Jessamine would end up discontented with her lot; at worst, used, disgraced, and discarded. Or maybe she would meet a good man and Wynn would give her a sensible sum and she’d live happily ever after, but Zeb wouldn’t want to bet on it.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “I’m all in favour of Wynn reconsidering this marriage plan, and if you come up with a way to change his mind that is fair to Jessamine, I’ll support you. If your idea, or Elise’s, is to engineer her ruin, you can go to hell.”
“Don’t be a sentimental fool. The girl is a cuckoo in the nest. She needs to be pushed out.”
“Well, you’d know about that,” Zeb said. “Wouldn’t you?”
They stared at one another. Bram’s jaw clenched in a very familiar way, one that heralded justifications. Zeb didn’t have the strength. He shook his head and walked out.