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Pendowar Hall

Portwithys, Cornwall

My dearest Athena and Selena,

Thank you so much for your letters. Please forgive me for being such a poor correspondent of late.

I seem to be running a mile a minute all day long, with no time to myself, and after the sun sets, I am often too tired to pick up a pen.

The doctor says this weariness is normal for a woman in my condition, but it is new to me.

Speaking of which, I felt the baby move for the first time yesterday!

It was like the wiggle of a minnow or a fluttering of tiny wings.

Such a thrilling sensation! To know that a new life is growing inside my womb is absolutely thrilling.

I look forward to motherhood. February seems a very long time to wait.

I have just begun choosing new wallpaper and furnishings for the nursery in anticipation of the babe’s arrival.

My only regret is that William cannot be here for the child’s birth.

His ship does not return to England until next June—which means he will have been away at sea for more than a year.

I promise I will not bore you in every letter with the woes of being a sea captain’s wife.

But, oh, how I miss him! William is the reason for every beat of my heart, and for every breath I take.

I love him, I think, beyond explanation.

If not for his letters, I think I should go mad.

They don’t come nearly as often as I should like.

A month went by without a single word, and then the other day, I received four missives at once.

He is enjoying good health—his injured leg is very nearly back to normal—and he is pleased to be back on board ship and in command of a good crew.

The new steward whom William and I hired to help run the estate, Mr. Matson, has proved to be invaluable.

Last week, one of the tenants had a drainage issue.

Mr. Matson not only took care of it with aplomb, but he took me with him and educated me on the subject so that I might be able to handle such things one day if need be.

Our weather has been delightful. Lovely, warm days, perfect for walking in the gardens and on the beach.

Emma and I spent yesterday afternoon collecting shells for her collection.

Don’t be angry with me, but the other day, we darted for a moment into Smuggler’s Cave.

I have stayed away from that place ever since…

you know. But something compelled me to see it again.

To my surprise, it didn’t frighten me at all.

It was just a cavernous, sandy space with a bubbling stream.

Yes, I know the potential power of that stream—how can I ever forget it?

And I promise to be wary of it in the future.

Emma is doing well. I know she is William’s cousin, and therefore my cousin too, but we have become so close that I often think of her as my ‘other sister.’ At times, she seems much older than her sixteen years, and yet at other times, she can appear to be a girl of ten—a wonderful dichotomy.

Emma is so bright, I sometimes feel as though she is the teacher, instead of me!

It is still hard for me to believe that just a year ago, Emma didn’t know how to read or write.

She has made steady progress in those areas.

I allowed her to select our next book to read together, giving her two choices from among our favorites: Jane Eyre and A Lady’s Ransom .

What do you think she picked? The Pryor Corbett novel!

No surprise, I suppose—who can resist adventure on the high seas?

Before I forget—I have another idea I have been meaning to mention for your school.

I have discovered that Emma learns more quickly and retains what she has learned more fully when I conduct our lessons outdoors.

This is not necessary for all classes, of course, and only works in fine weather, but you might find it a useful tool, particularly when teaching the sciences.

And now I must change to another subject that has been on my mind ever since your letter arrived, Athena.

I am so sorry to hear about the death of your maid, Sally.

It is a tragedy whenever a young person dies, and how awful that it happened in such a way.

You shared your thoughts about the manner and timing of Sally’s death, and I understand why it concerns you—and why you are concerned that the parish constable may have come to the wrong conclusion.

As you know, I was faced by a similar situation when I first arrived at Pendowar Hall.

The parish constable’s callous disregard for his ‘case’ seemed incredible to me.

At first, I had nothing to go on but a few random facts and a hunch.

And yet, even if our dear Mrs. Phillips had not made me promise to investigate, I believe that I wouldn’t have been able to help myself from looking into it.

It is in our nature to question things, isn’t it? We three all seem to see inconsistencies that are invisible to everyone else, as well as a compulsion to explore what lurks beneath.

From what you wrote, Sally’s behavior the night before she drowned, and her choice of shoes and unslept-in bed, all sound out of character to me.

Anyone who thinks otherwise is not paying attention.

I, too, am intrigued by that long-ago murder, which has so negatively affected the reputation of Thorndale Manor.

How interesting that your housekeeper swears the supposed perpetrator, Caroline Vernon, was innocent!

To know that the man was killed at a party, with so many people in attendance—it opens the door to a great many suspects.

And! The fact that Sally left her post at Woodcroft House a much-changed person—it cannot be a coincidence.

As Mama said, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

Athena, you once told me when I was facing a similar dilemma: Do not doubt yourself!

I offer you the same advice. Investigate.

Do it for Sally Osborn and Caroline Vernon, who perished long before their time, and perhaps through no fault of their own.

Do it for yourself. Do it for your school.

Because Thorndale Manor’s fine, old reputation needs to be restored to its former glory.

You may be the only person who can discover the truth and set things right.

But at the same time, please, please be careful. I learned the hard way: once a person has killed, they will not hesitate to do so again. Keep your eyes and ears open. Do not believe everything you are told. Trust no one. And protect yourself.

With all my love, your sister,

Diana

Diana’s words stayed on Athena’s mind all day long and well into the evening.

She was particularly gratified by one thing in Diana’s letter—the recommendation to take classwork outside.

Athena had done exactly that with her recent botany lesson, to great effect, and it had been all her own idea.

Perhaps, when it came to teaching, she was Diana’s equal, after all?

Diana’s other contentions, however, were more unsettling. As Athena got ready for bed, it began to rain, a pattering that turned into a full-blown storm. The wail of the wind and the pounding of the deluge seemed to echo the turmoil inside her brain.

“What are you thinking?” Selena asked as she climbed into bed.

Athena finished braiding her hair and climbed into her own bed by the window, which was being bashed by the relentless rain. “I’m thinking about Caroline Vernon,” she admitted. “And about Sally Osborn. And Diana’s letter.”

“So am I.” Selena sounded discomposed.

Athena sat upright in bed, twiddling her hands. “Do you think Diana’s right?”

“About what?”

“About following my hunch about Sally and Miss Vernon. Am I onto something? Or are my ideas merely nonsense?”

“I don’t know.” Selena heaved a long breath that resounded with uncertainty.

Athena gave an echoing sigh. “If I do investigate further, will I be betraying Mr. Vernon? He implied that prying into the murder of Harold Sinclair would be like opening an old wound. And he said the same thing you did—that ‘digging up the story’ might be damaging to our school.”

“It might,” Selena acceded.

“But how could it be wrong to do so, if the result might clear his sister’s name and restore the reputation of this very house?” Athena pointed out.

“There’s no guarantee that will happen.”

“True. It’s a conundrum.” Athena groaned with frustration and dropped back upon her pillow. They lay in silence in the flickering candlelight for a while.

Selena’s voice broke the stillness. “It is odd when you think about it. That this was her room.”

“Yes.” Athena glanced about the chamber. “It’s strange to think that Caroline Vernon slept here almost her entire life.”

“Do you think this furniture was hers? That maybe even… one of these beds was hers?”

Athena hadn’t considered that before. “I don’t know.” The idea sent an eerie shiver down Athena’s spine. “Ever since our tea at Darkmoor Park, whenever I close my eyes at night, I see Caroline Vernon’s portrait in my mind.”

“Me too. That raven-haired young beauty in shimmering, white satin.” Selena paused, and her voice grew grim. “I read somewhere that the bodies of convicted murderers are not allowed to be buried. They’re given instead to medical science for dissection and study.”

“I have read that, too.” Athena shook her head. “I understand the need for human bodies for medical research. But it means that Caroline Vernon’s body, no doubt, was desecrated. And never laid to rest.”

“It’s so awful .”

“I know.” Athena blew out the candle. Rain battered the windows. “Do you think, after a person dies, that their essence remains?”

“I thought you don’t believe in ghosts?”

“I don’t. Not a ghost as people traditionally think of ghosts—creatures that haunt with malice and wreak havoc. But rather… a spirit that infuses a place where they once lived, and… lingers.”