Jane Eyre fell to the linoleum, creasing the pages, but Liz paid it no mind as she replayed William’s words. She hadn’t been asleep so knew it was no dream when Mrs Ellis had asked about his wife.
Her mind spun as she recalled their previous conversations. He’d spoken about his wife’s favourite part of the garden, mentioned them being together briefly and how hard it had been for him to deal with. She’d assumed he meant her death, but now it sounded like she wasn’t dead at all.
Liz climbed out of the bath and draped a towel around her shoulders, wrapping it tight as though she could hold in her dismay. She pulled out the bath plug and sat on the toilet lid, staring into the whirlpool as the water emptied down the drain. Something tickled her nose and she scratched it, leaving a tear on her fingertip.
She dried herself, only half paying attention to what she was doing, and threw on her clothes. As she walked back to her room, Liz noticed that the muscles in her legs didn’t feel as heavy as they had before. William might not have been honest about his marital status but at least he’d been truthful about the efficiency of Mrs Reynolds’ home remedy.
Once inside, Liz slumped with her back against the bedroom door, trying to keep out the reality beyond. She slid down, collapsing on the floor as her tears returned afresh. Why? Why would William ask her to remain at Pemberley when he had a wife living there?
Liz wondered what reason William would have for hiding her. Perhaps Mrs Bingley suffered from some kind of sickness and he needed to keep her away from visitors, but then why did he act as though his wife didn’t exist? She glanced down at her copy of Jane Eyre, half sticking out of her wash bag. Was Mrs Bingley crazy, like Mr. Rochester’s wife; someone they needed to restrain for her own good?
She should have realised William and Pemberley were too good to be true. Handsome princes always turned back to frogs in the end.
Liz pressed her lips together, dragging a hand down her damp cheeks as she half-crawled, half-stumbled across the room to collapse on her bed. Perhaps William had invited her to stay at Pemberley because Mrs Bingley was bedridden or disabled; his situation leaving him starved of companionship or conversation.
Maybe he did love her?
No. It didn’t matter how many excuses she offered for his behaviour. It couldn’t change anything. Liz punched her pillow, desperate to release the frustrated jumble of emotions that tugged and pinched inside her chest. She’d been naïve and ignorant, quick to adore the first man who had shown her the slightest particle of affection. Liz had given her heart too freely, not realising the pain she would have to endure when he broke it in two and tossed it on the ground.
She would have to find a way to switch off her feelings for William, if it was possible, because she could never consent to an affair with a married man, particularly one who wasn’t honest about his true situation.
Despite her desolation, her mind continued to dwell on the more curious half of the problem, picking at the scant clues like a bird digging for worms. Where were they keeping Mrs Bingley? And why had she never seen or heard anything that suggested another person lived in the house? William had ordered her taken her upstairs, so she must be somewhere on the second floor, but Liz had already seen the main rooms up there and there had been no sign of anyone living in them. Perhaps he’d missed a room and her attention had been too focussed on him to notice the omission. She revisited each moment of their time spent upstairs, recalling the dust, the lack of pictures and the little table they’d rescued.
Her eye drifted to the corner of her room where that same table now stood. The fine dark grain and shimmering inlays called to her. Now clean and polished, the rich chestnut gleamed, making the small item one of the loveliest pieces of furniture Liz had ever seen.
She blotted her eyes with a tissue. There were many handsome things at Pemberley, but she would still leave them all behind in the morning. She would not accept his offer to return, even though it would mean never finishing her project, or completing her book.
Or seeing William again.
Liz glanced across to the dressing table, where her notepad lay open next to her computer. The hours she’d spent in the office had barely scratched the surface of Pemberley’s rich history and she mourned the lack of opportunity to discover more. Perhaps that had been the reason for William’s flattering attention. Had he distracted her when she came too close to discovering something that would uncover his secret life?
Well, if that was the case he was welcome to it. If she’d not already filled her curiosity this revelation would definitely cure her obsession with his house. William had suggested they might talk about their future during dinner, but there could be no future for them. How could she broach a subject he’d never meant her to know about? Maybe she should feign a headache and forego their dinner in favour of an early night and an earlier escape tomorrow morning.
Or perhaps they would have more to discuss if she found Mrs Bingley’s room and discovered his secret for herself.
Liz pulled a jumper over her head and slipped her trainers on before returning to her bedroom door. She turned the handle, opening it an inch to listen for footsteps. Hearing nothing, she moved out into the corridor and crept towards the staircase. The house felt empty. Even keeping to the carpet her footsteps echoed off the plaster. As she reached the banister she glanced down into the cold depths of the entrance hall before climbing up to the second floor, all the while straining her ears for voices or the mindless screeching of a mad woman.
This time, Liz saw the things she’d been too distracted to notice on her first visit. Dusty cobwebs clung to the plain cornice like thick grey strands of embroidery silk and a chill breeze whispered down the corridor from the stairwell beyond. She continued forward in the silence and paused when she reached the bottom of the attic stairs.
The narrow, steep staircase rose up into a dark void. She couldn’t see how high they went. William had said they led to the old servant’s quarters and storage space and yet she’d seen Mrs Ellis coming down and her hands had been empty. Why would the secretary be up there? Putting something away or visiting someone? Could Mrs Ellis be both nursemaid and jailer, as Grace Poole was to Bertha Rochester at Thornfield?
Liz looked around for a light switch but found nothing in the hallway. She stood on the first step, her hand shaking as it slid over the crumbling plaster. Climbing a second stair she reached higher, finding the switch with her fingertip. Liz pressed it and squinted as a bare bulb flared at the top.
She squeezed the smooth rail as she climbed the stairs, holding her breath when a creak reverberated in the silence. At the top, two doors stood on either side of a small square landing. Either might lead to Mrs Bingley. Liz turned the handle on her left but found it locked. The one on the right opened under her hand.
The room beyond was the last thing Liz expected to see. The plain white ceilings were low, but only when compared to the proportions of the rest of the house. To the right a modern sofa sat squarely in front of a wall-mounted flat-screen television. Along the wall, on either side of the TV, glass shelves supported an expensive looking sound system and a large array of CDs and DVDs. Having spent the past week working in a time capsule, it felt as though she’d stepped through a hole into the twenty-first century.
Someone had been using the left half of the room as a study. Three flat screens sat next to each other, angled around the keyboard like an old fashioned dressing table mirror. Liz moved closer. The first showed ever changing stock prices; some of the flickering numbers were in red, while others were green and tiny arrows flashed up and down. The middle one was a normal desktop screen showing a gorgeous photograph of Pemberley at sunrise; its stone façade bathed in a warm glow.
Then she noticed the images on the third screen, which caused her to wonder what sort of man William Bingley really was.
The picture changed every ten seconds or so, offering her different black and white views of Pemberley. Room after room came up on the screen: the salon, the library, the hall, the office, even the stables. A network of security cameras covered the principal rooms and corridors of the house, all feeding to this one location.
What kind of man would spy on visitors to his home? How could he justify such an intrusion? Even a crazy wife hidden in the attics would be better than this.
Ever since their first meeting Liz had felt safe with William. His presence had never given her one moment of concern, but now she’d never been so frightened of anyone in her life. If this was where William spent his time, where was his wife?
Liz dropped into the chair and ran her fingers over the keyboard, wondering whether she should send Nat an email in case she never made it back to London. The camera flicked to the kitchen, where Kelly was checking on a joint in the oven, then Mrs Ellis walking down a hallway, files in hand. She waited to catch sight of William, but room after empty room appeared on the screen with no sign of him.
Her attention drifted to a notice board fixed to the wall behind the screens. One of her articles, published in the previous month’s edition, had been pinned to the cork. Another of hers from the month before hung next to it.
An envelope on the desk by the computer bore William’s name. Normally she would never consider looking at someone else’s correspondence, but after everything she’d seen and heard Liz no longer had any qualms. It wasn’t sealed, so she pulled out the papers inside. A handful of photographs spilled onto the floor, skating across the polished floorboards.
As she crouched to collect them she recognised the subject, and a cold dread settled in her stomach.