The Mute of Pendywick Place and the Torn Page: The Pendywick Place, #1

By Alydia Rackham

The fate of Europe hangs in the balance—and may be determined by a single young woman in possession of a ripped piece of paper…
London, November 3rd, 1881. A young woman slips through the curtains of fog down Pendy Corner, to the 26th house in the row. She vacillates at the gate. For past that sullen door, she must seek the help of the distinctively eccentric and impatient young language expert named Basil Collingwood. The fate of Europe, and indeed, the free peoples of the world may depend upon getting him to understand her. The only trouble? She cannot speak a word.

 

Brace yourself for a heart-pounding, romantic romp through Victorian London, rivaling the best of Doyle and Dickens--for this is only the beginning of a series that will sweep you from the glittering pomp of Hampton Court, to the smoky slums of Shoreditch, up the stairs to 221B Baker Street, and to the murky waters of the River Thames, alongside brilliant, peculiar and outcast characters who find themselves at home within the walls of a sulking old brownstone wedged into a winding London lane: a house known by both Sherlock Holmes and the Queen of England simply as Pendywick Place. Explore Pendywick Place today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alydia Rackham
• Release date: Mar 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224144006

Alydia Rackham

Alydia Rackham is a daughter of Jesus Christ. She has written more than thirty original novels of many genres, including fantasy, time-travel, steampunk, modern romance, historical fiction, science fiction, and allegory. She is also a singer, actress, avid traveler, artist, and animal lover. 

Book preview

"The biggest problem in communication

is the illusion that it has taken place."

-George Bernard Shaw

Chapter One

London

November 3rd

1881

FOG.

Lurking in low, thick clouds around the faces of the buildings that lined Brompton Road. Loitering in doorways, veiling windows. Chilling the feet of the men who walked the paving with crisp steps and bowed heads. Swirling around the black skirts of the ladies who reluctantly shut ringing shop doors behind them as they ventured out into the gloom. Parting like a ghostly river before the clatter of the hansom horse; hanging in a wake behind the driver’s battered top hat and cloaked shoulders. Stifling the throbbing orange street lamps beneath shrouds of cobweb.

She perched on the curb of the walkway, glancing up and down the broad street. As she paused, a disembodied bell in some nearby tower voiced five haunting, identical notes. She drew herself up, gripped her small, light bag tighter in her gloved hand. She held her breath, waiting for any clamor of a cab heading toward her through the wall of mist.

Nothing but a distant trundle of an omnibus. So she braced herself again, stepped off the curb, and onto the cobbles.

Her shoes clapped against the damp, slick stones as she lifted her skirt and picked up her pace. She fixed her gaze on the place where the far walkway should be, listening intently...

She hopped up onto the opposing curb, spun and faced the street.

She could not see the spot from whence she had just come. Biting the inside of her cheek, she turned to the left, and headed up the walk.

Each time she crossed a narrow street that turned left to abandon the main road, she counted it. She did not meet the eyes of any of the finely-dressed ladies or bowler-hatted gentlemen she passed, but set her mouth and walked quicker. Her skirts rustled with her swift movement, and she ignored the cold in her feet as she splashed through puddles.

Finally, She trotted out into the center of a little lane that wove off into the forest of buildings. She stared down the narrow passage, reflexively searched for a street sign...

Stopped herself, and attended to the lane again.

Darkness was falling, and shadows thickening. Ahead of her, a few street lamps burned like candles in a cavern, dripping measly pools of light down around their bases.

She started forward. Her footsteps rang louder here. She cast up and around her at what she could see of the clean facades of the houses—the neatly-painted doors, the trimmed windows...

Again, She counted. Knockers, this time. Squeezing the handle of her luggage.

...seven, eight, nine, ten...

Lamps glowed in several of the windows, like smudges against the frosty glass. Far ahead, she glimpsed a few other murky pedestrians, but none ventured down this way.

...twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three...

Her chest tensed, her pulse picking up as she quickened her pace...

She slowed, and stopped, letting out her tight breath in a cloud.

The twenty-sixth house, on her left.

The bricks distinguished it right away—deep red, almost brown—in sharp contrast to the pale houses on either side. This darker house seemed to resent even having to touch shoulders with the others—it was so severely narrow, and stretched up a full story taller than its neighbors. Ivy masked half its face. The fog prowled around the front steps of this house like an old, protective dog.

It bore one front window—tall, stately, and shuttered. To the left of it, the black door sullenly waited beneath a slight overhang. Three steps led up to this door, and before that, a walkway, flanked on either side by a tiny overgrown rectangular garden, reined in only by a black iron-wrought fence.

The windows of the second story, and likewise the third, had also been shuttered, and no light seeped out. Beyond, stretching up to the clouds, a square tower loomed. Upon first glance, the home seemed abandoned...

But with her next breath, She tasted the scent of cooking stew wafting from its chimney. And so she set her jaw, opened the front gate, and strode up the walkway. She felt the heat drain out of her face—climbed the stairs, reached up, grasped the brass knocker with her left hand and worked it sharply.

One. Two. Three.  

Her fingers hung there for a moment, and then she dropped her arm. She listened, gaze anxiously flitting across the door, toward the front window...

Noises inside.

She swallowed, straightened up, and gripped her bag even harder.

The latch clacked. Hinges creaked. The door swung inward.

A tall, middle-aged man in a black butler’s suit stood just past the threshold. He had a thin mustache, oiled dark hair parted in the middle, and cold blue eyes. He lifted his chin, arched an eyebrow, and cast a glance up and down her whole form.

She swallowed again.

Good day, madam, he said—smooth, tenor and hard. How may I help you?

She took a breath. Her lips parted.

She closed her mouth. Her eyebrows drew together.

He frowned at her.

Madam? How may I help you?

She opened her mouth again. Shut it. Pain darted around in the back of her throat.

The butler’s mouth tightened.

I’m sorry, we are not interested in any solicitations, he told her, and began to shut the door.

Her heart banged against her breastbone. She lunged forward and shoved her toe against the bottom of the door. The door thudded against it.

Madam! the butler cried.

Mr. Cutworth, what is going on? came a woman’s voice from beyond him.

Nothing at all, Mrs. Butterfield, the butler replied curtly, twisting to see the woman inside, then turning back to give Her a glare. I was just sending a button seller on her way.

Her mouth opened again as her face heated. She clamped her jaw tight.

The next moment, a portly, gray-haired housekeeper with a frilled cap and flour-covered apron pulled the door aside and stepped up next to Mr. Cutworth. She had a stern mouth and flushed face, but bright brown eyes that captured Hers straightaway. Mrs. Butterfield gave Her a quick glance up and down—one that felt entirely different from Mr. Cutworth’s—and pulled the door open to its entirety.

She is clearly not a button seller, Mr. Cutworth, Mrs. Butterfield admonished sharply. Has she told you her name?

Not a word, Mr. Cutworth replied. She seems entirely befuddled—must be a vagabond.

Has it occurred to you that she might have some defect, some impediment that prevents her from answering you? Mrs. Butterfield inquired, putting a fist on her hip. Perhaps she is deaf! Or perhaps she does not even speak English!

Mr. Cutworth’s face colored.

We have all manner and sort stopping by this door, Mr. Cutworth, Mrs. Butterfield continued. But in all my years, I have never happened upon a deaf, vagabond button-seller.

The whole of Mr. Cutworth’s face turned completely red now. He straightened his waistcoat, and turned from the door.

I will leave her in your capable hands, then, he decided, and swiftly departed into the house. Mrs. Butterfield heaved a