The Mute of Pendywick Place and the Scarlet Gown: The Pendywick Place, #2

By Alydia Rackham

Victoria's hopes to rekindle Christmas at Pendywick Place while working to retrieve her unbreakable code may collide with Basil Collingwood's tragic past, and her old guardian's ruthless plot…

Victoria soon learns that Christmas is forbidden at Pendywick Place. A tragic shadow from Basil Collingwood's past seems to loom over the season. Nevertheless, Basil plans to take Victoria to the Hampton Court Christmas Ball, to confront his former mentor—and her attempted-murderer—Professor Winchester. If they can steal back Victoria's unbreakable code from him, they may save England itself. But what if they cannot?

"The Scarlet Gown" is the second installment in Alydia Rackham's captivating Victorian mystery series. If you like a Dickensian atmosphere, Sherlockian thrills, and Austenian intrigue, you will love this adventure.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alydia Rackham
• Release date: Apr 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224753253

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. 

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Author’s Note

As true Anglophiles will doubtlessly notice, this tale takes place in the 1880’s, and Charles Dickens published most of his work much earlier in the century, A Christmas Carol being published in December of 1843. But, as Mr. Dickens desired the virtues of charity, forbearance, mercy and goodwill to be fluid throughout the ages, his characters to be easily identifiable by all manner of folk, and the lessons taught in his work to move through the years without impediment, I see little reason why these same people of his creation should not step into my humble little tales once in a while, and bestow a bit of their richness and ancient touch, in order to haunt the story pleasantly, and revisit the London which was so dear to them.

Sherlock Holmes, however, was about 27 years old in 1881, and at the very beginning of his career. Which suits perfectly.

Cheers,

Alydia

A fellow Anglophile

"But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time,

when it has come round—apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that—as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"

-Fred, A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens

Chapter One

No. 26, Pendy Corner

London

December 9th

1881

VICTORIA OPENED HER eyes. A chill washed over her whole body. She let out a tight breath...

It clouded in vapor around her head. She shivered.

God bless you, poor dears...Oh, such fever...I’m so sorry, sweet girls...

Victoria reached up and pressed her hand to her forehead, the darkness of her tower bedroom swimming with memories of a narrow, grey, frozen room...fits of weary coughing... Miss McAvoy wandering like a pale ghost between the rows of metal beds, lit only by the flicker of the candle she held in her left hand...

Victoria turned over, trying to brush all of that away like a cobweb clinging to attic stairs...

The fire in her hearth had gone out.

She swallowed. Her mouth felt dry. She shivered again.

Stiffly, she sat up, climbed to her feet, and snatched her thick dressing gown from off the chair. Wrapping it tightly around herself and pushing her long black braid back over her shoulder, she felt her way to the door, hoping that the range fire in the kitchen still burned. Perhaps she could sit close enough to it to keep warm until Mrs. Butterfield came down...

She sneaked as quietly as she could down the iron spiral staircase, lighted on the dark servant’s floor, and started toward the main staircase. She had no desire to take the servants’ stairs—they would be like an ice box at this time of the morning.

The low-burning lamps on the walls guided her as she crept downward, sliding her hand on the chilly bannister. She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.

At last, she found herself on the slightly-warmer family level, edged into that hallway and began to turn left...

She paused.

Mr. Basil Collingwood, young master of the house, kept his bedroom straight across from where she stood. Its cherry-wood door was shut firmly, and no light shone under the crack. But the door to the right of it...

It hung open. Just a little.

Victoria frowned, an odd tremor running through her.

She had lived here at Pendywick Place nearly a month, and she had never seen that door ajar. She had never heard Mrs. Butterfield the housekeeper, Mr. Cutworth the butler, or Basil himself ever say a word about it. At first, she had assumed that it was a bedroom originally belonging to Basil’s traveling parents, or to his sister, who now lived in France with her husband. But not long after Victoria’s arrival, Mrs. Butterfield had pointed out those family members’ rooms—and this was not among them.

She bit her lip, leaning toward the descending staircase...

But stayed.

A grandfather clock in the empty master bedroom ticked—faraway and hollow.

She stared at the open crack in that door.

Took a step toward it. Another, then another. Her stocking feet brushed silently on the carpet.

She hesitated, cast a furtive glance up and down the corridor—but the lamplights only swayed sleepily. She gritted her teeth, faced the door again, stretched out a hand, and pushed gently on it.

With a soft whisper of a squeak, it eased away from her. The light from outside ventured in, throwing Victoria’s shadow down upon the floor. She tipped forward, peering through the gloom...

And let out a low, long breath.

A child’s room.

A little bed with its head against the left hand wall, with a toy chest at its foot. A broad window across the way, with a cushioned seat. Shelves of wooden trinkets against the right wall—red soldiers standing at attention, a model of Noah’s ark, a jack-in-the-box, a spinning top...

A dusty white rocking horse with a long mane stood sad and motionless in the corner. A little train curled like a snake on the round rug, with blocks stacked over it to form a tunnel.

Victoria edged inside, holding her breath. Dim light of dawn filtered in through the white curtains, showing the bedclothes to be blue.

A little boy’s room.

Something caught her eye.

A small red book lay on the window seat.

She tiptoed around the bed and the toy chest, reached down, and gingerly picked it up.

As usual, the words on the front cover mixed and blanked in her vision, so she ignored them—and carefully opened the front cover.

She smiled.

She knew this book.

It was a story about the Christmas shepherds, one little boy in particular, and their visit to the stable in Bethlehem. It had bright, detailed, merry illustrations, one on each page. One by one, she slowly turned the pages, different warm and vivid memories swimming through her head...

A crackling fire...girls gathered around, singing from hymn books...greenery on the mantle...a bite of luscious pudding...the scent of cinnamon, cloves and ginger...

Miss Thulin!

She jumped, clapped the book shut and whirled around.

Mrs. Butterfield’s portly form leaned into the room—her ruffled cap a silhouette against the darkness.

What are you doing in here, Miss? Mrs. Butterfield gasped. Come out at once!

Her heart pounding, Victoria put the book back down, hopped over the train and the blocks, and hurried past Mrs. Butterfield and out the door.

Mrs. Butterfield quickly and quietly shut it after her, took a set of keys from her pocket, and locked it with a snap. Victoria’s face burned.

I’m sorry to startle you, Miss, Mrs. Butterfield said, straightening and facing her—her brown eyes bright, her brow furrowed. You didn’t know, after all—I never told you. And I don’t know why the door...It’s never unlocked. She sighed, slightly pained, and grasped her hands in front of her. "But Mr. Collingwood never allows that door to be opened. She pointed to it. And he would be most distressed to know that anyone had disturbed the room."

Victoria gulped and ducked her head.

It’s all right, child. As I said, you didn’t know, Mrs. Butterfield soothed her, patting her arm. Just leave it alone from now on. She drew herself up and took a quick breath. Now, why don’t you go dress yourself and I’ll get a start on some tea and breakfast? Then you can come down in the kitchen with me and keep yourself warm.

Victoria nodded, still unable to look at her, turned and hurried back to her tower.

Victoria’s tea had steeped just long enough, and she just reached out to pour it into her cup when Basil Collingwood loomed into the small, white, sunlit breakfast room.

Young, lean and forbidding. Basil’s dark, curly hair was combed, he wore a charcoal suit, grey waistcoat with a glittering watch chain, and silver tie. Always quite pale, his angular features frowned, and his grey gaze flashed through the room, meeting Victoria’s for just a moment before he sat down at the table across from her and picked up his loudly-rustling edition of the Times.

Almost immediately, however, he heaved a sigh and started sifting through the pages with some agitation.

Nothing but news from Buckingham Palace about the greenery this and the tree that, and the Lord Mayor’s feast and what the ruddy, spoiled princes and princesses are getting for Christmas. He achieved the last page and squinted at it. Oh—a murder. A street woman was beaten bloody, strangled and left dead by a bridge. Basil rolled his eyes, shut the paper, folded it and tossed it on the floor. They’ll never do a thing about it. Everyone’s so fixated on that confounded holiday, hang it all.

Victoria stared at him, stunned.

Just then, Mrs. Butterfield pushed through the kitchen door carrying a laden tray. She set out the steaming plates of toast, porridge and eggs in front of Basil and Victoria—the delicious scents filled the room. Victoria bit her lip, took up the teapot and poured her tea.

We’ll need to rent a carriage for the ball, Basil rumbled, cutting into his bacon. And Victoria can wear some of Imogen’s jewelry.

What dress will she have, sir? Mrs. Butterfield asked, smiling at Victoria. Miss Collingwood’s pretty green one?

Heavens, no—it’s two seasons old, Basil shook his head. We’ll get a new one, at Whiteley’s. Next week.

Again, Victoria stared at him. He sat back, took a sip of tea, and assessed her keenly. She made herself look back at him, unflinching.

Red, I think, he decided. It’ll complement your black hair and eyes and colorless complexion. He arched an eyebrow, shrugged, then went back to carving his bacon. It’ll be a common and festive color, anyway. You won’t stand out.

Victoria glared at him, but he didn’t see her.

Wonderful, sir, Mrs. Butterfield said lightly, turned and went back into the kitchen. Victoria spread out her napkin on her lap and tucked into her porridge.

The other door opened, and the cold, sharp presence of Mr. Cutworth the butler swept in, accompanied by Jack, the beautiful golden dog, who trotted happily past the butler, his curled tail wagging, his pointed ears pricked toward the two at the table. Victoria instantly reached out to pet him, and he sat down next to her chair.

Morning mail, sir, Mr. Cutworth announced, holding a tray covered in letters.

Mhm, Basil muttered.

One from your father, and one from your sister, Mr. Cutworth held them out. Basil immediately sat up and took them with interest, snatched the letter opener off the tray, and sliced into the first one.

What are the others, Cutworth? Basil asked.

Christmas cards, sir, Mr. Cutworth said, staring straight out ahead of him, as if he were bored.

Throw them away,