By Gerri Brightwell
London, 1893. aged Mrs. Bentley is on her deathbed, and her son Robert has again from France. yet within the Bentleys’ well-appointed domestic, every body has their secrets and techniques, together with Robert’s attractive and elusive spouse, the orphan maid she hires from the rustic, and the mysterious younger lady who arrives, claiming to be the bride of Robert’s drowned brother.Robert is instantly constructing a name in anthropometry, the nascent technology of opting for criminals by means of physique measurements. but quickly he's stuck up within the deceptions swirling round him, for nobody less than his roof is sort of what they appear. whilst an interloper enters the home and ransacks the examine, a sequence of occasions is determined in movement that threatens not just the genteel, cozy existence the Bentleys have controlled to safe but in addition their very survival.A attention-grabbing portrayal of a vanished England in addition to an unconventional secret, The darkish Lantern exposes the grand “upstairs” of a Victorian domestic and the darker underbelly of its servants’ quarters. The conflict among the periods makes for a suspenseful novel of flawed identities, interesting ladies, and hazardous deceptions.
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Extra resources for The Dark Lantern: A Novel
Sample text
She is merely a woman who needed a breath of fresh air. She makes sure to close the 52 The Dark Lantern curtains, too, then sits back on the bed. It is hard, and too small for two people, for this is the room Robert had growing up. She lifts her fingers to her mouth and catches the edge of a ragged nail in her teeth. When she and Robert arrived here the house felt hollow—his mother keeping to her bed, the rooms ghostly in their dust sheets. Mrs. Bentley used to be a formidable woman, by all accounts.
The rooftops have turned silver in the rain, and when she leans forward she can see down to the street. With both hands she holds onto the window frame to watch the gleaming tops of carriages sliding behind horses, and the dark circles of umbrellas floating beside them like strange, burnt flowers. Between them, in hats and coats and shawls, carrying baskets, holding children by the hand, move the figures of shabby people. People like her. The ones who work for a living. She has to correct herself—Reverend Saunders, Mrs.
Maybe she doesn’t look innocent and able to meet his eye, but saucy or even brazen. Aren’t these the words that are used about women of her class who go bad? She has been sitting this way for over half an hour now, her back too straight, her fingers twisting together in her lap. No tea for her and, though no one has said as much, she knows they believe her guilty. The policeman who questioned her certainly seemed to think so, though he tried to hide it by being both stern and encouraging at the same time.