Eve Silver (3 page)

“Come along,” she said, without looking back, and Emma followed.

Mrs. Bolifer carried a single candle to light their way as they climbed the stairs and walked the length of a dark corridor. Each room they passed was dim and quiet. The housekeeper climbed a second flight of stairs and a third. They reached the landing, and proceeded to a room at the end of a hallway, in the farthest corner of the uppermost floor. The air smelled stale, laden with dust and disuse.

Eyes trained on the candle that had been left burning in the room, Mrs. Bolifer jerked to an abrupt halt just outside the open door. Emma could not be certain, but she thought the housekeeper's expression held something akin to fear.

“The blue room,” Mrs. Bolifer intoned, standing stiffly to one side.

Emma peeked past her and saw that Griggs had left her portmanteau on the floor beside the narrow iron bed. On the far side of the bed was a small table and on it a single flickering candle, which cast dancing shadows across the walls and floor. An armoire was angled in the corner, and the only other furniture was a spindly chair beside the fireplace, softened by a pretty blue-and-white cushion.

A cheerful blaze danced in the hearth, bringing warmth to Emma’s damp and chilled form. She smiled. Griggs must have built the fire for her. Perhaps she had made one friend here in her new home.

Emma’s stomach chose that instant to growl. She turned toward Mrs. Bolifer—who waited in silence, her posture angry and unyielding—and spoke quickly to hide her embarrassment. “Thank you for showing me to my room, Mrs. Bolifer.”

The woman stared at her, and after a moment said, “You’ll use tallow candles here in your own chamber, but there’re wax ones for when you move about. His Lordship has no liking for the stench of tallow.”

“Yes. Of course,” Emma murmured, masking her surprise at the use of wax candles, for they were so frightfully dear. She pressed her lips together as her stomach rumbled yet again.

“I'll not bring you a tray,” the housekeeper said brusquely.

Emma opened her mouth to protest that she held no such expectation, but Mrs. Bolifer shook her head and glared her into silence.

“But I will ask Cookie to make you a little something in the kitchen. Down the stairway to the left, and then down a second flight, along the hall, down the back stairway to the right, take the first turn on the left. And from now on you are to use the back stairway and the servants’ entrance unless you are accompanied by the young master.” Dear heaven, it would be a miracle if she found the kitchen at all, but Emma sensed that her companion had no intention of repeating those directions. With a final glower, the housekeeper turned away. “Get yourself dry now.”

Standing in the doorway of her room, she watched the light of Mrs. Bolifer's candle recede into the darkness. Partway down the hall the bobbing flame stopped, and Emma could barely discern the housekeeper's black-clad form.

“Do not leave a flame burning unattended,” the woman admonished in an eerie, singsong voice. Her words drifted back to Emma, the empty hallway causing the sound to echo in an unnerving way. “Never, never leave a flame unattended.”

The shadows swallowed Mrs. Bolifer as she continued on her way until it seemed that the small and distant candle floated through the air, weightless. Then the light disappeared, leaving Emma alone to ponder what little she had seen of this unfamiliar household, her thoughts awhirl with confusion and unease. What a peculiar place.

The scarred coachman, Griggs, who regarded her with fear-darkened eyes as he whispered vague warnings.

Mrs. Bolifer, the one-armed housekeeper who watched the flames with a wary eye.

And Lord Anthony, with his flowing black cape and dangerous beauty, which she had seen outlined against the light. The touch of his warm fingers against her chilled skin. The low, rich sound of his voice.

Emma sucked in a breath, wondering why the thought of her enigmatic employer made her feel restless and beset by uneasy emotion.

Brave girl to come alone
.

CHAPTER TWO

After changing to dry clothes, Emma left her tiny chamber, carrying the lighted candle to guide her way. As she walked, she noticed that the doors to the other rooms on her floor were closed, and no sliver of light shone from beneath. Curious, she paused and gently turned a handle. Locked. As was the next, and the next that she tried. Frowning, she pondered this peculiar circumstance, wondering what secrets were hidden behind these locked doors. Again, her stomach rumbled, and she quit her impromptu exploration in favor of a speedy trip to the kitchen.

With only three wrong turns and a single moment of panic, she managed to follow the housekeeper's directions down the flights of stairs to the first turn on the left. There, a narrow hallway opened into the comfort of a warm and well-lit kitchen.

Mrs. Bolifer sat at a long, scarred wooden table with a pot of tea and three cups in front of her. A second long table, this one higher than the first, spanned the far wall of the kitchen. Behind it stood a woman in a faded brown dress. She was tall, and thin as reed grass, her brown hair streaked with gray and scraped into a tight bun at the back of her head. The harsh hairstyle accentuated the sharp angles of her cheekbones. Her brown eyes were timeworn, and deep lines bracketed her mouth. Emma suspected she had seen much in her lifetime, and not all she had seen was good.

“Hello, I am Emma Parrish.”

To Emma's surprise the woman's austere face lit in welcome and she rounded the table to take Emma's hand and pump it with enthusiasm.

“Call me Cookie,” she said, her voice high and girlish. Such a contrast to her appearance. Her smile deepened the creases in her cheeks and made a network of lines fan out from the sides of her eyes. Nonetheless, the woman's smile took years from her appearance and did much to soften her angular looks.

Emma surreptitiously assessed the cook. No visible scars. And she seemed to be in possession of all her limbs. After meeting both Griggs and Mrs. Bolifer, she had half expected a missing leg or, at the very least, a pronounced limp. But Cookie seemed hale and hearty, save for the look in her eyes that hinted at scars somewhere deep within her soul.

Smiling in return, Emma let the cook guide her to a seat opposite Mrs. Bolifer. The housekeeper poured three cups of steaming tea, and Cookie put a plate of bread, cheese, and cold meat in front of Emma.

“And how was the trip, dear?” Cookie asked just as Emma filled her mouth with a bite of bread and cheese. “Quite long, I should think. And all alone in a hired coach.” Fortunately, Cookie seemed quite capable of carrying on a conversation all on her own, saving Emma from being unmannerly by answering with her mouth full, or appearing rude by continuing to chew and giving no answer at all. “Poor thing! The wind is quite dreadful tonight, and I vow that the water coming from the sky put me in mind of Noah and his ark. Last year it rained for three weeks without pause. The road was a river of mud. A river, I tell you.”

Cookie talked. Emma chewed. And Mrs. Bolifer glared into her steaming cup of tea.

“Such a dreadful night, such wind, such rain. And His Lordship. Poor man. A full day and a night in the village without any rest.”

At the mention of Lord Anthony, Emma’s heart sped up, and she waited for Cookie to continue. Curiosity, she reassured herself silently. The unsteady state of her pulse had nothing to do with the odd heat that had suffused her at his brief touch in the carriage or the way his voice had echoed through her thoughts long after he had left her.

Heaving a deep sigh, Cookie shook her head. “At least this time he didn't come back drenched in blood. His coat was good for nothing but the rag bin after that.”

Emma nearly choked as a mouthful of food was sucked in along with her startled intake of air. As she coughed into her napkin, Cookie reached over and pounded her on the back. “Tea's cool now, love. Take a sip. There's a good girl.”

Blood?
She must have heard wrong. But, no, she was certain she had heard Cookie say the word “blood”. Her gaze slid from Cookie to Mrs. Bolifer, who continued to examine the tea in her cup as if it held the answers to the mysteries of the world.

“And I suspect they gave him naught to eat,” the cook pointed out mournfully. “I took him a tray. Left it by the door. Never would I go in the tower. Just left it by the door.”

 “That tray will be by the door come morning.” Mrs. Bolifer nodded. “He takes not a bite when he gets like this. You know that as well as I.”

Gets like what?
Emma swallowed her food, looking back and forth between the two women. She was inordinately curious about her new employer, parched for any tidbit of information her companions might share, and she found her fascination both odd and unsettling.

“I thought I saw a flash of light in the tower,” she said.

Two pairs of eyes swiveled to stare at her.

“You stay away from there,” Cookie said somberly.

Why?
The question hovered, unasked, and both Cookie and Mrs. Bolifer turned their attention to their teacups. Emma frowned, puzzled and a bit unnerved by the clear message that the Round Tower was not to be visited, not even to be discussed.

She looked up to find Mrs. Bolifer staring at her. The two women had grown silent during Emma's musings and they now regarded her as if expecting an answer to a question she had not heard them ask. She finished the last morsel of bread and smiled her apology.

“I am terribly sorry, but I seem to have been wool-gathering.”

Mrs. Bolifer’s lips tightened in a frown, her face creasing into what appeared to be her customary expression.

“That's all right, love.” Cookie patted her hand. “I was just asking… How old were the last set of children you cared for? You seem a mite young for a governess with much experience.”

“Oh!” Emma felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. “I haven't actually been a governess to anyone's children. Though, before my mother died I did go to the farm down the way and teach the children their numbers and letters. And the children taught me to milk a cow. They were a good bit better with their letters than I was with the cow.” She smiled at the memory of Farmer Hicks's children. “The worst of it was, I caught the cowpox, just like any milkmaid.”

Both women stared at her, unblinking.

“My mother was a governess,” Emma said quickly, feeling as though her qualifications for the position had been found distinctly lacking. “She often told me that the best way to manage a child is with a hug, a smile, and a steady set of rules.”

Neither of her companions said a word, and then Mrs. Bolifer stood abruptly and nodded once to Cookie. “Good night, then,” she said, stalking from the kitchen with a rustle of her stiff, black skirt.

Emma glanced uncertainly at the cook.

“Don't mind her, love.” Cookie rose and cleared the tea things from the table. “Mrs. Bolifer is soft under all those prickles. Especially when it comes to the boy.”

“Tell me about him,” Emma urged. What little she knew about the child was colored by the bilious tinge of the venomous barbs Aunt Cecilia had aimed at the father.

Cookie arched a brow. “He’s a six-year-old boy. That should tell you enough.”

“I so want to make a difference in his life,” Emma whispered.

Narrowing her eyes, Cookie asked warily, “What sort of difference?”

“Is it terribly selfish of me to imagine that I can offer Nicholas, a child I have never met, love and comfort and, at the same time, perhaps glean some of the same emotions for myself?” Emma sank her teeth into her lower lip, and immediately wished she hadn’t blurted her thoughts aloud.

“Is that why you came here? Looking for love and comfort?” Cookie’s questions pitched high in surprise.

Rising, Emma gathered her plate and cup, using the action as an opportunity to choose her words with care. She had no illusions about her prospects. Penniless and illegitimate, working in her aunts’ home as scullery maid and step-girl and laundry maid all rolled into one, or if Cecilia had had her way, being sold to the first man who offered a fat purse—

No, she would not think of that now. Not ever. The arrival of Lord Anthony’s letter could not have been better timed. Her aunts seized the opportunity to rid themselves of her presence, given that she had defied their best-laid plans. The fact that there had been a monetary settlement to help compensate their loss had definitely swayed them. And despite the rumors that painted him a monster, Lord Anthony’s employ, the chance to care for his son, had appealed to Emma far more than Mr. Moulton’s rancid embrace.

“I came
looking
for nothing,” she said at length. “But
hoping
for a way to love a child the way I was loved.”

 Cookie met her gaze, shadows and worry beating back the warmth of her smile. “The poor mite has had a hard go of it. But you might well do, Emma Parrish. You might last longer than the others.”

There was something is Cookie’s tone that made Emma flinch. “The others?”

“Twelve governesses in four years. With His Lordship so exacting, they hardly survive a few weeks before they're gone.”

“Hardly
survive
a few weeks?” Emma echoed, her thoughts spiraling back to Cookie's earlier reference to Lord Anthony returning home drenched in blood. Surely she couldn’t mean—

“Then they’re gone.” Cookie snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”

Gone?
“Where do they go?” Emma whispered.

“Don't know where they go, dear. But His Lordship makes sure they never come back.”

o0o

Early the next morning, Emma watched pale fingers of light creep past the lace curtains of her window to trace patterns on the wooden floor. The fire had long since died, the gray ashes lending no warmth to the chilly room. But a cold hearth was no novelty. Her aunts had seen no need to waste coal on Emma, and her tiny room in the attic of their home had been frightfully cold in winter and dreadfully hot in summer. By comparison, her current chamber was a luxury.

Raising her hand, she stifled a wide yawn. Tormented by Cookie's words late into the night, her thoughts before she had fallen asleep had been filled with hazy visions, terrible imaginings of Lord Anthony, his hands covered in blood, a faceless governess lying murdered at his feet. Then the woman had become Delia, broken at the bottom of the stairs.