I stayed behind in the kitchens to have my breakfast once the house meeting ended. For a moment, sipping my tea and gazing at the fire in the hearth, I felt again the terror of my dream return. Shivering, I held the teacup with both hands, breathing in the fragrant steam and letting it banish the chill of the nightmare. It seemed I had stepped from one nightmare to another, left to huddle alone in the kitchens while I dreaded the work ahead of me and the guarantee that I would meet these Canny and Breen families, come to know them, and then watch as they were extinguished.
Slowly, I meandered to the open kitchen door and leaned against the frame, watching as the laborers finished the work on the pavilion and cleaned up their tools. I wondered if I would miss them, having grown accustomed to their workaday chatter. It had been such a curious dash of normalcy to the otherwise constant strangeness of Coldthistle. But now they were leaving, trading boisterous jokes as they trundled off. They knew better than to even look in my direction; one brawny, sun-reddened man had shouted vulgarities at me on my first day. Mrs. Haylam marched him from the property, and I could only speculate on his fate after that.
Bartholomew dozed at my feet. He had doubled in size over the winter, no longer so much resembling a sweet, small pup but a frizzy bruiser of a beast. A wiry mane had grown between his ears and down his back, giving him the appearance of a far wilder, fiercer creature. Still, he had not outgrown his puppy ears, which flopped charmingly onto the stones as he rolled onto his back and tucked his paws up to his belly.
Crouching down, I scratched his neck and listened to his sleepy growls of contentment. I closed my eyes and took another sip of tea, and fancied I was far away, just a normal country girl outside a cottage in Ireland, patting her dog and having her breakfast before a day of tutoring or darning. That made me remember the letter still hidden in my apron and I stood, closing my hand over the place where it waited. What if that life of tutoring and darning was possible, and I needed only reach out to this so-called father for help? Or better yet, what if he shared his unimaginable wealth with me, and right that moment I could be sleeping in, a woman of means in a stately home, nothing to do but call on friends and make small talk with well-perfumed ladies. . . .
A duo of distant voices drew my attention. At first I assumed it was the twins, Finch and Sparrow, but instead I noticed Lee skulking in the shadows of the barn across the yard. He was talking to somebody, though I could not at first make out whom. A moment later, he took a step deeper into the eaves of the barn, leaning on a horse stall and fixing his hair. Beside him stood a vague shape, what might have been a person but was merely a shadow. A shadow of a girl.
“I told you not to get mixed up with him.”
I cursed in surprise and dropped my teacup, watching it shatter on the stones. Bartholomew yelped and leapt up, circling once and sniffing his tea-stained tail before trotting off to find a quieter place to nap.
“You gave me a shock,” I said, irritated. “I’ll fetch a broom. . . .”
“In a moment.” Mrs. Haylam emerged from the kitchens, and in the transfer of light from dark to bright, her rheumy eye seemed to glow. “He’s a creature of shadow now; there’s naught but that left inside him. That pretty skin he wears is just a mask, and when it rots and falls as a man’s flesh does, you will see the truth in what I say.”
An image of his eyes, consumed with blackness, revisited me in a flash.
“If he’s that changed, then it’s my fault,” I said. “I made the choice to revive him.”
“You will never receive gratitude if you feel entitled to it all the time,” she replied with a sniff. “He may eventually come to thank you for what you did, but he’s just as likely to despise you. I told you not to meddle.”
“Aye,” I sighed. “You mentioned that once or twice.”
“Do not begrudge him his choices after you made such a grave one for him,” Mrs. Haylam added, and unexpectedly, she placed a hand on my shoulder. At first I thought it was a gesture of motherly sympathy, but that was foolish—I felt a strange heat wash over me, warmth spreading from where her hand touched my frock. As I watched Lee and the shadow, the black shape took greater form, resolving itself into a lovely young woman, who spoke back to him and tugged at her skirt flirtatiously.
“Is that a ghost?” I breathed.
“Of a kind. Another creature of shadow tethered to this house. He can see them as they once were, for he dwells with the shadows now. Don’t look so sad, Louisa; you should be pleased that he has found a friend.” Mrs. Haylam took her hand away and the girl vanished, leaving only her dark silhouette on the floor in front of Lee. “Finish your breakfast and off you go. The Canny girl is already moaning about the accommodations, and I don’t have the patience for it today.”
And I do?
She must have heard my grumbling sigh.
“Louisa.”
“Aye, Mrs. Haylam,” I said, watching Lee slip away into the barn with his new friend. The letter in my apron felt suddenly heavy. Present. A rich father. Maybe I deserved a change; maybe I really could leave and find a new life somewhere far away. For forever.
“And clean up that broken cup. I don’t need anyone slicing open a foot, least of all that good-for-nothing hound. . . .”
I stared at the shattered porcelain and felt her shoulder as she hurried back into the kitchens. The lawn was empty. The workmen had gone. In a sunny, dusty corner somewhere Bartholomew slept, his rumbling snores the only sound in the yard. Spilled tea spidered into the cracks between the cobbles, speeding toward my boots. I took one step away from it, watching tea mingle with mud, and put my hand over the letter in my apron.
Spilled tea and broken cups. There had to be something better on my horizon.
Amelia Canny was a pinched, ugly girl with shockingly black hair and beady brown eyes. On another face, with more finesse and ease, her features might have been pretty, but if a painter had envisioned her, it looked as if they had rushed, slapping on a too-big nose and a retreating glance.
She flitted from bureau to bureau like one of Mr. Morningside’s birds, moving excessively while accomplishing absolutely nothing.
“Lottie twisted her ankle and couldn’t make the journey,” Amelia was informing me, inspecting a massive bonnet studded with red silk flowers. Red, in fact, was her color of choice. Everything from her expensive bags to her light summer frock was done in crimson. “Silly girl said she needed to be off her feet for a month. A month! Can you imagine the luxury of it? And her, just a lady’s maid! I shouldn’t be surprised at all—she’s always been lazy like that.”
Amelia whirled and pinned me with her dark eyes. “You won’t be lazy, I suppose?”
It was a question, but only just. I heard the implicit order. “I’m a hard worker, miss.”
“What did you say your name was again?” She arranged and rearranged the bonnet until the sunlight coming in through the greasy window shone off the beads on the brim.
“Louisa.”
“Louisa what?”
“Ditton, miss,” I said, appending that miss with a tight smile. I rather envied Lottie, who didn’t sound lazy at all but like a genius for finding a way to escape this simpering ninny.
“You’re Irish,” she pointed out.
Yes, obviously.
“County Waterford, miss.”
Her eyes lit up, which almost made her appealing for a moment. “My family is from Dungarvan, but I shan’t be going back to that shabby little place. Do you know what Mason’s father said to me yesterday? He said, ‘What good could come of a place with dung in the name?’ And you know something, Louisa? He was right. I’ll be a London woman soon. But you must know Dungarvan. Can you believe it? That we should meet all this long ways away, and both of us from such different worlds.”
I thought of the letter in my pocket and winced. If this was what having money did to a person, then perhaps I ought to burn the parchment after all.
“How fortuitous,” I choked out. “Was there something else you needed, miss?”
She needed her pillows fluffed and her bedding switched, to a pattern with something red, naturally. I had already unpacked her traveling trunks and aired out the gown she wanted to wear that evening to supper. My hands had never touched so much buttery-soft silk.
“Only . . .” Amelia went to the window, peering out into the yard for a moment. Her room faced the north, and from her room, one could see the hidden path that led to the spring. She gestured me over and I obeyed, standing next to her and following her gaze to the wooded trail. The trees there looked menacing, and never quite recovered all the leaves they had lost in the autumn. What little foliage remained looked cruel and black. I hadn’t remembered the wood around the spring being so dense, but perhaps I had never viewed it from this vantage.
“You seem like a sensible girl,” she said, curling a thoughtful knuckle under her chin. “Lottie never wants to give me advice. She thinks it’s improper for a lady’s maid to weigh in on the comings and goings of her better. But I think she’s a bit of a dullard.”
I was admiring Lottie more and more. It was tempting to claim that I was also dim-witted, but part of me wondered what exactly Amelia had done to land at Coldthistle House. Just being rich and terrible was not crime enough, surely.
“I believe I am quite sensible, aye,” I said carefully.
Amelia sighed and leaned against the window, resting her forehead on the glass. She traced a heart shape over the pane and gazed wistfully at the forest. “Do you think God forgives sin if it’s done in the name of true love?”
I blinked at her for a moment.
Obviously not, considering where you are.
“I . . . think it would depend on the nature of the sin,” I told her.
Nodding, Amelia shut her eyes and then turned them toward her feet. Then she softly murmured, “Lying?”
“That could be forgiven, I’m sure.”
“Stealing?” she asked.
“Stealing is not all that bad,” I said. That one I meant, as I had done my share of thievery at that very house. Then I remembered that I was to act as her lady’s maid, and she would not want a known thief rummaging through her possessions. “At least, it’s wrong, of course, but I . . . I can see that being a forgivable sin if love hung in the balance.”
She nodded again, and in a voice so quiet I almost missed it, she whispered, “And murder?”
Now we were getting somewhere.
I was about to answer her, but she put up a perfumed hand, shushing me. Her eyes blazed, and it was as if a different person were staring out at me, not a dainty girl obsessed with bonnets and red blankets, but a crueler creature who had seen and done as much or more as I.
“Aye, you heard me, Louisa, but I will not say it again. And I believe you know of what I speak, for I was not always wealthy and as you see me now, but I knew the sting of hunger and destitution. But I wanted my dear Mason and now I have him, and I would have done anything in the world to lift myself out of that old and ugly life and live in comfort with my true love.”
To that I gave a single nod, deciding it would be better to be her confidante. Clearly I had underestimated Amelia, though now I saw the truth in her eyes.
“Of course you understand,” she added, the fire in her gaze lingering. “When I was small I would see the ladies in their fine carriages go by and I told myself: one day that will be me. Whatever it requires, whatever sacrifice I must make, it will be me. And now you are meeting me, Louisa, and perhaps you will leave this chamber and say to yourself: one day I will have what she has.”
Again, I tried to speak, but Amelia would not allow it.
“No, no, there is no shame in thinking so. Girls like simple Lottie are not like us. She is content to be told she has nothing and she will do nothing about it.” With a flounce, Amelia turned away from the window and trailed toward her bed, sinking down onto it heavily. “Listen to me! Chattering on and on. . . . And why? I cannot say. But I feel I can trust you, Louisa. Is that so? Can I trust you?”
“Oh, you can spill your secrets to me, miss,” I said with a curtsy. But my mind was only half there. Amelia’s rant had given me an idea, and the sooner I could leave her presence, the sooner I could act upon it. “I am a solitary creature and speak to no one. It’s a lonely place, Coldthistle House, and often silence and secrets are my only company.”