“We didn’t know you was there, miss.” Genevieve fumbled an excuse and tucked a stray ginger-colored curl into her white, lace-trimmed cap. “I’m just showing Daisy the ropes. She’s new.”
Daisy bobbed an awkward curtsy, pinching the corner of her black skirt.
“Yes, we’ve met.” Myrna offered a smile just as awkward, feeling just as discombobulated, as well as highly embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping. “I was looking for Mrs. Freed.”
“This time of day she should be going over the menu with the cook.”
“Thank you, Genevieve. Have either of you seen the girls?”
“No, miss.”
Daisy shook her head and both maids hurried past and down the corridor.
Myrna mulled over what she’d just heard, oddly dismayed to learn the master was indeed the pitiless cad she thought him, in breaking some poor woman’s heart by spurning her love. His behavior a scandal, his misdeeds ignored as if they never occurred. It was a benefit of the wealthy to pretend all offenses out of existence and expect their wishes met. That his ill-mannered behavior should come as such a surprise warranted the true shock. Some hidden part of her had hoped she was wrong in her estimation, but clearly, Dalton fit to form.
An affluent man not to be trusted.
* * *
After another encouraging talk from his mother with regard to his management of the family legacy, Dalton left the parlor and ran across the path of Genevieve and the new maid. Both girls smiled, their faces flushed. The new girl gave a little bob of a curtsy as if he was royalty. He lifted his brows in mild surprise and smiled at her, unable to remember if he’d ever received such an acknowledgment.
Genevieve frowned at Daisy then, to Dalton’s amusement, did likewise.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” He inclined his head and made to walk past them.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but have you seen the girls?”
“Are they missing again?”
Daisy giggled and Genevieve shook her head. “Don’t rightly know, but Miss McBride asked. She seems to have lost them.”
In a manor with close to a hundred rooms, including the servants’ quarters, he wasn’t surprised. So many places existed where mischievous children could hide. He’d spent half his boyhood discovering all of them.
“I’m sure they’ll turn up eventually.”
He continued down the corridor toward the main entrance. At the stairwell, a flurry of movement caught his eye. He looked up toward the second level, frowning when he saw the shadow on the wall that disappeared toward the stairs leading to the third floor.
Swiftly he went in pursuit.
Not surprised to find the door to the third room ajar, he noticed it was no longer empty.
The governess stood in the midst of the old playroom, taking a slow perusal of the long-neglected toys. Some were no longer covered with dustcloths, a few of those lying on the ground, one near a rocking horse with peeling paint. Another had been cast aside from a tall dollhouse in the replica of Eagle’s Landing.
Her attention rested on the miniature dwelling, which looked as if it had only recently been crafted and never once touched. He winced.
“What are you doing in here?”
He had not intended his voice to sound so abrasive, and she whirled to face him.
“Mr. Freed!” Guilt flashed in her eyes.
“This room is no longer used.”
“Yes, but—is this not a playroom? The dollhouse—”
“No.” He gave her no opportunity to finish. Nor did he satisfy her curiosity. “We keep the door locked.”
“But it was open.” Again she stared at the dollhouse. “I thought at first it might be one of Rebecca’s play areas.”
He moved past her and whipped the sheet from the floor, spreading it over the small, three-story structure. “And now you know otherwise.” He forced himself not to look at the long window covered by heavy drapery.
“You treat me as if I uncovered the toys.”
At her tone of offense he dryly observed her. “You expect me to believe the sheets flew off the toys by themselves? Next will you tell me the toys came to life?”
“I didn’t touch them! They were like that when I came in here.”
He paused to consider. She had no reason to lie, not about something so inconsequential. His niece must have visited the forbidden room. He certainly could not imagine one of the maids leaving dust covers on the floor and would confront Rebecca at the earliest opportunity.
“It seems I must again ask pardon, Miss McBride. Surely, though, you understand why it was easy for me to reach such a conclusion? Finding you here like this.”
“I expect little else. After all, you decided I must be a thief and practically accused me to my face. You have a habit of jumping to conclusions where I’m concerned, Mr. Freed, and quite frankly I wish you would stop doing that.”
At her candid, unruffled response he regarded her in surprise. No servant had ever responded to him with such cheek. Though, oddly enough, he never thought of the governess as a true servant. He could offer the rejoinder that she’d given him little reason to think otherwise in her practiced game of deceit but suddenly was weary of the round and round carousel of barely veiled insults and innuendo between them.
He nodded. “You’re right, I should. Trust is a difficult thing for me to extend.”
Her mouth parted slightly in astonishment at his answer and her shoulders relaxed. “I suppose in that regard we’re alike. Trust comes extremely hard for me. It always has. I’ve learned to rely on instinct alone since I was a child.”
“Is that why you can be so stubborn...?”
Her chin sailed up and she crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re one to talk about being stubborn! I’ve met mules that are more cooperative—”
He laughed in genuine amusement, and she blinked as yet again she was taken aback by his response.
“You don’t have much experience with being in service, do you?”
“No.” She dropped her arms back to her sides. “But if it means I’ll be talked down to or bullied, I won’t take that from any man. No matter his position over me.”
“An admirable quality.”
“You think so?” She sounded thoroughly befuddled, as if expecting a different reply.
“Certainly. Pardon my random teasing, Miss McBride. Another fault of mine. Never change who you are, and never take incivility from anyone.” He moved to the door and waited, making clear he would not leave until she did. “I imagine your charges are looking for you.”
“Actually, I was looking for them.” She followed him to the corridor. “That’s what led me here.”
He frowned at the lock as he closed the door, deciding his niece must have found a skeleton key.
“Once Rebecca realizes it’s time for the meal, she’ll appear,” he assured as they moved down the stairs.
“She thinks the world of you.”
“I’m all the father she has, even if I’m no more than a guardian uncle.”
They reached the second landing, and he took the first step down to the main floor. She continued along the corridor then stopped. Both glanced back at each other at the same time.
“I suppose I’ll be seeing you at supper, then.”
Her soft statement bordered on a question, and he shook his head.
“I have plans in town.”
He thought of the upcoming social gathering at the mayor’s house, knowing it mandatory that he make an appearance, especially since his mother wasn’t attending. Important associates would be present, and it was time Dalton publicly made his place known as head of the estate and all that entailed.
“Oh, I see.” Myrna’s answer came faint. “Well, good night then.”
Dalton paused to watch her hasty retreat, wondering why it was so difficult to go, before he forced himself to descend the stairs.
Chapter 8
The quiet in the parlor was unsettling, a perfect accompaniment to gloomy thoughts.
“Is something troubling you, my dear?”
Myrna started at the sudden words coming from the other occupant of the room, fidgeted on her stiff chair, then set her teacup on its saucer.
“Mr. Freed says that I act little like a servant,” she blurted what she’d been dwelling on for the past several minutes. Every night after supper, since she attained the position of governess, she took tea and sweets with Dalton’s mother in the parlor. The matriarch preferred a light dessert there as opposed to the heavy one served at the table, and over the weeks, Myrna had grown comfortable enough in her presence to join her. Mrs. Freed never treated her as if she didn’t belong, and Myrna had begun to open up to her. “But then, I suppose I don’t know how a governess should act.”
“My son said that to you?”
Betraying heat crept to Myrna’s face. “Yes, well, I was where I shouldn’t have been, and he was angry. I shouldn’t have reacted in kind.”
“Where should you not have been?” Mrs. Freed asked in puzzlement.
Myrna gave a guilty shrug. “The third floor. The playroom. I thought it was Rebecca’s. There are so many rooms in this house...” She trailed off noting the strain that swept across her employer’s face as she stared into the nearby hearth fire. “Mrs. Freed? Are you ill?”
“No. Forgive my son’s ill manners. He went through a difficult time when my Alyssa died.” A sad smile edged her lips and she glanced at Myrna. “My daughter.”
“Oh.” Myrna blinked in shock. “I didn’t know you had one.”
“She was quite suddenly taken from me. Alyssa was seven when she died.”
Sisi’s age, Myrna thought with a protective edge of unease, though she didn’t really fear Mrs. Freed’s intentions toward her sister. The woman had been considerate and generous. But she sensed the reminder of her daughter was one reason Dalton’s mother had persuaded Myrna to stay.
Mrs. Freed nodded, as if reading her thoughts. “Your sister reminds me of Alyssa. Sweet and quiet. Always a follower, as Sisi is to Rebecca. Sometimes that isn’t wise.” She looked away and shook her head, as if in remembrance. “My family has had to deal with much tragedy and suffering through the years. I lost my husband and four of my children, two stillborn. It is only through those terrible struggles that I have learned the sole way to survive is to place faith in God. In that manner alone, I’ve become strong enough to overcome life’s sorrows.”
Myrna said nothing, not comprehending how suffering could bring trust.
“There is a Scripture passage that I live by: ‘But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.’” Mrs. Freed smiled. “Ever since the first Freed ancestor found this land upon which to build, almost a century ago, that Scripture passage has been the motto for this household. Josiah Freed sighted an eagle roosting on a high crag beyond the trees, near the water, and reasoned that for such a stalwart bird to have made his resting place here, this land was the perfect place on which to build his home. Eagle’s Landing. A sign of strength and fortitude to all who reside within.”
Myrna listened with interest.
“Eagles are amazing creatures. Shortly after I married my husband and he brought me to this estate, he told me that it’s reputed that when they age, eagles renew themselves by plucking out their feathers to grow new ones and damaging their beaks and talons. They lose the desire to eat and can no longer see well, but they rest, alone, bathing in sunlight, and they endure until the time that their bodily appendages grow back and they’re reborn into strength. Whether legend or reality, the eagle’s travail teaches that no matter the state of one’s personal adversities, if any man endures until the end, he can, with God’s help, emerge victorious.”
Her wise words made Myrna envious to know such strength, but she’d been taught since childhood to rely on her own strength to get by, however limited it sometimes was. Despite her sad debacles of the past year, she knew no other way to survive and felt apprehensive to change.
Mrs. Freed reached over to lay her hand on Myrna’s, regaining her attention.
“What God does for the eagles, He can do for you, my dear. You have only to put your trust in Him.”
Trust. There was that deceptive word. A boulder in her path that she often needed to skirt and from which she only wished to run.
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured in feeble response. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Freed, I think I’d like to take a short stroll before the night grows too cold.” She felt almost frantic to leave the confinement of the house and seek fresh air, the walls sometimes, as now, feeling as if they were closing in on her. With her charges in bed, she had nothing to keep her indoors.
“Of course, my dear. Do take caution and bundle up warmly. And don’t stray too far from the house.”
Myrna nodded in smiling acknowledgment before leaving the parlor, unable to take offense by the woman’s propensity to coddle. How long had it been since someone cared about her welfare without selfish motives to prompt them? Even Mrs. Freed’s periodic references to God and her gentle persuasions to put faith in Him no longer upset Myrna, now that she’d grown accustomed to hearing such words.
She had no idea why she felt so restless, though the revelation of the deceased Alyssa had been a shock, making Myrna think of Sisi and how she’d almost lost her.
Once she donned her cape and exited the house through the kitchen door, not comfortable with using the front one when not with Rebecca, she thought back to the discovery of the shrouded rooms and Dalton’s grim reactions to those surroundings. Had he been older than his sister? Younger? Had she died before he was born?
The questions wove into the fabric of her mind, blending with all she knew about the man, which was still so little.
She walked along the narrow path. The hardwoods and firs stood as strong silhouettes of black shadow rising several stories above her head on either side, causing her to feel insignificant in comparison. She drew the brisk air into her lungs, thankful for the clarity it gave her to think, though the subject under consideration remained a mystery.
Dalton Freed was the most confusing man she’d ever met. Stubborn, condescending, at times cruel with his sarcasm, but the flip side of his nature bespoke gentleness and a frank concern she had witnessed in no man, not even her father. In past weeks she witnessed in Dalton admirable traits she had not wished to see. Worse, she could not stop thinking about him.
A chill drizzle began to fall. Realizing she had wandered farther than she intended, she lifted the hood of her cloak over her head and changed direction. The path could barely be seen but dully glowed lighter than her surroundings, the trees or clouds having blocked out the globe of the moon.
What addled her senses was the realization that she coveted the feelings of warmth and protection Dalton engendered, and that frightened her. Whereas before she kept an eye out for sight of him to avoid him, this past week she found herself hoping first to see that glimpse of him. His kiss, which she often relived, added to the novel feeling of pleasant warmth that trickled through her blood at the memory. A truth she had not once allowed herself to dwell on—but now broke free.
Hidden fire singed her face, welcome in its heat but not in the recollection it incurred, and she forced herself to think of dour facts.
Dalton was the antithesis of safety. His life—his very character—steeped in secrets and scandal, and she wanted nothing more of scandals!
Lost in thought, Myrna did not heed the thrumming of hoofbeats at once. She whirled around to see a lone rider headed s
traight for her. Horror kept her fixed, her heart seeming to leap to her throat before she possessed the presence of mind to dart out of the way. In her haste, she stumbled and fell to the damp soil, using her hands to save her fall. From her horizontal position on the ground, she watched in terror as a huge black stallion reared up on hind legs, almost unseating its rider, who somehow managed to get his beast under control and calmed.
Pushing herself up to sit, Myrna lifted her eyes to see Dalton hurry toward her.
“Are you hurt?” he bit out in concern.
Dazed, she shook her head and allowed him to help her up, relying fully on his strength, since her legs trembled badly from the near miss.
Once she was on her feet, his demeanor changed. Holding her by the upper arms, he gave her a firm shake. “What in blazes are you doing in the middle of the road in the pitch-black of night? In that dark cloak, I couldn’t see you. You could have been trampled to death!”
Remorse and embarrassment caused her to swing loose from his grasp.
“I was taking a walk.”
“In the rain? In the night?” He posed the questions in sheer disbelief as if she were daft. “Did you dream you were a thirsty bat?”
She frowned. “The path leads directly to the house. I couldn’t get lost if I tried. It didn’t start raining till now.”
“I refuse to stand here in what could become a downpour and argue semantics with you. Come.” He took hold of her arm, turning toward his horse.
“I can walk.” She held back, though she didn’t try to break free this time, but he forced her along as if thinking she might.
“I’ve never heard such folderol! It’s cold and wet and dark. You’ll ride back with me.”
She was given no choice—a common theme with Dalton, she had found—as he lifted her to the saddle. It wasn’t her first time on a horse, but under such circumstances she felt as if it might as well be, and sat awkwardly in place.
He swung up behind her and took the reins. Feeling engulfed by the sensation of warmth, to be so close to this overpowering man who had occupied her thoughts for weeks, Myrna grew light-headed. He slipped one strong arm around her middle, holding her to him to keep her on his mount, but the act had the opposite effect, causing her to feel suddenly weak inside. Sure she would fall, she clutched the horse’s mane more tightly as they took off at a brisk pace.
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