Fiona

by Meredith Moore

  “Did someone tell you that Alice and I are together?” Gareth asks, standing up.

  “Yes,” I confess, though I don’t tell him it was Poppy, so I can pretend that I’m not breaking her trust.

  “Well, we’re not. We used to be.”

  “What happened?”

  He shrugs. “Didn’t fit,” he says, like it’s so simple.

  “And what does she think about that?” I ask.

  He looks away, and I have my answer. I can’t keep this flirtation up. I’m not even truly into him, and he’s not worth losing my tentative friendship with Alice.

  “Yeah, well, look, I’ve got to go. Can you send Poppy inside when she gets back?”

  He nods slowly and sits back down on the bench when I leave him.

  I start to head to the house, but the thought of going back there, to the cold air and Mabel’s disapproving scowl, makes me feel like I can’t breathe. Instead, I let my feet lead me out beyond the stables, into the lush fields of grass. Poppy won’t come back until she’s good and ready, and I can talk with her then.

  The wind lashes violently around me, and I wrap my arms around myself, pushing on. I wander around the castle, staying in this orbit so I don’t get lost. The mud and bracken squelch beneath my tennis shoes. The afternoon fades into evening, the sun slipping behind the mountains. The air grows colder, unfriendlier, as the fog rolls in. This place is harsh, suited only for people with rugged souls and weathered faces. Or people like the Moffats, who are wealthy enough to build a fortress and surround themselves with soft, warm things.

  My mother could have had that kind of shelter here. It was the life she was destined for, before she abandoned it all for my father.

  Would she have lived if she hadn’t followed that mad love and instead stayed here and married Lord Harold, like she was supposed to? Would she have had people to care for her without judgment, to make sure she was on her medication and didn’t harm herself? People who would have helped her more than I did?

  There’s another letter in the secret box in my closet. An email, from Lily to my mother, which Mom had printed out and saved, that I found after she died. It was well worn, as if my mother had read it and reread it hundreds of times. It was dated three months after I was born, long after my dad left us.

  I’ll keep your secrets, Lily wrote. I promise that I won’t tell your parents anything you tell me. But you have to let me know how you’re doing. I want you to know you can trust me and that you can always tell me anything.

  Even though Mom’s own parents ignored her in the years before they died, Lily never did. She cared about my mother, and it meant so much to her that she printed out that email and read it over and over, the way I do with her note telling me she would always love me.

  I sigh. Dusk has fallen. “The witching hour,” Poppy called it. I feel as if the fog and my dark thoughts will consume me if I give them the chance. I need to head back before I’m late for dinner, but now I’m actually looking forward to being inside.

  The fog is so thick that I can barely see. I hold my hands out as if I can feel my way through the air, stepping carefully so that I don’t slip on the rocks or the wet grass below. There’s a snap of a branch to my right, and I freeze. Hold my breath. The evening around me is still again. “Hello?” I whisper.

  There’s a rustle. Or did I imagine it? A quiver runs down my spine.

  And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see movement—a dark shadow, disappearing into the fog.

  I yelp, and my feet are moving before I even realize it. I’m running toward the hazy outline of the castle, breaking through well-ordered shrubs in my mad dash.

  I stop when I reach a gnarled tree in the immediate castle yard. I lean against it, taking deep gulps of breath.

  What did I just see? It was—it looked almost like a person. A woman, with long hair. Was someone out here with me? Was someone watching me?

  No, I tell myself firmly. It was nothing. Just some animal, or a trick of the fog, and I overreacted.

  Poppy’s tales of the Grey Lady and the witching hour must have really gotten into my head. Because that rustle—I swear it sounded like the swish of a long skirt.

  I think of my mother’s tales of the bean nighe, a type of banshee. In the legends, she washes the clothes of those about to die, foretelling their doom. She can be an old hag or a stunningly beautiful young woman, whichever she pleases, and seeing her is a portent of impending death. I used to think those stories, which Mom would whisper to me in the dark, were wonderfully terrifying. But then she had an episode and thought she saw a bean nighe washing her clothes in the middle of an Austin street. She said she saw a beautiful woman in a long dress, her gaze locked on Mom as she wrung the blood from her grave clothes. Mom raved that she could see the cold gleam in the woman’s eyes, hear the rustle of her skirt, above all the street noise.

  I straighten up against the tree, shaking my head at myself and laughing a little. I certainly didn’t just see a bean nighe, or a ghost, or anything. A squirrel, probably, or a fox, or whatever they have here. Nothing to get upset about. I should just forget it. That would be the normal thing to do.

  I set my shoulders back and march toward the door.

  CHAPTER 5

  When I reach the house, I find Alice running through the hallways in a frenzy. “What’s going on?” I call to her, but she waves me off as she bolts up the main staircase. Whatever it is, it must be important enough for her to break protocol.

  I hurry to the kitchen, where Mrs. Mackenzie is flitting from the stove to the ovens and back again. “What happened?” I ask.

  “Charlie’s back two days early, that’s what happened,” she says, her voice almost a yell as she slams a pot down on the range. “And now it’s all a-scramble to make sure everything’s ready for him. I suggest you stay out of Mabel’s way tonight, if you know what’s good for you.”

  I take her advice immediately, hurrying up the staircase and checking the hallway outside before scurrying down to the library. If I have to hide, I’d prefer to hide with a good book. I don’t know who I’m more afraid of running into: Mabel or Charlie.

  Once I’m safe in the library, I stand over the piano, trailing my fingers across the tops of the keys as I try to calm my rapidly rising breath. I bet he doesn’t even remember me. I was just some random girl who was rude to him. A girl with an American accent who showed up in a tiny town unused to strangers. Sure. No way he remembers me.

  I groan.

  “Do you play?”

  I whirl around to find the guy from the pub, tall with tousled red-brown hair, leaning against the doorway. His eyes seem unnaturally bright as they watch me.

  “You,” I breathe out.

  “Me,” he answers simply.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, realizing how ridiculous I sound even as the words leave my mouth.

  He must see that realization on my face, because he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he offers me a smile that suggests genuine amusement.

  I feel a blush spread over my face, and I look back to the piano to hide it. “I mean, no, I don’t play. I used to. A long time ago.”

  “Sorry,” he says, stepping closer to me. “I should probably do the gentlemanly thing and introduce myself. I’m Charlie.”

  I turn to him and take his outstretched hand. His skin is a bit rough, unlike what I would have expected of a boy who grew up in this kind of house. He smiles again, as if he can tell what I’m thinking, and I feel all of the breath leave my body. Because his eyes aren’t icy at all. They’re a warm shade of green, bright as the first shoots of grass in spring.

  “Fee,” I say finally, much too late. “My name’s Fee.”

  “The new governess.”

  “Au pair,” I correct before I can stop myself. I bite my lip.

  Charlie’s smile fades a bit, becomes s
ofter. “My mum liked to say au pair instead of governess. She thought it sounded more sophisticated.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  He watches me, those warm green eyes intent on mine. “Poppy told me you lost your mother, too.”

  I nod, breaking my gaze from his. “I know there’s nothing anyone can say that can make you feel better. Or isn’t awkward or annoying.”

  “Yeah, I’m starting to get that.” He runs a hand across the top of the piano, his eyes following its progress. We both watch it, the seconds slipping past us.

  “I’m sorry I was rude to you,” I burst out when I can’t stand the silence anymore. “At the pub, I mean.”

  He looks up, surprised. “I’m sorry I stared at you,” he says. And he does look sorry. Even though he’s staring at me now, so intently that I feel my cheeks start to flame.

  He drops his gaze, finally, then glances at the door. “Come on, dinner should be ready soon.”

  “Oh, I think I’m supposed—I mean, I think Mabel expects me to eat with the servants now that you’re back.”

  Charlie studies me for a moment. I feel as if he can see every ounce of insecurity within me, and I want to look away. But I can’t. How does he do that?

  “Mabel has some outdated ideas about how this house should be run,” he says finally. “You’ll eat with Poppy and me. If you don’t mind.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t mind.”

  His smile is back, and it makes my breath catch in my throat. “Good, come on, then.” He turns and walks out of the room, clearly expecting me to follow.

  We walk into the dining room to find Mabel setting the table. She looks up at me, a mixture of surprise and scandal on her face. I lift my chin and stare right back at her, and her surprise morphs quickly into a glare.

  “Set an extra place, would you, Mabs?” Charlie asks as he settles into his chair. “Fee is going to be joining us for dinner from now on.”

  “Of course, Lord Moffat,” Mabel says, her voice pleasantly soft. I have to bite back a smile.

  Once she’s hustled out of the room, I turn back to Charlie. “She’s going to spit in my food,” I whisper. “And maybe yours, for arranging this.”

  “No she won’t,” he says with a smile. “She loves me, and she cares too much about being the perfect housekeeper to spit in anyone’s food, no matter how much she hates them.”

  “I don’t know what I did to make her hate me,” I say, examining the door Mabel just disappeared behind.

  “She’s a peculiar bird,” Charlie answers. “She’ll warm up to you in time.” When I raise my eyebrows at him, he nearly laughs. “Okay, maybe not.” Mabel hurries back in with an extra setting of china and silver, sets it up, and hurries out again.

  I sink into the chair across from Charlie. The head and foot of the table are conspicuously bare.

  “You’ve met Charlie, then?” says Poppy, entering the room and settling down in the chair next to me. I raise my eyebrows at her with a sardonic smile. I know Gareth didn’t drive her back to school for me to pick her up, so he must have told her that her ditching school hadn’t gone unnoticed. She sends me an apologetic smile in return.

  “Yes,” Charlie says softly, and I can feel his eyes on me, ready to capture mine. I refuse to look at him. He’s got me on edge, hyperaware of his presence, and I don’t know what to make of it.

  I fix Poppy with a knowing look and say, “You’ve been up in your room for hours now. How’s the math homework going?”

  She nods, picking up on the fact that I’m providing her with an alibi and that I won’t tell Charlie she skipped school today. As long as it doesn’t happen again, at least. “Slowly,” she says. “But I think I’m almost done.”

  “Want me to take a look at it?” Charlie asks, grabbing one of the rolls that Mabel brings out with the dinner plates.

  “No,” Poppy answers lightly. “Fee’s better at explaining it to me than you are.”

  He scoffs, and I try not to gape at the unexpected praise. “I’m brilliant at maths!” Charlie protests.

  “Yeah, so brilliant that I never understand a word you’re saying,” Poppy teases.

  A smile stretches across his face to echo hers. “It’s good to see you smile again,” he says softly.

  I look down at my plate, trying to shrink away from the private moment they’re sharing. It’s easy to tell how much Charlie loves his sister: His entire demeanor changed the moment she walked into the room, turning from intense and slightly dark to bright and charismatic. I don’t know what to make of him, but I can’t deny that he’s clearly a loving brother.

  It’s disarming.

  The rest of dinner—overcooked meat and potatoes, apparently Charlie’s favorite—passes rather smoothly, with Charlie asking Poppy questions about school and Copperfield and her friends. Her best girl friends are named Natalie and Imogen, but when Charlie asks how they’re doing, Poppy just shrugs. “Fine, I guess,” she says. “We don’t have any classes together this year, so I just see them at lunch.”

  “What about inviting them over here for a sleepover or something?” Charlie suggests. “Like you used to.”

  Poppy shrugs again. “Maybe,” she says, but she sounds anything but excited about the idea.

  For dessert, Mabel brings out cranachan, a tower of oats, whipped cream, heather honey, raspberries, and “just a touch of whisky,” as Mabel assures Charlie as she places one before Poppy. Each one is served in a little glass, and Mabel sets mine down just a bit harder than necessary.

  Charlie digs right into his, shoving a big spoonful in his mouth. “Delicious, Mabs,” he says with a nod to her. “Tell Mrs. Mackenzie that I couldn’t find anything like her cranachan in Glasgow, and I missed it.”

  I notice Poppy scowl down at her glass at his words, but Charlie seems oblivious. He looks to me, beaming. “Ever had cranachan before?”

  I’m about to answer that my mother always tried to make it for my birthday, when she could afford the ingredients, when Poppy interjects, “Dad always tried to work from home so he didn’t have to go to Glasgow so much.”

  Charlie’s smile drops, and his jaw tightens. “I told you, I had to go in person to show the board I’m ready to take over the company.”

  “Right,” she says, rolling her eyes.

  “I know you’re mad,” he says, his voice low. “But you don’t understand what’s happening in the newspaper industry. You don’t understand what it’s like being a grown-up.”

  I almost wince. He couldn’t have picked more perfectly condescending words to enrage an eleven-year-old girl if he’d tried.

  Poppy grits her teeth. “You just couldn’t wait to leave,” she spits out. “You don’t want to be here with me.” Before he can answer, she pushes her chair back from the table violently, throwing her napkin down and stomping out of the room.

  I glance at Charlie. His eyes are closed, his jaw clenched. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Lately my sister and I can’t spend much time together without flying at each other’s throats.” He sighs. “I would have been right bealing if my dad said something like that to me, though, I guess.” By his tone when he says it, I’m assuming “bealing” means furious. “Can’t help making a mess of things,” he adds, almost to himself.

  I consider saying something comforting, something along the lines of “She’ll get over it” or “This kind of thing is always hard,” but when I open my mouth, a question I was never intending to ask comes flying out. “Why were you at the pub the night I came in?” I’ve been wondering this since I discovered who he was. He was supposed to be on a train to Glasgow. Why had he stayed?

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says, staring out the door after his sister.

  I look down at my half-empty cranachan glass, horrified that I asked him such a personal question. He’s my boss, I remind myself. I should keep my mo
uth shut, no matter how curious I am. No matter how disarming he is.

  But instead of getting angry, he changes the subject. “Do you have any siblings?” he asks, turning to me.

  “No.”

  “So when your mum died, you were all alone.”

  The empathy in his tone makes my chest constrict, tears threatening to build in my eyes. I bite the inside of my cheek and nod.

  “I should go check on her,” he says after a small silence.

  I nearly jump out of my chair, the legs scraping harshly along the stone floor. “I’ll do it.”

  He sighs. “Yeah. Probably better.”

  I hurry out of the dining room without looking at him.

  Mabel is on the other side of the door, glowering at me as I hurry past her. As if it’s my fault her welcome-home-Charlie dinner has been ruined.

  Enough. I’ve had enough of that woman’s simmering disapproval. If nothing I do is right, I might as well just do what I want. I march defiantly up the main staircase to Poppy’s room.

  I knock at her door, but there’s no answer. When I press my ear to the heavy wood, I can just barely hear the sound of muffled sobbing. I try the knob, but it’s locked. “Poppy?” I call out. “It’s me. Can you let me in?”

  “Go away!” Her yell comes through clearly enough.

  As much as I don’t want to, I think back to those weeks after my mother died. I was angry, scared, and lonely, forced to move away from everything I knew, losing all sense of home. What would I have wanted to hear then? I take a deep breath. “For me, the worst part was feeling alone,” I say through the door. “So I’m going to be here, on the other side of this door, until you feel like opening it. I’ll be right here. Okay?”

  She doesn’t respond, which I’ll take as a good sign. So I settle down onto the cold wood floor, my back against the wall and my knees up to my chest, and wait.

  I wait for almost an hour until the muffled sobbing dies down, and then I hear the floorboards creak and finally the click of the lock. She opens the door slowly and stares down at me for a moment, her eyes red and puffy. Then she closes the door behind her and sinks down beside me.