For the first time in my life I would spend the night away from my family and anything familiar. Apprehension tightened a knot inside me.
“Not the ’alf of it,” Bridget said in response. “She ’as plenty of money in the ’ousehold budget to ’ire another scullery maid, too. She’s just a wantin’ to see me struggle. I’ve thought about quitin’ and takin’ me brother and mother to join Flora.”
Turning from the window, I focused my attention on Bridget. “Didn’t you just say you don’t know where she is?”
Bridget sat up, a frown creasing her freckled forehead. “I don’t, but I suspect she’ll write to me from London shortly. She’ll send a letter to the church. Her man promised to write for ’er. She’s goin’ to be a famous singer, she is. He’s promised her a part in a play, earning twice a week’s salary in a day.”
“Then she went to London with someone from here? What is his name?” Moving over to the washstand, I poured a dab of water into the basin and wet my silk handkerchief, washing my face. After twelve hours of scrubbing the castle and working in the steamy kitchens, dirt and grime increased the discomfort of my wool dress. I was desperate for a bath.
“Don’t know his surname and I ain’t too sure ’e’s from ’ere. She kept it secret, so I’m thinkin’ ’e was a bit above us, iffen ya know what I mean. Gentry most likely.” Her voice lowered. “Or clergy. She called ’im Jack. In two weeks’ time she fell in love and up and moved. He’s the best thing that has ever ’appened to ’er, as sad and upset as she was.”
Bridget’s story bothered me. “Why was she sad? When did she leave for London?”
“I’m only supposing it’s London. It could ’ave been Paris. Imagine that.” She beamed at the idea, her blue eyes sparkling. “It’s been about two weeks, now. Miss Mary drowning ’ad us all upset. That was a sad day, I tell ya. The eve of May Day it was and Flora took the death especially ’ard. Mary was teachin’ Flora to speak and sing proper, she was.”
My pulse pounded in my ears and I had to force myself to breathe and act no more than mildly curious. “A woman drowned? What happened?”
“Odd thing that was. Mary and the poor wee one—ya don’t know about Rebecca yet. She’s blind. We all think she’s the Killdaren’s child since Miss Prudence and Rebecca live ’ere. Not that Miss Prudence ’as never said who Rebecca’s father is, mind ya, but that’s another story. As I said, Miss Mary and the wee one went on a picnic. ’ours later, the wee one comes back drenched in seawater and covered with sand, crying for her Mary. Stuart found the picnic blanket and Mary’s boots and basket up o’er the dunes, nigh coming close to being pulled out to sea themselves. Mary was a one always teachin’ and the wee one can be wild. I’m thinkin’ Mary drowned either teachin’ the wee one to swim, or savin’ the wee one from drownin’. Won’t never know for sure, though. The wee one goes mad every time she ’ears Mary’s name, screams for days and won’t talk.”
My head spun. I covered my face with my silk handkerchief, quietly dabbing at the tears welling in my eyes and pressing my fingers against them to stem more tears from falling. Was it all as simple as that? Had Mary drowned saving the child? I didn’t believe for a minute that Mary had been teaching the child to swim, but I could readily believe she would have gone into the ocean to save a child, just as she had for me.
“Ya all right, Cassie? We need to ’urry or we’ll miss the dinner we worked so ’ard to make.” Bridget touched my shoulder and I nearly jumped from my skin again.
“Yes.” I swallowed the lump of emotion lodged in my throat and snatched the cloth from my face. Exhaustion suddenly weighed upon me. I ached from my fingers to my toes and all I wanted was a bath and to crawl into bed and cry. Having finally heard a plausible reason why Mary would have gone into the sea, my heart wanted to grieve. Instead, I had to keep up pretenses, eat, talk and act as if everything was fine. Before going down, I slipped the pheasant shell into my pocket from where I had placed it under my pillow.
At the huge oak table by the hearth in the second kitchen, I met some of the household servants, and thankfully, learned that Mrs. Frye and the upper servants, except for Mr. and Mrs. Murphy, always dined first. Already too many names and faces blurred before me, though there were surprisingly few servants considering the vastness of the castle and its grounds; but as Bridget explained, with no visitors an army of servants wasn’t needed.
I had my back to the warm fire and ate what I knew should be a delicious venison stew, but I couldn’t taste a thing. My heart was caught up with visions of Mary being swept out to sea and I had to force myself to focus on the people around me. Even though I may have already found an answer to what happened to her, I still needed to be sure.
Mrs. Murphy had a jovial plumpness that directly opposed Mrs. Frye’s prickly, bony nature, and Mr. Murphy, an even plumper and jollier version of his wife, held the position of head butler. He seemed utterly out of character to what I imagined a proper butler for such a rich manor would be. In addition to Stuart, Mrs. Frye had another son named Jamie, who dwarfed everyone in the room. He had yet to say a word, but kept staring at me, making me uncomfortable.
Stuart hadn’t helped either. He began the evening winking at me and flirting almost as outrageously as he had at the back door yesterday, but the longer his brother kept staring at me, Stuart’s expression turned troubled and he stopped flirting. The odd situation had me fiddling with my hair and brushing my cheeks with the back of my hand, wondering if something about my appearance was amiss.
It wasn’t just my imagination, either. Bridget sent funny looks toward Jamie and Stuart which neither of them noticed. Finally, I pulled my mob cap lower and tried to ignore them.
Two other housemaids, sisters named Janet and Adele Oaks, were the only other women present. Dark haired, with a smidgen of gray at their temples, they desperately needed to wear fichus, for their bosoms nearly spilled from their dresses every time they leaned forward to flirt outrageously with Stuart Frye, Will and Simon, men who worked the stables and grounds.
Besides Jamie staring at me and the eye-opening familiarity between the sexes, the lively banter during dinner was like a family meal in the Andrews home and made me long for my sisters.
“I’ll tell ya, we’ve got nothin’ out of them fancy laws and stuff. It’s a cryin’ shame when a pint o’ ale will buy ya a life of ’ell. Tom Dickens found a shilling in his ale, and when he fished it out, they carried him to the ship,” Will said.
“They took the McGary brothers with the same trick,” Stuart said.
“What are they talking about?” I whispered to Bridget.
“Press-gangs,” she said. “Men are up and disappearing from the docks and being forced to serve the Queen’s navy by trickery. Officers plop a king’s shillin’ in a tankard and when the surprised fool who’s a drinkin’ takes it out, they chain ’em to a ship. The officials are claimin’ it’s all legal ’cause the man had the money in his hand, right? It’s the kiss o’ death from the sea, iffen ya ask me, toilin’ day ’n and day out, battling storms and pirates. Some even say a winsome woman or two ’ave disappeared that way.”
“To serve on a ship?”
“Ack no! They force the women to give favors to the men, iffen ya know what I mean. The women lure the men from the safety of the pub, and when they’re naked and distracted the women cosh ’em and have ’em carted to the ship.”
My stomach roiled. I knew the world to be cruel, but such vileness shocked me. Thoughts of my own aches and discomfort lost importance. Glancing about the table, I shuddered, wondering if Mary could be at some pub forced to lure men and give favors just to stay alive. “I thought press-gangs had been outlawed.”
“That’s what Will was sayin’. Fancy laws don’t buy us folk anythin’ but more misery. Instead of just stealin’ ’em off the streets, they now trick ’em with their ale. It’s a maggot filled barrel of rot that a man can’t ’ave a pint without worryin’ about his life.”
I studied the men
and women at the table, wondering about their lives and the perils they faced with no real hope of legal recourse. Their conversation drifted to horse racing and the weather, and my shock dulled beneath the exhaustion weighing down my every muscle. My eyes drooped and my own discomforts soon clamored as loudly as before. I ached. Grime covered me from head to toe, and I still had hours of sewing to do in order to have my uniform ready for the next day.
The meal was nearly over, and I thought to escape unnoticed back to my room when Jamie Frye slammed his fist on the table, making everyone jump in surprise as dishes and mugs rattled.
“How…can…ye all do it?” He spoke very slowly as if each word were a mountain to be scaled before being spoken. “Ye…act as if…she never was!” He pointed a finger directly at me and said, “She…could…die tonight…disappear from her bed, and ye wouldn’t care.”
Shocked at his violence, I leaned back from the table, fighting the urge to flee as fast as my heart raced.
Everyone sat stunned and disturbingly silent.
“It’s all right, Jamie.” Stuart Frye finally rose and walked very slowly to his brother, as if Jamie were a wild predator. “We all miss Mary. Her death was an accident that saddens us all.”
“No…no…no! It wasn’t,” Jamie shouted, standing up so fast and so forcefully that he toppled the bench over backward, sending everyone on it to the floor before he thundered out the door. Vibrations from the heavy wood slamming shut, shivered down my spine.
My shock must have been evident, because a second later Stuart Frye stood at my side, his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Miss Cassie. I shouldn’t have made my brother come tonight. It’s your hair that upset him, I’m afraid.”
“My hair?” I asked, so stunned that I didn’t even pull away from the familiarity of his touch.
“It’s golden, not unlike Mary’s was.” He frowned and leaned closer, as if studying my features.
“A common color, I would think,” I replied, gathering my wits. Jamie’s denial that Mary’s death was an accident continued to ring in my ears just as loudly as the immensity of his size and strength shouted at me to be very wary.
“Saint’s in ’eaven. I ’aven’t seen Jamie this upset since ya came back with Mary’s basket and boots the day she died,” Bridget said to Stuart.
“I need to go find Jamie. You’ll be all right, miss?”
Bridget brushed Stuart’s hand from my shoulder, surprising me. I’d forgotten it was there. “Of course, she will, Stuart Frye. And ye need’t be taking advantage of ’er innocence, either. As if Mary wasn’t enough for ya.”
I thought it Divine Providence that I had my bottom planted firmly on a bench, or I might have fainted. Mary and Stuart Frye?
Stuart glared at Bridget for a long, uncomfortable moment. “I wouldn’t be spreading rumors about the dead if I were you.” He spoke softly, but the anger behind his words rang as loudly as his brother’s outburst.
Bridget snubbed her shoulder his way as she turned protectively to me and Stuart Frye left. “Janet and Adele will clean the kitchens for us tonight since ya ’ave a good bit of sewing to do. Come along, and I’ll ’elp. Before midnight we’ll ’ave your uniform ready for the morn.”
“Thank you.” I forced a smile, no easy task considering the turmoil of questions roiling inside of me.
It was exactly midnight when we finished sewing my uniform and I could thankfully slip off the rough wool dress I’d worn all day. The first thing I did was to try and rid myself of the feel of grime. Bridget shook her head amusedly at my bathing attempt with the water basin and my handkerchief, then rolled her eyes when I explained I’d not be able to sleep unless refreshed.
She had no such qualms. Having already had her spring bath, she’d wait for summer. After washing her hands and face, she crawled into bed wearing her chemise and went promptly to sleep. I gingerly soothed areas of tenderness on my skin and hands with rose and milk cream. The scent evoked so many memories of home that tears stung my eyes when I slid on my soft cotton nightdress. I crawled onto the lumpy cot, exhausted beyond the point of even yearning for anything but sleep. But my mind wouldn’t let me rest. It raced through the events of the day, ending with Jamie Frye’s outburst. She could die tonight, disappear from her bed and ye wouldn’t care.
For some reason, I couldn’t accept the explanation that Mary drowned saving Rebecca. Not yet. Not that Mary wouldn’t have done such a thing, but because the cloud of tension surrounding me told me something else. Someone was hiding something about Mary’s death. Rising, I stuffed my father’s pistol beneath my pillow and read several articles from a crime publication by the light of a candle. Then on the margin of the paper, I wrote Sean Killdaren’s name down and after a moment added the names of all the men at the castle as well as my impressions of them. I had to make a suspect list and gathering my thoughts on paper would help.
Now that I’d made investigative progress, I thought I’d be able to sleep. But as soon as I shut my eyes, I popped them wide open.
What had happened to Mary’s personal belongings? Her sketchbook, her paintings of the sea, her diary and her pheasant shell? I had to ask Aunt Lavinia as soon as I could.
Once more, I tried to settle beneath the covers, but couldn’t relax on the lumpy bed. I strained to hear every sound, wary of what might happen if I fell asleep. The castle creaked and groaned, the sea crashed against the shore, and Bridget snored, a sound so unladylike that I cringed even as I found comfort in it. If she could sleep so soundly, then my fears of the night had to be childish, right?
I must have fallen asleep because when I first heard a low, moaning cry, I thought Mary was calling to me in a dream as she had before. The sound grew insistently louder until I realized I wasn’t dreaming and the screeching was coming from outside.
Rushing to the window, I saw the glass roof of the gargoyle-guarded building glow like an eerie sun. That’s were the sound was coming from. As I stared with my heart pounding, the noise suddenly died.
What had it been? Had it been a woman crying for help? Then the light from the building flickered wildly, as if a huge moth had been pinned over a flame and someone stood watching it flutter in helpless torment.
Had I truly heard moaning screams? I went to Bridget and shook her awake. She blinked at me, clearly confused. “Whot? Who are ya?”
“It’s Cassie. Come look, there is something strange outside.” I pulled her to the window.
She stood quiet for a moment, blinked several times, then looked at me. “Whot?”
“Don’t you see the light from the gargoyle building? I heard a terrible moaning, as if, well, as if it might have been a woman in pain or crying for help.”
“Ack, t’was nuthing but the wind. She can make ya think someone’s dying, and there’s no light now. Must ’ave been the Killdaren. ’e’s a strange one, up all night, sleeps all day. Makes ya wonder what ’e does when everyone’s a sleeping. Times like this make ya think that ’im being a vampire is more than just a rumor.” Bridget crawled back into her bed, settling into her covers like a babe into the arms of a mother. “Best get to sleep and not speak of ’im. Morning’ll be ’ere before ya know it.”
I peered outside again. The round room sat darkly shrouded again. No screeching rent the night. Only the rhythm of the waves’ ebb and flow disturbed the quiet now. The urge to sneak downstairs and to learn exactly what was in the round chamber grabbed at me so strongly I had to clench my fists to be practical and prudent and stay put. I didn’t know enough about the castle to search through it alone, and I couldn’t ask Bridget, for if we were caught, she could lose her post and her livelihood.
“You’re right.” I nearly choked on the words as I crawled beneath my thin blanket and huddled there, my body aching. I tried to find some measure of reassurance, but the metal of the pistol beneath my pillow left me cold. I kept hearing Mary call to me and my mind dwelled on the Killdaren. What had he been doing tonight?
As much as I wanted t
o know, I also faced the fact that I wouldn’t be leaving my bed. And in all honesty, prudence and practicality had very little to do with that decision. I was too frightened to venture out. Surely all of my practical inclinations in my life didn’t stem from fear?
Chapter Four
“Cassie, time’s a wasting. You’ll miss the morning meal iffen ya don’t ’urry along.”
It seemed as if I’d just shut my eyes when Bridget shook me. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was, then everything flooded back to me and I groaned as I moved.
“We’ve less than five minutes. I’ve been trying to wake ya, I ’ave, but ya’ve been sleeping like the dead ’cept for your snorin’.”
My aches lost importance; I sat straight up, shocked. “Snores? Did you say I snore?”
Bridget pulled her mob cap on then frowned at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Ya don’t ’ave to sound so flabbergasted.”
“I’m not.” Appalled more aptly described my feelings. “I just never associated myself with the habit.”
“Ya ’ave such a funny notion about ya self. What with all the bathin’ and a no snorin’. I woke thinkin’ I’d wandered into a rose garden during the night, the way ye’ve dolled yourself up to smell good. Best git movin’. Mrs. Frye don’t tolerate tardiness none.”
Scooting from the bed, I barely had time to slip the pistol under the bedding and to stuff my hair sufficiently beneath my mob cap before Bridget declared it was time to go.
Both Jamie and Stuart were absent from the breakfast table, and Mrs. Frye seemed sterner than she had before. She delegated the day’s tasks in clipped commands accompanied by dire threats of unemployment and reduced wages if her wishes weren’t carried out immediately.
“Bet she got an earful of last night’s going on,” Bridget whispered.
Midnight Secrets Page 4