by Clara Cody
She sent a glare Charles' way before grabbing the woven basket by Stephanie's feet, who jumped out of the way and stormed out the back door. Stephanie watched as she stomped towards the hen house.
"I suppose no one's told you about Tilly."
Reluctantly, she turned back around to find Charles staring at her intensely.
He went on, not waiting for a response. "Tilly was the previous maid. About your age." He took another bite of the apple and wiped a dribble of juice from his lips. "She didn't last very long either."
"What happened to her?" she asked, her voice quiet. Like a mouse.
"This house happened. You know, some houses are built for comfort, some for shelter. But this house, it's built to last." He moved to the doorway. His hand slid up the rich, dark wood of the frame. "It's strong. A force that crushes anything and everything weak and unstable in its wake." He looked back at her. "It's not a good place for someone like you."
She broke the eye contact to look down at her feet. She hated herself for it. For looking away. For having to look away. But what else could she do?
He gave a satisfied sniff. The heel of his boot scraped the floor as he turned.
"I'm not as weak as you think."
He stopped. "For your sake, I hope not."
There wasn't enough wood for a fire in every room, or so Maggie said. Half the rooms were cold and the other half freezing. She stood in the salon, a great, spacious room with the biggest fireplace that she'd ever laid eyes on in the back wall. Enormous, but empty and dark. There was something unnatural about a dark fireplace. There should be light, and life-giving warmth. But it was just cold and dark gray stone.
Her muscles, back, neck, almost everything ached after being cold so long. Her muscles constantly tensed, trying to keep the chill at bay. But there was nothing for it. If there wasn't wood, there wasn't wood. Like her father used to say, no use whining over things that can't be.
She went to the fireplace and picked a photograph off the mantel, flicking the dust away with the feather duster. Hmmm, she thought. That's better. You can see their faces now. A black and white picture with a young Mrs. Callowell standing next to a man. He was young, mildly handsome, with a thick, dark mustache. Stephanie never could have imagined it, but Mrs. Callowell was beautiful once. Even happy, perhaps. She wondered at what might have driven away the calm tranquil look on the lady's face, leaving only the severity. And who's this man? Her husband?
Stephanie's eyes moved up to the ceiling. All had been quiet since that first day. She hadn't heard a peep from the mysterious man in the East Wing. Maybe he was getting better.
A sharp knock rang out, startling her. Someone was at the front door. She fumbled with the picture frame, almost dropping it, but caught it at the last moment. She positioned the heavy, silver frame in its proper place and went to answer the door.
"Yes?" she said, squinting in the bright, warm sunlight.
A man in a brown suit and hat turned, smiling. "Good afternoon, Miss." He removed his hat. He stood very straight, his narrow shoulders squared and back. His dark blond hair was brushed back and thick with curls. A thin mustache curled upwards in a slight smile.
"Good day. I'm afraid Mrs. Callowell isn't here. She's gone into town."
"That's quite all right. I'm actually here to see you, Stephanie."
She took a step back, so she stood behind the door, her stomach balled into a tense knot. "You know my name? But I'm not anyone."
"I'm sorry, I'm being rather rude. I'm Theodore Bixley." When she didn't move or respond, he continued. "And yes, I know who you are. Or, rather, your name. I'm afraid I know little else. That's why I'm here."
"What do you want?" She didn't mean for it to sound like an accusation.
"Straight to business," he said, chuckling. "Quite right. I'm here on behalf of Mrs. Rebecca Burbank."
Stephanie's grip on the door tightened. The name was like a stab in her gut. "Why...what does she want with me?" She loosened her grip on the brass door handle and wiped a sweaty palm on the front of her dress.
Theodore opened his coat and pulled a narrow, leather bound notebook from his pocket. "I understand you used to work for Mrs. Burbank."
"Mr. Burbank hired me."
"Mmm hmm." He wrote something and looked back at her. "And how long did you work for them?"
"Umm," she said, pretending to think. Her heart thumped like a drum. She prayed he didn't notice the intense flush in her cheeks. "A few years. I suppose." She pulled her hands behind her back to hide their shaking.
"Why'd you leave?"
"What did you say this was about?"
"I didn't, actually," he said, smiling. "It seems Mrs. Burbank is missing her locket, a family heirloom. You cleaned her room, I'm sure you're more familiar with it than me."
Her locket? "That's not true."
"Beg your pardon?"
"I mean, I wasn't responsible for her room."
"Oh?" He glanced at his notes again. "She told me you were."
"She's mistaken." Liar.
"Well, she does have a rather large staff. I suppose mixing up a maid here and there is common."
Stephanie gripped her hands tightly behind her back. "Yes, we do all look alike," she said, looking down at her feet.
When she looked up again, he raised an eyebrow, as though not quite sure how to take her remark. "And did you leave on good terms with Mrs. Burbank?"
Stephanie was trembling now, understanding perfectly. If Mrs. Burbank sent him, he already knew the answer to that question. Furthermore, he should know that she would know that. The only reason he would ask such a question would be to see her reaction and response. She took a deep breath.
"Can I help you with something?" came a voice from the side.
She looked over to see Charles walking up alongside the house. His eyes darted between Theodore and Stephanie. The situation was getting worse by the moment. If Charles found out...if Mrs. Callowell found out, she'd be both out of a job and homeless. Why can't that woman just leave me be?
Theodore began turning his hat in his hands. "I'm just having a word with Miss Kitling, here. It won't take but a minute."
"What is this in regards to?" Charles asked, approaching quickly.
"For Miss Kitling's sake, I think that's better left between us."
Stephanie's heart picked up its pace. She retreated further behind the door, terrified they might hear her thumping heart. Go away! Please, just leave!
Charles looked from Theodore to Stephanie. She withdrew from his glance as much as from Theodore's questions. Charles looked Theodore up and down and crossed his arms, taking a step towards the man. "And who are you?"
"Theodore Bixley."
"Yes, but, what are you?"
"I'm a detective, sir."
"And under what authority are you questioning her?"
Theodore faltered momentarily. "I suppose, under my own."
"You aren't a police officer, then?"
"I'm a private investigator."
"Then she isn't bound by law to answer any of your questions?"
"No, but I—"
Stephanie bit her lip. Charles wasn't needling her or trying to humiliate her. He was actually helping, defending her. He was the last person she'd expect to come to her rescue.
"Very well," Charles said, stepping in front of him and brushing past Stephanie into the house. "A good day to you, sir." He shut the door before Theodore or Stephanie could say another word.
A relieved breath filled her lungs, but there wasn't time to enjoy it. Immediately after the door clicked shut, Charles spun around on her. "What did he want?" he said, grabbing Stephanie by the arm.
Any gratitude she might have harbored towards him shriveled away under his grasp. She inhaled quickly. "I don't—"
"Don't lie to me. What did he want?"
She tried to pull away, but he was too strong. "You're hurting me!"
He seemed to notice his hand on her arm for the first time. S
urprise showed in his eyes. He released his grip. "I'm sorry, I just..." He stepped back. "Fine, keep your secrets." He looked away, running his fingers through his dark hair. "But just know that Mrs. Callowell doesn't like people sniffing around asking questions."
"I'm sure it was nothing to do with Mrs. Callowell." She rubbing her arm where his hand had been. It did nothing to relieve the dull ache there.
"I'm sorry," he said, looking at her arm. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Well, you did."
He looked as though he was about to say something but stopped. A sudden darkness crossed his face as his brow furrowed. He turned and fled for the side staircase. He bounded upwards, taking the stairs two at a time as though he were fleeing something.
Or someone.
Stephanie rushed up to her bedroom. Once in the room, door closed, she dove for her pillow. Underneath, the gold locket remained, just where she'd left it. She snatched it up and held it close to her chest, closing her eyes tightly. Warm tears trickled between the creases of her eyelids.
"It's mine," she whispered. A promise. "She'll never get it back." I'll die before I let her touch it again.
About to put the locket back under her pillow, she thought better of it. The safest place for such a valuable article was on her person, where she could keep an eye on it. She pulled the chain over her head and tucked the locket under her uniform. The heavy pendant fell between her breasts, surprisingly cold against her skin. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself she'd done the right thing. It belonged with her, with family.
A soft noise from outside the door made her jump, grasping the locket through her dress. It sounded like footsteps. Her pulse quickened. Slowly, she crept towards the door. Pressing an ear against the door, she listened as another footstep fell in the hallway. It was probably Maggie, coming to look for her, she told herself, unconvincingly. The sounds of labored breathing seeped through the door.
She grasped the door knob. Quickly, she thought. She jumped back, throwing open the door. She gasped at what she saw. A look down either side of the hallway confirmed it.
There was no one there.
Chapter Five
Stephanie
"GIVE ME A HAND WITH the garden?" Maggie asked. She held a basket out for Stephanie to take, which she did with a smile.
Stephanie still had to polish the silverware, but she liked helping Maggie, who was so warm and friendly. It had been years since Stephanie had someone like her to talk to.
"The last of the tomatoes are going fast," she explained, as they walked out into the sunshine. "Beans are ready, too." The warm sun felt sweet and soothing on her face. She knew she was risking freckles turning towards it, but it was worth it. Inside the manor was starting to feel like a cave or a prison.
Thud-whack.
Thud-whack.
Charles stood beyond the garden, cutting firewood at an old tree stump. Dark locks of wavy hair fell about his face. He had discarded his shirt on the ground not far from where the logs were landing when cut. His chest was broad and muscular, dripping with sweat. The muscles in his arms rippled as he swung the ax over head, bringing it down on the logs. Stephanie swallowed hard.
"You start with those tomatoes. Be careful 'cause they'll be on the soft side."
Charles looked up at the sound of Maggie's voice, catching her staring. Stephanie felt her face turn as red as the tomatoes that hung fat and ripe from the vines. Hurrying over to the vines, she knelt down in the soil then glanced over her shoulder. Charles watched her, an unreadable look on his face. Her mouth went dry. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his arm, the other one hanging loosely at his side with the ax.
She looked away quickly and after a breathless moment the thud-whack of the ax started up again.
Just do your work, she told herself. Or, Maggie's work in this case. The thought made her smile. It was nice to be outside in the sunlight for a change. Perhaps she would ask Maggie if she could teach her about gardening next spring. She could help plant and pull weeds. There'd never been much need for plants or gardening in the city.
"What's that you're humming?" Maggie called from across the garden where she was picking string beans.
"Just a song," she answered. "My father used to sing it to me in the mornings."
"It sounds familiar."
"It shouldn't be; my mother wrote it."
"A musician, was she?"
"No, just a maid. Like me. But she liked to sing. At least that's what he told me. I don't remember her. My father talked about her sometimes."
"It's a pretty song. Maybe one day, you can teach me."
"It's an easy tune. You'll catch it sooner or later."
"Does it have words to go with it?"
Stephanie nodded. "But they're too sad. I don't like to sing them."
"Maggie," Charles started, as he walked up to them. He'd put his shirt back on, which hung loosely around his torso. The neck was wide, showing a deep V of muscular chest. "I need to go to town tomorrow to pick up some things, could you come with me?" He ignored Stephanie altogether. Not that she cared.
Maggie scoffed and turned back to him, shaking her finger. "I got work to do tomorrow already. The missus wants me preserving all the vegetables from the garden. I don't have time for traipsing after you all about town. Besides, I just went yesterday, what do you need that we don't already got?"
"Books and paper," he replied. "And some things for..." he said, flicking his eyes towards the upper windows of the house. "Him."
"You're getting books?" Stephanie asked, forgetting about the tomatoes. Her distaste of Charles was momentarily forgotten with the mention of books.
Charles looked at her as though just only noticing her presence. He nodded, considering her. "Can you read?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
She climbed to her feet and stepped over the row of beans. "My father taught me."
He grabbed a few string beans from Maggie's basket. "The books were ordered some time ago through the mail. Had I known you read, I would have ordered something more appropriate." He took a bite of a bean, chewing with a smirk. "I doubt there will be anything for one so faint of heart as you. Not a romance in sight, I'm afraid."
She stiffened, struck by his implied condescension. "I can read any book you can."
"Really?" He stepped towards her, looming above. He smelled good. Not like the heavy perfumes that Mr. Burbank or the other men in the city would wear. She couldn't help but breathe him in. Her pulse raced in response to his proximity. She told herself it was because she hated him, nothing more.
"Of course," she answered.
He stepped back again. "In that case, might I recommend a book?"
Stephanie's gaze flitted to Maggie, who watched them, clearly amused. The woman bit back a smile when she saw Stephanie glaring.
Stephanie looked back to Charles. "Please do."
He raised an eyebrow, looking closely, as though waiting for her to change her mind. He ate another bean. It took all her willpower to stare back at him, denying her urge to look away.
"Very well," was all he said, with a smug, satisfied grin. "I'll find something fitting."
She took a deep breath. "I look forward to reading it."
He took another step forward so that he stood close enough to touch. He stared intently, trying to read her. She faced him, matching his stare, wondering the source of her sudden defiance.
A broad, thin lipped smirk crossed his face, further incensing her. He chuckled and turned, striding towards the door, looking back once before slipping behind the door.
Stephanie released the breath she'd been holding. "Is he always such a pompous ass?"
"Only sometimes," Maggie answered, tossing a handful of beans into the basket. "More so with you, it seems. I wonder what it is about you that brings out that side in him?"
"I hate him," she said, glaring at the door.
"Do you? You don't seem the hatin' kind. I wonder what it is about him that brings out that side
in you?"
Her eyes flashed at Maggie and looked away just as quickly. Her cheeks flushed warmly. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Mmm hmm, I heard that enough to know what that means."
Stephanie fumed, breathing great huffs of air through her nostrils. She spun on her heels and stomped back toward the tomato plants. Now, the happy little tune she'd been singing was lost deep beneath layers of frustration and pride.
"You're a glutton for punishment, you are," Maggie called, shaking her head. "I suppose you'll be regretting the sudden appearance of your spine later, though, after he gives you whatever book he's got."
Eloise
ELOISE SAT AT HER DESK, crawling her way through a particularly large volume of religious texts. She rubbed at her eyes, just starting to ache. The words blurred together and making sense out of them was becoming increasingly difficult. She needed rest but now was not the time. She'd already lost time this afternoon watching over Victor while Charles chopped firewood. She was jealous that he had an excuse that took him outside.
The sound of shuffling came from behind the bookcase right before it jerked and shifted, scraping across the floor. Charles stepped out from behind. "Am I disturbing you?"
"No," she answered, shoving the book away. "I'm not making much out of what I'm reading, anyway."
Charles came up to the desk and lifted the cover of the book. He read the title and raised an eyebrow at her. "Do you really think—"
"I don't know," she said irritably, throwing her hands up. "I probably don't need half these books but if we're going to get anywhere, we have to search all possible..." She shook her head. "What do you want?"
"He's lucid."
"Are you quite sure?"
Charles nodded. "Seems my poetry has a rather interesting effect."
Eloise gave a shallow laugh. "That's nothing new."
"I happen to think I've vastly improved."
