Mostly, she doesn’t wish to return home, not to that depressing hovel that only reminds her of her mother’s death a month before. So she walks, not caring where she’s going, not caring how long it will take her to get back home, not caring about the hunger gnawing so hard in her belly she’s surprised she still has a stomach at all.
Ada meanders to a side of Shady Heights she rarely visits. The homes are finer here, a much larger scale than anything she’s ever set foot in. A carriage clanks past her on the street, and she stops before the beautiful manor house on the corner, its tall brick structure bold and beautiful in the moonlight.
The windows are filled with life and light. People in elegant dress are visible, carrying wine glasses and laughing with their fellows, while more still dance in the room’s center. It isn’t so different from the life Ada once knew, if not quite so grand.
Longing reaches from her chest, for the warm, carefree lifestyle so different from the way she lives now. She wrings her hands, but her fingers prick at the touch. At least they aren’t bleeding tonight.
Ada leans against a nearby tree trunk, allowing herself to wish for things to change, to wish for what will never be again.
A door slams nearby. A scuffle breaks from the alleyway beside the house, followed by a grunt and a man’s throaty cry. Ada stiffens, fear treading over every inch of her.
“Hello?” she calls softly.
More of that scuffle ensues. A blood-curdling scream rips through the frigid night sky. Ada runs in a panic, attempting to outwit whatever it is and make it home. Blood pounds, blurring her vision, when she smashes into someone escaping from the alley’s depths.
He catches her by the arms, his shirt dark and splotched with she can’t tell what.
“Wisdom would tell you to avoid darkened alleyways, would it not?” the man snarls.
Even in the moonlight, she recognizes the man’s older, handsome features. Ada’s mouth drops in astonishment. “Mr. Garrett?”
He gives her a closer glance, his eyes raking over her. “Miss Havens.”
He releases her and steps back into the light from the manor’s windows, giving her a better view of his person.
“Good heavens, are you all right?” she asks, focusing on the splotches smearing his white shirt and paisley vest, swallowing away her suspicion. From the scuffle and struggle she heard, those stains can only be one thing.
She glances at the alleyway behind him. A lump lies on the ground, leaving behind what looks like a shoe.
Mr. Garrett pries a handkerchief from within his jacket and begins to clean his hands. Unmistakable stains remain on the soiled handkerchief—Ada is fairly certain wine isn’t that thick, or that decisively red.
Her gaze flicks back to the alleyway, seeing the lump more clearly. It is too derivative, too like the sight of her mother’s last moments. The dreadful astonishment. The disbelief. The outline of a body lying on its side, one leg splayed out away from the rest and missing its shoe a few feet away. A stain pools, darkening the snow.
Ada’s stomach festers, threatening to empty itself. Sweat gathers beneath her stays. She doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare blink. Someone will notice, she tells herself. Any moment now, something will happen, to prove this isn’t real. Yet the party goes on inside, its attendees unaware that a man has just been attacked, another murdered.
That must be what happened. Mr. Garrett was attacked in that alleyway. He was defending himself.
“What are you doing here?” Mr. Garrett demands, his voice spearing straight through her.
“I heard screaming. I thought I—”
“Could help?” He breathes hard, laughing at the thought.
“I suppose it is rather farfetched,” she says, considering the way men treat her these days. “But sir, you’ve been attacked—you’re wounded. We should call the police! You—you defended your life at the expense of another’s…”
Garrett glances behind him. “The less the police know of this, the better.”
“Sir?”
He stuffs the bloodied handkerchief into his jacket. “Tell me, Miss Havens, how is your mother?”
“Excuse me?”
“The last time we met you were quite concerned about her. Wouldn’t she worry her daughter is alone on the streets with potential murderers?” For some reason this thought humors him, and he smiles.
Ada stares at the dead man behind Mr. Garrett, not sure how to answer, or how he can possibly worry about her welfare at a time like this.
That earlier suspicion begins to creep up her spine, bringing with it terror, panic, and confusion. She thought…but no, certainly it can’t be as it seems. What if Mr. Garrett wasn’t the victim defending himself? What if he–
She refuses to finish the thought. Her first impression of him as a fatherly figure diminishes. She should run. Scream, hide, hammer on the door of the party, draw as much attention to the scene as she can.
“Miss Havens. Your mother?”
Ada speaks through trembling lips. “My mother is dead, sir.”
A carriage clatters up the street, slowing beside them. Mr. Garrett bends for something she hadn’t noticed. A small black case. He checks its contents before closing it.
A man, his face shrouded beneath a bowler hat, leaps from the driver’s bench. He takes the case from Mr. Garrett.
“Here now,” Mr. Garrett says to the driver, “give the Timothy’s my regrets. It seems I’ll be unable to stay for the duration of the party this evening.”
In the shadows, the driver bows and makes for the door, loading the case Mr. Garrett handed him into the carriage. Is he not surprised? Does he usually arrive to find his master spattered in blood?
Terror builds, blanking out Ada’s thoughts. She forces herself to think, to move. This is a situation she wants nothing to do with. Already she’s seen more than she ever wished to.
“Miss Havens,” says Mr. Garrett, taking her by the arm and preventing her escape, “would you care to join me for a midnight ride in my carriage?”
Reality hits her, so hard she can scarcely breathe. Her thoughts are a tangle. He was just attacked. Someone was killed. Yet he doesn’t want the police involved? He was at the party, but doesn’t wish others to know of the attack by one of their other guests?
She stares at the blood on his shirt, discoloring his lemon-colored vest. She relives the sight of him wiping it from his hands all over again. Suddenly, his grip on her is heavy and all too evident.
“You. It was you—not he—”
Mr. Garrett. He is the murderer.
“You just killed a man, and yet—”
She wrenches her arm free and tries to run, but Garrett tightens his talons on her, dragging her to his carriage.
Rocking. Back and forth, a dreary, repetitive motion. Back and forth, back and forth, bold enough to wake her from her stupor.
She’s sitting. A warm fur rests across her lap, heating her body. Her head lolls, but she blinks back to awareness.
“Knew it wouldn’t take long,” says the man sitting across from her. Augustus Garrett, proprietor of Shady Heights, the most coveted attention any person could ask for, is sitting across her from her.
Nothing has ever been more disgusting.
Her heart in her throat, she dives for the door, but Mr. Garrett blocks her way with his cane. Ada has no choice but to sink back, pressing her head against the seat. Her heart races, threatening to explode from her chest.
“You’ll forgive me,” he says, relaxing back. “Usually I am not so forceful, but I was not expecting a witness this evening.”
“You killed that man.”
He crosses one leg over the other, unperturbed by this accusation. “I know what you’re thinking, Miss Havens, but consider your options here. Who are the police going to believe, a homeless girl who was loitering outside a wealt
hy manor house, or the wealthy and respected Augustus Garrett, whose money upholds many parts of this budding city?”
Ada trembles with fear, a sense of being trapped pressing over her nose. “Please let me go. I will not reveal your secret. I’m sure you had good reason to—”
To take another man’s life. Good heavens, what is she saying?
He examines his bloodstained hands. “I may be mistaken, but I did you a favor that dreary day, Miss Havens. And while it was unable to save the life of your mother, I did save yours. I put food in your belly that day. I saved your life, did I not?”
She closes her eyes, hating herself for being so naïve, for thinking just because he had the appearance of a gentleman that he actually was one.
“From the look of things, you aren’t much better off now than you were that day. Unable to find and hold work.”
“I will not bear this—” Again, she reaches for the handle. Again, he cuts her reach off with his cane.
The carriage trundles on, whisking her away to heaven only knows where.
“I’m proposing a job, Miss Havens. I am in need of a housekeeper, one who knows and will keep my secret. I will feed you, clothe you, and put a comfortable roof over your head. In return for your work, you will receive an honest wage. All I ask is for your silence.”
“My silence,” she repeats. Her stomach frets with hunger. A bitter coldness has lodged itself in her bones—a coldness she hasn’t been able to stave off, no matter how near a fire she sits. She lives alone, sleeps on the same pallet bed where her mother breathed her last breath. How long will it be until she meets the same fate? The future is bleak at best.
“I am a reasonable man, Miss Havens. Revered and well-known in this community. You would be a fool to decline my offer.”
“I would be a fool to accept,” she says without thinking. “You are a murderer, sir. What would stop you from taking my life as well?”
“Your life holds nothing for me. Not to say you aren’t valuable, Miss Havens. I’m sure you’re more than up to the task of housekeeping. But I can get what I need elsewhere, without looking to my staff.”
“What—” Her voice gives out. Her limbs tremble and fear chokes every thought, diminishing what she’d been about to say. What does he need? Is he saying murder for him is more than only taking a life?
She needs to escape, to flee his carriage and get as far away from him as she can. But the thought of returning to that pitiable house in Redding, the cold, the dirt and filth…only for him to find her again? Like a fool, she’d told him where she lives the first day they met.
“What I do, and why I do it, need be no concern to you. I will ask nothing more of you. You have nothing to fear from me if you do as I say.”
Ada closes her eyes. Dread jaunts through her. She was once better than this. And she could be again. This could be her chance to remove herself from the slums of Shady Heights. What if she were to serve for only a short time, only long enough to save the means of escape? If it’s a chance to rise again, to flee that miserable hovel and the doom she battles daily, she must take it.
“Very well, sir. You have my silence, and my aid. I accept your offer.”
“Capital,” he says, “because we are home.”
The carriage stops before a beautiful, well-lit Victorian home. It gray exterior is gothic and lovely to behold, the eaves trimmed with lavender. Its wide, white porch is welcoming, inviting company to sit on an evening; the tower to the left hand side of the porch adding a splash of character to the structure.
The carriage pulls up the darkened drive, stopping to give Ada just enough of a view of the large stable and the grounds beyond. A few other similar homes speckle the street, their windows darkened and sleepy in the late hour.
The driver opens the door, offering Ada a hand and helping her down. She can’t bring herself to look at him, to look at anything but at her new home.
“Take that downstairs once you’re finished with the horses,” Garrett orders his manservant behind her. She risks a glance behind, realizing her opportunity. She could run now. She has time—Mr. Garrett is distracted. But how far would she get? And to what purpose? He would find her again. He wouldn’t allow her to leave, not after what she saw.
So she trudges up the shoveled drive toward that lovely porch, uncertainty about what she’ll find inside clenching in her chest like a fist.
four
Mr. Garrett leads Ada into a surprisingly welcoming entryway with a high vaulted ceiling, a circular table in its center, and a staircase leading directly up from the left. A dimmed parlor hides in the darkness off from the staircase, its furniture adorned with doilies. An older woman, plump and wearing a high-necked dress with buttons leading all the way up to her collar, approaches. Without a word, Mr. Garrett hands his suitcoat and hat to the woman, gesturing for Ada to pass over her shawl.
The woman scowls at the bloodstains on his would-be decadent vest and white shirt, pressing her lips against the distasteful reprimand Ada senses she’d like to give him. Is this a regular sight for the housemaid?
“Mrs. Tidmouth,” says Mr. Garrett, “this is Miss Ada Havens. She has come to assist you with your duties.”
Mrs. Tidmouth lifts her chin, possibly just to give her the opportunity to look down her nose at Ada. “I told you I need no assistance, sir.”
“Nonsense,” he says, turning to take Ada’s arm. He guides her gruffly through the simple but charming open entryway, with its circular table and floral rug. Ada can’t help admiring the beautiful decorative scrolled woodwork, painted white above the entry into the parlor to her left, along with the stained glass windows winking above certain doorways.
He herds her up the stairs to a landing in the center of a collection of closed doors and gestures to the door labeled Staff Only.
“This servant access is what you will use, Miss Havens. I will have a seamstress come in the morning. Mrs. Tidmouth will come to draw you a bath before you climb into bed filthy as you are.”
She winces at his blunt tone and stares down at her tattered cotton dress with its bud and blossom pattern. It was once fine, but has slowly become her only article of clothing devoid of holes. It’s been so long since she’s looked in a mirror, she can’t imagine the state of her.
“After she prepares breakfast in the morning I will have Mrs. Tidmouth brief you in your daily duties. She’s been covering the chores you’ll do alongside her other kitchen duties, and her cooking is severely lacking for it. I’m sure she will be grateful for your intervention.”
Ada nods, still traumatized and more than a little overwhelmed by the sudden turn of the evening’s events.
Mr. Garrett opens the door to the left of the staircase, leading her into a plain but pretty room with lined wallpaper and a white bed next to a wooden washstand.
“Sir, I had some books—”
“Never mind your old things. There are plenty of books here,” he says, examining the room as if expecting to find something amiss.
“But these were my father’s.” They might not seem like much, but her father was a great reader. The books are the last reminders she has of him.
His eyes narrow. He stops his perusal to look directly at her. “And your father is also dead?”
She tries—and fails—to keep herself from looking down at the dark flecks of blood on his shirt. “Yes, sir.”
He sighs. “Very well. I want you to be happy here, after all. Tomorrow Thomas can take you to collect your belongings. You will find him in the stables when you’re done with breakfast.”
“Thank you, sir.” She curtsies, uncertain what the proper procedure is for servants in this situation. His eyes thin, raking down to the tattered hem of her dirty dress and slowly back to her face.
“As I said, you need a bath.” He turns on his heel and closes the door behind him.
Ada do
esn’t dare sit, so she paces the room, waiting and wondering what to do next. It isn’t long before Mrs. Tidmouth knocks on the door and orders her to the washroom down the hall.
A white, claw-footed tub steams with water. The scent of lavender wafting through welcomes Ada in. She removes the filthy dress, passing it off to a disgusted Mrs. Tidmouth, who holds the garment at arm’s length as she leaves Ada to dip herself into the warm water.
Ada soaks in the heat and the lavender goat’s milk soap. The water slowly browns, rubbing away the dirt that has gathered over her for months. When the water turns so cold she can no longer enjoy it, she steps out of the tub, feeling cleaner than she can remember, yet far dirtier. Despite the grandeur of this place, her insides are soiled with a grease that embeds into her bones. How can a man who did what Garrett did show such kindness? How can she bear this secret?
Ada moves in a mechanical fashion, slipping into a nightdress that does not belong to her. She returns to her room, snuffing out the candle and, after braiding her hair, slides her feet between clean sheets that are not hers. Despite the thick blankets on her comfortable bed, the warm fire and tray of food brought up to her, she can’t shake the feeling that she just sold her soul to the devil.
five
The curtains are torn from the windows, allowing in a blaring ray of sunlight. Ada startles, forgetting where she is or why she’s so warm.
“You can wear this,” Mrs. Tidmouth says in her gruff way as Ada attempts to blink sleep from her eyes. The older woman places a blue dress across the bed’s brass footboard. “Until your dresses are made.”
Ada glances around the room, taking in the lined wallpaper, the graceful floral rug, the patchwork quilt cradling heat against her body. Her legs slide against the sheets in such a smooth way, reminding her of the bath and the other…less pleasant events of the previous evening.
The Forbidden Doors Box Set Page 55
