by Amanda Deed
He half turned away as she neared as though embarrassed to be discovered up so late. At once Serena recognised the handsome face of Mr King and her heart, which had finally settled, leapt to attention again. What kind of set-down would it be this time? She steeled herself for more of his rudeness.
‘Not used to your new room, I suspect.’
‘Well, no,’ Serena admitted, surprised. He almost sounded civil. But it might not last if she sounded unappreciative. She needed to turn his opinion of her, even if he didn’t deserve her consideration. ‘Not that it is uncomfortable. On the contrary, I am grateful, for your unexpected generosity.’
Mr King waved a hand in dismissal and again half turned from her.
‘And I wasn’t trying to stay up till everyone else was asleep so I could rob you.’ Serena ended her try at humour with a forced giggle. ‘Neither was I lying there planning my escape, although I miss my family already.’ If he had been indeed baiting her earlier on, perhaps he might rise to the half-hearted joke.
Instead, he turned back to her and appeared to study her. ‘Personally, I find the quiet of night the best time for ideas to flow.’
‘Oh. So, you’re not walking to help you sleep?’ What an odd thing for a person to do. Work, in the middle of the night.
‘No.’
‘You’re designing?’
‘Walking helps me think.’
Serena dipped her head in understanding. ‘Right. I will let you resume your thoughts then. I’m so sorry to have interrupted you.’ The genius at work. A little embarrassed, she backed away, with a slight nod of the head in deference to her host. Master. Good grief, she was still in her nightdress. ‘Good night, Mr King.’
His eyebrows rose, as though he meant to say something, but then coughed lightly and turned his head aside. ‘Good night, Miss Bellingham.’
She watched him for a moment, the candlelight dimming as he walked away, and then with a brief shrug, Serena ducked back into her room and closed the door.
Curious.
Mr King strolling the house in the dead of night was odd behaviour, and yet his countenance and conversation were almost normal for a change. Perhaps it was a sign that he was not the complete ogre she’d believed him to be.
‘We shall see, Mr King,’ she whispered into the darkness as she climbed back into bed and finally, more relaxed than she’d been all day, she fell asleep.
The morning light brought with it a sense of mixed curiosity and nervousness. She’d survived her first day at Aleron, but this would be her first day of work. As yet, she remained uncertain of her host’s expectations where that was concerned, though at least he showed signs of not being the overbearing master she’d begun to believe. If last night’s encounter was anything to go by, he could be amenable if he wanted to.
On her way down to the dining room, she wondered what his mood might be like today if she happened upon him. Hopefully his anger towards her and her father would not remain the entire time she stayed here. Hopefully he would learn to relent.
Since most of the staff were members of Mr King’s family, they all ate in the dining room. All that is, except for Mr King, oddly enough. Mrs Jones refused to allow Serena to eat in the staff kitchen by herself, so she joined them. The formal dining room was yet another magnificent example of design, with highly polished furniture and not an item out of place. The table could seat a large dinner party as two dozen chairs surrounded it—she had counted them twice to be sure.
Serena stretched her mouth in a yawn as she selected a piece of toast for her plate, the smell of warm bread stirring her appetite.
‘Did you not sleep well, Miss Bellingham?’ Mrs Jones caught her ill-manners.
Serena covered her mouth. ‘Oh, no. I mean, yes. But it was a while before I went to sleep.’ An image of Mr King wandering the hallways flooded her mind and she tried to hide her smile.
‘The strangeness of your new surroundings no doubt caused that.’
‘I suppose so.’ Serena bit her lip to keep the grin from her face, but she was certain the merriment in her eyes gave her away.
‘What has you smiling this morning?’ Mrs Jones crumpled her face in curiosity.
‘I, um, encountered a phantom in the middle of the night.’ A living phantom. Serena giggled.
Mrs Jones eyed her with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. ‘A phantom?’
Unsure whether they knew of Mr King’s late-night rambles, Serena sobered. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Jones. You will soon learn I have a very active imagination. After lying awake for a long time, worrying over my father and sisters, I heard noises which frightened me. But I am not used to the house as you say.’ She turned her focus to her toast, feigning concentration on spreading butter.
‘As I thought. It must be hard to be away from your family.’ Mrs Jones seemed to accept her story. ‘Is it the first time you have been separated from them?’
Serena nodded, spooning jam from the pot. ‘I don’t quite know how they’ll get on without me.’ She lifted a corner of toast to her mouth, not wanting Mrs Jones to see her lips quiver.
‘If I were in your shoes, no doubt I would feel precisely the same.’ A faraway look washed over her face, as though she imagined exactly that. And thankfully, the woman didn’t press the conversation further.
One by one, Mrs Jones’s family entered the dining room to join them. First Mr Simon, who had not lost his sour expression from the previous day. Then Mr Jones Senior, who she had only met briefly at supper the night before. Even though he acted as Mr King’s valet or butler, he spent much of his time running errands in town. He had the same sandy-coloured hair as Simon, but his looks were more rugged than the King side of the family, and he appeared to carry a permanent injury to his left arm. He used it very little, as though he had not the use of his fingers properly. However, his eyes twinkled with friendly humour and he winked at her as he seated himself at the table. Of the family at Aleron, he was the warmest, and didn’t seem as secretive as the others.
‘How did you spend your first night in the castle?’
‘After discovering and conquering the ghosts haunting the south wing, I slept like a queen.’
‘Ah yes. I presume no one warned you that Aleron is haunted.’ Mr Jones’s eyes crinkled at the corners.
‘Father, must you scare the girl?’ Mr Xavier entered at that moment, shaking his head.
‘It’s just friendly banter, isn’t it, Miss Bellingham?’ Mr Jones Senior winked in her direction again before tucking into his tomato and sausage with poached eggs.
‘Yes, no harm done,’ Serena agreed, sampling a bite of her toast and enjoying the sweetness of the jam.
She left the dining room half an hour later, with the opinion that living at Aleron house might not be a complete trial after all. Granted, they proceeded through life differently here and amidst such luxury, but apart from the odd pricklish comment, the family were pleasant enough. They could never replace her dear Papa, Julianne and Rachel, but perhaps she could relax around them. Serena sighed as she made her way to the laundry for her first day of work, sure a mountain of linen awaited her.
However, she was pleasantly surprised to find the mountain more resembled a small knoll. A few napkins, towels, dish cloths, and a few items of clothing, still made for several hours of washing, wringing, drying, starching and ironing. Not one to procrastinate, Serena fetched hot water for the copper and scrubbed with soap on the washboard. Before long, perspiration ran down her neck. Her back and shoulders ached and her hands cramped. The skin on her fingers resembled dried prunes.
Who would be doing the laundry at home? Her sisters were still learning, and Rachel had not enough strength in her hands to scrub the stains out. Until Mama had died, none of them had needed to do any domestic chores. They’d been wealthy enough to afford servants to keep house for them. But, Papa had crumbled beneath the weight o
f his grief and let his business flounder. Soon enough they were drowning in debt, had to sell everything and move into their small house near the port. Since then, Serena had tried to teach her young sisters how to cook and clean. But, she had failed. They fretted over the smallest thing, fearing injury or her disappointment. They were still little more than children. And now that Serena wasn’t there, their naivety would cause them to suffer the harsh realities of life. She had been wrong to protect them from it. She winced as she imagined the skin peeling from their raw fingers after a day in soapy water. How terribly painful. Serena could not help but feel sorry for them. It was her fault. She should have been a better teacher.
As she finished putting the batch of freshly rinsed washing through the mangle, the big front door knocker echoed through the house. Someone to visit Mr King perhaps. Could it be regarding the theatre design commission? Did the Governor wish to know how the drawings progressed?
A few minutes passed, and the knock resounded again. When it came a third time unanswered, Serena picked up a towel. She dried her hands, dabbed her face and neck and smoothed the moist runaway strands of hair back against her crown. Straightening her skirt and blouse, she hurried to the front door. Where was everybody? Perhaps this was a common occurrence. Didn’t Papa say no one answered when he sought shelter from the storm the other day?
Serena paused and smoothed her skirts one final time before opening the huge door. Hopefully she didn’t look as dishevelled as she felt. ‘Good morning. May I help you?’
A man dressed in a suit stood there. Nothing fancy—a common day-to-day suit she’d seen on the streets in Sydney. A business man of sorts? His mouth stretched into a smile when he saw her, although there was a blunt set to his jaw. ‘Good morning. I’m here to see Mr King, if he is available.’
‘Is he expecting you?’ Serena had not yet been in this predicament. What was the procedure for accepting guests?
‘Not exactly. But I would appreciate a moment of his time.’
‘And who might I say is calling?’
One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile—or was it a smirk? ‘My name is Moncrief. Caleb Moncrief.’
Caleb Moncrief. Where had she heard that name before? Serena searched her mind but couldn’t place him. He didn’t look familiar.
‘I’ll show you into the drawing room. Come this way.’ Serena remembered the room Mr King had left her in yesterday. Was it only yesterday? It seemed like a week. She waved Mr Moncrief inside, closing the door behind him, then led him along the hallway.
‘How is Edward, if I may ask?’
‘He is well.’ Serena shrugged. ‘I have seen little of him. I’m new here.’
‘I see.’ Mr Moncrief looked at her with what she could only describe as keen interest. ‘And from what you have seen ...?’
Serena creased her brows. ‘Um, he seems in good health. I’m sure you can ask him these questions yourself.’
They arrived at the drawing room then and she offered him a seat.
‘Thank you, ma’am. If you don’t mind my asking, what is your overall impression of Edward?’
‘I beg pardon?’ What an odd thing to ask.
‘Bear with me. I am just the curious sort. Some people would call him eccentric. What do you think?’
For some reason, his questions made her hackles rise, and she wanted to defend Mr King. ‘I think those questions are impertinent. If people don’t understand the nature of a genius when they meet him, that is their misfortune.’
Mr Moncrief held up his hands in defence. ‘Say no more. I have no intention of slandering the chap.’ He smiled at her. Was he laughing at her? ‘He chose well when he employed you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Serena didn’t have the confidence she forced into her voice. ‘Now, if you don’t mind waiting, I shall see if he is receiving visitors.’
The first person Serena could find was Mrs Jones. She had been reluctant to go straight to Mr King’s suite and disturb him, and hadn’t been able to locate Mr Jones. The valet had probably gone to town on errands, and the young men worked out on the grounds. But to guess in which room Mrs Jones presently cleaned was challenging. She still had not found the time to explore the house, and knew not where the rooms the family used were. Calling as she searched, Serena finally located her on the second floor, in the library.
And what a library! Books that lined every wall to the roof. She stood gaping, her errand forgotten. Serena recalled her one book of poetry by John Keats, her worn and dog-eared copies of Jane Austen’s works and the family Bible. Her mother had taught her to read using that precious book before she had even entered the school room. Those volumes, and a few of Papa’s favourites, were the scant remains of their former collection. But, even before their wealth evaporated, their bookshelves numbered nowhere near Mr King’s library. Her fingers itched to lift a volume from the shelf and trace over the rough paper that held such treasures of knowledge and imagination. Oh, and that smell of old leather and aged paper. It was heaven.
Serena expected to find books shelved here on any topic she chose. It was as if the whole world had just opened to her. Next time she spoke with him, she must ask him if she might borrow one or two.
‘What is it you need me for, Miss Bellingham?’ Mrs Jones brought Serena out of her stupor. The housekeeper was a few steps up a ladder, dusting the books.
‘Oh, yes. There is a Mr Caleb Moncrief here to see Mr King. I’ve asked him to wait in the drawing room.’
Colour drained from Mrs Jones’s face. ‘What have you done?’ She scrambled from the ladder, her eyes wide.
Serena frowned. ‘Nothing, as far as I know. I have not interrupted Mr King if that’s what you mean. I came to find you first.’
Mrs Jones clasped her elbow, hurrying out of the library and back to the staircase. ‘But you left Moncrief alone?’
‘Why, yes.’ How did they expect her to seek help and stay with Mr Moncrief at the same time?
‘For goodness sake, he’s probably snooping around by now.’ Mrs Jones’ frustrated words came out half mumbled as she hastened her steps even further. Serena almost needed to jog to keep pace. What was so wrong? Why the panic? Serena had no opportunity for questions in their dash to find Mr Moncrief.
At the top of the stairs, Mrs Jones paused and moved to the window. Lifting the latch, she pushed the window open, then pulled a whistle from her pocket and blew it hard. She closed the window again and continued her rush to the drawing room.
When they arrived at the door, Mrs Jones took a deep breath, and transformed into a calmer image of herself. She threw open the door and bustled inside, Serena close behind, to find an empty room. ‘I knew it.’ Mrs Jones spun on her heel, almost colliding with Serena in her haste to return to the hallway. ‘Get out of my way, girl.’
In the corridor, they met with Simon, who’d hurried in from the gardens. ‘What’s wrong, Mother?’
‘Moncrief’s here. Somewhere.’ Her lips formed a thin line.
‘Right. I’ll check the north wing.’ With those curt words, the young gardener hurried away.
‘And I’ll search these central rooms. Miss Bellingham, go back and look in the south wing. If you find him, tell him firmly—but cordially—to leave.’
Serena opened her mouth to blurt out the questions running through her mind.
‘Now, Miss Bellingham.’
The sound of a commotion drifted up from the front of the house, male voices rising. Serena hurried back downstairs in time to see the door close behind Mr Moncrief, and to receive a deep scowl from Mr Simon.
‘Did you let him in?’
‘I ...’
‘It’s not her fault, Simon. She is not familiar with the man. And you know how Moncrief is.’ Mrs Jones sounded a trifle exasperated.
‘What do you mean?’ Serena glanced from one to the other. ‘Excuse me, but I do not un
derstand my error. I heard the knocker, no one came, so I answered the door. Mr Moncrief spoke of Mr King in familiar terms, and I had no reason to believe he was anything but genuine.’
‘Because you are too naïve.’ Mr Simon glared.
‘That’s enough, Simon. You may go back to work now. No harm done.’
‘So you think.’ His eyes flashed at Serena. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘Tell him?’ Serena tried to recall her brief conversation with the visitor. ‘I’m sure I didn’t tell him anything. We exchanged a few pleasantries, that’s all.’ Of what was Mr Simon accusing her?
‘Simon, let me deal with this.’ Mrs Jones clasped her son’s arm, nudging him toward the door.
With something akin to a growl, the groundskeeper yielded and headed back to his gardening.
Mrs Jones turned to Serena. ‘Don’t mind him too much. He is over-protective of his uncle.’
Why did Mr King need protection? Or was she referring to his privacy? ‘I don’t understand. What is so wrong with Mr Moncrief?’
Mrs Jones let out a heavy sigh. ‘He is a journalist for the Sydney Herald. It is his goal to make a scandal of my brother’s life. He comes here at least once every month. I’m sure he thought it serendipitous when you answered the door today. Have you ever read the Herald, Miss Bellingham?’
‘Yes, now and then.’
‘Moncrief writes most articles that involve gossip about Sydney’s wealthy, powerful and notable folk. He’s a scandalmonger. He thrives on it and has become notorious for it.’
So that’s where Serena recognised his name. The newspapers. That’s where she’d read those little titbits on Mr King. Yes, and the latest on-dits about Mr Johnathon Fordham, the son of a baron, or a whisper of gossip about Governor Gipps. Caleb Moncrief. And she’d let him into this house and let him fool her with his smooth words. ‘Oh. I’m very sorry. I should not have let him in.’
‘Like I said, you weren’t to know.’ Mrs Jones gripped her elbow, and they walked back toward the library. ‘Anyway, he didn’t find Eddie, so all is well.’
