Unhinged

by Amanda Deed

  Serena tried to smile, but uncertainty made it difficult. Had they averted a crisis? Now that the chaos was over, Serena recalled Mr Moncrief asking—or insinuating—very specific details. What had her replies been? Might she have unwarily damaged Mr King’s public figure? She squeezed her eyes tight and tried to replay her exact conversation with Mr Moncrief.

  How angry would Mr King be if she’d tarnished his reputation further with thoughtless words? That he considered her the daughter of a thief was bad enough. Would he now also think her a gossip? So much for trying to impress Mr King so he might release her to her family soon.

  6

  Several times throughout the afternoon, Serena had the distinct impression someone watched her. The eerie sensation came over her as she worked outside and hung washing on the lines which crisscrossed a small courtyard. Hedges enclosed the yard on three sides, save a small gap near the wall that led onto the grounds. She supposed this design hid the unsightliness of laundering.

  Why would anyone wish to spy on her pulling in linen? It baffled Serena. Surely, it must be her imagination running out of control again. Ever since the encounter with Mr Moncrief that morning, she had invented the worst scenarios for what the journalist might write, and the possible effect on Mr King. Her imaginings descended to his decommissioning for his work on the theatre. Then his reputation ruined so that no one would ever hire him again. And it would be all her fault.

  Just as her sisters’ demise would be her fault. Not only did she imagine tragedy for Mr King, but also for her family. Perhaps they were slowly starving with no one to cook for them. If she could run home and see they were well, it would be a salve to her, but then Mr King might hold to his promise and have Papa arrested. She couldn’t take the risk.

  And now she suspected a prowler watched her. As Serena unpegged and folded a towel, the uneasy sensation in the pit of her stomach grew. She glanced over her shoulder. Did someone crouch outside the hedge perhaps, watching her? She dropped the fresh towel on top of the basket and headed for the gap in the hedge. Only one thing would put her mind at rest.

  Serena ducked around the corner of the hedge, which stretched in a vacant line before her. No matter, perhaps the spy hid around the corner. She hurried forward and peeked around each bend to find nothing. Not a soul. Not a sound. Not even a hint that someone had been there recently.

  ‘There you go, Serena. It is only wicked inventiveness.’ In scolding herself aloud, her fears faded even more. She returned to folding and tried humming one of her favourite hymns, Rock of Ages, which she’d sung often with Papa. Though humming that tune distracted her it soon made her miss her family.

  ‘I heard you spoke to Moncrief this morning.’

  Serena almost leapt out of her boots. Where had he come from so suddenly? ‘Mr King! I didn’t hear you come out.’

  The corner of his mouth jerked upward. Was that meant to be a smile? Did he enjoy catching her unprepared? His intense gaze flickered with interest. Saints above, he was striking to behold. In the light of day, his chiselled jawline and broody mouth drew her eye like magnets. As if she didn’t feel warm enough from her work already without him looking at her like that. Come to think of it, she must look a fright after laundering. Her hands fluttered to wayward strands of hair, tucking them behind her ears, then smoothed her blouse and skirt.

  ‘I startled you. Again. At least your head is not wedged beneath my sofa this time.’ Mr King’s lips twitched once more.

  ‘You have a way of sneaking up on one, Mr King.’

  ‘Moncrief?’

  He drew her back to the point of his visit. No time for pleasantries. Even a ‘how was your day’ would have been nice. What was she thinking? Serena was here as his employee and for discipline, nothing else. Whatever she might have expected from him, she must disregard it now. He was toying with her, or—how did his sister put it—baiting her. Serena cleared her throat. ‘Yes, he came to the door, unexpected.’

  ‘And he gave you the slip.’

  ‘I suppose he did.’ There was no other explanation. Mr Moncrief had misled her, intending to sneak off to find Mr King. ‘But your sister and nephew—Mr Simon—found him and sent him away.’

  ‘Well and good. But in the meantime, you spoke with him. Yes?’

  Why did everyone need to interrogate her? ‘Yes. Briefly. He intimated a friendship with you, and not knowing who he was, I believed him.’

  Mr King clasped his hands behind his back and walked a few paces away before swinging around to face her again. ‘We were friends once.’

  ‘You were? When?’

  ‘Years ago. Before the ...’

  ‘Before?’

  Mr King let out a half laugh. ‘Before the falling out we had.’

  ‘Oh, that is a shame. Does Mr Moncrief intend revenge?’ Serena bit her lip. She busied herself unpegging another towel, recognising the faint odour of lye soap still in the linen.

  ‘I suppose you could say that. I have not spoken to him in years. But according to Judith, he is out to ruin me.’

  ‘Well, I hope I can put your mind at rest, Mr King. I am not a tell-tale. He asked me for my opinion of you and I scolded him for his impudence. So, unless he twists my words around ...’ Serena faltered as she remembered her earlier fears and looked up from her folding. ‘Would he do that?’

  ‘Once, I would have denied he had the capacity for heartlessness. But now, I am uncertain.’

  Mr King’s face held not a trace of emotion. Was he angry? Sad? Afraid? He stepped closer to her again—too close for Serena to remain comfortable. Her heart skipped a beat, or maybe two, and the linen in her hand slipped from her grasp as if it were made of soap rather than coarse material.

  ‘Did you really scold Moncrief?’

  ‘Y--y-yes. I think impertinent was the word I used.’ This close, Serena saw that Mr King had shaved today. There was only a dark shadow where his whiskers might be. And the scent of cloves tingled her senses.

  He studied her face thoughtfully, for so long, she began to feel awkward. ‘It seems I might be able to trust you, Miss Bellingham.’

  ‘Of…of course you c-can.’ Serena’s words tumbled out in a stutter as the intimacy of the moment disturbed her composure.

  ‘Let’s hope then, that Moncrief publishes nothing sinister, shall we?’ Breaking his intense gaze, Mr King moved away, relieving the tension between them.

  ‘I shall pray he doesn’t.’ Serena let out her pent-up breath.

  ‘Pray?’

  ‘Do you not believe in Providence, Mr King?’

  He seemed to stiffen. ‘I believe in creating my own destiny.’

  ‘That sounds very lonely.’

  ‘The gods are too busy fighting amongst themselves over who is greatest for me to interest them. Greek gods, Egyptian gods, the Jewish god, Islam’s Allah, Hindu gods, and that’s not an exhaustive list. I don’t need a god. I can look after myself.’

  Serena could not ignore the hard glint in Mr King’s eye as he finished. How could she argue with someone as widely educated as he was, while she had only ever learnt the basic three ‘R’s? She was no theologian. To Serena, faith was a simple matter of trust—not a process of deliberation. But she suspected if she tried to explain that to him, he would argue her down within moments. She shrugged. ‘If you say so, Mr King.’

  ‘Do you not agree that people should be self-sufficient, Miss Bellingham?’

  ‘Well, no. It’s nice to be needed, is it not?’

  As soon as the words left her mouth, she doubted the truth of them. Indeed, hadn’t she wished her sisters and Papa didn’t need her quite so much; wished for space to choose her own life. But that’s all they were—wishes. The truth was they did need her, and she was no longer there to help.

  ‘I suppose so, now you mention it. It is pleasant when someone needs to draw from my wealth of knowledge.�
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  ‘But you never need to lean on someone else?’

  ‘No, Miss Bellingham, I don’t. In my experience, most people want to control me, and that I prefer to avoid.’

  Serena glanced at him but could not read his expression. He delivered statements without sentiment, as though stating facts. She didn’t know what to make of his words, and as they parted company, she wondered about this enigma of a man. With resources and intelligence like his, who would have the power to manipulate him? And why did he suspect they did?

  Several days passed and Serena began to fall into a routine. In the mornings she would wash the smaller items of linen and clothing, leaving the larger items such as bed linen for the Monday maids. While the laundry dried on the lines, she would move about the house, straightening, dusting, polishing, wherever she saw the need.

  For the most part, it was uneventful. She rarely saw Mr King, and if she did, he continued to be brusque, or civil at best. The rest of the family displayed varying levels of suspicion toward her, except Mr Xavier and Mr Jones Senior. She had shared several laughs with the latter, his dry wit matching her sense of humour.

  But one thing made Serena more curious every night. Late into the dark hours, when all else was quiet, she heard the clomp, clomp of Mr King’s footsteps pass outside her room. Every night. Sometimes it woke her, and sometimes, like tonight, she was still awake and fretting over Papa and the girls. Did the man never sleep?

  Since the wind was gusting about the parapets tonight, she had little chance of falling asleep for a while. Perhaps she might see what Mr King was trying to design while he walked.

  She slipped her feet into her slippers and pulled her robe over her night dress, tying it securely. Before opening the door, she smoothed her braid to make sure she wouldn’t appear too dishevelled, and then stepped into the hallway.

  He must have heard the door open, for he swivelled to face her before she could speak.

  ‘Good evening, Mr King,’ she aimed for a pleasant smile, ‘or is it good morning?’

  A rare, wry grin twisted his lips. ‘Neither, Miss Bellingham. I believe I just heard the grandfather clock strike midnight.’

  ‘Well, then. Good midnight?’ Serena giggled at her own inanity.

  ‘You are not sleeping?’

  She gestured towards the roof. ‘The wind. It’s very noisy.’ She dropped her gaze. ‘And I miss my family.’ Serena glanced up again. ‘You are working at this hour?’

  Mr King looked away from her but nodded and then shrugged. ‘Have you been through the house?’ He swept a hand around him.

  ‘Pardon?’ Mr King’s question surprised Serena.

  ‘Have you seen my home—in its entirety?’

  ‘Well, I ... I’ve seen parts of it while I work, but I am still unfamiliar with all the rooms and areas.’

  Mr King eyed her for a moment as though deciding. ‘Perhaps, since you are having trouble sleeping, you might care to join me. I can take you for a tour, if you wish.’

  A tour of the house in the dead of night? In her bed clothes? It sounded both improper and adventurous to Serena—a notion she usually conjured up in her imagination. Still, Mr King ought to be working, and Mrs Jones warned her not to bother him. ‘Thank you for the offer, Mr King, but I do not wish to distract you from your important work.’

  ‘But I may rest on occasion, may I not? And since I answer to no one, who will complain? Come.’ He held out his arm for her to take. ‘We’ll start with the second level.’

  ‘But I am not dressed, Mr King.’

  He glanced over her robe and shrugged. ‘I shan’t tell, if you don’t.’

  Serena stared at him, stunned. Had he not berated her for hoydenish behaviour not three days ago? And now he was inviting her to roam the mansion in her nightdress? It didn’t make sense, but neither could she deny him–she was beholden to him after all. An icy wave washed over her heart as she once again considered she might be here for his personal entertainment. God help me. But a refusal might anger him again, and yet he appeared honest and trustworthy.

  Serena’s heart threatened to sink as she curled her fingers around his elbow. Was this really happening, or was it naught but a strange dream? And what had become of the accusing, curt man she had met on other occasions? This version of Mr King was almost friendly. In one sense, Serena knew it must be wrong to wander around a house by moonlight with a gentleman, and unchaperoned. But then, if she owned truth, the prospect of touring the house with Mr King excited her. The speed of her pulse echoed that sentiment.

  ‘Your two nephews are very different from each other,’ she ventured to begin a conversation.

  ‘Pleasant boys, if a little simple.’

  Mr King’s condescension stung, strangely enough. If he belittled his own kin with such ease, it was no wonder he spoke in such rude fashion to her when they first met. Irked, Serena let her frustration show. ‘I suppose everyone is simple in your eyes.’

  ‘Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate them. It is a basic fact that my intelligence far exceeds theirs.’ Mr King shrugged in a nonchalant fashion.

  Such pride! Serena studied his profile in the dull light. Surely, there must be a twinkle in his eye or a twitch to his lips to show he jested. Yet she discerned nothing. Baffled by his attitude, she drew her brows together. ‘So then, if we are dim-witted to you, does that make us dull company?’ She wanted to understand this man, even if he was exasperating.

  ‘Not at all. I can still be amused. However, if I desire intelligent conversation, then I must find a good scientist, or a philosopher—if you get my gist.’

  Serena tried to hide her smile as she nodded. ‘And are there many of those in Sydney, Mr King?’ Since much of the population grew through convict transportation, she thought not.

  ‘Sadly, no.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘No staggering minds have arrived yet, but I will soon convince my old chums from Cambridge to immigrate. In the meantime, I must appease myself with the works of Aristotle, Newton and the likes.’

  ‘And what do you do for enjoyment? Apart from laugh at the poor obtuse folk who surround you.’ She shouldn’t be goading her new employer, but he seemed to think far too highly of himself.

  He stopped and turned to her. ‘You are determined to poke fun at me, aren’t you? It is understandable, I’m sure, that one such as yourself cannot conceive of what responsibility comes with great intelligence.’

  Or perhaps you take yourself too seriously. Serena sighed. ‘I’m sure I cannot.’

  For all his arrogance, Serena could find nothing in him to terrify or anger her. In fact, as they walked the hallways for the next hour and he pointed out the intricacies of his design, she became more intrigued than frightened. Mr King tried to explain the mathematics involved in constructing the varied arches in the house, both in the stone windows, and the wooden interior. She nodded along, asking several questions, even if she didn’t understand the answers. Everything was excessively precise, with little margin for error—at least in his eyes.

  Before long he led her to the ballroom, a vast expanse of polished floor and vaulted ceilings hung with several chandeliers. At one end, a raised platform was installed to house the orchestra, and a large pianoforte waited in the darkness for skilled hands to draw magic from the keys. Above it jutted a balcony from where guests could watch the dancing below them. At the other end, a large hearth was inset in the wall to give warmth to the room in winter.

  The light of one candle could not do the majestic room justice. Serena made a mental note to revisit in the daylight hours. Apart from the pianoforte, no furniture existed in the ballroom. Perhaps Mr King had never held a ball here. That was a shame for Serena might have given her left foot for an opportunity to watch men and women dance.

  As if he’d read her mind, Mr King ceased his architectural monologue, placed his candle on top of the pianofor
te and turned to face her. ‘Do you play?’ He lifted the cover from the keys and motioned toward the stool.

  ‘Oh, Mr King,’ Serena gasped, ‘It’s been several years since my fingers graced the keys, and poorly at that.’

  ‘Never mind. I have enough technique for us both.’ He sat at the piano and stretched his fingers.

  Serena stood bemused. Did he mean to play? It didn’t seem to match his crochety nature.

  And yet he played. Serena immediately recognised Beethoven’s Sonata number fourteen, otherwise known as Sonata of the Moonlight. She smiled at the aptness of his choice. A wistful tune, which he played with flawless precision—expected—and deep expression, which she did not anticipate. Perhaps he was not as heartless as he seemed.

  Even more disconcerting was the fact that he stared at her face, not paying attention to where his fingers were going. How did this man switch from a lengthy explanation of building design to playing a sonata in the space of a heartbeat? Mr Xavier Jones’s words returned to her then. My uncle can be impulsive when he chooses. Well, he was right on that count.

  As her shock at the sudden turn of events wore off, Serena closed her eyes. She tried to imagine the ballroom filled with light and dancing people, the strains of music resounding in her ears. How magical it would be. Serena was caught up in the vision in her mind and noticed, too late, that he had finished and that she was still swaying.

  He stood before her, too close. Once again, she caught the faint scent of tobacco and cinnamon mixed with lavender. She liked the way he smelled. Without asking or warning her, he slipped one arm around her waist, took her hand in a firm hold and began to twirl her around. On a gasp, she pulled away from him. This couldn’t be right, could it? Were her darkest suspicions true? She couldn’t let him know how unnerving his behaviour was, and forced a laugh.

  ‘Well, that was diverting. You are very gifted at the piano. Thank you, sir.’

  He offered her a formal, overly dramatised bow.

  Now what did that mean? No wicked gleam shone in his eyes, just a calm expression of pleasure. Was his taking her in his arms innocent after all? Quite improper, but impulsive and without malice.