"Come closer."
I realized that I was standing at the threshold, staring. My knees buckling slightly, I traversed the path to the desk. My gaze snagged momentarily on the painting. In the daylight, her expression seemed ever more mocking. I felt a jolt of anger at the smug fall of her eyelids, the cruel indifference of her posture as she sat there, combing her hair.
You're in for it now, her smile seemed to say. How I shall enjoy watching you suffer.
I reached the desk. Bobbing a curtsy, I kept my eyes trained on the Turkish rug. The silence wove into red arabesques and golden curlicues. My nerves strung tighter than a harp, I suddenly understood why this was known as "being called to the carpet."
"Well, Miss Jones, what have you to say for yourself?"
I was startled to hear him address me with such formality. I had no idea he knew my family name.
"Very little, my lord," I said truthfully.
"Do not hide your eyes from me."
I looked up. The sunshine shafted against my pupils, painful and blinding, and my eyelids twitched in protest.
"The light bothers you, does it?" The earl rose in a smooth shadowy motion and went to the windows. He drew the curtain. "There, we are in darkness again. A situation better suited, I think, for the two of us."
My throat thickened as he returned not to his chair but toward me. It required all my willpower not to bolt as he came to stand on my side of the desk. Leaning against the mahogany, his large, polished shoes planted inches from my own worn boots, he gave the appearance of studied nonchalance. The pose of a predatory beast just before the attack.
"Tell me again, Miss Jones, why you were here last night."
In the dim room, the brightness of his eyes was mesmerizing. I could not look away, nor could I voice anything but the truth. "It was w-wrong of me, my lord. I know it, and I beg your pardon. But I could not sleep. I thought only to find solace in a bit of reading."
"So you said," he murmured. "But why reading? And not ... other distractions?"
Something about his tone made me flush. In a flash, I recalled what he had been doing, the sort of diversion he had been entertaining, when he had thought himself alone. Such intemperance ought to have repulsed me (his female guest had left but hours before that!). My true reaction, however, proved a more complex alchemy: repugnance mingled with feelings too potent and disturbing to explore. I felt my limbs weakening, the wings of a strange and feral awareness beating within my breast ...
"'Twas you I was asking about," he said. "You need not comment on my own notorious actions. Unless, of course, you would wish to."
Horrified by his astuteness, I could only gape at him.
He looked back at me. Not a trace of discomfiture could I detect upon his impassive features. In fact, one corner of his mouth quirked faintly upward as he crossed his arms. "So what shall we discuss, Miss Jones—my propensities or yours?"
Discuss his inclinations? Heat blossomed in my cheeks. I'd take that particular topic on when swine took to the skies.
"My aunt Agnes," I blurted. "Sh-she taught me to read."
His brow, black and thick, angled upward.
"She worked at a school for young ladies. As a schoolmistress. She was a learned woman, and she saw fit to educate me as she did her other charges."
A pause. "Her teaching fell on fertile ground, I presume."
"Yes, my lord."
"And what does your esteemed aunt think of you working as a maid?"
"She does not know, my lord." My gaze fell to his waistcoat. Subtly striped, it had jet buttons that gleamed like dark tears. "She passed away this autumn."
"Ah."
I tensed as his fingers possessed my jaw, tilting my head up. His long-lashed gaze was probing, unrelenting, and the fear arose again: what he might discover? The pressure was building in my chest. By some magnetic force he was drawing the truth from its dark depths; I held onto it, caging it with the might of my breath. The tug-of-war persisted. His will against mine. And yet another force attacked me, this time from within. A betraying whisper, a furtive craving.
See me, see me ...
He let me go. Utterly, and with enough force for me to stumble back a step. He gave a harsh laugh. "A maid with a goddess' eyes."
"My lord?" The words emerged, half-sound, half-breath.
"Sea-grey eyes, ready mind, heart to remember a thing."
"One of the H-Homeric Hymns," I stammered.
Sardonic humor edged the earl's mouth. "Bright-eyed Abigail, who sees and knows all. A worldly innocent. The question remains, what is to be done with you?"
I felt myself teetering between my rational mind and a deeper, more compelling force. My good sense told me I should look for work elsewhere, that the danger of the man before me outweighed even that of the unknown. Yet for some inexplicable reason, the danger itself called to me. Mysterious and lulling, it somehow whispered of belonging, of finding a place for my burdened soul.
Better the devil you know, I reasoned.
"I should like to stay. H-here, at Hope End." My throat cinched, preventing me from taking back the words.
His dark lashes cast shadows against his cheek. When they lifted, eyes of smoldering sapphire met mine. "And in what capacity shall I keep you, Abigail?"
Surely he was not suggesting ... My pulse drummed even faster as an iniquitous image stole into my mind. My eyes flicked intuitively toward the desk, and heat broke over my skin. The memory of that cool, unyielding wood beneath my back and the burning, rigid strength pressing me down ...
Mortified, I realized that he was perusing me, his eyes knowing, a slight flush on the crest of his cheekbones. My heart thudded against my ribs.
"I am a maid," I choked out.
"You know too many of my secrets," he said.
"I would never say anything about ... what happened." Nor would I think of it again, I vowed to myself. If I was to be given this second chance, I would not give into any more madness. I would not break into libraries, I would not peep from beneath desks, and I would definitely not entertain any more improper thoughts about my master. "I give you my word, my lord. You can trust me."
His eyes hooded. Something flickered behind those lids. A hidden pain, perhaps a memory. "That would not be the first time I heard that from a woman."
"I would not betray my word," I protested. "I swear upon my soul that not a word shall pass through my lips about what I saw."
Silence descended, and I felt my destiny totter on its heavy fulcrum.
"Priceless collateral indeed," he said mockingly. He straightened, and I had to tilt my head up to see his expression. "Your services are no longer required as a maid."
A trembling sense of defeat overtook me. I supposed I ought to have been relieved that the decision had been taken out of my hands, that by default my good sense would prevail. But my head lowered as if I had no longer the strength to hold it up.
"You are hereby rehired ... in the position of personal secretary. To me."
My chin snapped up. Disbelief usurped despair. Had I heard correctly? He wanted me to be his ... secretary? The very notion, 'twas outlandish. A female secretary? One who was presently a chamber maid at that?
Like marbles, humiliated anger spilled within me. The mixture of my desperation with his levity was too much to bear. How could he poke fun at my wretched expense?
"I can only suppose you enjoy your own wit, my lord," I said rashly. "I, for one, find it entirely lacking."
His brow inched upward. "Is this how one responds to an offer of employ, Miss Jones?"
"When it is given in jest, yes." Goaded beyond caring, I said with prim censure, "'Tis a display of poor taste and judgment to make fun of those less fortunate."
If I thought to my rile my employer, I was destined for disappointment.
Unbelievably, his lips twitched.
"In the future," he said, "remind me never to offend you."
Before I could come up with a reply, he continued, "Thoug
h you may find me lacking in both wit and judgment, Miss Jones, I am in all seriousness. I do not intend to belittle you or your situation. I wish only to hire you on. As my secretary."
"But why?" I blurted.
"Because I need a secretary, and you need a job." His eyes held a glint of impatience now, and I recalled why his previous secretary had left. "Your duties will include handling my correspondence and organizing my personal affairs. At times, you will be asked to assist Mr. Creagan, my man of business. Everything you do must be carried out with the utmost discretion. Your first task will be to put this library into some semblance of order. You are up to this, I presume?"
Still doubtful, I gave a perturbed nod.
"We will meet weekly to discuss your duties; otherwise, you are free to plan your schedule as you please. Your wages will be adjusted to five pounds per month." He gave me an indifferent look. "This is acceptable to you?"
Acceptable? I had to prevent my jaw from falling. Five pounds was a veritable fortune! 'Twas more than three times what I earned as a maid. I could scarce keep up with his words, so stunned was I by this proposed rise in my circumstance.
"There is one final condition."
A fine trembling overtook my limbs as I saw my fragile new dreams vaporizing. So this was it: he'd seduced me with the promise of respect, and now he would make an immoral proposal. I struggled to think of a properly acerbic set down—
"You are not to discuss my affairs with anyone. Not the other staff—and this includes Mrs. Beecher, who I understand was responsible for your hiring. If I take you on, your loyalty will belong to me and me alone. Is that understood?"
Torn between relief and apprehension, I stared at him. "Only my loyalty, then," I said finally. "My person is my own."
A shadow crossed the earl's face, hardening his jaw and transforming his eyes to obsidian. "Your virtue is safe with me, Miss Jones. You have my word. But I'll have yours as well. I'll countenance no deception, no matter how large or small. You must never lie to me. I will know it if you do, and you won't like the consequences."
My heart lodged in my throat. What would he think of my secret, if he knew? As my eyes traced the perfect, pitiless contours of my employer's face, I found my answer. He'd have no more use for a mad secretary than the villagers had had for a freakish little girl. Gulping, I realized what I would be committing to: deceit in the form of omission. Day after day, I would have to guard my affliction from this shrewd and volatile man. If I slipped, if the truth was to emerge ... I shuddered to think of the repercussions.
"We are agreed, then?"
I looked at the hand offered to me. The long, elegant fingers and the gleam of the antique signet. My fingers trembled at my sides—in fear or anticipation, 'twas impossible to say. But I knew the weight of that moment. It pressed upon my lungs, my heart. For despite my qualms, the lure of security was undeniable. Seductive. I would have my own resources, a purpose, a place to belong at last.
Within me, a furtive presence bristled darkly. Don't fool yourself, Abigail. You'll never be normal. You'll never fit in. This is no place for you—
"I will take the position, my lord."
The words tumbled from me. Too hasty to stop, too resolute to withdraw. As I reached for my fate, I knew nothing would be the same again. I saw the leap of triumph in his eyes an instant before heat engulfed my palm, catching blaze in the deepest recesses of my being. There was no doubting the bargain forged between us.
I prayed not to regret it.
FIVE
After the interview ended, I went to my room to gather necessaries for the weekend. I packed quickly for an unnerving hush had settled over the house. Without the cheerful bustling of the staff, Hope End had reverted to its natural state of gloom. I wondered what Earl Huxton did here in this empty place, why he would wish to be alone these two days and nights; a hot flush stole over my skin. Best not to think on such matters that did not concern me. Acutely aware that my employer and I were now alone in the darkening house, I stuffed a few last things into my satchel and headed out the servants' entrance.
In previous weeks, I had caught a ride with one of the other departing servants, but as I was the last to leave today I set off for the Simons' cottage on foot. The walk would take over an hour, but I was glad for the exercise. I needed the solitude and time for contemplation so that I might arrive at the farmhouse in a less giddy state. I was still reeling from my unexpected fortune.
Five pounds a month. Personal secretary to the earl.
With each step along the graveled drive, I shed my misgivings. He'd given me his word, after all, and as Mrs. Beecher herself had said, his lordship did not dally with those in his employ. That other night had been an anomaly, that was all. A product of my ill-advised appearance in a room where I did not belong and the earl's overindulgence in spirits (and, I thought dryly, his overindulgence in general).
But from now on, I would act with the utmost propriety and vigilance. I would have an opportunity at last to better myself. To put my skills to use so that I might earn esteem and a place of belonging. Blinking rapidly, I sent thanks to Aunt Agnes where she surely watched from above. I felt the warmth of her approval in the fading rays of the afternoon.
Reaching the wrought-iron gate at the end of the drive, I paused to look back. The sun had dipped below the massive stone structure. Limned by shadows, the Hall appeared like a dark behemoth slumbering upon its belly. Its spine was the crenellated roof line, its wing the huge pointed arch over the entrance. It had eyes of brilliant stained glass and nostrils in a pair of covered doorways. It even had a tail, pointing upright in the single crooked tower of the west wing.
All in all, 'twas a beast of gothic splendor. An extraordinary entity where beauty and darkness co-existed and fed upon one another. With a shiver, I could not help but think that master and domain were well-suited.
I was about to continue on my way when something drew my eye. The movement was too quick for me to follow, but I found myself staring at the tower. Shielded by the low-hanging conical roof, the uppermost window winked with sudden movement. The room behind it was the highest point of Hope End—and the only place where the servants were forbidden access. Like some ancient medieval keep, none but the master knew how the room was breached. 'Twas the last threshold, the ultimate protection against invading forces.
I had once overheard Mr. Donovan, his lordship's valet, chatting with Mr. Jessop, the butler, over bottles of ale. According to the valet's speculations, the earl had purchased Hope End precisely because it resembled a medieval keep. Back then, the master had been newly married and had planned to create a kingdom of his own. He'd spent a king's ransom, the valet pointed out, just on the countess' boudoir alone. Five master artists had worked day and night to paint the heavenly cupola above the bed.
But his bride had died before he could bring her here. In childbirth was Mr. Donovan's guess—though no one could say for certain. None of the current staff had been with the earl in Italy, where he'd been living at the time of his marriage. None, that is, except Edgar. And the groom, with his dour expression and surly manner, was as like to slit his own throat as to betray a word about his master. Mayhap that was why he was allowed to stay on during the weekend, when the rest of us were banished.
I scrutinized the window a moment longer. A dark shape swooped down from beneath the roof's overhang, and I released a breath. 'Twas naught but a crow that I'd seen. Shaking my head at my morbid imaginings, I continued toward the village at a brisk pace. The soles of my boots crunched against the winter grasses, and a chill breeze stirred creaks and sighs from the bare-limbed trees. A while later, I came upon the rock-studded stream that flowed into St. Alban, and I took its cheerful gurgle as my companion.
Soon after, I veered right at a fork in the stream and took the path that led toward the Simon farm. My steps slowed as I saw the spires of smoke rising above the tops of the evergreens. Within minutes, I came into the clearing where the cottage lay. I hesitated
where I stood, though there was nothing unwelcoming in the scene before me. Shaped like a loaf, the building's two simple square windows were bright in the falling dusk, and the thatched roof lay higgledy-piggledy like a child's hair mussed by the wind. Beyond it, rows of tilled soil stretched in lines of painstaking evenness.
'Twas not the farm I dreaded, but who I knew awaited me within.
"Abby's here! Abby's here!"
Before I could prepare myself, a blur of motion barreled through the front door and headed straight for me. The air knocked out of my lungs; I lost hold of my bag and heard it thump to the ground. When I caught my breath, I found myself looking down into an elfin face dominated by eyes of mischievous green.
"You'll never guess what's happened since last you were here, Abby!"
I couldn't help but smile at the spirited ten-year-old. "I'm sure I won't, Miss Mary Jane."
"You're supposed to guess," the girl said, her red curls bobbing.
"Mary Jane Simon, han't you better manners than that?"
I jerked at the unexpected sound of the low, masculine voice. I had not seen Mary Jane's eldest brother emerge from the field where he'd obviously been working. Golden-haired and of medium height, Jack Simon had the solid, fit build of his father coupled with the refined, handsome features of his mother. I might have found him intimidating—had his eyes not the same roguish slant as his sister's. His crooked smile, too, put me at ease.
He made a bow, rather elegant considering his dirt-covered state, and I bobbed a shy curtsy in return.
"Make your how-de-dos like Mum taught you," he told his sister.
"It's just Abby," Mary Jane said with a pout. "She won't care if I curtsy or not, will she?"
"'Tis good practice," I said, "for you never know who might visit."
Just like that, Mary Jane's face lit up like a candle. "You mean like that story you told me last week, the one about the girl who slaved all day in her stepmum's house. At night, she was made to sleep in the kitchen cupboard full of mice and cinders. And one day, she opened the door"—the girl flicked her fingers—"and there was a prince!"
Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) Page 4
