by JayneFresina
Eyes closed tightly, she pressed a hand to her throat and swallowed. "It's a statue of Mr. Hart himself. And there isn't a fig leaf in sight."
* * * *
When news reached the servants' hall that Mr. Hart and his guests were going out for the rest of the day, Ever began to suspect that she would not see him at all until tomorrow. Mrs. Palgrave, suddenly occupied by a multitude of cases requiring her supervision, including an indisposed guest still recovering from last night's excesses, a broken china vase, a toppled fern in the hall, and a wine stain on the stair carpet, asked Ever if she would mind taking a tour of the downstairs rooms by herself. While they were empty.
"It will be a chance for you to get your bearings, while he's out," the lady muttered, hurriedly putting the teacups back on the tray. "Explore at your own pace, as long as you're down here for luncheon at noon. You look like you need a good feeding. Mrs. Fullerton's cold game pie ought to put some color back in your cheeks."
Soon after this, the telephone in the passage began to ring so loudly that it made the housekeeper's cups rattle on her tray as she made her way to the door. "Good lord, that thing will be the death of me!"
Naturally, Ever didn't want to seem too eager to go wandering on her own, but the housekeeper's frantic warnings against looking at the "wicked" statue of Mr. Hart, should she come upon it, only roused her dark curiosity to an appalling degree. She felt rather like the hapless Pandora of myth— handed a box and then being told never to look inside.
This day, and this post, were turning out far stranger than even she might have imagined. Although, really, the failure to ask for references and the 'thirteen minutes past seven' should have been warning enough of a certain quirkiness in her employer.
Once released from the housekeeper's parlor, she edged her way past Mr. Bede, who bellowed into the mouthpiece of the telephone using a very stern, ceremonial tone, and then she hurried upstairs to the main floor of the house. In the hall, the footmen were fussing over a tumbled fern, while the maids tended to the carpet stain on the stairs. Nobody paid any attention to her as she wandered by them and into the dining room. There, with the door shut behind her, she admired the warm oak paneling, the gleaming polish of the long mahogany table and the heavy pool of fine, embroidered damask where the curtains dribbled languidly to the woodblock floor. A faint drift of cigar smoke whispered through the room, waltzing gracefully with the scent of old roses and lily-of-the-valley.
She moved on through to the drawing room, where a variety of chairs were strewn haphazardly across the Chinese carpet, their cushions dented and crumpled to show where they were recently occupied by those noisy guests she'd heard laughing and striding up and down all morning. The signs of life, temporarily interrupted, lay all around, as if she walked into the scene set for the second act of a play: a newspaper, spread open on the sofa; a sherry glass on the floor; a silk scarf draped over a chair-back; a coffee cup on the mantle— still warm; a half finished letter, with a pen dropped beside it, resting on the desk blotter in the cool light of a window.
"...my deepest condolences on your loss. At such a time there are no words to express..."
And beside the crisp notepaper, a book left face-down, spread-eagled, its spine tortured by the ill-treatment.
Unable to bear the sight of a book so mistreated, Ever turned it over. Someone had been reading a poem by Christina Rossetti. One of her favorites, as it turned out.
I dream of you to wake, would that I might dream of you and not wake, but slumber on; nor find with dreams the dear companion gone, as, summer ended, summer birds take flight. In happy dreams I hold you full in night. I blush again who waking look so wan.
She stopped reading and held her breath as she heard that scream again. More distant this time.
Remembering that it couldn't be a child in the house, she wondered if it was one of the maids, perhaps. They were young girls, giggly and excitable. She imagined they might easily be teased and tormented by the handsome footmen, especially if Mrs. Palgrave happened to turn her back for a moment. The terrible trick of a spider dropped down the back of a collar could cause a similar scream. And such things surely happened when there were young, lively people on the staff.
Yes, she could make reasonable excuses for the sound if she gave it due thought.
Suddenly overcome with the sense of being followed, she looked over her shoulder. But there was no one there, no one watching her.
Before closing the book of poems and setting it carefully back where she found it, Ever took a blank sheet of notepaper and used it to mark the page for the reader. She picked up the pen and wrote on the paper, "People should learn to treat books with greater care." Nobody would know who'd written it, would they?
Here, standing beside the writing desk, she was suddenly overcome with a stronger scent of flowers. All sorts. A profusion of hot house blooms. Too much. Intoxicating. Almost sickening. Yet there were no flowers visible— no posy or bouquet which might explain the overpowering fragrance that hung heavy and moist around her. She dropped the pen and turned her head, certain she'd just heard a whisper in her ear. Goodbye, my dear. God Bless. God Blesssss.
No, it was a fly— there in the window, stubbing its head and body against the glass in a repeated effort to get out.
"It's colder out there than it is in here," Ever warned the fly.
Ignoring her, the insect continued that frenzied performance until it finally crouched, exhausted, on the windowsill and wiped its legs over its head. Yes, she knew the feeling.
Somewhere in the house a clock chimed. Somebody gasped and there was a crash, glass falling from a height and splintering. Silence. Empty and yet somehow as loud as the crash that preceded it.
Instead of standing there like a fool, should she not see if she could help? What if somebody was hurt?
Ever hurried out of the drawing room, but there was nobody in the hall or on the staircase. The earth and snapped branches from the fallen plant had been cleared away, and there was no sign of broken glass on the tile. Above her, a vast, probably very old, crystal chandelier gleamed and glittered. The hanging, multi-faceted prisms of glass caught every slight beam of daylight and turned it into a flame until the whole thing was ablaze even without its candles lit. There must be a draft up there, for all the pieces of the chandelier moved a little, the way beads and gemstones would come to life on the bodice of an ornate ball gown once it was filled by a breathing, vibrant body.
Across the hall a door stood ajar, catching her eye because that too moved as if pushed by a sly waft of air. Perhaps the broken glass was in there. Somebody might have cut themselves.
Quickly she moved across the silent hall and pushed the door further open with her fingertips. Ah, this must be Mr. Hart's study. The walls were paneled in a darker wood and the cigar smoke was thicker, hanging in the air like an unfinished argument. But there was a quietude here that she had not felt elsewhere in the house, not even in the housekeeper's parlor. No sound intruded on the stillness, except for the muted crackle of a coal fire in the grate. A pair of heavy, burgundy velvet curtains were still drawn across the tall window, which struck her as odd at this time of day. The only light in the room came from an oil lamp on the desk and the whispering fire which smoldered with a low flame, a guard set before it.
Here, thankfully, there was no overwhelming flower fragrance, just the rich, warm scents of leather, boot polish and coal ash, with a sweet hint of brandy and the whisper of a man's cologne— sultry, exotic spice, woven through with a thin hint of citrus.
The furnishings in his study were less grand and more informal, worn about the edges and clearly kept for comfort rather than style. She felt like an intruder, even though there was nobody in the room. About to close the door and walk away, she suddenly caught sight of a tall, bulky figure in the far corner of the study. Tongues of fire light licked the generous curves of a black velvet cloth which had been thrown over the shape and, yes, that strange draft breathed here too. It ti
ckled the pleats of this dark cover, like magician's fingers awaiting their moment to reveal what lurked beneath.
Again she made as if to close the door, but it was no good. Her curiosity, pricked by the housekeeper's outrage over a nude statue, would not be quieted.
Where was the harm in one little peep? Everybody was out and the staff must have gone below stairs again. And she'd been told to explore while he was out. Nobody said anything about staying out of the master's study.
Taking a deep breath, she walked into the room and let the door stand ajar behind her. To close it would definitely make it seem as if she was up to no good in there, but it was all perfectly innocent, wasn't it? She was simply looking around, making herself familiar with the house.
Hands behind her back, she strolled to the fire and felt the caress of warmth gently touch her face. If it was not tended, the fire could soon go out. Surely Mr. Hart would welcome a good fire when he came back to the house. But having reached for the poker, Ever paused, shook her head. Not hers to worry about. She put her hands behind her back again. If a maid came in and found her interfering with the fire they might not appreciate it. Not her place. Not her concern. Perhaps it had been left to go out deliberately.
If she stirred it up, they would know she'd been in here.
Besides, Mr. Hart hadn't even thought about a decent room for her and had entirely forgotten she was coming until the last minute. He didn't care if she was cold and uncomfortable.
Ever sensed she wasn't going to like her employer very much. What sort of man would hire a woman without references and then forget to inform his housekeeper until the morning of her arrival?
Scattered, inconsiderate, arrogant. Forgets promises and leaves havoc in his wake, but thinks it all very amusing to keep other folk "on their toes".
Poor Mrs. Palgrave looked up to him because she was the old-fashioned, loyal servant, abiding by her master's wishes, whatever they might be. Forgiving his eccentricities. Making excuses for his behavior. Protecting him from "trollops". As if he couldn't manage that himself, if he wanted to. If being the operative word.
Her roving gaze now alighted on a brown-top riding boot discarded by the fire. The twin had been abandoned likewise on the other side of the hearth, where it lay half under a chair, kicked off with evident impatience. Both boots bore the shiny, polished patina of "brand new", and the box sat upon the chair cushion, the lid proudly proclaiming the bespoke makers 'Peal & Co.' and boasting of their royal patronage. Expensive. Yet the boots had been rejected by their new owner.
Restless. Aspires to be...well...doesn't really know what he wants. Hard to please.
Something whispered through her, like a subtle draft through her body. Again she looked over her shoulder to confirm that she was quite alone.
Her pulse had picked up its pace as if to warn her and yet there was nobody in the room.
Turning to the fire again, she impulsively reached for the coal scuttle and tossed another shovel of coal onto the fire. There, she would take the high road and see to his comfort, even if he did not do the same for her.
Smiling to herself, she replaced the fire screen and then continued her tour of his study, absorbing all that she could about her employer while she had this chance to explore unobserved. She ran a fingertip across the ornately painted globe inside its brass and wood frame, assessed the cut glass decanters in the Tantalus, and then admired the untidy, bulging library of books, stacked and queued behind leaded-glass doors. There seemed to be neither rhyme nor reason to the way the books were placed— travel guides beside poetry, and astrology beside wine-making. Subjects on anything a person could possibly think up.
Yes, that further substantiated her idea of him not knowing yet what he wanted.
Ever would have loved such a collection of books at her disposal when she was a child, for she always had so many questions running around her brain. Her father used to say he'd never seen such an insatiable thirst for learning.
"You've got plenty of time, Ever," he'd remarked once, when she was ten. "Anyone might think you're running out of days on earth and need to know everything you can about life and the universe before they send you off to the moon."
"Why will they send me to the moon?" she'd asked, taking him seriously.
"To teach the man who lives in it, of course."
"More likely she came from the moon," her mother had muttered, banging the iron down on another shirt. "They probably sent her to us for some peace and quiet. And to save their nerves."
Slipping the memory aside, she moved on.
A row of trophies and tall cups decorated the mantle, gleaming in the soft, wavering light, like Aladdin's treasure trove. All of these won with the power of a man's fists and the shedding of blood. Appalling, really, when one thought about it. Of course, there was nothing new about blood-sport for the spectator. The Romans had their gladiators at which to cheer and gape. Human sacrifice for entertainment.
Fearless. But was it bravery or bravado? Or the sense of having nothing to lose?
The walls of his study were covered in tournament posters and framed sepia photographs, showing various circus performers and fairground acts with a backdrop of striped canvas tents. She studied them closer, but among the costumed figures could pick out none that matched the vision she nurtured of the mysterious Mr. Hart.
The largest piece of furniture in the room, and the most ornate, was his desk. With thick legs intricately carved, it was medieval in style— something at which an Archbishop, or another ecclesiastical dignitary, would once have sat to cast fear and awe into the hearts of the humble peasantry. A wide leather chair crouched in readiness behind it, two plump, well-worn arms poised in wait. And there, on the blotter, beneath the oil lamp, she spied a pewter paperweight in the shape of a seahorse. Three small words were inscribed upon its body: Death, Love and Dreams. Tempted to pick it up, she satisfied herself instead by trailing her fingers over the curling shape, from the elegant head to the spiraled tail.
She'd read somewhere that seahorses cling with their tail for stability in the same way that babies cling to offered fingers. It was also true, apparently, that when they found their mate, seahorses entwined tails and danced together at least once every day, to maintain their attachment. And they mated for life. Somewhere in the vaults of her mind there lived the image of painted wooden seahorses spinning around and around in the breeze through an open window. But the memories from her very early childhood were nothing more than dashes of light that came and went through a lace curtain. Of late those memories had become even more faded.
Suddenly feeling an inexplicable hollow of sadness in her heart, she moved away from the desk and the seahorse.
Now there was no further avoiding the black cloth, and whatever secrets it held custody. The thing that had lured her into the room was before her, filling the corner like a dark altar. Saved till last.
Ever scratched the side of her neck with anxious fingers, feeling constricted by the tight lace collar that suddenly chafed her skin. Glancing over her shoulder, she checked the room again to be sure she was alone. The door was still ajar, the coals in the fireplace wheezing softly.
It was only a peep and if a man was vain enough to have himself sculpted in the nude, he surely ought to be prepared for unladylike curiosity. So she gripped the soft velvet between thumb and forefinger. Another breath. Another beat skipped within her heart.
And slowly she lifted the cloth.
"It's not a patch on the genuine article, you know."
Chapter Five
She jolted, dropping the velvet.
He laughed lazily. "Don't be timid. You've begun now. May as well finish."
How the devil had he crept in without her hearing his steps? She was usually so well attuned to every sound. But now, suddenly, after everything but her breath had fallen silent, all the creaks, footsteps and muffled chatter returned to the house. As did he, apparently. Who else could it be, but the mystical Mr. Hart?
&
nbsp; Gathering her courage, Ever turned.
He was not in the doorway as she'd expected, but standing in the far corner, on the other side of his desk, one shoulder propped against the wall, arms folded, a cigar between his lips. His face was half in shadow, but she felt his gaze moving over her with a thrusting, commanding force, one quite devoid of hesitancy or mercy. The low light of the gas lamp on his desk revealed an unshaven cheek and the ivory gleam of a shirt collar and cravat.
Slowly he raised a hand and took the cigar from his mouth. "Yes." He smirked. "I've been here all along." His voice croaked as if he was tired of using it. "Watching you since you barged your way into my study. Uninvited."
How could she not have seen him there? The man must possess some magical, mischievous quality that allowed him to merge with curtains and wallpaper. Like a salamander. He had made her jump, made her feel foolish. And Ever Greene did not like that at all. She swallowed, smoothing both hands over her gown. "I wish you had said something, sir. Alerted me to your presence."
"Wouldn't that have spoiled your spying?"
"I wasn't spying," she said firmly. "Mrs. Palgrave told me to explore on my own. She was busy. And you were meant to be out, sir." The shock of finding him there made her rather more curt toward her employer than she should be.
"Meant to be, was I?" He sneered. "First thing you should learn about me then, is that I'm seldom caught doing anything I'm meant to do, or being anywhere I'm meant to be. Especially when I'm told so by a frilly princess." Slowly he pushed himself away from the corner and swayed forward into the lamp's honeyed glow. "So what's the first thing I should be warned about you, Missy Inquisy? Other than the fact that you like pokin' your pretty nose into my business and you waste my coal when I ain't even in the room to feel a benefit. As far as you know, at least." His eyes gleamed with their own smoky flame suddenly— the only hint of relief amid the darkness. "And you have an alluring walk that makes men follow you into darkened rooms to see what you're up to. I watched you keeping case of my house, looking for loot. Got your eye on my pewter seahorse, eh? If I hadn't stopped you it would have ended up under your garter or down your corset, no doubt."
