But one morning, she’d awoken, shivering, to a room long grown cold, and she’d realized that her dreams had no more power to bring him back than they had to keep her warm. That day, she’d moved everything she’d wanted to remember him by, locked the door, and never returned. Sometime later, Sir Roderick had moved Harrison’s furniture to a room in the family suite, on the expectation that Harrison would eventually move home.
Perhaps it was time to face those memories, then let them go. If she were lucky, she would open the door and find only dust, cobwebs and the musty smell of stale air.
She was still reminiscing outside the door, key in hand, when the two maids arrived, their arms laden with fresh linen. Two footmen followed behind, carrying buckets of warm, soapy water.
“Ah, Miss Livvy, I’ve often wondered what was behind this door.” Susan—one of the older maids—carried a broom.
Joan, the newest upstairs maid, looked cautiously over her shoulder. Olivia had found Joan, molested and abandoned in a dangerous alley in Manchester, and had been unable to leave her to her fate. Believing that Miss Olivia had been sent to her by the angels, Joan had proved as loyal as she was superstitious.
Olivia turned the key, then the knob, and pushed, but the door didn’t budge.
“Should we call for Mr. Pier?” Joan whispered, as if her words might disturb any ghosts behind the door. The maid looked anxiously at the door, then down the corridor behind them.
“No need, Joan. I can open it.” Olivia turned the key, making sure to hear the bolt pull back. She pushed again, but nothing. Olivia felt frustration tighten along her jawline. Once she had determined to open the room, she would not leave it to the butler. Turning the knob, she leaned into the door with her shoulder; then, when that failed, she gave it a swift and angry kick.
The door released from the jamb. Creaking eerily, it swung inward, revealing only a pitch-black darkness.
“By all the saints at the back door of purgatory!” Joan, eclectic in her religious beliefs, crossed herself and stepped back.
Olivia, used to Joan’s superstitions, pushed the door open to the wall. Breathing in courage, she walked forward into the darkness, counting her steps. “His lordship’s great-grandfather added the turrets to make the abbey look more like a fortress, but he wanted windows for the light.”
“Ah, miss, be wary. No telling what power might be hiding in that dark.”
At fifteen paces, Olivia felt heavy curtains at the tips of her fingers. She pulled aside the heavy cloth to reveal small square windows. Behind her the maids set to work.
Joan stepped cautiously around the century-old heavy furniture standing against the walls. She yelped when she pulled open a set of curtains and found a door.
“That’s the staircase up to the drawing room, and beyond that the bedroom. Let’s start at the top and work our way down. You will find the bedroom views spectacular.”
At the uppermost floor, the maids gaped at the window, giving Olivia a moment to think.
The rooms felt different from the day she’d locked them. Then, they had simply felt empty, reduced to a bed, a desk, a chiffonier, a table with two chairs; but she’d been able to imagine them once more being filled. Now that emptiness mocked her. How had she ever been so young as to believe he would return to her?
She remembered their last kiss. He’d pulled himself out of bed, out of her embrace, and she’d watched as, with every piece of clothing, he transformed from her passionate lover into an officer in His Majesty’s Navy. She’d watched greedily, memorizing each inch of him, as he covered his bare flesh one piece of clothing at a time. He’d realized she was watching and turned so she could see him more fully. She’d watched as his strong arms slipped from view, one, then the other, covered by the crisp linen of his shirt. He’d stood there for a moment, letting her drink in the sight of him, as he buttoned each of his cuffs. He’d buttoned his shirt from the top down, teasing her as each inch of flesh disappeared, and she drank in the flex of his chest, the sinews of his belly, the jut of his sex telling her that he wanted her again, even as he left her.
He’d tortured her a little then, leaving his hips and legs unclad, while he pulled on his waistcoat and began to tie his cravat. She’d been emboldened by his game, and she’d leaned back against the headboard, pulling the sheet away slowly to reveal her still naked body, until he could see her fully.
She’d delighted in his growl and in the leap of his sex. And when he’d caught her by one foot and pulled her to the foot of the bed, she had squealed in anticipation. She hadn’t resisted when he’d turned her to face the sheets and pulled her hips back against his member. When he’d entered her, she’d felt only pleasure and passion.
She turned her mind from the memory. Only later had she realized none of his touches signaled more than desire, and that in their last coupling, so spontaneous, so heady, he’d likely thought her no better than a whore.
She looked around the room one last time. Only furniture. She opened the drawers in the closet chiffioner. All empty. Out of long habit, she ran her hand across the back of the drawer, then pulling each one out, she looked at its underside.
“Miss Livvy? Are you looking for something in particular?”
“No,” she responded quickly. “Just making certain all is clean for our new guest.”
Joan shrugged acceptance and returned to washing the window.
There was nothing that couldn’t be left for the use of Mr. MacHus.
Nothing here of any value at all.
Chapter Thirteen
Harrison had been surprised when the butler, a dour man who examined him as he would an insect, led him to his old turret rooms. The choice had to be merely a coincidence, or perhaps Olivia housed all the extra hangers-on in his old rooms.
The rooms were not as he had left them. He would have been surprised to find they were, but at the same time he felt disappointed, even saddened. What had he hoped for? A locked room, never opened, and all his belongings lovingly kept exactly as he’d left them?
The maid placed his clothes in a giant wardrobe, looking at him anxiously as if she were afraid to turn her back to him. Had one of the other scholars abused her? He would never have allowed such behavior in his house. But he had been absent. If he had wished to protect his tenants, he should not have entrusted the responsibility to another.
“I don’t bite.” He removed himself to the far edge of the room, nearest the windows and farthest from the door.
“Ah, no, sir, I’m sure you don’t.” But he noticed that the maid looked relieved that he had left the way to the door open for her to escape.
“Tell me about your mistress.”
The maid looked at him suspiciously. “I owe her ladyship too much to gossip, sir.”
“Then tell me about the other scholars. What are their characters? How long do they stay?”
“Right now we have the seven, the three visiting scholars, and you, of course. We never go over ten, but you weren’t expected.”
“Expected?” he asked, absently, running his fingers over the grain of the wood in the newel post of the bed.
“Those who want to study here send her ladyship letters, telling her their goals, and she and the parson choose who can visit. Usually those stay a fortnight or a month, sometimes longer, but the seven are always here.”
“The parson? Is that the Reverend Woodbridge?”
“Oh, no, sir!” The maid laughed, then looked nervous and shy. “Rev. Woodbridge retired to live with his brother in Devon. The new parson, Mr. Southbridge, is a young man, not thirty, if I were guessing.”
“He advises her ladyship?” This would be the man who supported her request to separate. What motivation could he have for such a bold act? A tendre for Olivia, perhaps?
“Oh, yes, he comes to the house every Wednesday for tea and stays through dinner. Her ladyship relies on his help with the scholars.”
“I look forward to meeting him. How will I know him?”
&n
bsp; “Ah, let’s see. Blue eyes, the color of cornflowers, and tall. A nice voice—good for the pulpit.” The maid’s voice grew a little softer as she described the parson. Finished with Harrison’s things, she began to edge her way toward the door.
“A handsome man?” He moved farther away from the door, and she scooted past.
“Oh, yes, sir. All the ladies think so.”
Did his wife think so as well? Would she leave him for a parson? The frustration that tightened the back of his neck surprised him. Why should he care?
The maid curtsied at the door. “If you need anything, sir, Mr. Pier’s office is at the bottom of the servants’ stairs. He manages the extra scholars.”
“Not the housekeeper?”
“No, sir, only Mr. Pier. The housekeeper—Mrs. Pier—says she has enough to do keeping the seven in line.” The maid escaped.
He turned to look at the room, freshly cleaned, the windows still damp from being washed. The bed was freshly made, the pillows fluffed.
The only furniture that remained from his residence was the bed. The stately old oak bed had been built during his great-grandfather’s time, and his father had once thought to move it to one of the grander bedrooms. But the original builder had embedded some of the supports into the wall itself. Nothing—not even his youthful passion for his wife—moved it even an inch.
He smiled at the memory. She had been a pleasure to hold. His body flushed with desire at the thought of her, so willing, so generous, so trusting. If Olivia were present, they could muss the sheets quite pleasantly.
He pushed the memory away. All that mattered was that she wished to leave him.
In his head he heard Capersby’s words: You left her first.
* * *
For the past two nights, Olivia had woken to the sound of music. But by the time she’d opened the music room door, the musician had fled. She’d considered setting one of the footmen to guard the room, but decided against it. Somehow the music felt personal, a message she was intended to interpret. She’d investigated the room by daylight, but could find no way—other than the two-story drop to the ground—for the musician to come or go.
Tonight, however, she was ready. During the day, she’d made a space for herself to hide in the large wardrobe at the end of the room. Then she’d lit a lamp near the window in her bedroom and filled it with enough oil that the lamp would go out around the time she usually retired to bed. Once in the music room, she’d pressed herself against the edge of the door, able to hear the quietest sound. A piece of heavy paper kept the lock from engaging, allowing her to observe without risking the sound of the latch.
She curled up and waited. At some point she fell asleep, waking to the first bars of a tantalizing musical piece. Once more, the room was dark. The casement windows were open, letting in the pale light of the moon, but the player was too far away to be illuminated. All she could see was his back, broad and strong. The music he played was delectable, tender and passionate, all at once. The tune was one of Roderick’s favorites, from an old handwritten ledger book filled with musical settings, written out in a spindly hand. She’d learned to play it on the pianoforte just to please him. The piece had tripped her fingers for months, but the old man had never minded. Soon, Livvy, you’ll play it with the best of them, then I’ll accompany you on the lute. He’d never played with her, his fingers too gnarled with age and pain to manage the lute’s delicately paired strings.
So lost was the intruder in his music that Olivia slipped from her hiding place unnoticed. She drew herself up to her full height.
“If you wish to use the music room, you need her ladyship’s permission.”
The man’s back stiffened, but he did not turn. “And if I don’t wish to ask her permission?”
“Then, her ladyship will call for the magistrate and have you removed from the premises.”
“Sir Roderick allowed me to use this room whenever I wished. His old servants will remember me.”
“His old servants are either dead or happily retired on the pensions Sir Roderick left them.”
He made no move to face her, only continued playing softly, adding to the undercurrent of tension that flowed between them.
The tune was complicated, but he played it without a stop or a misstep. She would have preferred simply to listen to that music all night, but her preferences mattered less than her obligation to the estate. Soon that obligation would be over, but for now, she was still bound by it.
“Will you call for your mistress then or leave me to play in peace?”
“I have no need to do so.”
“Ah, so you are going to let me play as I wish.”
“No, I am her ladyship.” She held herself up to her full height, short as that was.
The man’s shoulders stilled, and his fingers hesitated only briefly.
“I remember when Sir Roderick bought this harp. He was in Ireland with his children. A gypsy in a brightly painted carriage was playing just exactly this tune, cheerful and pensive by turns. Sir Roderick bought it, and then insisted that the gypsy meet him and his family at his estate in four months’ time to teach the whole group. Sir Roderick’s daughter had a gift for making this sing.”
“You were here as a boy?” She tried to keep disbelief out of her voice.
“Roderick’s son found me a boon companion, and I accompanied him to Cambridge.”
“Then you must know a great deal about Lord Walgrave.” She wanted to believe him a fraud.
“More than anyone alive, I suppose, except of course his wife.”
“Oh, I know very little about Lord Walgrave; we have rarely met, and I am soon to leave on a long-anticipated journey.”
“You speak very freely to a stranger.” The tune changed to something equally seductive, mesmerizing.
“You have disturbed my sleep for three nights now. I am petulant and overtired.” The song’s seduction combined with lack of sleep and the darkness of the room made her direct.
“My apologies, my lady. I was drawn to my old friends here. Tell me, how far will you travel?”
“As far as the end of the world. Perhaps to a land so far from the sea that they don’t know the use of an oar.”
“You will be Odysseus then.”
“Better than being Penelope. Better to travel the seas, taste the adventure, than be the one stoking the hearth, waiting for the sailor to return.”
“The sea is a cruel mistress, though. She kills as many as she leads to shore.”
“Perhaps. But boredom or worry kill those left behind. And one must die, one way or the other.”
“I suppose you are right.” He lifted the globe of the lamp and lowered the wick slightly, all without missing a note in the evocative melody.
“What tune is that?”
“Something I learned on the road,” he answered.
“How did you get in?”
“The door has a faulty lock. It always has, from my youth. I grew up on the estate, and Sir Roderick educated me as a son, even letting me play this instrument any time I wished.” His voice was gentle, soothing, the voice of a magician or a mesmerist. “Did you not consider that it might be dangerous? Coming here alone to confront a ghost or a burglar?”
“Burglars rarely come night after night merely to play the instruments. Ghosts, well, that’s another matter—but were you a ghost, I would have little to fear.”
“Ah, but my lady, some ghosts can be vengeful.”
“I have my prayer book, and if need be, I can call the parson to bless the house.”
“Not superstitious, then.”
“I simply know this house’s ghosts.”
“Does the house have ghosts?” He drew the music to a close, drawing out the final sounds of the last notes, then stopping them altogether.
“Every house has ghosts. Most people choose to ignore them.”
“But you are not most people.”
“I prefer to know what secrets sleep inside a house’s walls.”<
br />
“An interesting perspective. These walls have many secrets. Have you discovered them all? Would you like me to play another? Perhaps on the viol this time. I see my old favorite still stands in the corner.” He rose, but did not step forward.
“Only if you promise that you will let me sleep tomorrow night.”
He stepped into the greater darkness of the corner. She heard the creak of the floor where his foot trod.
“For a ghost you are quite talented—you can even make the floor creak.” She listened, hearing nothing but her own breath.
Watching the corner he had disappeared into, she raised the wick of the oil lamp. The light shone brightly. She was alone.
Chapter Fourteen
“I don’t like his lordship’s scholar. He’s one of those who misses his dinner, then wants to scavenge in the kitchen for victuals.” Mrs. Pier poured Olivia a cup of tea. “He roams the house, looking in rooms not open to the scholars, as if he’s searching for something particular and hasn’t found it yet. He claims he gets lost, so I set the hall boy to keep him in the library.”
Olivia grew silent. Could it be that her troubles had followed her from London? “What does he look like? Short, a bit fleshy, broken front tooth?”
“No.” Mildred looked at her with concern. “This one’s tall, strong I’d wager, dressed as you’d expect, but carries himself as if he could afford better.”
Olivia released her breath. “Other than wandering, what about him makes you uneasy?”
“It’s merely a feeling,” Pier admitted reluctantly. “Sure, when you look at him, he’s scribbling away like the rest. But something makes you wonder what he’s doing when you aren’t looking.”
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