Brittany glanced up from her hiding place behind the altar. Footsteps had echoed in the corridor and she wanted to be assured that anyone putting their head around the door saw her on her knees. No one did so she resumed scribbling. She tried to anyway—smoothly, perfectly—only the damn quill pen she’d brought from upstairs was such crap, she was really struggling not to blob ink everywhere.
Three weeks now she’d sat in here with the stone floor icing her backside and this shitty shawl draped around her shoulders. If Mitchell Killgower thought she couldn’t find something to kill the time with, he was sadly mistaken. A writer could write without paper, without ink, without hope. They could write in the most meager cell, in the darkest cold, behind bars so starkly bleak, they made powder of the iron in their soul. They could write on air. And she was a writer. No one could kill her thoughts.
Ruaf and Orla may never see the light of day, she might as well continue. Fleming had smuggled paper and—she spat wizened apple peel onto the floor—the very odd snack. The nib was split, the ink blobbed. As ever, someone was tramping the corridor. Bang, bang, back and forward. She paused. 1765. If she’d known her searches for the portal would yield zilch, would she have played this differently? Probably. She tossed the paper aside.
“Why don’t you just come in, darling,” she called. “Bring me a coffee, or a wine, while you’re about it.”
“Brittany? Are you there?”
Her shoulders sagged. She leaned back against the wall, letting the cold snake up her spine, the smell of damp stone enclose her. The worst thing about taking Fleming’s help was it was like having a puppy dog snapping around her heels. She’d almost hoped it was Mitchell Killgower out there. At least she could have a row with him.
“No. It’s my shadow. Where else would I be?”
Anywhere, if she’d agreed about these servants. She just hadn’t. The door stopped mid-creak. She turned her head wearily. “Of course I’m here. I just want to stay hidden and write, you know, if that’s all right?”
“That might be a good idea.”
“Oh, what have I done now? Failed to pray properly? When my knees are black and blue from kneeling on them praying a whole hour yesterday?”
So nicely, her chestnut hair flowing down her back, her hands clasped—she never said meekly— her mouth framing the names of a dozen saints? All right, framing two six times, because Mitchell Killgower kept looking in the grill in the door.
“Christ, your father is something else.”
“Why do you think you’ve done anything?”
“Well . . .” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Do you always think that?”
“Me? Well . . .”
“I think you are just amazing, Brittany.”
She supposed she thought she was too and it was all she could do not to touch a hand to her chest, presently squashed flat in the stays she’d donned in order to get this robe on.
“And what I don’t understand is why Father can’t see it.”
“Oh, tell me something I don’t—”
She bit her tongue. When it came to trying to secure her position, Mitchell Killgower was one thing. Fleming was another. She’d had her fill of ‘swains’ on the dance floor. It was a hazard of modern life not meeting anyone decent till you were thirty. Only she was four years short of that and she’d given up on meeting anyone. That included someone far younger, trying to flatter her, even if they were helping her. Still, at least Fleming was doing that much. When he was it didn’t pay to argue. Look where arguing had got her so far. Places she didn’t want to admit to, not to someone who admired her.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I have him where I want him. It just looks as if I don’t.”
Fleming blushed. A purple that clashed with the donkey brown waistcoat. “I mean the way you’ve tried to deal with Aunt Christian is the right way. It’s perfectly amazing, if you ask me.”
“Well, it’s good someone thinks—”
“I said as much to Father earlier.”
“I’m glad you did because wild horses won’t make me.”
“I mean, I said Christian might be my aunt and, of course, it’s not your fault.”
“I know it’s not, darling. It’s nothing to do with me.”
Had she lost the thread of this? Fleming was worse than a rooster with roasted feet when it came to standing on hot griddles. If only she wasn’t biting her nails for a fag, thinking of smoking her fingers instead, eating her fingertips like a zombie, fixing on her most interested look wouldn’t just be the proverbial piece of cake, it would be the bakery counter. But it wasn’t and her head ached. As for her stomach? Rats were surely eating that.
“How can anyone think it is?” she continued. “Now, go along and don’t worry your head about it. I’m perfectly capable of dealing with your father. It’s not as if I’ve done anything to annoy him, stop him getting his bloody inheritance.”
“But then Father read the letter.”
”What letter, darling?”
“The one that came today. The one from Aunt Christian. The one about you spending your days in here. Aunt Christian is worried the house is going to the dogs with you. And well . . .”
“Well, what?”
She might as well ask. Whatever this magical letter contained, it was hardly important when she was dying here by degrees and inches.
“She’s sent even more servants.”
~ ~ ~
“Where? Is one of them a house-keeper?”
Nearly having her eyes poked out peering through a web of silvery branches with what felt like a typhoon tearing up her robe and her feet squeezed back into the God awful brocade shoes she’d minced out here in because the arches seemed made of paper, was not how Brittany had imagined spending the afternoon. But then she hadn’t anticipated hearing these words, even more servants, either.
The rat who had held her under a water pump and thought he’d outwitted her in the matter of the prayers wouldn’t just feel under siege, he’d want her blood. It would be all her fault that insipid toad who had the hots for him had done this to enforce her terms.
“There. By the coach house.”
She tweaked the branch lower. Sure enough there they were. One, two, three, four. Her heart sank. She didn’t need to count past six. How many servants did Christian have? Or was she actively recruiting on the highways and byways, laborers, milk-maids, anyone she thought could be inflicted on Brittany? Brittany settled the branch back into place. “Well, I must say she’s exceeded herself.”
“Doesn’t it bother you? I mean, aren’t you worried about what Father will say?”
“Say?” Brittany forced a tiny shrug. “As little as possible if he knows what’s good for him, darling.”
“That’s what I love about you. It’s how I wish I was.”
When she’d played it this way, how could she say anything else? Let the four kitchen maids in striped aprons, and four footmen standing around a horse and cart laughing and gossiping, put her off her game either. Not when Fleming thought she was amazing, although her stomach churned. She edged her foot back, taking care not to snap any twigs. Being one step ahead didn’t involve lagging behind when it came to Mitchell Killgower.
“Fear not, this is a situation I will, of course, take charge of. I will speak to your father and—”
Tell him what’s what, were the words she was about to utter. Her mouth didn’t just dry, her tongue stopped dead, a corpse in that same mouth. Was she seeing this? It wasn’t a hallucination caused by a starvation diet and tight stays? The fact she hadn’t had fags, or voddie, for weeks. Trembling, she reached for the branch.
“Brittany, are you all right?”
Fleming’s whisper came from another galaxy although the funny noise, the froze
n puff of air, that passed her own lips was hers.
“Shh—”
“What is it?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Is there something wrong?”
She let go of the branch. What had she just thought about being one step ahead? A fifth footman had just clambered down from the cart. Although the shock was so electrifying, she marvelled she didn’t fall down on the ground, she still knew him instantly. Even though the world whirled like a carousel.
The man this had begun with. The one it would end with. Beyond all shadow of doubt. Shining in blue livery.
Mort.
Chapter 11
“You.”
On a sliding scale with one being as simple as pie and five being, moderately difficult, getting rid of Fleming was zero. Mincing across the yard was too, despite the shoes. So this business of finally taking charge was a piece of cake. Wasn’t she mistress of this house? Didn’t people expect it of her? She just needed to remember to glide not run.
Mort was here and he was going to take her back. There was not a chance he’d refuse. Before he even tried, she knew by the tortured look festering beneath his brows, he was considering it, she swept forward.
“Good day, oh it’s quite all right.” A cursory glance at the other servants was in order. “The rest of you can go indoors. Make yourselves at home. Run back to your mistress with as many reports of Mitchell and me as you want. Not you.” She glared at Mort. “You will stay here.”
They could report that too. She was seen talking alone to a male servant when she wouldn’t be around to face the consequences. Voddie. Fags. Sebastian. She raised her chin. “I mean you do know who I am. Right?”
“It’s why I’m here.”
The voice low as a rabbit burrow ten yards beneath the ground, rumbled with absolutely no pretence of reasonableness. It didn’t matter. He was here to take her home. She’d hungered, thirsted, and put up with Mitchell Killgower long enough.
“Then, let’s not waste any more time, especially given your tendency to spontaneously combust. Although I must say you’ve healed rather well.”
“And you, if I may say, are as obnoxious as ever.”
“What? I think you are meaning someone else, although I would add that anyone landing here, in this God-forsaken time and place and being expected to fend for themselves against the most disgusting man going, would find niceness a trial.”
“That depends on the person.” His gaze swept her. A remarkable feat when it crouched like a toad beneath a rock.
“Whatever it depends on is of no consequence. Where’s the bloody portal?”
“The what?”
“Oh, don’t be tiresome, darling. I’m done playing games. Whatever it was I came through, you came through, to get here, where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do. So don’t even give me it.”
Standing in the blue livery, a stud in his ear, he looked as uncomfortable as a stuffed trout. She’d still strangle him if he didn’t help her get home.
“When that bloody man sees that bloody lot Christian’s just sent here, there will be hell to pay.”
“Mitchell? You’ve met him then?”
“Of course I’ve met him. The bloody man held me under a water pump.”
“So you’re not getting along?”
“What is this? Twenty questions? I just want to go home. Do you understand?”
“Sure. But what will you do back home? Take it out on Sebastian?”
How did he know his name? Had he been snooping? To accuse him would be suicide when she needed him to get her out of here. If that required her being nice, she would be nice.
“If I do, is it any more than he deserves?”
“I see you’ve not changed. Now, if you don’t mind excusing me, I’ll see you later, I’ve things to do apparently.”
She swung round. Time was of the essence. Mitchell Killgower knew these servants were here. The only wonder was he wasn’t out here blaming her for it.
“What has that to do with anything?”
“What?” Mort hesitated. “Me having things to do? Apparently there’s a house that needs running. This one.”
“Not that. Me, you damned fool. What has me changing to do with anything?”
What was so important that even he, a man of few words, was dumb? It meant she’d to get her own tongue in gear.
“Look, Sebastian had, and has, it coming. I was trying to help him, not the other way about, all these years ago and just look where it damn well landed me. Sebastian is a liar. A drunk. A nicotine addict. Probably a philanderer. Why are you looking at me like that? He is these things. What’s more, he owes money everywhere you care to name. If you want me to name, I will name but I don’t want to be here till the present day. And he defaulted on that mortgage. Do you have any idea what that’s meant for me? The fortune I have had to spend on rentals, while he sits there with horrible Helga?”
“I’m sure he is all these things and more, but I’m not talking to, or about, him.”
“Then, what are you talking because I’d be really glad to know.”
He sighed to the depth of whatever ocean was in his soul. “Don’t you remember what I said?”
“When? I mean come on, darling, you said a lot. Everyone does. If I was to remember every single thing everyone said at any given time during the day, I’d be here all year. And really I can’t be. I need to—”
“About choice.”
“Oh that?”
Uneasiness raced like running shoes across the back of her neck, but she was calm. He was here to take her home. The kicking she’d give herself when she saw where that portal was, would be savage.
Choice. Should hers should have been to greet Mort effusively when he’d come all this way to find her, instead of snarling at him? Then they’d both be laughing their heads off at how she’d searched everywhere, even breaking Fleming’s bed causing no end of trouble with Mitchell Killgower?
The name flapped into her senses. A bat with the letters firmly engraved, damn him to hell making crumbling ash of her smile. Still, think of the fags, the voddie. Think of being back at Skinny Joe’s. It was all worth being friends with Mort for.
“Very well, Mort, do you want me to kiss you? Is that it?”
“Kiss me?”
“There’s no need to look so horrified. I realize I should have run over here and thrown my arms around you, but my feet were killing me, darling. But I can do it now.” His liveried lapels were warm in her hands. She pulled herself up on tiptoes. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you. I’ve dreamed of you, you know.”
“You wha—”
“Once.”
He tried pulling his lapels free. His face, inches from hers, a petulant hulk’s. “Brittany.”
“It’s really Brita, but I’m not going to take issue—”
“Brittany, get off of—”
“Just tell me where the portal is? Do you know I looked everywhere? Even in the broom cupboard. I really thought Fleming’s room had to—”
“I’m not here for that.”
She tilted her head further back so she could look at him fully. It was hard to keep her smile pasted when she wasn’t one for really smiling, but desperation swamped. Head, heart, every bit of her was swept with such a burning longing to get home, the breeze iced her forehead. A second ago, she hadn’t noticed it was windy. Hadn’t noticed anything. The rustle of the leaves. The hum of voices and clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen.
“Of course you are, darling. Why else would you come to this bloody awful place? Look at my nails, bitten to the quick. My hands shake worse than if I’d palsy. Do you know why? Because I need a fag. I need a voddie. So why, why would you c
ome here for—?”
“Oh, that’s simple.”
He pushed her back and raked in his breast pocket. Please don’t tell her that he’d been sent here too and the reason was in there? Her heart thumped louder than a drum. The impulse to stick her hand in his pocket and grab whatever it was, sweeping.
“Excuse me. It’s here somewhere. At least, I reckon it’s here. Wait . . .” He peered inside it. “Yeah, I knew it was. The reason I’m here.”
At last. He’d stopped raking. Now he pulled his hand free she was glad she’d mastered what swept, resisted the urge to shove her hand in his pocket. She waited. A crumpled sheet of paper floated into her vision.
“To get you to sign this. To sign this so I can die.”
Sign this were not words she wanted to hear. Yet, they thundered as she swept from the yard, across the sun-bleached stones, echoed in the dull repetition of her footfalls in the endless corridor, the gathering of the cold icy droplets that sat in her heart. Something that should be of no consequence, when things never were, was of every consequence. She was stuck here. Well and truly stuck here. And cruel, cruel, thing, she’d thought she was getting out.
She wasn’t signing this. Mort knew where that portal was. How the hell else could he have got here? The implacable, lying bastard had had her signature fair and square weeks ago, then gone on fire and burnt the bloody thing. Hardly her fault.
She rounded the bend in the staircase, clasping her skirt with steel talons, inhaled cut-throat breaths into the pit of her lungs.
Choice.
She’d one.
She’d go to Mitchell Killgower. She’d ally herself fully with him. Until Mort saw sense he’d stay here over her dead body.
~ ~ ~
“To what do I owe this very great honor?”
She shut the bedroom door. Mitchell Killgower sat at his easel in the window—the window that overlooked the courtyard. So it probably was an honor. Not only could she not allow her calm to break again as it had earlier when she’d got upset about her nails, for days he’d wanted her to help him. This was her chance to capitalise.
The Writer and the Rake Page 12
