Midnight Secrets

by Jennifer St Giles

  As I made my way in the dawn’s glowing light, a strange anticipation for discovering what lay beyond the castle’s stone walls fluttered inside me and filled me with guilt. How could I find excitement in investigating my cousin’s death? It was not a very flattering observation and made me want to ignore the practical and starkly honest conscience I’d always heeded.

  Thankfully, I soon crested the sand dunes separating the seaside inn from the view of the castle and paused to breathe deeply of the salty air. The sun rose like a fiery god from the wavy, blue horizon. Tangy sea breezes tugged at my knotted chignon and whipped at the skirts of the homespun wool dress I had purchased from one of the inn’s maids last night. The early morning mists and the sound of the sea wrapped around me, tightening the sorrow squeezing my heart. I reached into my pocket and rubbed the pheasant shell, wondering if Mary had had her matching shell with her when she disappeared. I knew she’d brought it to Cornwall from a letter she’d written earlier this year.

  “Mary, are you out there?” I whispered softly.

  Arcing overhead, a gull cried a sharp, plaintive note as if answering me before diving to the right and drawing my gaze toward my destination. This morning, the pinkish-gold hues of dawn painted the gray stone walls and cast an eerie beauty over the castle’s forbidding façade, almost making me doubt I had seen a face in the window yesterday afternoon. Almost, but not quite. Nothing could brighten the darkness of the maze or the looming presence of the stone gargoyles. I kept my gaze focused on the back door, determined to ignore the urge to run knotting my stomach.

  Before I could knock, the door flung open. Mrs. Frye stood there with her hands planted on her hips. “You’re late!”

  I glanced at the rising sun. “I apologize, ma’am.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for? You’ve chores that need doing. Impoverished vicar’s daughter or not, you’ll get no special treatment here. Your only time off will be half-days Sunday, so you can rightly serve the Lord’s commands. Otherwise, there’ll be no lazing about.”

  Apparently dawn meant before the light of day and not minutes after.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I followed her stiff-backed march into the castle, where the size of the rooms and the height of the ceilings completely swallowed me. An arched doorway joined two kitchens that stretched like a sea of order and cleanliness. Not a speck marred the shine of the wood floor, not a spoon, dish, or knife lay out of place and the copper pots gleamed like mirrors.

  Mrs. Frye didn’t pause, but moved faster. “The cook, Mrs. Murphy, will be returning from the market soon. Once you and Bridget finish the dining room, you can both assist with the cooking.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I drew a deep breath and drank in my fill of the hominess. Beneath the smell of fresh scones filling a silver platter on the counter, the welcoming scents of lemon, beeswax and dried spices lingered in the air.

  “Besides your assigned duties, you’ll do as the upstairs maids and Nurse Tolley ask. They mainly take care of Miss Prudence and her daughter, Rebecca.” She took the staircase from the kitchens. “You’re to use the servants’ stairs at all times. The only time you are anywhere in the house other than in the kitchens and your room is if you’re cleaning. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” We rounded landing after landing until we reached the top floor. The Killdarens were Irish and I kept looking for some bit of Celtic antiquity to show. Though immaculately clean and made of rich, dark wood, the walls of the servants’ stairwell were completely bare, and no sounds beyond the brush of our skirts and our muffled steps could be heard. The household seemed unnaturally quiet, almost eerily so. It was like tiptoeing through a graveyard.

  “You’ll share a room with Bridget, the other downstairs maid. Breakfast for the servants is thirty minutes before sun up. You missed it this morning, so there’ll be no meal until later. I’ll give you five minutes to settle your things and then I expect you downstairs.”

  “I’ll hurry, ma’am.”

  “See that you do.” She turned to face me and her apparently perpetual scowl deepened. She didn’t like what she saw. “You’ll need to cover that yellow hair with a mob cap in order to be decent.”

  I slid my fingers over my chignon, wondering what about my hair was indecent.

  “I have fresh uniform dresses in the storage closet, though nothing as small as you. After the chores are done this evening, we’ll find two that you can take in. I expect you to be wearing one first thing in the morning. Above all other rules, there are two you must adhere implicitly to. You’re to make no noise, and once in your room at night, you’re to stay there until morning. I’ll not have any roaming about. The Killdaren sleeps during the daytime and is busy during the night. No one is to disturb him, ever. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I nearly bit my tongue to keep from asking why. What manner of man slept when all others were awake?

  Mrs. Frye left after giving an additional warning not to waste another moment. I hurriedly unpacked my sack, taking time to hide the pistol and my crime publications under the thin, lumpy mattress. The room contained no frills, but was amply furnished with two small cot-like beds, a desk and chair, a washstand and mirror, and a small wardrobe. It reminded me of Mrs. Frye—serviceable, impeccably clean and no character beyond what was necessary to be functional.

  Keeping the housekeeper’s warning in mind, I hurried downstairs, saving any further reflections for later. Even though I had taken less time than allotted, Mrs. Frye still frowned when I appeared, then led me impatiently to the dining room. Once we exited the kitchens and entered the great room and the entry hall of the castle, I was thrust back in time by the Killdarens’ history and wealth swelling around me.

  Ornately papered and carved paneled walls climbed twenty feet to patterned and scrolled ceilings where elaborate chandeliers hung. The marbled floor of traditional black and white squares was bordered with intricate designs along its edges. Oil paintings and tapestries lined the walls, depicting scenes of life from ages past. Statues and vases and delicate artifacts filled every spare space. I was so overwhelmed, so fascinated, that I had to focus my gaze on Mrs. Frye’s unrelenting back or risk being lured to linger, a gaffe that would have had me dismissed, I’m sure.

  She passed through a set of paneled doors and I followed then abruptly halted in the doorway.

  Great heavens. This was the dining room? A banquet hall fit for a king was a more apt description. The long mahogany table, topped with silver candelabras, cut down the center of the room. It was surrounded by padded chairs covered in burgundy damask with chair backs crested by a pair of carved dragons, giving the room an almost medieval flare. As richly appointed as the great hall and entryway, with dark green silk and wood paneling on the walls and a black marble mantel, it had to be the most elegant room I had ever seen.

  “Bridget?” Mrs. Frye called out.

  “’ere, Mrs. Frye.” The muffled reply was followed a moment later by a pretty, young woman with wisps of fiery red hair escaping her mob cap. She peeped over the table, her blue eyes as bright as stars. “I’m ’alf-way finished with the chairs.”

  “I’ve brought help, so I expect you to be done in half the time. This is Cassie. You are to teach her the proper way to clean the downstairs. She’ll be sharing your room as well. Now, no more dawdling, understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I moved toward Bridget as Mrs. Frye exited the room.

  “Lord must’ve ’eard me prayers!” Bridget smile and stuffed a lemon-scented rag into my hand.

  “Thank you.” I stared at the huge table and the numerous chairs.

  “Don’t ya worry none, Cassie. This isn’t as ’ard as it looks. The two of us will ’ave thin’s done quick.” Her manner was as warm as her hair was red.

  Climbing under the table with her, I began polishing. After my fifth chair, I sat back and drew a breath and patted the perspiration on my brow with the sleeve of my dress. My arms ached and the unfamiliar feel of the rough
wool dress irritated my skin. It amazed me that Bridget had already done twenty-five of the chairs before I had arrived. When I glanced up, I saw she, too, had stopped work to study me.

  “I was just wondering who had fifty people to dinner at once.”

  She laughed. “Ach, no one eats in ’ere at all, leastways not while I’ve been ’ere and my sister Flora before me as well. That’d be at least five years. Yet we polish and scrub every week as if the Queen herself were coming.” She leaned closer to me, her brow furrowing. “Ya aren’t from around ’ere, are ya, miss?”

  I cleared my throat, for I had forgotten to speak as a maid would. “No. I’m from further North. Hard times have me working.”

  “No shame in that, at all. Hard times ’ave us all working. My sister Flora’s goin’ to change that for us McGowans one day real soon. But for now we best get busy. Mrs. Frye doesn’t put up with much chatter. She’ll most likely be back in an hour and ’ave our necks if we aren’t done with the table and workin’ on the silver by then.”

  We set to work, finished polishing the table, and had just started on the silver when Mrs. Frye appeared. She grunted at our progress and pointed out a spot that needed more polishing, then left.

  “So, why does the family never use the dining room?”

  Bridget’s eyes grew huge. “Ya mean ya don’t know?”

  “Is there something I should know?”

  “They’re cursed, the Dragon’s Curse, ya know. Cursed since their birth to murder each other. Most folks are too afraid to even socialize with ’em. A right shame if you ask me, too. Men as handsome as the Killdaren and the viscount shouldn’t be cursed.”

  “Handsome are they?” Who had cursed them and why?

  “Like princes.” She looked cautiously about. “Come with me quick, and I’ll let ya peek at the Killdaren’s picture. It’s all I ’ave ever seen of him.”

  Her words shocked me. “How many years have you worked here?”

  “Three.” Rising quietly, she motioned me to follow her. As I did, my thoughts raced. Mary had only been here a year. Had she even met her employer? In coming here I had assumed Sean Killdaren had known Mary. What if he hadn’t ever met her? Exiting the double doors, Bridget tiptoed silently across the intimidating center hall into another room. “We’ll not be cleaning in ’ere till tomorrow, but I didn’t want ya to ’ave to wait that long to see ’im. The picture’s on the far wall. I’ll watch for Mrs. Frye while ya go take a peek. Make it quick.”

  Feeling like a thief, I slipped inside and would have been carried away by the multitude of books filling the massive shelves if I had not seen the painting first. The impact of the image literally stole my breath, and I stepped back from the life-sized portrait hanging above the mantel of a massive stone hearth.

  His green eyes, so vibrantly realistic, stared directly at me from beneath dark brows over a chiseled nose and roughly hewn jaw. He wore a black suit, white ruffled shirt, and had a black cape flung over one shoulder. In one black-gloved hand he held a silver walking stick with what I thought was a fanged snake on its tip. But as I moved closer, I saw it was a dragon that curled up the cane. A force greater than my own will held me captive before him. Had he needed the night to hide his sins?

  It was the first portrait I’d seen done of someone in the moonlight. Dark shadows surrounded him on all sides. He held his free hand fisted at his side, expressing anger or…pain? A haunting moon and an eerie black sky sharpened the edge of darkness to his character. Even so, the sensual charisma emanating from him would have brought a vibrant warmth to his picture had it not been for the cynical, almost cold smile barely curving his full lips.

  “He canna go out into the daylight, they say. It’s whispered that he is a vampire.”

  Chapter Three

  I nearly jumped from my skin. I hadn’t heard Bridget leave her post guarding the door to join me in the room before Sean Killdaren’s portrait.

  “Surely not.” I choked out the words, my throat too constricted to add a scoffing laugh to the nonsense. For even I, the voice of reason among my wildly imaginative family, could readily believe Bridget’s gossip, provided the man was anything like his portrait. Thankfully, that was something I doubted. The artist had to have embellished the facts. There was no way this was a realistic depiction of the man.

  “Whot if it were true?” Bridget asked softly, gazing at the picture so raptly that a fissure of doubt snaked inside of me. “Whot if ’e was a vampire? Would ya let him claim ya? Would ya live forever in the dark o ’the night to be with him?”

  A full minute passed before I could assert myself. I shook my head. “No. No man could be that magnetic. No man could have such a mesmerizing appeal as to lure a woman to live forever in darkness. Why do they say he can’t go into the daylight?”

  “It kills him, is whot I’ve ’eard. Daylight kills vampires, right?”

  “I suppose. Does that have anything to do with the curse?”

  Behind us the door opened and we whirled around.

  “Blimey, we’re caught,” Bridget whispered.

  Instead of Mrs. Frye’s dour countenance and the doom that would have surely followed, two richly dressed gentlemen entered the room. One man looked somewhat like the portrait of Sean Killdaren except less dynamic, with graying temples and bleary blue eyes. The other man, completely gray-haired, sported a fashionable mustache and monocle, and carried a silver walking stick. Both wore top hats, morning coats, and pale trousers. “It’s the Earl of Dartraven, the Killdaren’s father and his cohort,” Bridget said under her breath.

  “My Lord, Sir Warwick.” Bridget immediately fell into a curtsy.

  Keeping silent, I lowered my gaze and curtsied as well.

  “Up with you, child. Flora is it?” asked the Earl of Dartraven.

  “Dartraven, your memory so lacks these days, it’s a wonder you can still distinguish a horse from an ass. Flora of the golden locks left our service, if you recall. This is Bridget, and a new maid if I’m not mistaken. Am I right?”

  “Beg your pardon, my name is Cassie, my lord, Sir Warwick.” I mimicked Bridget’s tone and kept my gaze downcast.

  “Well, maids, have Mrs. Frye serve tea.” The earl waved his hand, dismissing us as he turned to his friend. “Remembering tedious details is exactly why I tolerate your odious presence, Warwick. And I can tell an ass from a horse easily. I’ve not a horse in my son’s library at the moment, but there is an ass.”

  Warwick laughed. “The only reason you keep me around is to alleviate your own boredom.”

  Bridget and I hurried from the library back to the dining room. “Ya get to scrubbin’ and I’ll find Mrs. Frye. Blimey, but I ’ope she don’t learn we were shirking our chores.”

  “Do they live here?” I whispered. Mrs. Frye hadn’t mentioned them earlier.

  “Only the earl, part of the year ’til winter. Then ’e goes to ’is estate near ’ampton Court. Sir Warwick lives nearby.”

  “I’d have thought the coast warmer than the country during the winter.”

  “Not ’ere, I tell ya. There’s no cold like that of the sea and castle.”

  “You said the Killdarens were cursed. Who cursed them and why?”

  “Don’t know.” Bridget lowered her voice to a whisper. “I ’ear it’s always been that way. One of ’em is doomed to die.”

  I shivered, thinking about Mary lost in the cold sea, her body drifting in the waves. Bridget left and I set to work on the silver. Soon my mind drifted to Sean Killdaren’s portrait, his green eyes, the chiseled perfection of his face, and the irresistible magnetism that still had me in its grasp.

  How had Bridget worked here for three years and had yet to see him? I closed my eyes and brought more details of his image to mind, the cold curve of his mouth and the clench of his black gloved fist. Perhaps it was a good thing she hadn’t.

  Bridget returned and we finished the work in the dining room then made our way to the kitchens. That’s when the real work began. The ki
tchen that I had imagined as being warm and cozy became hot and grueling when burning ovens and hard work were involved. We were there hours before we finished.

  “It’s scandalous of ’er, I say,” Bridget muttered with the first hint of discontent I had heard. We were on our way back to our room after hours of scrubbing, polishing, then cooking. “She ’ired us as ’ousemaids, and after our ’ard chores, she puts us to work as scullery maids. She’s punishing me for my sister’s desertion, I tell ya.”

  “How so?” I rolled my shoulders, protesting the heavy wool upon my skin and the ache in my arms. I wanted a hot bath.

  “Flora started as a scullery maid, and within two years she became Mrs. Murphy’s best ’elper, practically running the kitchens for ’er. Everyone thought Flora would take Mrs. Murphy’s place when Mrs. Murphy grew too old. But Flora surprised us all, she did. Went after a better life. With ’er ’aving a voice like an angel, though, we should ’ave expected it.”

  We’d come upstairs to ready ourselves for dinner and had to be back in the kitchens for the evening meal shortly. Bridget flopped back on her bed, and I moved to the window, opening it for a breath of fresh air. “You mentioned your sister earlier. I’m sorry, but I can’t remember where you said she went.”

  “I don’t rightly know yet. But I tell ya, anywhere Mrs. Frye ain’t has to be a better place.”

  “She is rather stiff minded.” From our room, I had a view of the stables, the gardens, part of the round, gargoyle-guarded room and the maze, which still appeared dark and unnavigable even from this height. I couldn’t see the sea, but I could smell its tangy salt in the air and hear the whip of the waves lashing the shore. Dusk blanketed the sky, leaving only a sliver of a red sun on the horizon. Even as I watched, the deep shadows of the night crept closer to the castle’s stone walls…and to me.