by Jo Goodman
Certain his next comment was going to be another unflattering comparison of her face to her hair, Skye dropped the armful of clothes and picked up Matt. "Your mama promised me you wouldn't get underfoot," she said, tapping the boy on his nose.
He gave her a sly look that was much older than his years... much, much older.
Walker came up on them and noticed Matt's sly expression. He laughed. "That's what I was thinking, young man."
"I'm sure his mind isn't as sullied as yours," she said, with some asperity. She ignored Walker's outstretched hands and hefted Matt to make him more comfortable in her arms. "Get the laundry," she said.
Walker caught up to her again in the rear stairwell, his arms loaded with her castoffs. The narrow stairway was not illuminated and the small window at the second floor landing didn't shed much light by the time they reached the bottom. Skye's steps faltered once, but she caught herself.
"Are you all right?" Walker asked. "This isn't the way to go without a lamp or candle."
She would remember that in the future. "I'm managing just fine, thank you."
Behind her, Walker smiled. He liked the way she prickled at nearly everything he said. Without being told, he took the laundry to the back of the kitchen and dropped it into a large copper kettle. Stopping just long enough at the table to steal a warm cinnamon bun from under Mrs. Reading's nose, Walker caught up to Skye again in the dining room.
"Are you following me?" she asked, setting Matt in a chair. "Don't you have an employer who requires that sort of attention?" She went to the sideboard and opened the middle drawer. She took out a half-dozen spoons and a polishing cloth and put it all in front of Matt. After a brief demonstration on how to clean the spoons, she turned it all over to the little boy. In seconds he was making happy clatter, completely amused by the shiny spoons.
Walker was skeptical. His arms were crossed in front of him, reinforcing his expression. He stopped chewing on the cinnamon roll. "You don't really believe he's going to polish the silver."
The look Skye shot Walker told him how ridiculous his comment was. "What I expect is that he'll be playing while you find his mother and bring her here. She can work in this room and her son can contribute in his own small way." Skye went back to the sideboard, pulled out the entire drawer, and placed it on the table. With another polishing cloth she began to wipe the silverware in earnest.
She looked up at Walker when he didn't move. One of her eyebrows lifted in question.
"In the army," he drawled softly, "the captain generally yelled 'dismissed' when he was done with the troops."
On impulse Skye stuck her tongue out at him.
Watching the warmth run up her face, Walker smiled slowly. "That'll do." He turned smartly on his heel and left the room.
* * *
As the day progressed, it was as if the morning had never happened. Skye's headache vanished and her eyes brightened of their own accord. She kept busy with her inventory and by dinner, with the exception of the cellar and certain locked closets, she had cataloged the contents of the first floor.
Skye ate lightly at the evening meal, certain that her problems at rising had had to do with something she'd eaten the night before. The meal that Mrs. Reading served in the kitchen was a scaled-down version of what Parnell and Walker were enjoying in the dining room. Portions that could not easily be prepared in small amounts were available to the staff. Rose and Daisy Farrow ate in shifts between taking out the courses. Annie helped clear trays and store what food she could in the icebox on the back porch.
Skye shared the table with Matt, Jenny, and Hank. She purposely avoided the shellfish and heavy sauces, taking her fill with the clear soups and vegetables. Annie encouraged her to eat more, but Skye found it easy to resist the temptation.
On the way to her room that evening, Skye was stopped as she passed the parlor. Jonathan Parnell and Walker Caide were sitting opposite one another in the large armchairs, smoking cigars. A blue haze wreathed their heads, and Skye couldn't quite mask her dislike for the odor as she was waved inside. She was thankful that her father had put aside his fondness for cigars years ago.
"I take it you have no appreciation for a good cigar," Parnell said.
"Pity," Walker added softly, with an edge of sarcasm. "He had so much hope for you when you showed good taste in wine."
In tandem Skye and Parnell shot him a sour glance.
Walker merely blew a smoke ring into the air.
"Pity him," Parnell said to Skye. "He drank most of his dinner tonight."
Skye didn't comment, though she was surprised to learn that Walker drank to excess. It didn't fit with the kind of man she suspected he might be. "Is there something you wanted, sir?"
"A moment of your time," he said soberly. "Is there something pressing you now?"
She shook her head. "Actually, Mr. Parnell, I would like a moment with you. I have some questions about the house that you could answer."
He indicated the vacant wing chair. "Won't you sit?"
Skye was going to refuse but thought better of it. She was learning that sometimes her employer's politeness merely sheathed a command. Pushed, he could insist that she sit and the conversation would be stilted and uncomfortable from then on.
Taking a seat on the edge of the wing chair, Skye folded her hands primly in her lap. The pose was an uneasy one for her. In her own home she rarely sat quietly in one place for long. Now she could hear Mrs. Cavanaugh's admonishments: "You flutter too much. Keep still. Back straight. Don't be so quick to look everyone in the eye. Don't look away too long, though—it gives the impression of furtiveness. No one wants a furtive housekeeper. There's always suspicions about the silverware count." Skye couldn't imagine anyone less furtive than Mrs. Cavanaugh.
"You appear to be miles away," Parnell said, observing Skye's expression. "Where do you go?"
Her efforts to play the part right had only succeeded in her being chided for daydreaming. "I'm sorry," she said. "You were saying..."
"Actually, I was waiting to hear what you wanted to say." When she merely looked at him blankly, he prompted, "About the house?"
"Oh, yes. I can't seem to find keys for all the closets. There are two on your wing that don't open and another near Mr. Caide's room. I also cannot open the one under the stairs."
Parnell was thoughtful for a moment. "Do you know, I am not certain any keys to those closets exist. Did you ask Mrs. Reading?"
"No."
"If she doesn't have the keys, then it's a certainty there's nothing in the closets."
"Well, if they're empty, I'd like to utilize them to reorganize some of the more crowded linen cupboards. And the space under the stairs would make a nice area to hang coats and hats. You have no such place in your entryway."
Parnell appeared not to have realized this before. "Is that so?" he asked, frowning slightly as he pictured the foyer in his mind. "Why, you're right." With a small apologetic smile, he shrugged. "I've never noticed."
"Then I have your permission to reorganize?"
"If you can find the keys," he said. "Not if it means taking doors off their hinges or picking locks. I don't believe it's worth that sort of effort."
"It really wouldn't be hard," Skye began to explain. "I could do it eas—"
"No," he interrupted, with a firmness he hadn't used with her yet. His handsome smile took the edge off the command, but the command itself was very much there. "I'm quite serious about this. If the keys can't be found, then leave the doors as they are. I don't want a lot of fussing over some closets. You may have to be creative with your rearranging."
"Very well," she said, hiding her confusion. She hadn't thought it was an unreasonable request. "I'm sure I shall manage."
"I'm sure you shall," Parnell said gravely. "Was there anything else?"
"No."
"Then it's my turn."
Skye waited expectantly, though not eagerly. She worked hard at avoiding Walker's gaze, though she felt his eyes hard on her.
Talking to Parnell was unnerving in Walker's presence. She felt as though she could never completely relax.
"Mrs. Reading mentioned earlier that you were asking questions about our ghost."
There was no possibility that Skye could mask her surprise, and she didn't try. She simply couldn't have imagined that Mrs. Reading would think to pass on an off-handed comment about the Granville ghost. "I believe I merely asked her what she knew."
"That's what she said. But I see I've startled you. Certainly you're welcome to talk about the ghost as you see fit. I wouldn't think to censure your tongue." Parnell drew deeply on his cigar, then let out the smoke slowly. "However, I would ask that you consider with whom you are broaching the subject. Mrs. Reading rightly believes that Daisy and Rose Farrow are entirely too suggestible when it comes to the tales of Hamilton Granville. Mrs. Givens used to have trouble getting one of them to go anywhere in this house without the other."
"Of course," she said, struggling not to become defensive. "I spoke only to Mrs. Reading, not to the twins."
"I understand that. It's just something for you to consider." He paused, studying Skye's rigid posture. "I thought you might have some questions for me about the ghost."
"I wouldn't presume to take up your time with that nonsense."
"Do I detect a note of bravado?" he asked lightly, casting a sideways glance at Walker. "Did you hear it, Mr. Caide?"
Walker stubbed out his cigar and rose to his feet. "I heard it," he said tersely. He went to the fireplace and poked at the flames.
"Is that all, sir?" Skye asked, hoping to be dismissed. If Parnell noticed her anxiousness, he gave no sign. She wondered what was making Walker Caide out of sorts. He seemed as impatient to be gone as she. Perhaps it was the effects of the drink.
"There's a book in the library that will give some history of the Granville family," he told her. "If you're interested, I suggest you use it as your source. No one here will be quite so reliable in relating the details." His smile was swift. "Now, that's all, Miss Dennehy."
Skye did not enjoy being the object of her employer's amusement. It was doubly difficult to take with Walker observing it all. Mustering her dignity, Skye bade them both good evening.
* * *
Skye lay in bed for two hours before she surrendered to the fact that she wasn't going to sleep. Still, she rose reluctantly and sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes. The clock on the mantel beat a tattoo in her head while it clicked off the passing time. She had already heard Walker and Parnell part ways in the hall as they retired to their own rooms. She knew that Annie had gone to her quarters with her son long before. It was doubtful Mrs. Reading was still up, or at least out of her room.
The realization that she would be alone gave Skye a motive to get out of bed. She put on slippers and wrapped herself in the familiar comfort of her thick cotton robe. It was like a hug around her body. Smiling to herself, Skye gathered the strands of hair that had drifted over her shoulders and let them fall down her back. She plaited her hair quickly in a loose braid that she did not bother to fasten. Tendrils of it were damp from the quick washing she'd given it; if she confined it now it would still be damp in the morning. At least that was the excuse she gave herself for walking out of her room with her hair unbound.
The bedside lamp she carried gave sufficient light to permit her to use the servants' stairs easily. She hesitated at the bottom, listening for the sound of any other occupant of the kitchen. When only silence was returned, she pushed open the door with confidence.
Skye took the lamp with her to the enclosed back porch, where stoneware jugs of milk had been set to keep cool. The wind sounded louder here, she thought, as she chose one of the smaller containers. Each gust rattled the outside door and made the wooden beams creak overhead. The force of it seemed more than enough to separate the porch from the rest of the house, and Skye quickly backed into the pantry area with her lamp and jug.
She put both on the kitchen table and began looking for a cup. The kitchen was so much the province of Mrs. Reading that Skye had no clear idea where to search. Locating the cup proved easier than finding the cinnamon and sugar among Mrs. Reading's spices and dry goods.
Skye fired up the stove and warmed the milk in a small saucepan. Her eyes kept drifting to the door off the pantry area while she worked. She had managed to resist testing the handle on her way to the porch, and again on the way back, but it was getting more difficult to think of reasons why she shouldn't at least try the entrance to the cellar.
Listening again for sounds that would indicate someone else was up, Skye heard nothing except the fire in the stove and the whisper of milk scalding in the pan. She removed it from the heat and set it aside.
Aware her palms were suddenly damp, Skye wiped them on her robe as she headed for the cellar door. She laid her fingers against the handle and before her resolve failed, she twisted it.
Skye's heart knocked against her chest as she felt the door give. She opened it a crack, listened, then opened it wider. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark. She considered going back for her lamp and decided against it. She could see well enough to manage the steps without breaking her neck. There was bound to be a lamp in the workroom, she thought.
The steps were smooth, indented slightly in the middle by the numerous trips up and down them over the years. Skye placed one hand on the dank whitewashed wall to steady herself and made each step a cautious one. When she reached the bottom, she simply stood there. There may indeed have been a lamp in Parnell's workroom, but she couldn't see well enough to get there. She had no clear idea which part of the cellar might hold the inventions and which might hold the wine. There was nothing for it but to retrieve her lamp.
She turned just in time to catch the last glimpse of light that was available to her as the door shut. A single gasp, as if it were air that was being denied her, rose from Skye's throat. She scrambled up the stairs and groped for the handle. It only turned fractionally in her hand. The door was already locked.
Skye leaned against it, catching her breath and thinking furiously. It was no accident that had closed the door and locked it. Someone meant for her to be found out. It was what kept her from pounding on the door and begging for her freedom. She refused to believe there wasn't another way out.
The darkness of the cellar was oppressive. The damp air was cloying. Skye strained to see as she placed her left hand on one wall and began cautiously to follow its path around the perimeter.
Once, when she was still a child, her father had proposed a visit to a maze garden. Thinking he meant a maize garden, Skye was less than enthusiastic about the Sunday excursion. It wasn't until they arrived and she was confronted by hedgerows taller than her father that she realized there was something about it all that she hadn't understood.
She could still remember listening intently to her father's explanation of the maze, thoroughly intrigued by the lifesized puzzle. Her four sisters had paired off immediately, the twins together, and Mary Francis with Maggie. That left Skye alone. Jay Mac and Moira had planned to accompany her, but she would have none of it. After her sisters disappeared into the maze, Skye followed at a deliberately thoughtful pace.
It took her a while, but she still finished before any of her sisters.
Mary Francis, Mary Michael, Mary Renee, and Mary Margaret all thought Skye had cheated when they discovered how she'd managed the hedgerow maze. Jay Mac thought she was very clever and her mother declared her a genius to anyone who would listen.
All she had done was keep one hand on the hedgerow through every turn and corridor. It brought her to the same end as everyone else.
She used that method now, confident that if she didn't reach an outside entrance, she'd return to her starting point none the worse off.
Skye paid attention to the texture of the path she was following so she could distinguish between the stone wall and the doors that blocked off other areas of the cellar. Though she tried each of the two door
s her hand made contact with, neither opened. For her pains she was rewarded with a splinter in her index finger.
Occasionally her feet found obstacles on the floor. She had to go around a pile of wood stacked against one wall and several covered barrels shoved in a corner. She tripped over an empty jar, then had to get down on her hands and knees to find it when it rolled away. Skye could only imagine the mess she was from crawling around on the dirt floor.
She estimated that she had covered just more than half the cellar's perimeter when she came to an opening in the wall and found stairs leading from it. They rose five high, and when she reached the top, she discovered what she was looking for: double wood doors latched on the inside that opened outward to freedom.
"Eureka," she said softly.
She pulled the latch and pushed open the doors. Frigid air swirled in to greet her, but she breathed deeply. Even in the dead of night it was easier for her to see once she was out of the cellar. Starshine and moonlight allowed her to close the doors easily and make her way around the house without fear of falling. She didn't expect the door to the porch to be open, and it wasn't. She paused on the steps, shivering as she determined her options.
She was still thinking when the door was opened behind her. Skye nearly toppled off the steps. It was a hand grabbing the collar of her robe that kept her from falling. Another hand covered her mouth and silenced her surprise.
Remembering the time not long ago when she'd been held in a similar manner, Skye found that her struggle was as instinctive as it was panicked. She clawed at the hand on her mouth and tried to shimmy out of the robe.
"Settle down," Walker said. He lifted Skye just enough to get her inside before released her. He didn't give her a moment to catch her breath, forcing her back to the door and placing a stiff arm on either side of her shoulders. When she tried to duck under him, he feinted in the same direction and kept her enclosed. "Don't fight me," he said. "You're in enough trouble already."
