Waltz of the Crows

by L Rollins

  She could stall getting to her room no longer. One of the doors to her left was ajar. Strange, that. Martha always required the nurses to keep their doors closed at all times. She thought it made the hallway look neater.

  Leila slowed her step and moved toward the door. It wasn’t a bedchamber, as were the other doors down this elegant wing-turned-nurses-quarters.

  She pushed lightly on the door. It led to a mechanical room. Leila stepped in. Gears and large beams crunched and ground as they moved. Most assuredly, this was not original to the great castle. Water was heated in large cauldrons along one wall, guaranteeing it was still hot when maids brought the water to the bedchambers only a few doors over. Along another wall, were large vats for laundering.

  Leila neared one vat, full of sudsy water and sheer drapery. It was a testament to Monsieur Martin’s wealth that he had the means to convert this space into a mechanical room. It was also proof that he, if not his housekeeper, took care to think of his servant’s workload.

  The black toes of a pair of well-polished boots peaked out from behind the door. Speaking of Monsieur Martin . . .

  “Well, hello there, sir,” Leila said. It probably wasn’t precisely how a nurse should great the man of the house. But there was a small degree of familiarity between them.

  He stepped out, a sheepish grin across his face. “Hello, Nurse Leila. I was just . . .” He waved a hand, motioning to everything and nothing at the same time.

  “Making sure Madame Uppertick will want for nothing during her stay?” she supplied.

  He scratched at his graying beard. “Yes?”

  Madame Uppertick was, it seemed, every bit as unwelcomed as Leila had suspected. Still, Monsieur Martin ought to be man enough to face the woman, instead of hiding like a schoolboy in the mechanical room.

  “You probably ought to see that she wants for nothing by speaking with her, don’t you think?” It was an incredibly bold statement for a nurse, but someone needed to point him in the right direction.

  “There shall be plenty of that, when I dine with her in ten minutes’ time.” He placed his hands in his pockets and shook his head. “She’s a married woman, and yet claims there’s nothing wrong about coming to visit me, a single man, whenever her husband is away on business in India.” His tone clearly bespoke his detest. “Nothing is more sacred than a man’s devotion to his family.”

  Perhaps Leila had misjudged Monsieur Martin. He was clearly thinking of far more than just his own desire to avoid unpleasant company.

  “I could not agree more, sir.” A small prick of guilt pained her chest at the statement. Leila cared greatly for her family, even if she did complain about them more often than not.

  But that wasn’t the problem; her guilt came from knowing that they all believed her to be touring France with her maid. They were clueless as to her actual whereabouts and doings. What would they say if they knew?

  “And she’s always so particular. One servant may serve her supper, but another isn’t up to snuff. She claims she wants to see the patients and praises me to my face, but snubs each nurse she meets.” He walked over to the massive hearth and leaned a shoulder against it as he spoke. “She is near bursting with joy that Conques has a factory now, but won’t step foot in it and flatly refuses to meet with my foreman to tell him of her joy in person.”

  He massaged the bridge of his nose. “She expects me to entertain her day in and day out but mocks half the things I suggest we do.”

  “Sounds exhausting.” And interesting. Leila listed the information she’d learned, committing it to memory. Madame Uppertick was flat-out against meeting with the foreman. She came from a decidedly upper-class family and clearly had designs on Monsieur Martin, despite being married.

  Madame Uppertick suddenly seemed just the person to fill in the blank next to Fowler’s secret love. While being debriefed by her superiors before coming to Conques, Madame Uppertick had not been mentioned. Was it an oversight? How was there so much that London didn’t know?

  Regardless, speaking with Monsieur Martin had been the right course of action for Leila. She already knew what needed to happen next.

  “You said you were expected in the dining hall in ten minutes, sir?” she asked.

  He looked up. “Pardon me?”

  “Ten minutes, you said? It’s probably been that long already.”

  “Et tu, Nurse Leila?”

  She dropped a very short curtsy, as she’d seen her own maids do when they knowingly were pushing the boundaries of propriety in speaking their mind. “I thought it would only be best if you were timely, instead of giving her a reason to harangue you.”

  “Very shrewd of you.”

  “I wish only to help, Monsieur Martin.”

  “Claude, please. You may only be a nurse, but you’ve proven yourself an exceptionally bright one.”

  Only a nurse? And all it took for someone of her status to be considered “exceptionally bright” was for her to point out that keeping one’s commitment was wiser than giving a woman reason to pout? Curious, and slightly insulting. Monsieur—uh, Claude—dropped slightly in her estimation.

  “Well,” he said, standing straight once more and clapping his hands together. “If I see it in that light, I believe it is in my own best interest to be on my way. Good day to you.”

  Leila curtsied once again as he left. Life as an underling required much curtsying.

  Yes, it was in his best interest to see to it that Madame Uppertick was fully occupied during the course of the next hour. It was in Leila’s best interest, too.

  She’d make up a reason for reporting late to her duties later. Right now, she needed to learn which room Madame Uppertick was staying in.

  ***

  Finding the right room proved a simple task. There were benefits to being a lowly nurse. No one thought it unusual that she would strike up a conversation with a maid and learn the exact room, who was likely to be in and out of it during the next hour, and how long Madame Uppertick’s stay was likely to last.

  Namely: the room furthest away from Monsieur Martin’s, no one, as Madame Uppertick’s maids were also taking their supper, and an irritably vague number between one and three weeks.

  Leila stopped just before the desired door. Glancing down the hall in both directions, she made sure no one was around to see her. She could probably excuse away needing to enter Madame Uppertick’s room to a passing servant, but she’d rather not have anyone know she’d been there at all.

  The door opened noiselessly and she slipped inside. Time for some secret spy work. This was what she loved most. Slipping in and out of places, learning what no one else knew, stepping into that world where the pointless regulations of her childhood no longer held her captive.

  The room was well aired out; there was no musty, unused scent. Draperies and linen all looked freshly replaced. Leila marched first to the bed and slid her hands under the pillows. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, only that she needed to know more about this strange woman with a penchant for Monsieur Martin and a strong dislike for Fowler.

  She moved to the blankets next, pulling them back slightly and checking underneath. This bed was far softer than the one she’d been staying in the past few months, though it was probably just like the one she’d been accustomed to at home.

  Perhaps the softness should have made her homesick, as hearing Rowley use the British word ‘lad’ had done. But it didn’t. It only made her realize how pointless the luxury had been.

  She slept quite fine on the harder, smaller mattress in her current bedchamber. Did the upper class realize just how much they were being fleeced? All of them, with more rooms than people in each mansion, filled their bedchambers with mattresses far more fluffed and expensive than necessary.

  Dropping to her stomach, Leila angled herself to better see under the bed. Rowley struck her as a man who didn’t need overly-hyped fripperies, such as a mattress thicker than a tree’s trunk.

  The space un
der the bed was immaculately clean. Very well; she would just have to search the desk and armoire.

  She needed to do it quick, too. The longer it took her to report to work, the more trouble she’d be in. Leila pulled out all the drawers in the small writing desk. Several pads of parchment sporting a personalized letterhead filled one drawer, while three mechanical pens rested in the one above it. Not here even half a day, and already the woman had had her maid unpack her letter writing tools.

  Madame Uppertick was serious about her correspondences.

  If only there were letters—to be sent, or received—somewhere on the desk. Leila picked up one pad of parchment and angled it toward the open window. The light of the setting sun showed no indentations from a previously written correspondence.

  With a sigh, she placed it away and moved to the armoire. Leila threw the doors open and pushed aside a variety of dresses. Did the woman wear nothing but dresses?

  As a lady from a wealthy family, Leila had enjoyed breeches, riding habits, and a varied selection of clothing. Apparently, Madame Uppertick’s preferences were strictly for the attire of a by-gone era.

  Leila checked in pockets and inside each hat box and even in the woman’s many slippers and boots, but found nothing.

  Footsteps echoed outside the room. Someone was walking down the hall; judging by the sound, either that someone was a man, or a very angry woman. The sound grew alarmingly close to the door.

  Leila dove for the bed just as the footsteps stopped directly outside Madame Uppertick’s room. She slipped underneath while the doorknob twisted.

  When in doubt, hide. Her instructors had given that advice more than once. Leila willed her heart to slow down, grateful that she’d at least remembered that tiny bit of wisdom from her training.

  The door opened and Madame Uppertick herself marched into the room. With a furious growl she spun around and slammed the door.

  Someone, apparently, had not enjoyed supper. Why couldn’t Claude have been civil enough to keep the woman occupied for five more minutes?

  She could talk her way out of being late for work. She could think up an excuse if a servant had found her at Madame Uppertick’s desk. But there was nothing she could do if she was found hiding under the woman’s bed by the woman herself.

  Madame Uppertick’s hands were clenched into fists at her side and she stomped toward the small writing table. She slammed a hand onto the tabletop and then reached for one of the drawers.

  Blast. Leila had left all the drawers open. The doors to the armoire were open too. Nothing, not even an unrequited love, could blind a person to the obvious fact that their room had been searched. Leila wanted to groan at her own stupidity, but didn’t dare risk giving herself away.

  Madame Uppertick stilled, looking suddenly frozen. Then with one hand, she lifted a mechanical pen. Placing it back, she inched away from the table, hands raised and palms out as though the wooden desk was diseased.

  She spun toward the armoire. Between two fingers, she picked at a dress, then instantly dropped it once more. She shuttered and spun in a full circle. Her face was one of a scared, pampered prissy.

  Leila kept her breathing soft. Run away, she willed the rich woman. Run away and tell someone. If Uppertick would only leave, then Leila could slip away unnoticed.

  Madame Uppertick’s eyes suddenly went wise.

  “No, no, no,” she muttered and dropped to her knees. Pulling a large box out of the armoire, she threw one unmentionable after another out of the box and over her head. The white, black, and red frilled garments floated down around her like ghosts.

  From the bottom of the box, she pulled out a stack of papers. She clutched them to her chest and let out a sigh of relief.

  Apparently, there was something of interest in this room. Too bad Leila hadn’t made her way to that particular box before she was interrupted. Martin was a man of high breeding; he should have been able to carry on a supper conversation longer than fifteen minutes.

  Madame Uppertick pulled a small hat box from the top shelf of the armoire and unceremoniously dumped the contents—a dainty veiled hat of black and purple—onto the floor. Dropping the stack of paper inside, she clutched the box close to her amble bosom and rushed from the room.

  Leila pulled her way out from under the bed. She’d tailed Fowler and not been caught. It was time to test her skills a second time.

  In the end, her skills were hardly needed. Madame Uppertick proved far too distracted to notice Leila. The woman led Leila outside, past the flowerbeds, and to the large well several yards away.

  Madame Uppertick finally glanced around; Leila crouched behind a bush, breathing out a sigh when she went unnoticed.

  If ever the name came up for consideration, Leila would most certainly shoot down Madame Uppertick as a possible spy. The woman may be wealthy and a good source of gossip, but she would never pass as a good informant.

  Madame Uppertick bent low, picking up several rocks, and slipped them inside the box with the papers. Taking a small cord from her pocket, she tied the box closed and tossed it into the well.

  With another furtive glance about, Madame Uppertick hurried back toward the castle. Leila did not follow.

  The woman could not have made it more apparent that she was hiding something in that box if she had scribbled “Secret Papers: Do Not Read” across the lid.

  Leila waited until the woman was back inside before hurrying over to the well. No rope hung from the pulley, but she’d heard the splash when the box had hit. So the well wasn’t dry.

  Did Madame Uppertick truly believe that adding a few small rocks would make the hat box sink? It was far too wide; even Leila had been able to see as much.

  Now, she only needed to get down and pull the box up before enough water soaked into the hat box to do what Madame Uppertick had been trying to accomplish.

  She’d need a rope at the very least, and had no idea where to find one. Who would she even ask?

  Perhaps a gardener? It would be nice if that someone could stand up top and lower her down, as it would be tricky to do so on her own. Who could she convince? Someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions . . . better yet, someone she felt she could trust.

  A face came to mind and she smiled.

  Leila knew exactly who to ask.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SAMUEL STOOD AT the window, watching the last rays of sunlight slip between the tree branches. Never had he had so much time on his hands.

  And he didn’t like it.

  Whoever aspired to a life of luxury and boundless free time was either naive, hoodwinked, or downright imbecilic. Yes, he worked often at the castle, but there was no one left to care if the flowers were in bloom, the garden producing, or the hedge well-trimmed. More than once, Madame Hamon, who’d taken over for the head gardener some months previously, had sent him home after only half a day. She didn’t have the time or energy to care, and so he was left with next to nothing to do.

  In addition to that, Amelia had the orchard well in hand. He felt more in the way than helpful even at home.

  He wanted to return to England. Perhaps Captain Hopkins would recommend him for a post on another vessel. He longed for the sea life, for the long hours of demanding, yet satisfying work.

  But he couldn’t leave Amelia. Even if she never became ill, he couldn’t leave until he knew she was safe.

  That morning, he’d contemplated bringing up leaving Conques again, but he’d promised he wouldn’t. Amelia was truly happy here, and brilliant at the business side of caring for the orchard.

  The back door opened and his sister walked inside, her front, hands, and arms all caked in dirt.

  “All dunged,” she announced.

  “You know I could have helped with that.”

  She shook her head. “I can handle the orchard.”

  “I’m pretty confident I could have at least thrown manure at trees.”

  “You don’t throw it. There’s a very specific way to go about dungin
g so that the tree roots are undisturbed but the dirt is enriched.”

  Did she really believe he couldn’t even help dung some trees? He’d grown up here, too.

  “Amelia—”

  A knock stopped his protests.

  “Who could that be?” Amelia asked, marching toward the door.

  She was the clear owner of this home. She dunged the trees, she kept the books, and she opened the door to strangers. Was there anyone who needed his help?

  “Good evening,” Amelia said to whoever stood on the other side of the door. Judging by his sister’s tone, it wasn’t a visitor she knew.

  “Is this the Rowley home?”

  That sounded very much like one particularly beautiful nurse. Samuel moved to stand by his sister.

  He was right. Nurse Bartel stood in the same fetching light blue blouse and simple black skirt she’d worn at the pub earlier that day.

  “Oh, good, you’re here,” she said without a formal hello. For some reason, the in-formalness made him want to smile. He might not be of much help to Amelia, but at least one person cared if he was around or not.

  “I need your help,” she said, an earnestness to her voice that made him smile.

  Lud, he couldn’t have asked for a better way to lift his mood if he’d petitioned the heavens himself. Someone needing him to do something was exactly what he wanted just now—and Nurse Bartel was quickly becoming one of his favorite people to be around.

  “Anything you need, mademoiselle. I am at your command.”

  There was an excitement to her eyes, and a glow about her expression. Just what was she up to?

  Amelia took a step back. “You’ll excuse me. I need to wash up and then get supper on.”

  Nurse Bartel gave her a polite farewell, but the moment his sister was back in the house she turned toward him. “I need a rope, and possibly someone to hold it for me.”

  Well that didn’t enlighten him much, but he wasn’t one to argue. “Come with me.” He walked with her around the outside of the house and toward the shed that held gardening tools, a few pieces of larger equipment, and an old horse. “How long of a rope are you thinking?”