Eve Silver (15 page)

“Forgive me,” he muttered, stepping away from her, clasping his right hand with his left. “I should go. I am sorry to have troubled you. It is just— Be careful, Miss Parrish. He is a dangerous man.”

It struck her then.

“Sir, do you refer to Lord Anthony?” she ventured uncertainly, completely baffled by this odd man and his even odder comments.

“
Lord
Anthony,” Dr. Smythe mused. “He is lord of nothing, Miss Parrish. Merely the sixth son of a Marquess. A courtesy title, nothing more.”

His statement came as no surprise. Cookie had told her as much several days past, though her tone had been ever so much more polite as she said it. “What is your purpose in telling me this?”

He seemed taken aback by her question. Perhaps he had expected some stronger reaction, though, truly, Emma could not imagine what his intention was, and he did not seem inclined to elucidate. The silence lengthened, and Dr. Smythe’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “You have been beguiled, Miss Parrish. I offer this unsolicited opinion because of my grave concern for the well-bred young lady you most certainly are. Beware.”

Oh, dear. Yet another cryptic warning. She sighed.

“Beware of what, Dr. Smythe? I have yet to encounter any threat to my person.” Save for the anthrax-riddled corpse in the Round Tower, and the person who had spied on her that first day at Manorbrier, and the frightening episode in the icehouse. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, wondering if he detected her deception.

 “Not all threats are obvious, Miss Parrish.” Dr. Smthye paused, then continued in a softer tone, as though he was hesitant to impart gossip. “The last governess at Manorbrier died a terrible death.”

 He must mean Mrs. Winter. “What sort of death, Dr. Smythe?”

“She died of anthrax, Miss Parrish. I found her body on the side of the road to Bosherton, haphazardly clothed, a small portmanteau by her side. From all appearances, she was fleeing Manorbrier with utmost haste.”

Emma stared at him in dismay.
Anthrax
. She had died of anthrax.

“How terrible,” she whispered, her mind conjuring the image of the horrific lesion on the corpse that Griggs had carried to the tower.

“Miss Parrish, you look rather pale. I shall stay until you recover.” Dr. Smythe gestured toward a large boulder near the edge of the field. “Come. Sit a moment.”

“No, thank you. I must return.” She backed away, suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to return to Manorbrier, to its familiar, crumbling enclosure. Pressing her palms together, she brought her steepled fingers to her lips, acknowledging the ridiculous dichotomy in the fact that she wanted to scuttle back and seek comfort in the very place that housed the pestilence to which Dr.Smythe referred.

“As you wish.” Dr. Smythe gave a curt bow.

Emma took several steps before the sound of his voice stopped her. “You may rely on my assistance should the need arise. Until we meet again, Miss Parrish.”

Bewildered, Emma paused for a moment, sending a glance over her shoulder. Dr. Smythe watched her in narrow-eyed contemplation. Anxiety and wariness crawled through her as she turned and began the long trek back to Manorbrier castle.

o0o

Emma awoke before dawn the next morning. After so many days of inactivity, she was near mindless with boredom. With minimal effort she had convinced Mrs. Bolifer to give her the key to the locked third-floor rooms, and to allow her to clean them. She was glad for the task to busy her hands.

Meg, the quiet maid who performed her upstairs chores without ever being seen, was in the scullery when Emma arrived, bending over a bucket, her back toward the door.

“Good morning, Meg,” Emma said, surprised to have actually encountered the girl. She was like a wraith, seen only in glimpses, and this was the first time Emma had spoken to her since her arrival at Manorbrier.

The maid straightened so quickly that she nearly overbalanced herself. Pressing her hand against the wall for support, Meg hesitated, and then turned slowly.

Emma noticed the girl's eyes first. Huge and blue, they were clear as a winter morning. She was very young, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. Resting one hand against the wall, Meg clasped the other protectively over her abdomen. The gesture called Emma's attention to the girl's belly, which strained against her apron, molding the cloth to the shape of a large, round ball. Clearly, Meg was far advanced in her pregnancy.

“Good morning, miss.”

“Please call me Emma.” Frowning, Emma studied Meg’s face. “You are not the maid I met the day after my arrival. She was older than you, and none too happy to be here.”

“My sister,” Meg replied. “Alice. She helps out on days I feel peaked, but she has no liking for work.”

Silence followed that statement, and the two women stood in the fledgling light of dawn, looking at each other uncertainly.

Finally, Emma spoke again. “Meg, I know it is none of my concern, but should you be carrying out the heavy chores in your condition?”

Meg stared at her for a moment, then answered with surprising candor.

“Miss…I mean, Emma,” she said, her voice as high and clear as a child's. “I'll tell you true 'cause I think you're asking out of genuine concern. I've been watching you with Master Nicky, and you seem like a fine governess, not yelling at him or switching him like the others.”

Turning, Meg began to gather her cleaning supplies as she spoke. “I ain't got a bun warming in the oven by choice. Weren't one of the village lads that done it. The babe's father ain't going to claim it, or me. Quality never do.”

Sadness welled in Emma’s breast. So that was the way of it.

Meg heaved a sigh, then continued. “My da's dead. My ma has consumption. She coughs up blood and can't drag herself from her bed. And I got six brothers and sisters at home, all with hungry bellies. Lord Anthony kept me on, even when he knew I was in the family way. Aren't too many places that wouldn't have tossed me out right quick.” Her supplies gathered, Meg tugged at her apron and looked Emma straight in the eye. “And he pays me thirty pounds a year.”

Emma could not suppress a startled gasp. The amount was outrageous. Even the finest London lady's maid would likely earn only fifteen pounds per year. Suspicion nagged at the edge of her mind. Was Lord Anthony the father of Meg's babe? The thought was like a blade in her belly. She did not wish it to be true, could not deny the pain that such a possibility brought to her soul.

Yet, it would explain his generosity. Thirty pounds a year.

 She stared at Meg's freckled face. The girl was so very young to bear such a harsh burden, the task of finding a way to raise an illegitimate child.

“Lord Anthony doesn't want us to starve,” Meg continued, her tone indicating that she thought his actions noble. “And Dr. Smythe'll only come to physic Ma if I give him the coins ahead of time. When I first came looking for work I told that to Lord Anthony. He tossed me two shillings. Told me to think of it as an advance on my wages. Only when it came time to pay me, he never deducted the two shillings off.” Meg winked at Emma, knowledge far greater than her age ought allow evident in her expression.

“And if Lord Anthony's a mite odd, always wanting to look at a dead body before it’s buried, carrying soap and a jar of water in his carriage so he can wash his hands all the time, well, ain't no never mind to me. His coins feed my family, and that's all I care about.”

Emma wondered at the odd behavior Meg described. “Why does he want to look at the bodies, Meg?”

She shrugged, unconcerned. “I dunno. Maybe all doctors do.”

Her words startled Emma. “What do you mean all doctors do? What has that to do with Lord Anthony?”

“Dunno… just that doctors and bodies are oft found together.”

“Do you mean to say that Lord Anthony is a
doctor
?” Emma asked, utterly perplexed. He was wealthy. The son of a Marquess. Physician was an unlikely title for one of his class.

Meg looked at her strangely, and nodded. “Everyone knows it.”

“Apparently not everyone,” Emma murmured. “Does Lord Anthony ever”—she hesitated, then used Meg's word—”
physic
the people of the village?”

 “No. He don’t do that anymore. Not since the mistress died.”

Emma almost asked why, and then thought better of it. The maid would not be privy to the inner workings of Lord Anthony’s mind.

Her thoughts were awhirl with all she had learned. Lord Anthony Craven was a doctor, though he no longer practiced his profession. What a strange and unlikely disclosure. Still, it explained his fascination with death, with disease. Such a riddle was he, but each piece she fitted to the puzzle seemed to deepen the mystery even more.

Well, she would have ample time to ponder the conundrum while she scrubbed floors and windows. She gave a small sigh of resignation. Here she had planned the day’s chores in an effort to clear him from her thoughts, yet it appeared she was destined to dwell on him in the end.

 “Meg, I'll need some rags and a broom. Oh, and a mop and bucket,” Emma said. “I am going to clean the rooms on the third floor.”

“Rooms on the third floor are locked. I'm not required to clean 'em.”

Emma fished through her pocket and pulled out the key that Mrs. Bolifer had given her the day before, holding it up like a trophy. “They will not stay locked for long.”

“Oh, well then, miss…I mean, Emma. There's an extra bucket in the corner. And rags on the shelf. Take what you need.”

Meg turned to leave, hefting her bucket of soapy water.

“Meg.” Emma stopped her.

Meg looked up, holding the bucket handle with both hands, her face pink with exertion.

“Why did you avoid me? Before today, I mean. I should have liked to have met you sooner.”

“Didn't know if my”—Meg looked down at her enormous belly—”my
bun
would offend. I watched you sometimes, just to see what sort you were.”

“Watched me?” Could that explain the odd sensation she had felt in the corridor the morning after her arrival?

The maid pressed her lips together and nodded. “I thought it best to stay out of your way till I knew if you were like the others.”

“The other governesses, you mean? The ones before me?”

Sliding her gaze away from Emma's, Meg studied the contents of her pail as if something of great interest was contained therein.

“Meg, who is the father of your child? Perhaps he could somehow contribute, at least financially…”

The girl shrugged, and stared down into the depths of her bucket, her face flushed red now, though Emma was not sure if the color was caused by the exertion of holding the heavy pail, or by the emotions that Emma's questions elicited. “He pays me some. He can be right generous at times. When he wants something.” She paused awkwardly. “I have to get busy with my chores now, miss. Excuse me.”

Left alone in the scullery, Emma began to gather her supplies, and her thoughts.

He pays me some
. Lord Anthony was paying her thirty pounds a year. Was he the father of Meg’s babe? The thought was heartbreaking to her. As the product of such a union, Emma knew only too well that it was common for a man of the upper class to enjoy himself well, and leave the woman to face the consequences. What had Meg said?
The babe's father ain't going to claim it, or me. Quality never do
.

Emma sighed as she lifted her own bucket, and slowly made her way to the servant's stairs. Meg’s circumstance was only one more reminder that she must not succumb to the dark lure of her attraction to Lord Anthony Craven.

Not unless she wished to find herself round with an unclaimed bun.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Wipe the walls. Wash the windows. Scrub the floor. Emma found that just as Mrs. Bolifer had warned, cleaning the upstairs rooms was proving a monotonous task. The locked chambers held no secrets, only dust. But at least her hands were occupied and she was carrying out a useful task. The rooms had been neglected. The thick layer of dust on the floor and the stale smell of the air suggested they had not been opened in some time.

In one room Emma discovered a delicately fashioned rosewood writing desk with painted panels on the two lowest drawers. The paint was most unusual, with a metallic sheen glinting in the vivid hues.

She knelt on the floor, running her finger over the front of the desk. It was clearly a piece of furniture designed for feminine use, small and intricately detailed, with painted flowers, and a parrot off to one side.

With a fresh rag, she carefully wiped the dust from the desk. Then her imagination took hold. She thought of the novels she loved so well, in which a desk might hide a secret compartment, or a painting obscure the entry to a dark tunnel. A laugh escaped her. Though she had given in to the childish urge and examined each room she had cleaned thus far, she had discovered no secret passages, no dark tunnels wreathed in cobwebs. Only walls and windows and dust. Still, imagining that she might discover some secret or treasure had made her tedious chore quite a bit more bearable than it otherwise might have been.

 Turning her attention to the desk, she drew forth the center drawer, her breath catching in her throat as she waited for the contents to be revealed to her. It was empty.

Undaunted, Emma slowly opened each drawer in turn, only to swallow her disappointment as she found nothing. Rolling her eyes at her own ridiculous notions, she continued with her cleaning, working methodically to set the room to rights. Once done, she closed the window and fastened the latch, then turned to exit the chamber. The desk caught her attention once more, and she recollected a novel she had read. A false bottom in a drawer had secreted an important document, shielding it from prying eyes. Of course, she knew that life was not a work of fiction, but there was no harm in looking one last time.

Again Emma examined each drawer, this time searching for a hidden catch or unusual hollow sound when she tapped her fingers against the wood. Nothing was forthcoming. Disappointed at the absence of any significant discovery, she attempted to return the last drawer to its closed position, but it would not push in all the way. Frowning, she withdrew the drawer completely and set it on the floor beside her. Then she tipped her head to the side and peered into the dark opening.