Fiona (12 page)

There's a howl somewhere inside me, and then the image of Charlie looking down at me, begging me to believe that he's not the player he used to be, invades my mind, and I break from
Gareth's lips with a gasp. “We can't,” I say, pushing myself out of his arms.

He shoves a hand through his hair. “Why not?” he asks. His eyes are wild with want, and I have to back up again as if it's contagious.

“Mabel,” I say finally. “Staff relationships aren't allowed.”

“Fee,” he says. He steps toward me, and I step back again, reaching behind me for the door handle.

“I need this job,” I say, trying to sound determined, unshakable. “I can't, I'm sorry.”

I pull the door open and rush out before I can change my mind.

I run back to my room, getting in bed and trying not to scream out into my pillow. I can't believe what I just did. I want to erase the feeling of Gareth's lips on mine.

What the hell was I thinking?

I wake up
with a headache and one hell of a guilty conscience. The whispers were louder than usual last night, penetrating the earplugs as if they were berating me for being such an idiot. How could I have gone to Gareth like that? I was upset about Charlie, so I acted on impulse instead of staying calm and thinking things through. Just like my mother used to do.

When I was ten, Mom told me we were moving to the country. I came home from school, and she'd already packed up all our belongings. “We need a new life,” she said, handing me my suitcase and nearly shoving me out the door. “We need to get away from this noisy, polluted city. We need clean air to
think
.”

I was so confused, and I protested the entire way down the stairs and once we were out on the street. I had school. I had
Mrs. Alvarez's piano. My whole life was here, in Austin. We couldn't just
leave
.

We made it to the first major intersection, where I watched as her will collapsed at the sight of speeding cars and the busy reality of the street. She shuffled backward a few steps and crouched down, frightened. “I think—I think I want to go back,” she whimpered.

She looked so small, fragile, looking up at me as if I was the one in charge. As if I was the only one who could save her.

I put my arm under hers, letting her lean on me, and walked slowly with her back to our home. Once inside, she shut herself in the bedroom for days, only leaving to go to work.

I shudder at the memory and pull the covers up to my chin. I can't take out my frustration on Gareth ever again. Aside from all the other things wrong with it, including the fact that I betrayed Alice, my only friend here, last night wasn't fair to him, and it's leading me down a road I don't want to be on.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and check my email. There's another message from Hex, a sarcastically funny and bright summary of her daily life, including details about ornery café customers and how hard she's working to get out of Mulespur.

I hit reply and try to think of what I should say. Should I
launch into everything that's going on with Charlie? Blair? My grandparents? What happened last night with Gareth?

I think I'm going crazy
, I begin. I stare at the cursor blinking beside those words, then press down, hard, on the backspace key.

I sit up, straighten my shoulders, and take a deep breath. Normal. I just need to be normal. I put on my nicest outfit, brush the frenzy out of my red curls, and swipe some blush across my cheeks to bring some healthy color to my pale face. Once I'm presentable, I make my way down to the dining room for a nice, normal breakfast.

Before I make it to the table, I run into Blair outside the door. We both stop, a moment of awkward silence settling over us. She looks at me, cocking her head to the side as if puzzled. “You've worn that sweater three times this week,” she says softly.

I can feel the blush rise into my cheeks. “Alice does laundry daily,” I say.

“Oh,” she says, still examining me. Finally, she turns and heads into the dining room, and all I can do is follow. Charlie is sitting at his usual spot on the long side of the table with his laptop in front of him. He stops typing and looks up when we enter, his gaze passing over Blair to land on me. I look away before his eyes can snare mine; I can't let him see the guilt and confusion there. I feel Gareth's lips on mine again, and I feel
sick. Why did I think, even for a second, that kissing him would make me feel better?

Now I see that everyone, not just Charlie, is looking at me. I glance at Poppy, and she smiles, amused. “Didn't you hear? Blair just suggested we all go on a shopping trip,” she tells me. “What's the matter with you this morning?”

I smile at Poppy. “Oh, I just didn't get much sleep last night,” I say, heading for the sideboard with the selection of cereals. I stay far away from the shortbread, like I do every morning.

“Would you like to go shopping with us, Fee?” Blair asks sweetly.

“I don't think so, but thank you,” I say.

I pretend to be mulling over the cereal choices as Poppy comes to my elbow. “It could be fun,” she says, her voice hopeful.

“Yes, you have to come, Fee,” Blair says. I finally turn to look at her. “You can get some new clothes.”

It feels as if my cheeks must be permanently stained red, but I keep my eyes locked on hers. I can feel Charlie watching me.

“There are some decent-enough shops in the villages around here,” Blair continues. “I'm sure we can find you something. On Charles's tab, of course.”

“I can pay,” I manage.

“Of course you can, darling, but he's your employer. He should pay for the things you need.”

“Of course,” Charlie says easily.

“Good! That's settled. We'll go tomorrow. Sound like a plan, Poppy?” she says with an inviting smile.

Poppy beams and nods, then looks at her brother. “If it's all right with you?”

“Absolutely,” he says with much more enthusiasm, smiling gratefully at Blair. Maybe he wasn't ever looking at me at all.

“I'll see you tomorrow, then,” I say to no one in particular before hurrying out of the room. It's only when I reach Albert's car and wait for Poppy that I realize I didn't even have a bite of my cereal. So much for a nice, normal morning.

• • •

I spend a few hours browsing the shelves in the library, desperate for a new book to distract me. I reject dozens of novels and biographies after reading a chapter or two, finding myself uninterested in the tragic, romantic lives of characters and historical figures. That's how I finally find a thick tome on a bottom shelf with
Families and Clans of the Highlands
written in gold on the spine. I carefully pull it from the shelf and lug it over to a comfy armchair. The book is old, its leather case wearing thin and its pages yellowed. A waft of musty air rises as I open it.

It's a history of important Scottish families, and I flip
through entries for hundreds of surnames, skimming stories of famous family members throughout history. I look up this branch of the Moffat family and find a detailed account of them fighting for King George II in the Jacobite rising in 1745. I read about Moffats who founded schools and hospitals around the area, Moffats who hosted fine balls and expanded their elaborate castle as the centuries wore on.

There's even a mention of the Grey Lady:

The youngest daughter of the eighth lord fell to her death from her window at Fintair Castle. It's said that she had formed an attachment to a local farmer and was distraught when her father discovered it. Guests and neighbours of the castle since that time have reported witnessing a mysterious apparition roaming among the hills of the property: a Grey Lady, searching for her lost love.

I look out the window to the hills, and I can't help but remember that strange rustling shadow I saw when I got lost in the fog heading back to the castle the night Charlie arrived. That noise that sounded so much like the swish of a long skirt.

I tell myself again that it was probably just an animal, that I was scared and my mind was playing tricks on me.

I bring my focus back to the book and, with a deep breath, flip over to the section on the Cavendish family.

There's hardly enough information on them to fill a page, and there are no accounts of anything that happened after the early twentieth century, when this book must have been printed. They don't hold any titles and didn't seem to own Dunraven Manor back then. I read a paragraph about a group of Cavendishes who fought against King George II's army at the Battle of Culloden in 1746 and one about a man named Dougal who was well known for singing Scottish ballads in pubs and who became a schoolteacher in the village of Perthton.
He had a voice like wind through the heather, the townsfolk said, and a fair hand at the fiddle.

A musician, like my mother. I brush my fingers along the words, as if I can absorb them into my skin. This man was my family. I have roots here, a family that stretches back for centuries.

By the time I have to go pick Poppy up from school, I've almost forgotten all about my mortification at the breakfast table.

• • •

I'm woken up in the middle of the night by a noise on the other side of the outside wall, loud enough to penetrate my earplugs.

It's not the tinny TV whispering this time. Instead, it's a real, unmistakably human whisper. Or maybe two different whispers in dialogue. One soft, the other gravelly, having a conversation right next to my head. Six stories up, in midair.

I can't make out a word, but I can tell from the cadence and tenor that something is wrong. “Hello?” I whisper, my voice sounding loud and intrusive in the chilly air. But the whispers continue without a pause. “Hello?” I say again, louder. Still no break. Instead, the whispers seem to grow even louder, though I still can't make out any words.

“Who's there?” I ask.

There's a creak like a footstep on an old floorboard, and then the whispers continue. “Hey!” I shout. “What do you want?” My voice is wild, terrified.

The whispers grow louder still, until finally I can make out the words.

“Go home, little bird,” the soft one says.

“You're not wanted here,” the gravelly one says.

I gasp. The door to my room flings open, and I shriek. A shriek that seems to go on and on.

It takes a moment for me to realize that Alice is in my room, sitting on my bed, her hands on my shoulders. “Fee,” she says firmly. “Fee, wake up. You're having a nightmare.”

I press a fist to my mouth to stop the shrieking. There are a few girls from the kitchen in the doorway, watching me. “A nightmare?” I say.

“You were talking in your sleep,” Keira says. “I'm in the room next to yours. I could hear you.”

“So you heard the whispers, too? Two people, whispering?”

She shakes her head slowly. “No. Just you.”

I stare down at my hands. Have I been dreaming this whole time? “I'm sorry. It must have—you're right, it must have been a nightmare.”

The girls drift away from the door, and Alice stands up. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“I'm fine,” I say, trying to match her firm tone, willing my heart to stop racing. “Just a stupid dream.”
That's all it was
, I tell myself.
A dream
.

But what if it wasn't? What if it was a delusion?

I bite down on my lip, hard, so that I don't let out a whimper. Alice nods. “Get some sleep.”

I curl back into my sheets as she closes the door behind her.

It must have been a dream. Those lines: “Go home, little bird. You're not wanted here.” They're from my mother's story about the little bluebird princess whose sister was kidnapped by an evil crow. All the male birds in the kingdom flew to the crow's castle to fight, and, one by one, all of them died, their broken bodies littering the floor of the mighty fortress. So one night the bluebird princess herself flew under the cover of darkness to the crow's castle. She soared above the bodies of all the boy birds up to the throne room, where the crow was watching over her caged sister.

The crow took one look at the bluebird princess and scoffed. “Go home, little bird. You're not wanted here.”

“I'm not a little bird,” she cried. “I'm a mighty warrior!” And with that, she flew high up to the ceiling, snipped the rope of the chandelier with her beak, and sent it crashing down on the crow, killing him instantly. She freed her sister and returned home a hero.

It was one of my favorite stories, and I would make my mother tell it over and over again. And now those words are haunting me.

The room is silent now. No whispers. Still, for hours as the night stretches on, I strain my ears listening for them. I can't make myself stop, can't fall asleep. I'm still awake when the dark black of night turns into deep blue and then the gray of early morning, and it's time to get up.

I come down to breakfast
a few hours after the sun has finally risen. Blair and Poppy are eating their last bites of cereal and have already sent for Albert and the car. “I know it's early, but we're just so excited to go shopping,” Blair explains, grinning at Poppy.

“It's fine, I'm ready,” I say, grabbing a piece of toast and wolfing it down on the way to the car. Mabel's probably going to crucify me later for the trail of crumbs I'm leaving.

“Let's go to Perthton, Albert,” Blair says, and I snap to attention. “It has the best stores, I think.”

She's not looking at me, but I still shiver. Does she know I went to Perthton that day? Albert glances at me with a curious expression as he starts the car.

The whole way there, Blair and Poppy chat giddily about
new styles and what Poppy would wear to school if she didn't have a uniform. Poppy is brighter and more open than I've ever seen her, and for the briefest moment, I have to be grateful to Blair for that. Even if her sugared sweetness sets my teeth on edge. I watch her, with her broad smiles and overly dramatic hand gestures. I feel like all of that is just a veneer, a carefully polished affect.

She's trying to win over her boyfriend's sister, and she's doing a very good job of it.

Yawning, I lean my head against the window and try to stay awake as they continue on.

Albert drops us off in Perthton, and Poppy and Blair are practically squealing as they head to the high street. My legs feel full of lead as I follow them, trying not to let my bad mood spoil Poppy's fun.

Poppy slows down at the street corner and stops in front of a small house. “This was Mum's house. Where she grew up,” she says softly.

I look at the two-story stone house that looks as if it's been standing on this corner for centuries. It's maybe only thirty feet wide, with five windows on its front side and a tiny garden with thorny bushes. “She grew up here?” I ask, surprised. It's nice, certainly, but it's a far cry from a castle. Or Dunraven Manor. I
can't imagine the perfectly coiffed Lily from the photos living here.

Poppy nods. “My grandparents ran the pharmacy in town. I never knew them—they were both dead by the time I was born. Mum said they worked hard, but they weren't very loving. She couldn't remember her dad ever hugging her, and her mum hardly ever said she loved her.” She takes in a deep breath and lets it out. “So she wanted Charlie and me to always know that she loved us.”

Her words remind me of the well-worn note from my mom telling me to always remember that she loved me. Maybe Mom's parents were like Lily's, I think, and suddenly, their friendship makes sense.

“And Mabel took care of her?” I ask.

“From the day she was born,” Poppy says. Her voice is heavy with sadness, and I squeeze her shoulder to let her know I'm there.

“Well, come on,” Blair says, her smile soft but her voice sharp. “Let's get shopping!”

Poppy follows her, but I hang back to take in the house for an extra moment. Lily and Mabel moved from here to a castle on a huge estate. Of course Mom was right when she said that Lily would appreciate that life more than she would have.

I have to walk quickly to catch up to Blair and Poppy, who
are on their way into a cute little boutique filled with brightly colored clothes that seem determined to dispel the gloomy autumn weather outside. I run my hands over the soft fabrics, watching Blair and Poppy out of the corner of my eye. Blair is pulling different shirts and dresses from the racks with girlish giggles, piling them onto a saleswoman's outstretched arms. “This would look
fabulous
on you,” Blair exclaims to Poppy over and over.

Watching her dote on Poppy, I find myself wondering how far along she is now in the pregnancy. She's not showing yet; it must be the first trimester.

I realize that I'm staring at her stomach, so I look down at the price tag of the dark plum-colored dress in my hand, then let go quickly. A hundred pounds? No way a single dress could be worth that much money.

Blair ushers Poppy into a dressing room piled with the heaps of clothes they've pulled.

“Anything catch your eye?” she says lightly once Poppy is behind the curtain.

I snatch the much-too-expensive dress off the rack. “This one,” I say.

She cocks an eyebrow at it. “That's not really the best color for you,” she says, but the tone of her voice tells me she thinks just the opposite.

“I'll try it on just in case,” I say steadily as I brush past her
to the available dressing room, swiping the curtain shut behind me. Behind the curtain, my hands fumble with the delicate zipper, and I take a deep breath. It's just a dress, and I'm not the one paying for it. I don't know why I'm suddenly so uneasy.

I step into it, do up the zipper, and close my eyes for a moment before I turn to face the full-length mirror.

It's knee-length and made of swishy fabric, with a sweetheart neckline that's definitely low, but not too revealing. It's gathered at the waist, then falls in a cute, flouncy skirt. Blair was wrong: The color makes my red curls gleam, and my breath catches in my chest.

I look exactly like my mother. She always wore longish dresses, and though her favorite color was dark green, this rich plum shade still reminds me of her. As does my hair, which has always been so much like hers . . .

Am I happy or sad to see this resemblance? Maybe a little bit of both. And a little bit scared, too.

I step closer to the mirror and look into my own dark brown eyes. The same color as my mother's, the same shape. I remember, suddenly, vividly, the way her eyes would flash and roll when she was in the middle of one of her bad spells.

I step back, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat and smoothing down the skirt with my hands. “Let's see it!” Poppy
calls from the other side of the curtain, so I draw it back to show her.

She's wearing cute pink slacks and a silky white shirt printed with tiny horses, and I can't help but smile. The outfit is perfect for her. She reflects my smile right back at me. “It's beautiful!” she says, clapping her hands together in excitement. “You have to get it.”

I've never seen her so enthusiastic and undeniably girly, and my smile grows wider.

Blair is watching me carefully, taking me in with those impenetrable slate blue eyes. I straighten my shoulders. “She's right. You do have to get it,” she says, but there's no enthusiasm in her voice.

Poppy's already hurrying around the store, pulling out other items for me to try on, when the bell on the front door jingles. I look over to see Mrs. Drummond, the housekeeper from Dunraven Manor, enter the shop.

I freeze. What am I supposed to do if she sees me and mentions the other day in front of Blair and Poppy?

Thankfully, my legs start working again, and I dart behind the dressing room curtain. I draw it back a bit and watch Blair approaching Mrs. Drummond.

What is she doing?

Poppy follows her over, and when Mrs. Drummond turns
around, she utters an exclamation of surprise. “Well, what a treat!” she says, a smile flung across her face. “Ms. Rifely,” she says, nodding at Blair.

How does Blair know Mrs. Drummond? Does she know my grandparents, too?

I feel sick. Of course Blair knows the grandparents I've never met. She probably went to introduce herself as Charlie's girlfriend or something, and they probably loved her. Just like they loved Lily.

I let the curtain fall back and sink to my knees, nauseated.

I listen as Mrs. Drummond and Blair talk about the cold weather and the shortening autumn days. “And how are Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish?” Blair asks.

“Well enough. They had a touch of the flu that's been going around, but they seem to be on the mend.”

“Oh no,” Blair says, sounding concerned. “I'll have Mrs. Mackenzie send over some of her famous chicken soup.”

Suddenly, Poppy's at my curtain. “Fee?” she calls. “Are you ready to go?”

“Almost,” I say as loudly as I dare. “I just need to change. I'll be right out.”

The conversation has died off, thank goodness, and I don't hear Mrs. Drummond's voice anywhere else in the store. By the
time I change into my regular clothes and peek out of the dressing room curtain, she's gone, and I can breathe again.

Blair taps her foot impatiently but feigns brightness as she asks, “Ready?”

I nod. This girl knows my grandparents. She worries about their health and makes pleasantries with their housekeeper. I'm hit by a wave of hatred so strong that it makes my knees shake.

It's not rational, I tell myself. She hasn't done anything wrong. She's dismissive and fake, maybe. That's it.

But I don't care. I hate her.

• • •

We spend the rest of the day flitting from village to village, hitting every boutique we spot, and I learn to ignore the price tags on everything Poppy shoves into my arms. Soon enough the car is piled with our shopping bags, and it's time to go home.

That evening, just before dinner, I spot Alice pulling her cart out of Charlie's room just as I step out of Poppy's. “Alice, hi!” I call.

She glances up at me in surprise, and then her whole face clouds over. She looks shadowy and menacing, like the chilling approach of a thunderstorm. “What is it?” I ask, stepping toward her, the smile falling off my face.

She takes out her cell phone and hands it to me. I look down at the screen to see a picture of me. With Gareth.

My arms are around his neck, and we're pressed against the wall of his cabin, our mouths locked together. It's unbearably intimate, and I almost want to look away, as if I've just interrupted a pair of strangers.

“Where did you get this?” I ask.

“Someone emailed it to me. Anonymously. Said they didn't want to get involved, but they thought I should know.”

I can feel the blood draining from my face. “Alice,” I say quickly, looking up at her, but she snatches the phone back and shakes her head.

“It's fine. Be with him if you want to.”

“I don't want to be with him,” I say, my voice too loud and high.

She looks at me, her mouth open in disgust. “Then what the hell are you doing?”

I open my mouth to explain, but I can't. I don't even know how to explain it to myself.

She bites her lip and shakes her head again as she watches me. “He's a good guy,” she says finally. “I mean, he seems easygoing and funny and all that, but he's had a really hard life, and he cares more than he lets on. He deserves a lot better than that.”

“I know,” I say, dropping my head.

“Look,” she says with a sigh, and I look up hopefully. “We have to live in the same house, so I'm not going to keep being mean to you. But from now on, we're not friends. I don't trust you. Don't talk to me unless you have to, and I'll do the same.”

“Alice,” I say, but she's already gone down the hall.

Someone was outside the window of Gareth's cottage that night, watching us. And I think I know who it must have been.

But why would Blair give a picture like that to Alice unless she specifically wanted to ruin our friendship?

Despite my lack of sleep, I feel wired, every nerve ending in my body sparking. I wrap my new overlarge teal cardigan closer around me, shivering. What's her endgame?

I hurry down the stairs toward the library but stop when I see light shining from the cracked door of the office next door. I peek in to find Charlie sitting behind the desk. No sign of Blair.

I should keep walking. I shouldn't disturb him—or have anything to do with him. But I'm mad, and talking to Charlie is the one surefire way to show Blair any type of defiance. And if I'm being honest with myself, I don't think it would be physically possible for me to walk past this room and the opportunity to talk to him alone.

I take a breath, determined to appear and feel normal, and push the door open.

It's only when I'm inside that I notice how his head is propped up by his hands, and there's a large crystal bottle of golden whisky on the desk in front of him.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, immediately beginning to back out.

He snaps his head up. “No, please, come in,” he insists. “Close the door.”

Something in his tone gives me pause, but I do as he says. “Join me,” he says, pouring a bit of whisky from the decanter into a fresh crystal tumbler, then holding it out to me. “Unless you think I'm being horribly inappropriate again.”

He probably is. I should have followed my first instinct and walked away. But I've just lost the one real friend I had here, after spending the day with a girl who seems to hate me and is carrying the baby of the guy I can't stop thinking about. And that guy is here in front of me offering me the chance to forget all of that for a few moments. So I quiet my thoughts, move in closer, and take the tumbler.

“What has you drinking this time?” I ask, settling down on the couch across from him, tucking my legs underneath me.

He watches me as I take a small sip of the powerful drink. It burns in my throat, and I try not to wince. “I shouldn't be talking about this with you,” he says softly. “Since I'm your employer and all that.”

I shrug and take a larger sip. Having his eyes on me makes my stomach twist. “You need someone to talk to.”

I wonder for a moment if he'll insist that I play another piece on the piano before he reveals this new secret, but there's no teasing in his voice tonight.

He sighs. “I should be talking to Blair.”

“Why aren't you?” I whisper. I'm afraid of startling him, as if speaking too loudly will remind him that he shouldn't be telling me so much. “Why are you here, alone, drinking?”

“Because she's why I'm drinking.”

I circle my hands around the tumbler. I can think of plenty of reasons why Blair would drive him to drink, but I know there's probably only one thing he's truly worried about. “You know, you're a father already in all the ways that count,” I say softly. “You'll be a wonderful father for that baby.”