On Sparrow Hill (35 page)

Quietly, Berrie stood, testing her footing. She was groggy but otherwise herself. Nothing a good breakfast couldn’t cure. She would find Finola first, no matter how early the hour.

Though the floor creaked once, Moira didn’t stir. Her even breathing assured Berrie of her sound sleep. Berrie went to the hall, seeing three other doors: two opposite and one next to hers. Unlike hers, those doors were closed. She went to the nearest and leaned closer to see if she might hear something to give away anyone inside. The last person she wanted to awaken was Thaddeus.

She heard nothing, then went to the second, just across. It too was quiet. From behind the third, she heard the sound of deep snoring, and she prayed such a sound sleeper was Thaddeus.

Berrie tried the other doors. The first was locked; the handle didn’t budge. The second door was not locked, but the room proved empty.

Berrie returned to the locked room. Perhaps Finola was there, locked inside? Thinking of yesterday, sensing something she didn’t understand might be going on beneath the surface of this dark and run-down home, Berrie was prepared for nearly anything.

She tapped lightly. No response.

“Finola,” she whispered. “Finola, are you there?”

Nothing.

Berrie could risk no more noise if she were to stay free of both Thaddeus and Moira. So she went to the stairs, deciding to find Jobbin and return with him. He might be twice as old as Thaddeus, but if Jobbin and Berrie confronted Thaddeus together, he might be bullied into letting them speak to Finola.

She found her way through the unfamiliar house, glancing out windows to see if a veranda or pathway might give a clue to the nearest door. Archways and thresholds were narrow and tattered with peeling paint, windows in every room hung with fraying drapery. She tried opening one of the tall windows, noting a step leading down to a grassy lawn outside, but the lock was stiff and unusable.

At last she recognized the parlor where she’d fainted and from there found the kitchen downstairs and her way outside. First glance showed no sign of Jobbin or his wagon. She guessed they’d taken shelter in the barn not far off.

The cool morning air refreshed her mind, lending energy to her step. “Jobbin! Are you there?”

The barn walls, like every other surface, were in need of paint, but the structure appeared sturdy enough. She went inside, calling Jobbin’s name again. Thankfully she saw his wagon, so she knew he couldn’t be far.

“Here, miss,” said a voice from one of the stalls. A moment later Jobbin appeared, adjusting the jacket he’d obviously slept in. The strip of graying hair looping the back of his head was splintered with hay.

“Jobbin! We must go inside and see Finola. I don’t know what that brother of hers is doing to her, but I’m fairly certain whatever it is cannot be good.”

Jobbin scrubbed his scalp with one hand. “You might be right about that, miss. I think that maid tampered with my tea. I never hit hay so hard in all me life, not so many hours after a visit to a pub, that is.”

“The same happened to me. Something isn’t right here, Jobbin. Only we can’t leave without talking to Finola.”

“Right. I’ll come with you, then.”

They walked back to the kitchen entrance, only to be met inside by Moira struggling to hurry down the stairs. “Ah, so the saints are with us still! Blessed be the God of all heaven. We’re saved!”

“What is it, Moira?” demanded Berrie. “What is it the Lord God needs to save you from?”

The woman let out a breath of air, less a laugh than a gasp. “Ah, ’tis an expression, nothing more. I was merely afeared you’d gone off without breakfast, and without it you might be risking another faint.”

Berrie put her hands on the woman’s heaving shoulders, certain the old woman was hiding something. “Moira, you must take me to Finola. I need to speak to her immediately.”

Moira smoothed back her hair, straightened her apron, conjured a smile. “Of course, miss, only she’s the late sleeper in the family, true enough. Always has been, even as a wee one.”

Berrie was certain that was true; Finola had proved it often enough at Escott Manor. “You’ll have to wake her, Moira. I must ask her some questions, and it cannot wait. I must return to Dublin, but not without talking to Finola first.”

“Now, now, there,” said Moira, still breathless though she kept her smile firmly in place. She went to the stove, opened the coal door, and stirred cold ash left from embers of the night before. Picking out the cinders and putting them in a small bucket, she behaved as if nothing were amiss. Finally she took up the nearby coal pail, pouring a portion of the fat, round pieces into the firebox. “We’ll have some breakfast, if you please. I can see this man at your side is in need of a bite to eat, and if I recall the way you ate that sandwich last night, you’ll need somethin’ as well. Soon you’ll be filled and happy, so settle in.”

Berrie shook her head, stepping past the bustling servant. “I cannot wait, Moira. If you don’t rouse Finola, I will.”

Moira dropped the coal bucket in a clatter, hastening after Berrie. “Sit and enjoy a bit of food. Come back!”

Berrie might have argued, but a noise distracted her. She heard it from a distance, similar to the wailing she often heard at the school.
Conall?

“Is Conall here, in this house somewhere? Is Finola with him?”

Moira shook her head. “No, miss. We’ll be getting Conall later, where he’s spent the night. It’s barely past dawn; we cannot collect him until the hour is decent.”

Berrie was quiet again, listening. She was sure she’d heard something. It was quiet now. Instead of taking the seat Moira offered, Berrie looked at Jobbin. One nod was enough. He followed her from the room, Moira’s protests ignored.

Upstairs, the hall was still quiet except for the snoring from behind the first door. Berrie passed that one, going to the one that was locked. “Can you open that even though it’s locked?” Berrie asked Jobbin.

“I’ll try,” he said, assessing the threshold. “It’s an old door, miss, which means an old lock.” His gaze went from the closed door to the open one, the room where Berrie had slept. He disappeared into that room a moment, coming back with a fireplace poker, sharp and strong.

“You ought not to be doing this,” Moira said, catching up to them after a slower ascent. Even as her face accompanied the warning, her voice was little more than a whisper.

The door pried open beneath Jobbin’s ministration with a crack of brittle old wood.

Berrie pushed the door wide, stepping inside. “Finola!” she called, but as the word passed her lips, Berrie saw the room was empty.

“I was certain she was—”

“May I ask what is going on here?”

Berrie turned. Just behind a startled and somewhat worried-looking Jobbin, beyond the frowning Moira, stood the narrow outline of Thaddeus O’Shea, darkly clad in a dressing gown he was just tying round his thin waist. From the dimly lit, empty bedroom, Berrie could barely make out the man’s unkind features.

“Where is Finola?” she demanded.

He yawned. “Asleep, I’m sure, at this hour. What is the meaning of breaking my door? I demand an explanation.”

“I’d like to speak to Finola.”

“You keep saying that, and I keep asking you why you’ve brought your driver up here to damage my property.”

“It appears neither of us will get our answers, Mr. O’Shea, unless you intend telling me where I can find Finola’s room. I thought she was in here.”

“As you can see, she isn’t. She left after your rather convenient fainting spell last night.”

“Convenient?”

“Yes. You needed a place to stay; how was I to refuse a woman who swoons to achieve her goal?”

“Did you say Finola left? Where did she go?”

“To our friend’s house, who kept Conall while we dined elsewhere yesterday.”

Berrie shook her head. “Moira told me Finola is here, only asleep.”

Thaddeus’s thick brows met in the middle above the shelf that was the top of his nose. A deep frown filled his face, but he didn’t deign a glance in the servant’s direction. “Moira does not know everything that goes on in this house.”

“I will not believe Finola left without seeing me, especially considering my condition.”

“Perhaps your friendship isn’t as important to her as you believed,” he said softly. There was no tenderness in his tone.

Berrie took a step closer, nearer the door, but unavoidably closer to Thaddeus. “Where is this friend’s house, then? I shall see her there.”

He laughed. “I think not. I’ll not have you disturb any of our friends at this hour so that you may break down one of their doors as well. I think it best you find your way home to Dublin, Miss Ferguson. If that’s your name.”

“Why should you doubt it?”

He needed to take only one small step closer, his face directly in front of hers, so that she smelled the foulness of his breath. “You are an Englishwoman, not Irish. Neither Nessa nor Finola have had cause to befriend many Englishwomen. But I don’t care who you are or why you’ve come. I know only that you will leave or I will have the constable take you away.”

“For what reason?” she asked. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Damage to another’s property constitutes a crime in this county.” Thaddeus pointed to the door Jobbin had pried open at her urging. “Leave or I shall have you arrested.”

Berrie narrowed her gaze. “I don’t know why you seem to be holding Finola here against her will, but I intend to find out.”

Then she walked past him and Jobbin followed close behind. They went back to the kitchen, Moira following slowly but stopping at the threshold without a word.

Jobbin went to the barn to hitch the wagon, and Berrie waited outside, watching the manor house. She must find Finola somehow. The young woman had clearly been frightened the evening before. Why else hide Berrie’s identity, except fear? Was she afraid to let her brother know Berrie was the headmistress of the school they were suing? At the moment, nothing made sense.

A pounding round the other side of the manor drew Berrie’s attention. She turned to see how Jobbin was faring with the wagon, but he wasn’t finished. Curious about the pounding, she walked up the lane that led to the dilapidated wing. The noise was louder from there.

She spotted a lone horse, not tethered, sweating as if it had been ridden hard and long despite the early hour. From where she stood, Berrie couldn’t see past the tall weeds and shrubs growing wild on this side of the grounds. The pounding, however, surely came from this side. Who would be unwise enough to stand beneath that archway and make such a fuss? She walked closer, parting the tall greenery.

“Simon!”

He turned, standing directly beneath the precarious arch. When their gaze met with only overgrown weeds in between, he jumped from the porch and rushed to her side. His arms went around her, and she let hers do the same.

“You—you’re all right?” he asked, holding her eyes with his.

Berrie nodded. “Yes . . . no! Oh, Simon, the school! Do you know?”

“Yes, I know. I came as soon as I heard. I went to the school, and they told me you were looking for Finola, to find out about this case against your attendant. Have you spoken to her?”

She shook her head, pulling away to look at the crumbling manor. “She lives here with her brother, but something odd and a little frightening is going on in there. He wouldn’t let me speak to her alone, and I’m sure he was the one who made sure I didn’t try to see her during the night, while he was asleep.”

Simon frowned. “How did he manage that?”

“His housekeeper put something in my tea and Jobbin’s as well. Something to make us sleep.”

“You’re certain you’re all right?”

She nodded, in that instant realizing not only his concern but her own amazement that he’d come. She wanted to pull him close, kiss him, thank him. There was, however, no time for any of that.

“How is it that you’re here? I thought you might be on your way to London.”

“I was, but the courier from Mr. Truebody found me before my ship sailed.”

“And you came to find me?”

“I tracked you here—though I think neither Mrs. Cotgrave nor Nessa O’Donnell appreciated the hour.”

Berrie had so many thoughts she couldn’t possibly sort through them: why he’d come, what he thought of their unfortunate report in the news, how he might be of help—if he wanted to help. But she could ask none of that. She wanted only to let him hold her, as he was doing just then.

A noise from the other side of the door drew her attention.

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

He nodded. “And it’s high time someone answered my knock, don’t you think? Though I can’t imagine what the inside must look like if this door and garden are any indication.”

She shook her head. “This side of the manor doesn’t seem to be used anymore. Jobbin and I came here yesterday, and he knocked but no one acknowledged us until we went round the other side. You’d never know the two sides were attached. One side habitable, this side . . .”

Berrie stopped, listening. Whatever she’d heard was gone now. This side of the manor appeared as silent and deserted as it had the day before. Or was it? Could what she’d heard earlier have come from behind these crumbling walls?

She dismissed the thought. It couldn’t be. No one would dare enter such a ramshackle place. The newer addition was old and worn down enough; this side was ancient and dangerous. Surely no one would willingly . . .

No, not willingly. But otherwise? Pulling herself from Simon, she ran beneath the archway, pounding on the door much as he had done moments ago. He was at her side before she’d made much noise, pulling her wrist.

“Come away from here, Berrie,” he cautioned. “I was so frantic to find you I didn’t notice this whole place looks about ready to fall in.”

“But—” She stopped, hearing another noise. Pounding . . . from inside. Berrie threw herself at the door, no longer satisfied with ineffectual knocking. She would push in the door; surely one so decrepit would open more easily than the one Jobbin had broken upstairs.

“Berrie!” Simon lifted her off her feet before she could pummel the door yet again, just as pebbles and mortar showered them from above like hail in a spring storm.