A Dreadful Splendor (9)
When I woke, the room was in absolute silence. I was already sitting up in bed, as if I’d been in that position for some time. The covers were kicked to the end of the mattress in a tangled pile. I pinched my arm to make sure I wasn’t sleepwalking. Although it hadn’t happened for a few months, more than once I had woken up at the top of the stairs, one of the girls holding my elbow and calling my name. That usually brought me out of my trance, but sometimes they had to pull my hair. They often whispered I was genuinely haunted, as if the spirits I’d contacted in my séances had followed me back to the boardinghouse.
This time though, I was wide awake, squinting at the darkness. Then I heard a faint scratching. I looked toward the window, wondering if a tree branch had grazed against the glass. I remembered a similar noise outside the carriage when we turned down the lane.
Scrape! Scrape! Scrape!
It sounded like fingernails. I reached for the candle, but I could feel only the bare surface of the bedside table. I could have sworn I’d left it there.
Another scratch pierced the quiet. It was coming from inside the wardrobe.
My shoulders eased away from my ears. I was no stranger to mice, and apparently even the grand Somerset wasn’t either. Still, I grumbled at the thought of having to share this lovely room.
I tiptoed across the cold floor, feeling my way to the wardrobe. I gave it a hard knock, hoping to scare the wee thing. I waited and was rewarded with silence. Still, I thought I should probably check inside and be ready with my boot.
I went to the window and opened the curtains, hoping for enough moonlight to find the misplaced candle.
The clouds had cleared enough that I could discern the trim lawn below and a copse of trees in the distance. Eager for a bit of fresh air, I lifted the window and took a deep breath. The hair on the back of my neck stood at the soft, rhythmic whisper of waves and the unmistakable smell of salt air.
The ocean!
I had been told Somerset Park was by the coast, but I hadn’t realized it was so close. I thought of Mr. Lockhart and Mr. Pemberton quarreling earlier. What if Mr. Pemberton remained unconvinced of my abilities? What if he had arranged for the police to collect me tomorrow? I remembered how Constable Rigby smiled as I left the police station.
I was as good as dead if I stayed. And if there was any doubt, the salty reminder of my ultimate demise blew through the window with an unexpected gust.
After getting dressed, I packed all my things in my bag and tucked it under my arm. I crept down the stairs, wincing at each creak underfoot. When I reached the main entrance, I froze at the sound of voices. There was a giggle, then something hit the floor with a thud and rolled in my direction from the shadows.
I stared at the wine bottle for a moment before I heard footsteps coming closer. Unable to go back up to my room without being seen, I turned and ran in the opposite direction. I’d been in enough stately homes with Maman to know where the servants’ stairways were most likely hidden.
Camouflaged by the wainscoting, I found the door and descended to the kitchen. I paused by a wall of shelves, heavy with silver candelabras. Two of the smaller ones made their way into my bag. Purely for travel expenses, of course.
Someone cleared their throat.
I whipped around and saw the tall silhouette of a man standing in front of the fireplace. He was wearing muddy riding boots, and his overcoat was open. He reached for the lantern on the kitchen table and held it between us. My gaze shifted to the gold ring on the smallest finger of his right hand. Miss Crane once compared me to a crow, constantly distracted by anything shiny.
My eyes travelled up to his tousled blond hair, framing a tense jaw that could have been cut from stone. “Miss Timmons, I presume,” he said.
I nearly dropped my bag to the floor. Even the stable groom knew who I was! I spied the darkened hallway behind him and guessed it led to a back door—my escape.
He stared pointedly at my bag. “I wonder why you feel the need to equip yourself with several candelabras. Are there not enough candles in your room to your particular liking?”
The fire sputtered and popped.
I lifted my chin. “I wonder why you’re lurking in the shadows of the kitchen while the rest of the house is asleep. And in your muddy boots, I might add.”
“I could wake the stable boy. He’s an excellent rider, even in the dead of night. The police could be here by the morning.” His blue eyes blazed at me. “Or perhaps I should throw you out now and let the elements have you.”
The night held no punishment for me, only freedom. Still, his rudeness bristled me. I’d seen enough cruelty at Miss Crane’s to recognize real danger from a man—this one was all talk. “Lay one hand on me and you’ll have to answer to Mr. Lockhart,” I threatened. “For it is he who has brought me here.”
“He will most likely change his tune when he learns you tried to leave with a few extra pounds of silver. And I should have you know, Mr. Lockhart’s approval is so eagerly given that it holds little worth to me.”
“You’re quite opinionated, aren’t you?” I declared.
“It’s my opinion you should be most concerned with, Miss Timmons, considering you’re here to ease my grief.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. It was Mr. Pemberton, his lordship himself, in the flesh. I hadn’t expected him to be so young—or arrogant, for that matter. Mr. Lockhart had painted the picture of a lover so brokenhearted he was ready to dig his own grave. No wonder I was fooled. The man in front of me had the air of someone who was ready to battle, and ready to win. Still, the gold pinkie ring should have been a clue. The silver in my bag suddenly weighed a ton.