Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(27)

The flush remained as she answered, “I do not wish to get your hopes up, my lord. My skills are weak at best, and I’ve only the ability of divination.”

He considered this a moment. Divination was tied to patterns—tea leaves, dice, even clipped nails. Weak though she may be, if this woman saw something of his and peeked into his future, it might ruin everything.

Turning her away would cast suspicion on him, however, and with the disappearance of both his mother and brother, he could not risk further suspicion.

Besides . . . keeping her around would do the opposite, wouldn’t it? Only a man innocent of wrongdoing would keep an augurist in the house. If he subtly circulated news of his new staff member, it would boost his reputation.

At least she wasn’t a psychometrist, or he might already be found out.

“Welcome aboard, Mrs. Larkin.” He smiled. “My steward will show you the house.” Turning about, he clasped a hand on Lidgett’s shoulder and leaned close to his ear. “Tell the maids I will speak with them in my study. As soon as possible.”

The steward nodded, and Silas left the room. Yes, the maids would be his protection. He would keep Gorse End immaculate, not a stray hair or stirring of dust to be seen. Nothing to give a floundering diviner any chance of spying into his future.

It belonged to no one but him.





Chapter 10


September 9, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

The next morning, Merritt stepped outside.

He’d had his doubts, though the scarf was once again securely around his neck despite the balmy weather. But he opened the door, and he stepped outside, and nothing stopped him from doing so.

He laughed. It was a strange laugh, like something deep in his soul had bubbled and burst halfway up his throat. Hoarse yet relieving, and as he took a second and third step, it repeated itself.

“Very well done, Mr. Fernsby,” Hulda remarked from the doorway, a pencil in one hand and a notebook in the other. “Admittedly, I had my doubts, but—”

He whirled around. “This is the first time I’ve walked this direction across the porch.”

She blinked at him, and Merritt laughed again, this time twirling on the ball of his foot. “It’s utterly pleasant out here!”

Leaping off the porch, he landed in a weedy patch of wild grass. “I will pull these!” he exclaimed, half to Hulda and half to the house. “I will weed the entire foundation. And over there, that’s the perfect spot for a garden!” He nearly skipped out to survey the area. A breeze carrying the scent of chrysanthemum rolled by, one of the last whispers of summer, and Merritt sighed in ecstasy. “I never realized how entirely beautiful the outdoors is.” He turned slowly, taking in the island, its weeping cherries and golden aster. A couple of shorebirds groomed themselves in the distance, half covered by reeds. He peered past them to the ocean.

He felt like he’d missed an entire lifetime, locked in that house. And now he desperately wanted to reclaim it.

Grinning hard enough to hurt, he whirled back to Hulda. “Go on a walk with me, won’t you, Mrs. Larkin?”

His housekeeper both smirked and rolled her eyes. “Thank you for the invitation, but despite this new solidarity between you and this abode, there are many things that still need to be organized. Such as the staff, Mr. Fernsby.”

“Do call me Merritt.”

“Thank you, but no.”

He shrugged. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you to take charge of that? I don’t know heads or tails of maids and cooks. Perhaps you could choose those you’d get along with. I trust you would do it justice. In a sense, they would be your staff, no?”

He knew by the way she tilted her head to the side that she was considering it.

“The résumés are on my dresser.” He’d moved it back last night.

She nodded. “Very well. I’ll see it done.”

He bowed his thanks. “And I, Mrs. Larkin, am going to run like a fool.”

Turning, he took off across the island, barely hearing Hulda call out “As long as you come back!” over the wind whistling past his ears.

When was the last time he’d run?

Well, he’d done so when he was late to an appointment with his editor, but city running wasn’t the same. This . . . He felt like he was ten years old again.

He ran, leaping reeds and trampling goosefoot, ducking under slippery elm branches and startling rabbits and mice alike. He tripped once on a narrow stream hidden by grass, then again on an uplifted tree root, but he didn’t care. He laughed, then shouted, then did what he considered a very good imitation of a seagull—a party trick he’d discovered in his adolescence.

He ran until his lungs burned, until the house was a lump in the distance. He faced west, toward the mainland, and considered. He was out. Free. He could go back to the city if he wanted to. His things were here, yes, but he could get them shipped out before the house knew what was happening.

And yet, though he’d promised nothing, he felt as if he would be breaking a trust, not only with Whimbrel House, but with Hulda and BIKER as well. That, and . . . what precisely did he have to go back to?

Homeowner, he reminded himself. Progress.

He could do this. See it through. And the place really was lovely. What better environment to give him inspiration for his book?