Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(31)

And he would never forgive her.





Chapter 12


September 13, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

That Sunday, Merritt could not determine why Hulda was so remarkably angry with him. She’d been stiff—stiffer than usual, that was—all day. Curt—more curt that usual, again—in her responses to him. Was it because he hadn’t gone to church? Did she not realize how far away church was, even with an enchanted boat? And he was just on the cusp of breaking into the next act in his novel.

The truth came out when he sat down in the dining room to eat a snack.

Hulda stormed in from the direction of the kitchen. “Socks in the kitchen, Mr. Fernsby? Must we live like we’re . . . we’re . . . mountain men?”

Merritt paused, an apple halfway to his mouth. “Do mountain men have kitchens?”

The question seemed to stoke the fire lighting the housekeeper from toe to head. She held up his dress socks like they were bloody rags—dress socks he’d left at the edge of the sink. “Why are these here?”

He’d honestly forgotten about them. It had been many years since he’d last shared living space with someone. “Because they were dirty. They’re drying.”

She looked sick. Merritt tried very hard not to laugh at the expression—they were mere socks, and they were clean.

“Genteel people do not wash their socks in the same bin as they wash their dishes! And I hung a drying line outside. Did you not see it?”

“I did see it.” He’d run into it once, actually. Nearly lost an eye. “But it was late.”

“And therefore you could not step outside to hang up your socks.”

She had him there. Taking a bite of apple, he chewed, shoved it into his cheek, and added, “It was dark?”

Hulda’s eyes nearly rolled, but she stopped them before the irises reached their peak. “Really, Mr. Fernsby!”

The ceiling shifted from white to blue overhead. Merritt rather liked the color, though he wondered what the house was getting at. He pushed his attention to Hulda. “The maid is coming today, yes? Will she be gathering the laundry?”

“Thank the Lord for that.” She stormed to the window and peered out. “And yes, she will do the laundry, though you will have to leave it in the basket in your bedroom if you want her to be able to find it.”

“They’re just socks, Mrs. Larkin.”

“And your coat is in the living room. Your shoes in the reception hall.”

His guilt warred with defensiveness. He wasn’t a child, for heaven’s sake, and this was his home. “Why not leave shoes in the reception hall? Otherwise I’ll drag dirt all over the place.”

“I agree with you.” She turned from the window. “But in that case, shoes can be left neatly along the wall, not thrown across the floor like they were attacked by a dog.”

Merritt nodded. “I’ve always wanted a dog.”

A funny little choking sound emitted from Hulda’s lips. She started for the door, but as she reached for it, it shifted to the right.

Merritt bit down on a chuckle. “What did you say the maid’s name was again?” He was still unsure about a maid—not only living with yet another strange woman. Merritt hoped that the more nonchalant he acted about the arrangement, the more normal it would feel.

“For the third time, it is Beth Taylor.”

“You know, since I’m your employer”—the corners of his eyes wrinkled at the tease—“you could be a little sweeter to me.”

She gave him a withering look. “I am sweet on kittens and lemon drops only, Mr. Fernsby. And as I’ve said before, you are BIKER’s client, not my employer. However, once a permanent housekeeper is brought on board, you may disparage her and her temperament as thoroughly as you see fit.”

Setting down his apple, Merritt spun in his chair. “What do you mean, a permanent housekeeper? You’re not staying?”

“I am staying long enough to sort out the issues with this house; then I will move on to wherever BIKER has need of me.”

Merritt felt two things at the forward statement: disappointment and surprise. Disappointment that Hulda would be leaving, and surprise that the fact disappointed him. Everything was going so . . . well. The house had settled down into occasional pranks and calls for attentions, instead of death threats and dead vermin.

“But what if I don’t like my new housekeeper?” he protested.

Her lip twitched toward a smile. “Well, if you had reviewed the résumés as you were supposed to, you would have gotten to handpick one. But since you’ve left it up to me, I’ve sent inquiries to the nastiest and most expensive women of my acquaintance.”

He narrowed his gaze. “You didn’t.”

Hulda didn’t reply, beyond a smug look. Snatching the door handle, she jammed her foot into the frame so it wouldn’t move again, then promptly left.

Merritt turned back to his apple, noting almost subconsciously that the bite he’d taken out of it looked a lot like France.



Beth arrived at 4:00 p.m. sharp. Merritt knew this because she knocked at the same time he checked his watch. Had he not been expecting her, he might not have heard the sound—it was a timid rapping, not purposeful and demanding like Hulda’s.