Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(42)

Baptiste nodded and got to work. His handwriting wasn’t perfect, but it was legible, so Merritt set to copying his own papers, drawing out the forks of genealogy and squinting to read smudged names along the tines. He was on his third page when he said, “What do you do for a living?”

Baptiste didn’t look up from his work. “Nothing now. Everyone says go farther north for job, but I do not want to work on the railroad or in the steel plants.”

“You certainly have the arms for it.”

Baptiste merely shrugged and crossed a T. “But I do not want to go south, either. I do not like it down there.”

“There’s lots of work to be had—”

“I do not like it.” His tone was final, so Merritt didn’t push him. He could easily guess why a person might not want to cross that carefully sketched line that divided the United States.

Merritt copied down another name. “What did you do in France?”

Baptiste sighed, like a long story had disintegrated up his throat and puffed out of him, unintelligible. “I was chef.”

Merritt slammed down his pencil, startling the large man. “No! You’re joking.”

Baptiste finally looked up, his wide forehead wrinkled. “Being chef is funny here?”

“No, not that. I need a chef!” He clapped his hands. “Hulda has been positively pestering me to hire one, and here you are!”

Baptiste leaned away, skeptical, but there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Who is this woman? Your wife?”

Merritt laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, no. She’s my housekeeper. Or rather, she’s someone else’s housekeeper but is tending my house on their behalf . . . it’s complicated.”

Baptiste glanced at the documents, then back up. “You need chef?”

Merritt grinned. “Baptiste, do you believe in ghosts?”

That forehead crinkled even further. “. . . No?”

“Excellent.” He slapped the man on the shoulder. “Consider yourself hired.”



Hulda returned to Whimbrel House late; the small fishing boat she’d hired to take her out to the island dropped her off as dusk was starting to settle and the lighthouses sprang to life. There was enough light for her to slip past leathery grape fern and multiflora roses. A path was already starting to form in the long grass, making the way easier. Drawing a deep breath, Hulda absorbed the sweet scent of chrysanthemum and let it fill her, easing the tension of the day. One thing at a time, she reminded herself. Only worry about yourself. It was advice she had to inculcate often, as she frequently wished she could take control of others’ lives for a little while, if only to make the world a more organized place.

As for Silas Hogwood . . . she would do as Myra recommended and sleep on it.

Lifting her skirts, she stepped onto the porch and opened the front door—unlocked, but who else was going to let themselves in? And promptly screamed.

There was a large heathenish man in the reception hall.

He also yelped and nearly dropped a barrel he was carrying on his shoulder. Before Hulda could think to fight or flee, Miss Taylor dashed into the room, both hands reaching toward her. “It’s okay, Mrs. Larkin! He’s the new chef!”

Hulda clutched the doorframe, waiting for her heart to calm down. Her eyes darted from the large, dark-haired man to Miss Taylor. “I haven’t put in for a chef!”

“Mr. Fernsby hired him.” Miss Taylor moved slowly toward her, like she was a startled deer. “Met him in Portsmouth.”

“I hear that Mrs. Larkin is home!” Mr. Fernsby called from upstairs.

The large man set down the barrel and bowed slightly at the waist. “My name is Baptiste Babineaux,” he said in a thick French accent. Straightening, he glanced around, stiff as the wall itself. “I will go to kitchen now.”

Hefting the barrel, he passed into the dining room. The portrait on the wall craned to watch him go, apparently just as curious as Hulda was.

Mr. Fernsby came down the stairs, grabbing the rail tightly as the steps suddenly resized themselves. “Welcome home! Find anything useful?”

Clutching her bag, Hulda stepped in and kicked the door shut behind her. “I thought I was in charge of the hiring?”

“I took initiative! Aren’t you proud?” He grinned and jumped the last few steps. “I needed help copying information at the city building, and Baptiste was short a few coins. Turns out he’s a chef! From France! Isn’t that something?”

Hulda crossed the reception hall to peek into the dining room, but Mr. Babineaux had already passed into the kitchen. Seemed the house was fine with him. “But accommodations—” She’d assumed the chef, if one was hired, would take up her room once she departed.

Miss Taylor whispered, “There’s a new room.”

She blinked. “What?”

“New room,” the maid repeated. “The house made him some space just off the kitchen.”

Hulda paused. “A house can’t simply make new space.”

Miss Taylor shrugged. “Our rooms are a little smaller now.”

So it had moved space. Hulda considered this for a moment. “I suppose that is fair.” Turning her attention to Mr. Fernsby, she asked, “Have you vetted him? Do you have his history?”