Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(54)

She was happy the house and its wizard—little Owein!—were intact. And she sensed Whimbrel House was equally content with the arrangement. But that victory was intermixed with thoughts on Merritt’s—Mr. Fernsby’s—confession. His words had swum around her head the rest of yesterday and even pierced her dreams last night.

Mr. Fernsby had made himself scarce, enmeshing himself in his work and avoiding the staff.

He was separated from his family . . . Just like me.

Hulda rolled onto her side and blew a lock of hair off her face. She only saw her own parents and siblings once a year, usually at Christmas. Her schedule was too busy for more frequent sojourns. But she always had a place there. She couldn’t imagine being severed from them for good.

Mr. Fernsby’s father’s reaction did seem . . . extreme. Many would regard premarital relations very poorly. But to cut him off entirely? From his mother, his siblings? Eighteen was old enough, she supposed . . . but it was an uncomfortable thought. Perhaps they were strict Catholics or Shakers, though Mr. Fernsby didn’t seem particularly religious.

Her mind flitted back to the marshland outside the house. The look on his face . . . he’d been smiling, but with such a depth of sadness in his eyes. Like peering down into the deepest part of the ocean, or looking through a ghost.

Thirteen years. This all happened thirteen years ago. Nearly half of Mr. Fernsby’s lifetime. A long time to atone for a mistake, and he was hardly a profligate man. She recalled inquiring about spirits when Mr. Portendorfer was visiting. I avoid things that might get me into trouble.

The words of a penitent man, or so she thought. It was obvious that he was very careful.

Rolling back, Hulda stared at fine lines in the ceiling. She did have a tendency to be judgmental, as her sister often pointed out. Self-admittedly, she didn’t like rule breakers, ruffians, pranksters, and the like. Yet she couldn’t find it in her heart or mind to judge Merritt Fernsby. He had a roguish air, yes, but he was kind. A gentleman, really. A gentleman wound through with regret.

Hulda sighed. How badly did she break your heart? Surely the loss of a real love, someone you had actually shared something with and not merely fantasized about, must be devastating. He’d intended to marry her. This woman could have been the woman of Whimbrel House. Hulda would have been reporting to her instead of him. For a moment, Hulda wondered what her name was, what she was like . . . then chided herself for getting carried away and threw off her covers. Time to get dressed and be useful.

She was certain of one thing: she would not cause Mr. Fernsby any further misery. He’d been punished enough. It wasn’t her place, besides.

After donning a dress, pinning up her hair, and cleaning her spectacles, Hulda popped a lemon drop into her mouth and strode from her room with purpose.



Miss Taylor was outside beating a rug. The smells wafting from the kitchen hinted that Mr. Babineaux was near the end of breakfast preparations. Mr. Fernsby was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was shut up in his office or bedroom. Retrieving her ledgers, Hulda took herself to the pantry to update her records of the food stores. Halfway through, she heard Mr. Babineaux in the breakfast room and found him placing a fresh loaf of brioche on the table.

“Smells wonderful,” she said, to which he merely nodded. “Are there any supplies we’re short on? Anything you need?”

He straightened, tall and foreboding, expressionless. For a moment, Hulda feared he wouldn’t answer her. But just as she was turning for the pantry, he said, “Butter. We will always need butter. If we get cow, I will milk her myself.”

Hulda blinked. “Noted. Anything else?”

“Is expensive import, but vanilla. And sugar, if you want dessert.” He paused. “I am very good at desserts. Especially pastries. For this we need cream and butter. If Mr. Fernsby”—he waved his hand, trying to think of a word—“purchases a cow, I will take care of her. I will take good care of her.”

“I will let him know you are passionate about bovines, Mr. Babineaux. If you think of anything else, please find me.” With a nod of her head, she returned to the pantry and finished logging her entries, then moved into the kitchen to finish the task. The pantry was small, so many of their foodstuffs occupied the cupboards.

“Low on flour,” she said to herself, and marked it down. She mishandled her pencil, and it toppled to the floor. As Hulda bent to retrieve it, however, she paused, an idea striking her. Straightening, she said, “Owein, dear, would you get that for me?”

A few seconds passed. Then a hole opened up in the floor beneath the pencil—nearly taking Hulda’s heel with it—and another opened in the ceiling, dropping the pencil onto the countertop.

Hulda smiled. “Thank you.” The nub had broken in the fall, but she certainly wouldn’t fault the lad for that. Indeed, he might very well earn himself a place on the staff.

A quick shuffling of the stairs had Hulda’s ears perking. Seconds later, Mr. Fernsby’s voice said, “Miss Taylor, my pen exploded. I’ve got ink all over this cravat—” He stepped into the kitchen and spied Hulda. He stopped, a crinkled cravat in his hands with a sizable black stain. “Oh. Sorry. I . . . thought you were Beth.”

Had Hulda not been familiar with Mr. Fernsby, she might not have picked up on the awkwardness of his tone—he did a good job at covering it with nonchalance. But she heard it, and it softened her heart. No man should have to feel out of place in his own home, and she didn’t wish for this one to feel out of place with her.