Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(62)

Rubbing his eyes, he padded down the hall, surprised to see light beneath Hulda’s door. He heard her voice saying, “Two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,” and wondered at it, but decided to give her privacy and ventured instead toward the stairs. Owein, who did not seem to need sleep, graciously turned the stairs into a giant wooden slide before he arrived. With a sigh, Merritt sat and slid down on his rump. The stairs returned to normal a moment later.

Though he was headed toward the front door, he heard a pounding coming from the kitchen, so he ventured through the dining and breakfast rooms, finding Baptiste hunched over the counter in the kitchen, smashing a piece of meat with a little metal hammer.

“I think it’s dead,” Merritt offered.

The only sign of surprise was a quick flex of the man’s shoulders, which he peered over to look at Merritt. “I am . . .” He paused. “Temporizing it.”

“Tenderizing?”

“Yes, that.” His accent weighed his words more than usual. He had to be tired. “I am making schnitzel.”

One of Hulda’s choices, no doubt. “I’m sure the meat can be smashed in the morning if you want to get some rest.”

The chef shrugged. “Sometimes I do not sleep.”

Merritt pulled over a stool and sat. “You and I both. It’s something that comes with age. How old are you, my friend?”

“I turned forty in August.”

“You don’t look a day over thirty-seven.”

Baptiste snorted. Might have even smiled, but his face was turned toward the meat.

“Pork?” Merritt guessed.

Baptiste nodded.

“What is your favorite thing to cook?”

“Pies,” he answered immediately. “Fruit pie, meat pie, cream pie. I am very good at pies.”

Merritt’s stomach rumbled at the thought of so many pastries. “I will hardly keep you from making pies.”

“Need a cellar for the butter. It works better cold.”

“Perhaps Owein can dig one for you.”

He shrugged. “Give me shovel, and I will dig it myself. And take care of the cow.”

That gave him pause. “What cow?”

Baptiste glanced over again. “I talked to Mrs. Larkin about cow. I would like cow. Take good care of her. Have lots of cream.”

Merritt wondered what a whole cow’s worth of cream would do to his digestion, but his tongue moistened at the idea. “If my novel does well, I will get you—us—a cow. I’ll even let you name it.”

This time, he thought he caught sight of a dimple on the stoic man’s face.

A sudden thud! sounded upstairs, followed by a scream.

Both men tensed. Baptiste bolted from the counter, nearly mowing over Merritt as he rushed to his feet. They dashed through the two dining rooms and into the reception hall. Baptiste took the stairs three at a time and reached Hulda’s bedroom first, Merritt three paces behind. The chef, still wielding his hammer, barged in so roughly he almost tore the door from its frame.

A million half thoughts rushed through Merritt’s mind, centering on Hulda’s welfare. Had someone broken in? Was it a rat? Was it—

Hulda in her underthings?

Baptiste was inside the bedroom, but Merritt halted in the hallway, peering over the big man’s arm, to where Hulda stood in nothing but her drawers, chemise, and tightly laced corset. Her hands swung up to cover the cleavage spilling over the latter’s top, and her face bloomed like a summer hibiscus.

“Get out!” she screamed, obviously very hale and unharmed.

Baptiste, equally as red, tripped over himself in his rush to close the door. Slam it, really.

Merritt tried to speak but found he couldn’t. He was still trying to catch his breath. Understand what on earth the scream had been about. And why Hulda was trouncing around in her underwear.

His thoughts lingered on that last question, and the visual that went with it.

Baptiste cleared his throat. “We will not speak of this.” His long legs carried him to the stairs.

“Indeed,” Merritt muttered, confused, and very aware of the woman on the other side of the door.

He certainly would not be sleeping tonight.



Merritt did, eventually, drift off, which lent to a late waking. He scrubbed his face with cold water, brushed his hair and left it loose—he lived on an island, for heaven’s sake, no need to concern himself with fashion—and dressed, forgoing the vest because why bother. Beth was polishing the banisters when he came downstairs, and she nodded to him without meeting his eyes, which was curious. Hulda had just finished breakfast and was carrying her dishes to the sink.

Discomfort crept up and down Merritt’s esophagus like a colony of termites. “Mrs. Larkin, I’m glad to catch you. I must apologize on behalf of Baptiste and myself; we heard a scream and were rather rash in our discovery of its source.”

She set the plates down. “Indeed you were. Or at least, Mr. Babineaux was.”

He let out a relieved breath upon hearing her heap most of the blame on Baptiste, suddenly glad the Frenchman was so much quicker than he was. Guilt quickly followed. He wanted to see how the chef was faring after the embarrassment, but Baptiste did not wish to discuss last night’s incident.

Wiping off her hands, Hulda turned to face him, every bit as stern and upright as she’d been the day Merritt met her. He’d begun to suspect it was a comforting mask she wore—the utmost professionalism to hide unwanted emotions and discomfiture. Another page turned in her metaphorical book. “I appreciate the apology. I was teaching Miss Taylor some country dances, and in her excitement, she leapt atop my trunk, which was empty. We both toppled over, and she shouted in surprise.”