My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(20)

“Sounds like Mac, aye.” Abercrombie laughs, but casts a nervous glance down at the papers in his hand. He looks a bit like someone searching for something, or like a doddering old man who has misplaced his glasses.

“Looking for something?” you ask. “If one of the children has been messing about in your things, I—”

“No, no, lassie. No need to get in a twist. I’m just taking a walk down memory lane, since you and wee Angus have Lover’s Lane quite marked for yourselves.” Abercrombie’s eyes positively twinkle with mischief.

“I don’t know about that,” you respond, laughing. And blushing. More than a little.

“Now, lass. You have been a blessing to us all, but more than that to Mac. Whatever ye are to each other, be forgiving of the boy’s past. ’Tisn’t his present, nor his future.”

Doubt rises inside you like a welling cold spring. “What’s gone on in Mac’s past?”

“Och, you know the boy was a wild one when he was a lad. But when he was a soldier, he saw things. Did things. All soldiers do.” Abercrombie’s eyes still twinkle, but also search yours.

“What kind of things?” you say. Abercrombie, seemingly relieved, shakes his head.

“More will ye know in time, I am sure. Lover’s Lane is that way, lass,” he says with a laugh. “Take your leave and find your way back, before Mac has my head for keeping ye all to myself!”

You laugh, but the gesture feels empty. If Mac has loved many women before, you could wind up just another disposable bit o’ fluff. As you contemplate, your feet somehow find their way back to the stable. Cursing your woolheadedness, you see a light burning in the window and hear the new foal’s first whinny. You smile despite yourself, pleased at the good work Mac seems to do wherever he goes. Could he truly be such a rake?

You take a step toward your decided destination, but never make it there. A hand claps over your mouth, and a strange, sultry, familiar voice whispers close in your ear.

“You need to get out of here now!”





You have no choice against this powerful manly hand and its owner’s voice. Turn to this page.





You instinctively seek out Mrs. Butts. Not only does she have the run of the house, but she must also have hold of its secrets. You try to work out how exactly you will broach the subject of vengeful ghosts and/or spiteful dead wives when your quiet march toward the servants’ quarters is shattered by a sharp voice ringing in your ear.

“Dead girl! Bad man!”

You leap a mile. There, out of place and blazing with purpose, is Higgenbottom, the groundskeeper. His hoe glints in the late afternoon light. His eyes, wild and wide, express an urgency you can’t quite understand.

“Who is the bad man, Higgenbottom?” you ask, searching his face for a clue.

A pained grimace contorts his features. He reaches out a gnarled hand that holds a gift: a crushed bar of chocolate.

Your throat catches when you see the label. “Swiss chocolate,” you read in a hoarse whisper.

“Still here,” Higgenbottom whispers. You are struck by the strained sadness of his voice.

“Who is still here, Higgenbottom?”

“It does not do well for a governess to snoop on her employer. Know your place.” Ugh. There, halfway down the stairs and sneering so hard you can see up his nostrils, is Manvers.

“It does even worse for an employee to think he holds rank over his employer’s lover,” you spit back.

“You play with fire, girl,” Manvers hisses as you stalk past him, hopefully to find Mrs. Butts.

“If I do,” you toss back over your shoulder, “you, too, will be burned.”

You leave the insufferable manservant in your wake, swiftly so that he can’t see how badly you are shaking.

After several hours, you finally find Mrs. Butts doing some late-night dusting in the foyer, along with Betsy, the mute servant girl. The sight of Mrs. Butts, hunched over and hard at work, sends your heart out. You want nothing more than to find a happier home for you two to work in, one where you could beam with joy at jobs well done, at happy families you help raise with your expert teamwork and unflappable natures. Perhaps, in another life, such simple pleasures will be possible. In this one, you need to know…

“Everything, Mrs. Butts. Tell me everything!” You beg her as a coworker and, you hope, as a friend. “Please tell me everything about Helena, and Blanche, and—”

“What is all this urgency about, my dear? It’s such a sad matter, my heart breaks each time I think on it. Helena were Alexander’s twin. She and her mama died tragically in an accident with a fireplace.”

Betsy shakes her head, her eyes wide with horror.

“Lord Craven has never spoken of this,” you say, the worry saturating your voice.

“Master Craven tried to save them, love. But it were too late. It broke his heart…what were left of it.”

Betsy turns her wide eyes at Mrs. Butts, who claps a hand over her mouth.

“I’ve…I’ve said too much,” Mrs. Butts stammers.

“No, no, my good woman!” You are desperate. “You have not said enough! For all I know, Blanche von Badwolff was a beautiful young bride who died suddenly! You know more, you know what I need to!”