Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(31)
“A man of many hats,” I assured her, and cuddled her close again. Emma was upstairs napping, and would not interrupt us. “So there’s one tiny thing he and I have in common, if you squint at it from the right angle.”
“You do have some lovely hats,” she murmured.
And then we heard a bell ringing upstairs, so I was wrong—and Emma could interrupt us after all.
I told Lizbeth I’d make us all some tea while she tended to her sister’s needs. I’m a grown woman who can find her way around a kitchen. I don’t need to be entertained every waking moment; I can absolutely contribute to the care and maintenance of a household.
With a kiss I sent her upstairs, and then I went to the kitchen. I located the tea and all its accoutrements just fine, enjoying the size and well-stocked condition of the large room, lined with cabinets and shelves, offering a space for everything. Even when I’m not sleeping behind the stage, my own household is markedly smaller, and I share it with three or four other girls as often as not. (And Marcus, but let’s be honest—he almost counts as one of us. It’s not as if we’ve allowed Peter to come set up a cot beside us.)
I waited for the kettle to boil, an interminable task that never seems half so short as it ought to. I tapped one foot and peered around the room, still confident that the two upstairs were hiding something from me, but I had no idea what it could possibly be.
A thought sprang through my head: Maybe she’s being courted. Is there a suitor? And then the thought sprang right back out again, because if I’d let it stay, it might’ve made me jealous and angry.
Emma already thinks I’m jealous and angry. I won’t give her the satisfaction of being right.
Besides, a suitor wouldn’t fit all the puzzle pieces I’ve found lying about this stately home. I extended my foot and ran the toe of my shoe across the doorway that led onto the back porch. A dozen nails were pounded right into the wood, with such fervent enthusiasm that it’s a wonder the door would open or close at all. Maybe that was the idea. Maybe they’re trying to keep someone out. Better locks would seem like a stronger approach.
Though this does raise an interesting question. If not a suitor . . . perhaps it’s someone more menacing. Is someone causing her grief, here in town or somewhere at large? Not everyone thought she should’ve been exonerated, but that’s because not everyone knows her as I do. If someone has been harassing her, I won’t stand for that nonsense. Not for a second. Didn’t she have a wayward brother or some such? I’d swear she mentioned him once, and without a drop of fondness.
The kettle hadn’t popped, so I let myself seethe and let my mind wander.
She could be receiving threats in letters, in telegrams. Or they might arrive in person, but wouldn’t even a harasser have better manners than that? Most men are cowards, and they’re happiest to do their badgering through some other medium. Otherwise, they wait until they can get you alone, and I guess that’s one good thing about having Emma around. Lizbeth is never alone.
The theater has taught me so much. Not all of it about acting.
I took another look around the place—just the kitchen, and the corridor beyond it—and I saw yet more nails driven into the floor here and there, which didn’t make a great deal of sense, but the smell of sage, and the little bundles tied up over the doorways . . . they reminded me of something: a brief run off-Broadway (very off-Broadway) in New Orleans. That city is a superstitious place like none other, and all the actresses were in love with it. We’re a superstitious lot ourselves, worse than anybody, I should think—so it’s not as if I’m casting stones.
Speaking of stones, there was a small dish on the windowsill over the sink, and in it were three very shiny brown stones with clear marbling. Quartz, polished into gems, I think.
Yes, in New Orleans. I’d seen such things there.
My eyes rose to the entryway that separated the kitchen from the corridor leading to the house’s interior. Another nail, this one above the frame, overhead—and hanging from that nail, I spotted a small bag made of what looked like red felt, no bigger than my thumb.
Beside the sink was a small step stool. I dragged it into position, stepped atop it, and reached up for the little red bag.
My arms are long, and when I combined them with my height, I reached it easily. I squeezed it between my fingers and whatever was inside felt crunchy and light. Herbs? Papers? More tiny stones?
I caught a faint trail of scent, caused when I disturbed the bag and pinched its contents. Because I could not sniff the strange object without pulling it down from its position, I sniffed at my fingers instead. They smelled like cinnamon and something green. Not absinthe, not quite. Perhaps straightforward old anise.
The kettle blew behind me, startling me almost off the stool. Maplecroft is such a funny house, such a big, empty, warm, drowsy place. Even when everyone is home.
I stepped down, kicked the step aside, and retrieved the kettle with a hand towel left beside the stove. I set everything to steep and waited again. Another two or three minutes by myself, and then I could carry the tray upstairs.
More time to wonder in the big house’s spell of silence.
But then . . . was it silence, really? When I listened hard, I thought I could hear Lizbeth upstairs, a faint rumble of her voice sifting down through the ceiling. And maybe, just barely, the fussing response of Emma, needing heaven knew what this time. Probably needing for me to leave, but she can’t have that. Not yet. All I’ll give her is tea.