Page 47 of Caging Darling (The Lost Girl #3)

CHAPTER 47

A footman sneers at us from behind the window of a small outpost outside the gate.

“The Whittakers aren’t expecting guests today,” he says.

Peter keeps his hand bunched around my collar, the gesture perfect for steering me. I’ve had my face buried in my hands, but I peer through my fingers, looking hopeful at the idea we might not be let in.

The footman glances at me, more disgust than pity in his eyes, though this at least tells me my acting is convincing.

“This girl is with child. I’ve been informed the Whittakers can help with that.”

The footman’s brows lift. His gaze dips to my belly, and when he finds no evidence of a child coming anytime soon, his brows fall, narrowing. “Then come back when it’s here.”

Peter, who’s not currently sporting his wings and whose hair covers his ears, shakes his head. “We can’t afford to have her be found out.”

“Then perhaps you should have thought about that before you slept with your maid, sir. If you didn’t wish to have an illegitimate heir, you should have kept to your wife.”

Peter does an impressive job of letting his face flush with rage, as well as the assault to his character.

I school my expression. Distraught and hopeful.

“I demand you allow us entrance,” says Peter.

“It doesn’t seem you’re in the position to make demands,” says the man. “Pay the girl well and throw her out on the streets.”

“I’m prepared to pay for the girl’s room and board. A hefty sum,” Peter says. “Will your master be pleased with you when he discovers he could have been paid for a healthy baby, rather than have to pay for one from a diseased whore on the streets? How much money does he throw away a year for children who have contracted diseases?”

The footman sighs, but his face twists. Eventually, he groans and shoots a look of warning in Peter’s direction. “I shall inform the Whittakers of your arrival. Though I can’t guarantee entrance,” he says.

He leaves his post to the second footman, and we’re left to shiver in the cold. What has to be half an hour later, he returns, and without a word beckons us through the gate.

My heart accelerates in my chest. I’m torn between the dread of betraying Tink and the desire to see with my own eyes that Michael is okay.

The inside of the Whittaker manor is as meticulous as the outside. Everything, down to the grout pattern in the walls, is all sharp right angles. The paintings on the walls exhibit the most lifelike portraits I’ve ever seen, every detail accounted for. The frames are simple, even, and lined up perfectly in a grid.

The footman winds us through hallways, though wind isn’t the right word, as each hallway is as straight as an arrow.

When we finally reach the parlor, he beckons us toward the fireplace. “Wait here. The lady of the house will be with you shortly.”

“The lady of the house?” says Peter. “I was under the impression that we were to speak with Lord Whittaker.”

“Then you should have come a year ago. Lord Whittaker is ill and hardly feels well enough to eat his own breakfast, much less welcome uninvited guests.”

With that, the servant absconds.

I swivel to examine the parlor.

There’s something off about it. The way there’s a stain on the far corner of the rug. An empty table beside the chaise with a dust mark where a vase obviously once sat. The leg of the lounging chair on the far end of the room also appears to be broken.

For all that Lord Whittaker seems to be obsessed with perfection, it does not seem as though his servants are intent on keeping the house to his standards, nor is his wife forcing them to.

Perhaps there’s been money trouble since the lord fell ill. Perhaps they’ve been unable to keep up enough staff to meet the demands of the house.

Eventually, quiet footsteps sound down the hall. Through the doorway steps Lady Illyan Whittaker.

She’s the austere sort. Her light brown skin, likely once robust in color, has the look of having been shut away indoors for too long. Her black hair is slicked against her skull with styling oil, her curls neatly coiled away in a knot at the base of her skull.

“I’m unaccustomed to presumptuous guests showing up unannounced,” she says coldly.

“I assure you we’ll make the late-night visit worthwhile,” says Peter.

“Look around,” says the lady. “Does it look as though we are in want of anything?”

“Adequate staff to keep up the demands of the house,” says Peter. “Or do you prefer for there to be stains on the rugs?”

Lady Whittaker’s stony facade falters, but only for a blink.

“Tell me what you want. It’s late, and I was just about to retire to bed.”

Peter withdraws a pouch from his pocket. It jangles in his hand. “I’m prepared to offer you a generous sum to attend to the needs of this girl for the next six months, until she gives birth. She’s a well-trained maid. Does what she’s told. Never gives a reason for complaint.”

“I’m sure the lady of your house has no complaints about her maid falling pregnant with her husband’s child,” says Lady Whittaker.

Peter’s mouth curves into a lethal smile. “You can keep the child, and the money, when the child is born. All I ask is that you return the girl to me when her predicament is over.”

“So you can impregnate her once again?” asks the lady of the house, judgment suffusing her tone.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“And what makes you think I would want to keep your baby?”

“Please. We’re aware of the sort of business your husband runs. Or used to run,” says Peter. “From the state of the house, I’d say the money isn’t exactly flowing in anymore.”

Lady Whittaker stiffens, her neck tall and proud. “You intrude on my privacy in the middle of the night asking for a favor, then insult me?”

“It’s not a favor,” says Peter. “That would imply no benefit to you.”

She stares at him for a moment, then sighs and beckons me forward.

“Come here, girl. Let me look at you.”

I step forward, out of Peter’s grasp and toward Lady Whittaker. She paces around, encircling me. “Small hips, but I’ve seen women do well in spite of that. Otherwise healthy looking. And what about you, girl?” Lady Whittaker snaps. “Are you going to get second thoughts, run off and tell people your child has been ripped out of your arms when you’ve been granted a favor, given your life back and kept off the streets?”

I swallow, trying to force tears to my eyes.

“No, missus,” I whisper.

“Mm.” The lady ticks her tongue, and an immense hatred swells up in me at this woman, so eager to profit from the misfortunes of others. She snaps her neck up toward Peter. “Very well, then,” she says, extending an open palm.

Peter firmly places the pouch of money in her hand, and the lady searches through it, estimating the coins with discerning eyes. “This will be sufficient,” she says, drawing the pouch closed. “But the girl had better be as far along as you claim she is. This is only enough to make six months worth our while.”

“I think you’ll find us honest,” says Peter.

The lady sweeps him with her gaze once more. When he doesn’t move, she says, “I’ll have my footman see you out.”

Peter says, “I’d like a moment to say my goodbyes.”

“One would have thought you’d have had plenty of time for that on the trip here,” says the lady.

“Please,” says Peter, taking my arm in his. I have to fight not to flinch at his touch.

“I don’t make a practice of leaving strangers unattended in my home. It’s my place of business more than anything. I’m sure you understand.”

Peter grits his teeth, but when it’s clear Lady Whittaker will not back down, he offers her a stiff bow and follows the footman out of the parlor, taking a single glance behind him.

Anxiety wells up within me as the monster I know leaves me alone with the monster I don’t.

Lady Whittaker silently beckons me to follow her as, in the opposite direction, the footsteps disappear down the hallway. I feel as if my entire form is being raked over for the second time with her stern gaze. She says nothing as she leads me through the dark corridors, the wallpaper made of a dark mahogany leather that appears smooth to the touch, though I can’t help but notice there are sections where the leather has been peeled away—cut evenly—poorly disguised behind the frames of paintings.

Once we’re deep in the belly of the manor, Lady Whittaker, without looking at me, says, “Don’t fear, girl. You’ll be taken care of here.”

Now why do I not believe that?

“That being said,” continues Lady Whittaker, “I intend to put you to work. But I believe with time you’ll come to find the work rewarding.”

Irritation prickles underneath my skin, and I distract myself by searching the hallways for a window. Ideally, Peter would have been allowed to stay in the house a little longer, warp into his shadow form and search out the house for Tink. As it was unlikely he would have been allowed to be left alone with me, we’d known from the beginning the most likely way for Peter to get into the house would be through a window I’d have to crack ajar. If the lady gives me a private room, this shouldn’t be a problem. If not, my fake pregnancy will be my excuse for opening the window in the frigid cold and dreary rainy night, claiming the need for fresh air to carry away my nausea.

I keep my ears peeled for tiny footsteps, for a sing-song voice and the sound of my brother playing by himself.

I hear no evidence of children in this manor. My heart threatens to panic, but I tell myself the manor is large enough that there’s no reason for me to hear Michael if he’s on the other end of the estate.

Because he has to be here.

He has to be.

“Will you have me working as a maid?” I ask timidly, hoping I can segue into asking about the other staff here.

“Depends. What are your assets?” asks Lady Whittaker. “Are you literate?”

“Yes, my lady,” I say, and then to explain, add, “My mother worked on staff for my father. He wanted nothing to do with me, but he sent a governess twice a week to teach me to read.”

“How generous of him,” says Lady Whittaker. “Are you any good with children?”

I have to restrain my voice to keep from sounding too eager. “Yes, my lady. I have two brothers of my own.”

“Hm,” says Lady Whittaker, though to my disappointment, she doesn’t explain my potential job responsibilities further. “Tell me about them.”

“Well, my oldest brother, he’s hardly a year younger than me, so we were always more like the best of friends than siblings. He’s smarter than me, was too intelligent to be simply a servant. Is always right, too. Made his way in the world as an architect. He’s…” I fight the tears back.

“Dead?” asks Lady Whittaker, not looking at me.

A single tear streams down my face, not that Lady Whittaker notices. “Yes. How did you know?”

“Because no one says someone is always right about a living person,” she says, matter-of-factly. And then, apparently uninterested in dwelling on my pain, says, “And the other brother?”

“He’s still living,” I say, though it pains me inwardly not to know whether that’s actually the truth. “He’s…” I fight to find a way to describe Michael fairly to Lady Whittaker without rousing her suspicions. She asked earlier if I was good with children. It’s possible she’s looking for a governess for a child or children in the house. If Tink really is here, she could be looking for someone to keep Michael out of trouble, though I don’t want to appear too good to be true. “I believe he sees the world in a different set of colors than the rest of us. He’s beautiful, though I worry for him once my mother passes.”

“The father of your child won’t be inconvenienced at the notion of taking him in?” Lady Whittaker’s question is just shy of a scoff.

My heart aches, even with this fabricated story. “He doesn’t want his own child, ma’am. Why would he want another’s?”

“So you’re not lovesick, after all,” says the lady. “Well, you have that going for you, at least. Did you come to the conclusion that your master is not worth loving before or after you fell pregnant?”

“After,” I whisper.

“And before?” she says. “What made you believe his love?”

“I suppose I simply wanted to be wanted, my lady,” I say.

“And do you?” she asks. “Feel wanted?”

“He does want me,” I say, surprising myself. “Just not the less agreeable parts.”

The lady harrumphs, but says nothing.

To my surprise, we reach the end of the hall to find a looming door, made of metal and soundproofed with wool around the cracks, as if whatever is on the other side, the Whittakers wish no one to hear the evidence of.

Suddenly, with a passion I’ve yet to witness from Lady Whittaker, she spins around to face me and says, sharply, “Once I allow you inside this door, there is no going back. There is no telling your master or lover or abuser or whatever he is to you what occurs in this manor.”

I can’t help but shiver. She knows I know about their trafficking of infants. What could possibly be behind this door that could be worse?

“Do you understand, girl? Because if not, I’m more than happy to send your master’s money back and toss you to the streets. I won’t have anyone, no matter how pitiful their story, sabotaging my mission with loose lips and a propensity for falling prey to men with honeyed tongues.”

My heart turns hard, but I nod all the same. “I understand, my lady.”

“Good,” she says. Then she turns to the door, twisting the turnstile lock meticulously back and forth in an uneven pattern I can’t memorize.

As the door creaks, I don’t know what I’m preparing for, what my back is tensing for, my neck muscles throbbing. Fear lances through me, and I wish I could cry my brother’s name and race through these halls to search for him.

Instead, I wait.

And when the door opens and Lady Whittaker gestures to what’s inside, I gasp.