Page 15 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

Chapter Seven

I sabella leaned close to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the world beyond, but the night was dark and there was little to see save the black silhouettes of trees and bushes.

Every so often, branches arched close enough to scrape against the sides of the carriage, the sound dry and skeletal.

The occasional lantern mounted to a post flickered past, fleeting and insubstantial.

In the end, she wedged herself into the corner and endured the jolts and bumps.

The road grew narrower, the surrounding trees pressing closer.

After a time, the coach made a sharp turn.

Its lamps threw shallow bowls of light to either side, revealing brick columns, their surfaces veined with ivy and moss.

The road curved and dipped as they drove along.

Isabella thought they had been travelling for about half an hour, which made Harrowgate Manor farther from the village than she had imagined.

Isolated. Solitary. Forgotten.

The trees thinned at last to reveal a clearing, and an enormous house.

Anxiety twisting through her, Isabella leaned forward, her breath fogging the window’s glass.

Harrowgate Manor loomed before her, its silhouette stark against the night-black sky.

Its high, gabled roof and angular chimneys gave it the appearance of an ancient crouching beast, poised and waiting.

Lantern light caught the pale bands of sandstone in its brickwork, but rather than softening the structure, the effect only heightened its cold, unyielding presence.

Two of the six chimneys belched white smoke, pale trails rising like restless spirits.

The windows were dark, their shutters closed tight against the wind, several of them nearly obscured by the overgrown ivy that crawled up the walls, its twisted fingers prying into cracks in the mortar, trying to claw its way inside.

Fatigue weighed on her, despite the excitement of arrival. She rubbed her eyes and when she blinked, colors danced before her. For an instant, an orange glow seemed to flood the far windows, as if a great fire raged within. Then it was gone, leaving the panes black and depthless.

The carriage continued along a lane that ran to one side of the house, then around to the back, which was no more welcoming than the front. Here, too, ivy shrouded the walls and the windows were dark.

Once he had brought the carriage to a halt, Tom opened the door and helped her down before rounding to the rear to see about unstrapping her trunks.

The air was thin and cold and still. An icy finger caressed the back of her neck. Frigid breath puffed against her cheek.

Isabella spun, expecting to see a wraith, surprised when none emerged. The absence made the skin between her shoulders prickle worse than any apparition.

The night pressed close, muffling sound, swallowing light. The house stood in her peripheral vision, and she could not shake the feeling that someone—or something—was watching her.

But there was only Tom Grange, and no other mortal or ghostly companions that she could see. Yet uncanny awareness crawled across her skin like spiders. There were eyes on her, she was certain of it, hungry eyes, hidden from view.

Drawing the edges of her cloak tighter, she tipped her head back and examined the house.

There, at the far corner of the third floor, a single candle gleamed in a window.

The flame wavered before going still, as though someone had placed a hand to block the light.

And then a shadow moved across it…a figure, barely discernible.

Isabella strained to see. The figure lingered for only a moment before the flame was snuffed out, plunging the house back into darkness.

Rhys stood at the upper casement, a candle cupped in his palm.

The dark night beyond turned window into mirror, reflecting his own face back at him.

For a heartbeat, another shape wavered there, a woman’s silhouette, indistinct yet unmistakable, her presence shadowed and foreboding.

He pinched the wick between his finger and thumb.

The flame died, giving way to a thin stream of smoke that carried the scent of tallow.

Somewhere within the walls in the vast runs of flue, a thread of metal shivered in mortar, tinkling like a distant bell.

Then came the despised scrape he knew too well, metal on stone, a slow purposeful drag.

Below, a figure stepped into the wash of the carriage lamps, a woman in a dark cloak.

Isabella.

He felt pleasure at just the sight of her, and that shamed him.

He had lured her here to use her as he must. It mattered not that his actions were for the dead he loved.

He had set the snare and that made him the villain of the tale.

But he was a villain with a conscience and if harm came for her, it would need to pass through him first.

Even at this distance, her presence made the ever-present clamor ease, not gone but muffled, its murmur low and patient.

Tom moved to the back of the carriage and set his shoulder to the straps. The smaller trunk came down first with a grunt and a thud. The larger he half-dragged, half-eased down, straining at the task. It was iron-banded and brass-cornered, too heavy for its size.

The tome Rhys sought had not been part of Barrett’s collection, not listed in the detailed notes, not hidden in the sealed crates.

But perhaps Isabella had brought it with her.

She was the key he needed, but the missing half of the grimoire would be a welcome bonus.

He would not scavenge through her belongings like a thief; if the grimoire lay there, he would earn it.

Isabella moved into the lantern wash, head tilted back to reveal the pale oval of her face and the vulnerable hollow at the base of her throat where her pulse would lift and race beneath his thumb.

Her lips were parted in the cold. He remembered that mouth, wet with rain, as she knelt before him in the mud by her father’s grave. Brave girl. Resilient girl.

Desire rose, unbidden. He eased back into the shadows.

Want muddied judgment and fed foolish decisions. But want her, he did.

The wind howled in a frigid burst, clawing at Isabella’s skirts and bonnet.

A door creaked open, spilling golden light onto the drive. Then a woman stepped into view, her figure backlit by the glow.

“Miss Barrett? Are you Miss Isabella Barrett?” she called, her voice warm. “Come inside now, lamb. Come inside out of the wind. You must be famished, poor dear. Tom will see to your things. Come along now.”

Isabella hurried forward, drawn by the promise of warmth and shelter, propelled by the desire to be away from the suffocating darkness that seemed to cling to her like a shadow.

Once inside, she followed the woman down a long, narrow hallway, boots clacking hollowly against the stone floor.

“I am Mrs. Abernathy,” the woman said over her shoulder just as the hallway opened to a large kitchen.

The warmth of the room was immediate, almost smothering after the chill outside. The scent of roasted meat, herbs, and something sweet hung in the air.Bunches of dried rosemary and lavender hung from dark wooden beams that striped the ceiling.

“Sit down, my girl. Sit down.” Mrs. Abernathy turned and gestured at the long wooden table that stood to one side.

Isabella had her first good look at the housekeeper then.

She was a tall woman with a round face and rosebud lips.

Tufts of blonde curls escaped her frilled cap and curled around her temples and cheeks.

Isabella was surprised to see that she was young, perhaps only five or six years older than Isabella.

But there was something else, something older etched into the lines around her mouth and the set of her shoulders. Mrs. Abernathy looked like a woman who carried her burdens in silence.

“Here is Miss Isabella Barrett,” the housekeeper said to someone at Isabella’s back, her voice firm and pleasant, as though announcing a guest of importance. “Come from London.”

Isabella turned and found four sets of eyes staring back at her. Three of the sets belonged to young women dressed in black twill with white aprons, each wearing a white crochet cap. One set belonged to an older woman who turned to one of the maids and said, “Fetch her plate.”

“That’s very kind,” Isabella said.

The older woman—Isabella thought she must be the cook—grunted in return.

“Pay her no mind,” Mrs. Abernathy said lightly.

“That’s as friendly as Cook gets.” She turned to the girls at the table.

“Here are Mary and Emma.” The other girl set a plate before Isabella.

“And this is Peg. On with you, now, girls. Miss Barrett is far too tired to entertain the lot of you tonight.”

The expressions that flickered across their faces as they hurried away were something between disappointment and relief. As Isabella watched them go, it struck her that they retreated in silence, no whispers exchanged, no murmurs or laughter, their footsteps soft on the worn floorboards.

“Mr. Caradoc likes a quiet house,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “Especially at night. Was that explained to you?”

A flicker of sadness wove through her. Perhaps quiet had become a discipline for him, institutional quiet, the kind enforced by keys and seclusion cells. The thought pressed hard against her breastbone, leaving a dull ache within.

“No, but I see no difficulty,” Isabella said. “My father liked a quiet house, all the better to read and study.” The exception had been when they entertained his contemporaries; then, the conversation had often grown quite lively and boisterous. “I can be quiet as a mouse.”

Mrs. Abernathy nodded, but her gaze lingered too long on Isabella, as though weighing her worth, or perhaps her resilience.

Finally, she said, “Will you want the water closet?”