Page 16 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

Grateful, Isabella went and performed her ablutions before returning to the table.

She sat before the plate of beefsteak pudding and boiled turnips the maid had set out for her, the meal plain but comfortingly warm and filling.

Mrs. Abernathy sat on the opposite side of the table while Isabella ate, asking innocuous questions about the journey and London.

But the housekeeper was not comfortable.

Isabella saw it in the way the woman clasped her hands, in the tone of her voice, and in the way she gnawed on her lower lip.

“Is something amiss?” Isabella asked, recognizing the small languages of worry.

“No…not amiss, not precisely,” Mrs. Abernathy said, drawing out each word. “We have a large house but a small household here. There’s only Mr. Caradoc and… And the staff. A smallish staff. There’s Cook, the three maids you met when you arrived, and Tom Grange. You met him, too.”

“The coachman,” Isabella said.

“Coachman, groom, stable hand all rolled into one. Oh, and there’s Matty. The houseboy.”

“And you,” Isabella said.

“And me.”

Isabella thought of the enormity of the house she had seen from outside, its windows staring down at her like empty eyes, vast and unfeeling.

The staff, as described, seemed swallowed whole by the place, too few souls to warm so many cold rooms. Pansy’s warnings drifted back to her, weaving a curl of unease through her belly.

“Does Mr. Caradoc have a valet?”

“He does not. There was a footman, Robert Kent, but he left for London a half year ago,” Mrs. Abernathy said.

The silence that followed felt heavy, weighted with something unsaid. The fire crackled, and a draft whispered across Isabella’s ankles, cold as an ice house floor. The housekeeper pressed her lips together as if holding back words she had not yet decided to set free.

Isabella wondered if those words pertained to the departed footman or to the issue that was “not amiss, not precisely,” as the housekeeper would have it. She did not wait long for an answer.

“You see… The thing is…” Mrs. Abernathy drew a deep breath and finished in a rush. “You’re an in-between.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“An in-between,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “You’re not quite a servant, but neither are you family or a guest. I didn’t quite know where to put you in the order of things, if you take my meaning. I don’t know how things are done in London, but we are simple folk here.”

Isabella was quiet for a moment. Papa’s household had been small and intimate with a level of familiarity with the staff that was uncommon.

She was surprised by the housekeeper’s admission that she wasn’t certain how to proceed.

But the genuine concern in Mrs. Abernathy’s expression had Isabella hastening to reassure her.

“I have no wish to be set apart. I am an employee, and I will gladly share the duties and table of the household.”

“Alone isn’t always better,” Mrs. Abernathy said softly, almost to herself. Her gaze darted around the room before snapping back to Isabella. The shadows cast by the fire stretched along the walls, long fingers reaching into dim corners.

“Then you don’t take it as an affront?” the housekeeper asked. “As I said, I don’t know London ways. Never been there. I wasn’t certain…”

“I have no London ways,” Isabella said. “At this point, I’m merely grateful for the warm welcome, the warm fire”—she gestured at the hearth—“and the warm food.”

Mrs. Abernathy smiled a little, the corners of her mouth twitching upward, though the hint of sadness in her eyes did not fade.

“I hope you’ll find warmth here in other ways too, Miss Barrett.

” Her voice was quiet, almost wistful, and Isabella couldn’t help but feel as though the housekeeper was speaking of things beyond hearth and home.

She gave a decisive nod. “Then you’ll have meals with us rather than alone in the dining room. ”

“Alone?” Isabella said. “Does Mr. Caradoc not eat in the dining room?”

The housekeeper shook her head. “He’s never taken a meal there that I’ve seen. Not in the years I’ve been here.”

A habit spawned by regimented days and nights behind locked doors?

After a moment, Mrs. Abernathy asked, “What were your other posts like?” She pressed her finger to her lips. “Oh, dear. Was that rude? I meant no offense, lamb. I’m just a curious sort.”

“I was my father’s secretary before he died.” Sadness tugged at Isabella’s heart as she said the words. It was still difficult to believe he was gone, to think that she would never see him again, never hear his wheezing laugh.

“My mother died when I was ten,” Mrs. Abernathy said, covering Isabella’s hand with her own. Isabella looked up to find sympathy and kindness in the woman’s expression and in that instant, she was glad she had come here, glad she had made this journey.

“Once she was gone, I grew up quick. I saw to my father’s small household for many years. When my father died, I married my husband, Mr. Abernathy. Then he died only a month later and I wasn’t at all certain what to do. I suspect my circumstance then was like your own now.”

Isabella had no need to inquire as to the nature of the circumstance. She was not the first woman to be left without enough funds and few options.

“Mr. Caradoc offered me a place here. As housekeeper. I was far too young and inexperienced for the role, but I learned quickly.” Mrs. Abernathy gave a soft laugh.

“We’re all here with a similar tale. Mary and Emma are sisters.

Orphaned. Sixteen and fourteen they were when they started here.

Matty’s father had a heavy hand. The boy was always sporting a black eye or bruised cheek.

One day, I passed him on the road, both his eyes blackened and him wearing nothing but trousers and shirt in the cold wind.

Mentioned it to Mr. Caradoc, I did, and he went off with an angry face and came back with the boy. ”

“Mr. Caradoc collects strays,” Isabella said. The words were neutral but the thoughts and questions behind them were not.

Was it merely happenstance that desperate people lived here, the generous impulse of a man with a conscience?

Or did he gather around him only those with nowhere else to go, people whose gratitude could be relied upon, whose dependence on him could not easily be broken?

Those who had no one and nothing else, people who would be grateful and beholden to him?

She had no proof of such a motive, but Papa’s dislike of the man was not something she could easily forget, and suspicion was a difficult seed to uproot once planted. Nor could she fully discount Pansy’s warning…

“Collect strays…I suppose he does,” Mrs. Abernathy said with a laugh.

She rose and took up a candle before handing a second one to Isabella.

“Come along. I’ll show you to your room.

We’ll take one of the servants’ staircases tonight only because it’s closest. In the morning, I’ll show you the house and the main stairs. ”

“How many servants’ staircases are there?”

“Two in the east wing, two in the west wing, and one in the old section to the north but we don’t use that one. That part of the house is closed.” The housekeeper sent her a speaking glance. “No one goes there. It isn’t safe.”

Because of the fire. Isabella almost asked about it, then decided again that excessive curiosity was a poor introduction to a new position.

She held her tongue and followed the housekeeper along the passage to a staircase.

It was narrow and steep, the handrail smooth, the wooden steps worn, creaking under their weight as they began their climb.

The darkness was punctured only by the candles they carried, the flames wavering with each step, their glow too weak to banish the suffocating shadows that clung to the corners and ceiling.

They went up a flight and then another. As they climbed, Isabella had the strangest sensation that the wall to the right was moving toward her, that the space grew narrower the higher they went, as if the house was leaning in, listening.

“This way,” Mrs. Abernathy said, her voice more a breath than a whisper.

They walked along a wood-paneled hallway, the oak floor covered by a thick runner that made their footsteps muffled and soft.

The combined light of their candles made only a small dent in the darkness.

The shadows seemed thicker here, like ink stains spreading outward, swallowing all they encountered.

“Why does Mr. Caradoc prefer the quiet?” Isabella asked, her voice low.

Mrs. Abernathy glanced back, her expression unreadable. “He values order,” she said after a pause. “He dislikes disruptions.” Her gaze flicked forward. “It is a large house. Noise carries.”

Her answer felt incomplete, as though she had held back far more than she had revealed. Isabella wondered what sort of disruptions Mr. Caradoc sought to avoid, and what sounds would carry in a house like Harrowgate. She supposed she would find out in time.

Mrs. Abernathy turned down a second hallway, then a third. Isabella tried to memorize the way, thinking she would be hard pressed to find her way back to the kitchen in the morning. Left, then right, then left again…already the turns slipped like quicksilver through her grip.

The third hallway was cold. Isabella glanced about, looking for a window or an open door that might be letting in a chill. But all the doors were closed and there was no window in sight. Her breath hung in a pale cloud as she exhaled and then dissipated as she continued after the housekeeper.

A sound came from behind…footsteps, soft and measured.

She glanced back, feeling wary, the fine hairs at her nape prickling, unease pinching her skin.

But there was nothing but darkness, thick, oppressive, swallowing every corner and crevice.

The absence of any wraith made it all the more unsettling.