Page 10 of Whispers of Shadowbrook House

Admittedly, Oliver had very little experience with women, but Pearl Ellicott was driving him mad.

When he’d arrived—was it only hours ago?

—she had literally thrown herself into his arms. He understood that had been a mistake, but he wouldn’t mind if it happened again.

And again. They’d had such a nice time exploring the house.

And Maxwell was a delight. Watching Pearl care for the boy gave Oliver a sense of what future happiness might look like.

He wasn’t ready to consider too deeply what that might mean, but he knew there was a seed planted in his mind.

When they’d had tea together, he couldn’t deny his attraction to her.

But did she have any interest in him? Or might she be like one of those city girls who found out he had an inheritance coming and drew around him like birds to a dropped piece of bread?

None of those bird-girls kept up their interest longer than one dance or one evening at a party.

But perhaps that wasn’t a completely fair assessment.

Maybe it was Oliver who lost interest. He couldn’t think of any young woman he’d met in the last two years who captured his attention like Pearl had.

Was it possible that all along, what he hoped to find was more than a pretty face and a charming smile? Could it be he was truly looking for an active mind as well?

Oliver attempted to prepare for bed, but his thoughts wouldn’t settle.

He paced his room a while, but the blank walls seemed to loom above him a bit taller each time he passed, so he stepped into his shoes and set out among the hallways and passages of Shadowbrook House.

He’d learned quite early to never walk through the house without a source of light, so he brought a candle that had been set on a table in his room.

He stopped for a minute outside Maxwell’s room, wishing he could go inside and see if the boy was sleeping peacefully.

That was a strange urge, one he’d never felt before.

Of course, he’d never lived in a house with a child, sick or otherwise, so maybe it was simply a natural effect of having someone young and vulnerable under the same roof.

At the next room, he stopped again. Light leaked into the hall from under the closed door. This must be Miss Ellicott’s bedroom.

He wondered what the room looked like. Did paintings hang on each wall? Had she chosen the decor? Were the decisions made to help her feel most at home? Or, like Oliver, did she feel a stranger there?

A soft hum came from Miss Ellicott’s room. Singing?

What was she doing in there? The light was bright enough to work by.

Did she sit in her room at night and plan the ways she’d teach Maxwell the next morning?

Write out sentences in Spanish or Italian for him to read?

Make sketches of the house, marking each newly discovered room and passageway?

Might she be, even now, drawing a pirate map to guide Maxwell on his next adventure?

Did the boy know how lucky he was?

The thought took Oliver by surprise. Maxwell Ravenscroft would never grow into a man. He wouldn’t live long enough to attend school or find enjoyable employment or fall in love. He’d never have a home of his own, but Oliver thought him lucky.

Because the boy had Pearl Ellicott. Her company, her undivided attention, her affection.

Lucky indeed.

Oliver soon recognized the impropriety of standing outside the governess’s door while the rest of the house slept. He turned toward the main staircase and looked both up and down the steps.

Where to begin? What part of the house should he visit?

He took the main staircase up one level, forcing himself to tread confidently, although silently, on territory that had been forbidden him as a child. Uncle Arthur’s study was along this hallway, and when Oliver was a boy, Mrs. Randle made it clear Oliver was not to go anywhere near the room.

Without question, he’d complied. Having no wish to disturb his uncle while he was at his work, whatever work that might have been, he’d been perfectly satisfied to explore as many of the other parts of the house as he could.

Now he moved ever closer to the forbidden section, his candle throwing a trembling shadow down the hall.

All was darkness and silence but for the ever-present shushing sounds of wind against the building and the scurrying of tiny feet inside the walls.

Another thing Oliver preferred not to consider.

The study’s door was massive, a double pane of wood so dark it was almost black. The doorknobs, twin brass globes that stared from the dark wood like a pair of yellow eyes, were surely fastened tight. Whatever his uncle protected in the mysterious study must be locked away at night.

Look inside.

Oliver heard the words as if they were whispered in his ear. He knew it was only in his mind, but such whispers used to come to him just this way, years ago in this house.

Oliver reached for a knob, and to his surprise, it turned silently in his hand. He pulled the door, but nothing happened. A small remnant of his childhood fear whispered it was just as well; entering the study was forbidden and he should walk away.

But Oliver couldn’t be ruled by juvenile fears forever. He pushed. The door swung away from him, opening into a cavernous and shadowy room, empty except for the massive desk in the center.

Not a single side table stood ready to hold his candle, not a curtain on the walls or a window to open.

There was nothing hung or displayed to beautify the room.

No bookshelves lined the walls. No chair placed by the yawning, empty hearth, and not even a rack of fireplace tools.

A layer of dust covered everything like a depressing snowfall.

Like the other disused, empty rooms, this one smelled of nesting birds, rodents, and abandonment.

This was the room that had been forbidden to him? This empty space? Had his uncle ever actually occupied it?

And if he had, what had made him abandon it?

Oliver had thought his bedroom spartan, but this was desolate. Not even the memory of a once-comfortable space lingered here. He thought the desk must still stand in the center of the room only because it was too large for anyone on the staff to remove it.

With a glance over his shoulder, he stepped into the room and pushed the door closed behind him.

Placing the candle on the enormous, empty desk, he walked around the whole room, his shadow pacing the walls beside him.

What was so special about this room? Why had his uncle kept it to himself for all those years? And why was it now sitting empty?

Oliver wondered if there was a passageway from the study to one of the other rooms on this level.

Perhaps even to Uncle Arthur’s own bedchamber.

He stepped closer to the walls, watching his shadow diminish a few inches for each step he took away from the candle’s light.

The walls were plastered and painted, and aside from the usual cracks and darkened patches, there was nothing to suggest a hidden hinge within the wall. No secret doors. Not even a window.

If the room lacked a passage to somewhere else, it must have been nothing more than what it seemed: a private sanctuary. It was possible that for all those years, Uncle Arthur spent his hours in this study simply to be alone. To be away from Oliver?

He circled the room again, this time with a hand on the wall, feeling for any change in texture, any give. Nothing but the small cloud of dust he kicked up as he walked the dirty floor. He stifled a sneeze, then another.

Remembering the hatch inside the hidden cupboard, he looked up. He had no idea how Pearl had discovered its existence, and understood even less how she had activated its opening, but knowing this house had doorways at ceiling height made him want to investigate more closely.

The ceiling was out of his reach, but even if he could touch it, was there any way Uncle Arthur could?

His uncle wasn’t ancient, but some people seemed to lean into aging, and Uncle Arthur had been an old man for twenty years at least. Maybe once there had been a ladder here, a hidden staircase that would help Arthur access a high, secret panel.

Oliver sat on the edge of the desk, placed his hands behind him, and leaned back, staring at the flickering candlelight dancing on the ceiling.

The disappointment he felt at not discovering a secret passageway cloaked him in a strange sadness. Why, he wondered, did his failure to find what was certainly not there distress him?

Had he convinced himself he’d really heard a voice telling him to look inside?

That was impossible.

As a boy, he was used to finding paths and passages in and around Shadowbrook, but he’d never felt sad when his explorations weren’t fruitful.

Why was tonight different? As soon as he had the thought, he also knew the answer.

His time with Miss Ellicott and Maxwell had given him a feeling he rarely experienced in Shadowbrook House: hope.

And he’d been hopeful for a successful adventure here.

The unfamiliarity of the emotion caused him to consider its effect on his actions tonight. Walking into an adventure armed with hope was a far different experience than trudging along, certain of a middling outcome.

Maybe hope was a dangerous indulgence.

He brushed the dust from his hands and picked up the candle stub that was sputtering as the wick drew close to the end.

He pictured Pearl’s smile and thought the experience of bringing it back to her face might be worth the disappointment of a few failed explorations.

Pulling the huge wooden door open, he stepped out into the hallway and nearly crashed into a figure standing outside the door.

Scrambling for balance, he wheeled his arms in small circles until his equilibrium allowed him to bring his feet back under him.

The guttering candle extinguished itself, and Oliver stood in shadow.

But not alone. Even in the oppressive darkness, he sensed a presence. Too large to be Pearl. Too solid to be Mrs. Randle; the housekeeper was practically transparent.

“Uncle?” he whispered.

The figure gave a short, quiet grunt. The syllable was small but heavy with displeasure.

The tone was as much a giveaway as if all the gaslights in the house had come on at once.

Jenkinson.

As Oliver’s eyes adjusted to the heavy darkness of the midnight hall, he saw large shoulders and a head held perfectly straight. He knew well the shape of Shadowbrook’s intimidating butler.

Jenkinson had served in the house before Oliver had arrived at Shadowbrook.

Mostly silent, the butler managed to project an air of protectiveness, but Oliver knew better than to think it was the butler’s job to protect him .

No, Jenkinson’s work was to protect the house. And, by extension, Uncle Arthur.

He would show the butler he was no longer afraid of him. He’d speak to him like a master of the house spoke to his serving staff.

“Good evening, Jenkinson,” Oliver said, hoping his voice would carry a hint of confidence, even if he didn’t feel it. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“No. I suppose you did not.” That was more words than Jenkinson usually spoke to Oliver in an entire conversation.

“Have you got a candle, by chance? Not that I mind the dark.”

Oliver minded the dark far more when Jenkinson lurked so close to him. He’d rather be able to see the man’s expression than wonder how much trouble he might be in.

Jenkinson said nothing, which was to be expected.

Oliver tried for a chummy laugh. “What brings you to this hallway tonight?” Could the butler hear the tremble in his voice?

“I might ask you the same.”

Oliver wanted to be bold enough to laugh at Jenkinson or possibly to remind him that soon, Oliver would own this house and therefore be Jenkinson’s employer.

He couldn’t make himself say anything at all.

Every bit of the self-assurance he’d tried to gather up in the past few seconds deserted him. He may as well be nine years old again.

Come on, old boy , Oliver told himself. You’re a man. He’s a man. There’s no reason for you to fear him. Just think of something to say. Make conversation.

Nothing came to his mind. Not a word.

He stood in the dark hallway, wishing his brain worked faster. A moment that felt like an hour passed before Jenkinson spoke again. “It’s time for you to find your way back to your room.”

Oliver wanted to say he wasn’t a child. He wanted to argue against being sent to his room. He wanted to behave like a Ravens-croft.

But the problem was, Oliver wasn’t a Ravenscroft. His mother had been, but Uncle Arthur had made it clear she had not passed any of the important family traits down to her son.

What if Oliver refused to move? What if he decided to be a person who could not be intimidated by his uncle’s butler?

Would Jenkinson simply continue to stand here, threatening without speaking?

All the combined emotions of the day left Oliver unable to try to be someone else. He barely had the energy to behave like himself.

“Right you are, Mr. Jenkinson. Shall we?” He began to walk down the hall, heading for the staircase. Hearing the snick of metal on metal, he turned to see Jenkinson holding a key to the door’s lock.

As Oliver went down the stairs toward his room, he heard the echo of a memory, a floating melody that sounded exactly like a mournful tune played on a violin.

The sound used to frighten him when he was a boy, but those days were long past. With everything he felt now, there was no time to indulge in childish fantasies of ghostly voices and phantom violins.