Page 14 of Whispers of Shadowbrook House

The rain held off until Pearl was halfway back from Riverwood.

She tucked the basket inside her cloak and watched the lane beneath her feet.

Sometimes a chuckle snuck out of her as she pictured herself walking through a scene in one of the novels she and Nanette loved and laughed about, dripping wet and protecting her meager treasures with the tattered fabric of a generations-old wrap.

At least it wasn’t stinging cold, and she wasn’t walking away from the smoking ruin of her only chance for happiness. Such a fate was saved for the women in novels. The thought made her smile again.

At the gravel approach to Shadowbrook, she looked up to the top of the house the way she always did.

A strange, wide turret, as out of place as many of the architectural choices thrust upon the house in the past two hundred years, caught her eye.

The clouds framed it with a billow of deep gray.

How might she make her way to that room, and what would she find inside?

It would make a delightful endpoint for another game with Max.

Unless, of course, the stairs had crumbled and the walls had caved in.

Always a possibility within Shadowbrook’s passageways.

Several of the house’s chimneys produced thin lines of smoke, the trails mingling in the air and meeting the clouds.

She hoped little Violet had put a fire in whatever room Maxwell chose to spend his quiet hours in.

It was growing cold, and the boy needed all the household to band together to protect him.

She wiped the rain from her face and rounded the side of the house. At the kitchen door, she shook herself and brushed down the sides of her sodden cape, hanging it on the peg outside the doorway.

Once in the house, she felt herself breathe easier. She was back. Safe.

It was a strange realization she’d made recently.

Sometime in the last several months, she’d come to understand she was protected within Shadowbrook.

Before then, it wouldn’t have occurred to her that she needed to stay inside.

Perhaps it was overhearing Mr. Ravenscroft as he spoke to Maxwell about the protections of the house.

In any case, almost without knowing, she’d begun to consider herself shielded by the house.

Safeguarded.

A thought tickled the back of her mind: Once winter arrived in full, it would be better if she didn’t walk into town for her half day. She ought to stay at home.

Home? The word was wrong. The feeling was wrong. This house was many things, but not her home. It was too strange, too formal, too unfamiliar. Too many hidden doors masked far too many secrets. She loved Maxwell nearly as much as she’d adored her own brother, but they weren’t a family.

Pearl felt a jolt of sadness at the reminder. Family was in her past. Caring for Maxwell was the concern of the present. The future—a time when Maxwell would no longer need her—would show itself later. Hopefully years and years later.

After unpacking the small loaf cake she’d bought in the village and placing it on the kitchen worktable, she made her way out into the main part of the house, looking for Jenkinson.

The warren of drawing rooms and parlors and sitting rooms gave Mr. Ravenscroft ample opportunity to sit in a new space every day of the week, but she rarely saw him on the main level of the house before evening.

He’d sit in one room or another and read by the fire until Max came in for his good night.

It seemed a formal event to Pearl, who was unused to such planned attention.

In her home growing up, the family had eaten together, read and played and sang around the piano together, sometimes wrestled and romped until the children were tired out, then her father would carry one or both of them up to their rooms for bed.

She didn’t know if such familiarity and informality was rare, but it wasn’t the habit at Shadowbrook.

Maxwell seemed satisfied with her attentions throughout the day and his few moments with his grandfather before bed, but she wished more for him.

She wished Mr. Ravenscroft would love the boy, not simply tolerate his nightly visits.

How could anyone know Maxwell and do anything but fall in love with him?

His cheeky, playful smile, his inquisitive mind, his beautiful eyes—each piece of him worked together to create a near-perfect child.

And while Mr. Ravenscroft accepted his visits, it seemed to Pearl he did no more than endure them. How sad for them both. Their relationship could be so much more if the old man allowed himself to love the boy.

But she understood the scope of her work. She was to care for Maxwell: teach him, play with him, and spend time with him. She was not hired to rebuild broken family bonds.

She turned a corner and found Jenkinson standing outside a closed door. She knew she must look a fright after the wet walk home, but she had no reason to smarten herself up for the butler. “Hello, Jenkinson. I have been to the postal office, and I have a letter for Mr. Ravenscroft.”

Without even making eye contact, Jenkinson held out his hand.

Pearl knew he expected her to lay the paper in his palm, but she was disinclined to submit to his silence. “It was posted in London. It’s from someone named Madame Genevieve. Did you know Mr. Ravenscroft was communicating with a woman from London?”

Jenkinson said nothing. Jenkinson usually said nothing.

Pearl pointed at the paper’s sides. “Her envelope is edged in black. It looks like a funeral announcement. Isn’t that a strange form of communication?”

Again, nothing.

“Perhaps I’ll take the letter inside and give it to Mr. Ravenscroft myself.”

That did it. Jenkinson moved to block her as if Pearl might try to push past him to the door. She had no interest in a physical struggle; she only wanted to see if today was the day Jenkinson would engage in a conversation.

Apparently, it was not.

She handed the letter to Jenkinson. Before she could walk away, the door opened behind the butler, and Mr. Ravenscroft stepped into the hallway. With Jenkinson and Pearl already standing there, it felt crowded.

Mr. Ravenscroft spoke, his voice hushed and rusty. “Did I hear you mention Madame Genevieve?”

Pearl nodded. “I stopped for the post on the way back from Riverwood. There’s a letter here for you.”

She pointed awkwardly at Jenkinson’s still-outstretched hand.

Mr. Ravenscroft immediately tore into the envelope right where he stood. He scanned each line of the note, and when he looked back at Pearl, he appeared to be smiling, or it might have been a grimace. It was difficult to tell. His eyes seemed to burn, and there was color in his cheeks.

“She’s agreed to come.”

Pearl had no idea if she was expected to understand who this woman was or what it meant that she planned a visit to Shadowbrook. Was Pearl supposed to ask questions? Generally, the answer to that was no.

She chose to nod, as if her agreement had been requested.

“Maybe she can help us find some answers to our important concerns with Maxwell.”

A doctor? But why would a doctor call herself Madame? She wouldn’t. But who else would Mr. Ravenscroft call for help to answer his pressing questions about his grandson?

And what about Dr. Dunning, the man who had come to the house every week for longer than Pearl had lived at Shadowbrook?

Mr. Ravenscroft followed every direction that came from Dunning’s mouth carefully and exactly.

The doctor’s counsel had led to consistent bedtimes, an organized diet, and a regimen of gentle exercise.

Pearl was quite sure Mr. Ravenscroft agreed to her weekly visits to Nanette’s shop because Dr. Dunning recommended reading as a healthy activity for growing and stretching Maxwell’s mind.

As ill as the boy was, he had good days as well as hours of more vigor, and Pearl attributed his improved health to Dr. Dunning’s good care.

She couldn’t allow Mr. Ravenscroft to simply replace him.

Although it was not her place to question the choices of her employer, it was her job to care for Maxwell.

“Sir, does this mean Dr. Dunning’s visit tomorrow will be his last?”

Mr. Ravenscroft lowered the note slowly at her question. He didn’t look angry, but there was a weariness to his expression.

He watched her face as if she might say more, but she’d already spoken too much.

“Miss Ellicott, you seem to be laboring under a delusion.” His whisper was far more frightening than a shout would have been.

Oh, dear. Was this the moment Mr. Ravenscroft would tell Pearl her position as governess gave her no right to question his decisions or motives? Would he throw her out? The muscles in Pearl’s throat thickened. She couldn’t breathe.

“Dunning’s care will continue as it always has. There is not a more capable physician in all of England. Neither you nor anyone else will convince me to stop bringing Dr. Dunning in to care for Maxwell.”

Pearl wanted to deny her question had been a suggestion. She wanted to explain how much she appreciated the doctor’s careful treatment of Maxwell. She wanted to breathe again, but Mr. Ravenscroft’s eyes burned directly into her own, his gravelly voice pinning her feet to the floor.

She could not speak, but she managed a slight shake of her head, then worried it would seem she disagreed. She gave a nod.

“Madame Genevieve’s gifts are different. What she offers is unlike anyone else’s contributions. I have consulted with her for many years, and her work has been magnificent.”

The fire in Mr. Ravenscroft’s eyes softened. A strange expression settled over his face, and he lifted his eyes to the hallway’s ceiling.

Pearl had no idea what that might signify, but she was ready for this interview to end. “Very good, sir. You have my full support for anything that will help Maxwell be happier and more comfortable.”

Jenkinson broke his silence with a snort so quiet it could have been a breath.