Page 3 of Whispers of Shadowbrook House

With a smile, he asked, “Are you not sure? Perhaps you’re expecting additional guests today?” It wasn’t really an answer, but finding such a vibrant woman in the maddening gloom of Shadowbrook House made him lose his head for a moment.

Her dimple reappeared as she grinned at him. “If you know Mr. Ravenscroft at all, you know he doesn’t entertain guests.”

Oliver nodded. “I suppose he’s required to make an exception for me, since I’m family.”

The woman’s smile slipped. “I’m not accustomed to seeing Mr. Ravenscroft make exceptions.” She gave a small shake of her head and put on a polite expression. “But, of course, you know him better than I do.”

“I’d imagine not, as you live here, while I’ve not seen him for years.” Oliver realized he didn’t know this woman’s name. He continued, “You do live here, don’t you? You said you’re the governess?”

She nodded. “I do, and I am. Pearl Ellicott.” She held out her hand and they shook.

Oliver had the strangest urge to hold her hand and not let go. “Pearl. That is a lovely name. And very appropriate for a woman of your . . .”

Oliver trailed off. Was he really going to say “beauty” and mention he’d noticed the radiant luminosity of her skin? Not if he wanted to ever face her again without feeling a complete fool. And he did want to face her again. Maybe she hadn’t heard him.

“My what?” she asked, her dark eyebrow arched.

He tried for many seconds to come up with a reasonable ending to his sentence without any luck at all.

Her smile teased him. “No, really. Do go on. How am I like a pearl? Do you refer to my granularity? My roundness? My ability to grow inside an oyster’s shell?”

Oliver laughed. Her banter was an excellent way to repair his foolishness.

“Your name is appropriate for a woman of your age.”

There. That wasn’t so bad.

But she was not about to let such silliness pass unremarked.

“And do you presume to know what my age is?”

He laughed again. Unbelievable. Engaging in simple small talk in a city ballroom was never as risky as this conversation with this young woman had become. How did Pearl Ellicott manage to confuse his brain so much that his mouth released words without consulting him?

“Miss Ellicott, would you allow me to begin again?”

She tucked her hands around her elbows and nodded with a polite smile. Unless he was much mistaken, she knew exactly what effect she had on him, and she was enjoying his discomfort. He was quite glad to see her enjoyment, and willing to play the part of the fool if she kept smiling at him.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” He took her offered hand and held on perhaps a moment too long before letting it go. “And I hope to meet little Max soon. He was a newborn baby when I was here last.”

When I was sent away, Oliver thought but did not say.

Miss Ellicott’s eyes flicked past Oliver and down the hall. Some of the light receded from her eyes, and she offered a small sigh.

“He’s no baby now, but you ought to prepare yourself. He’s not strong. He’s rather small for his age, and often ill and tired.”

Oliver wished they were sitting. She looked as though the admission had tired her. “It’s true, then, what people say? He’s unwell?”

The rumors were far stronger than the word “unwell” suggested, but Oliver didn’t want to repeat any of the things he’d heard.

Village gossip, even far from the surroundings of Shadowbrook, spun stories of a reclusive old man and a child wasting away in a sadly neglected house.

Such stories always seemed to reach Oliver when people learned of his connection with Shadowbrook House.

As soon as his question passed his lips, Miss Ellicott stepped back and her posture grew rigid. Her hands curled into fists at her sides and any joy he’d seen in her expression was replaced with fire.

“Maxwell Ravenscroft is a perfect child. Brilliant and kind. Beautiful. All that he should be. No matter what people may say.”

The force of her tone suggested this young woman had something to prove. To him? To herself?

Had he asked about the child with too much pity? Was there an unintended hint of delight at Maxwell’s misfortune?

Oliver nodded. “I apologize if I offended you. I admit, I’m curious about my cousin, but I’m certain he is everything you say.

One hears things, you understand.” The words felt weak, somehow both too apologetic and not an apology at all.

He tried again. “I am looking forward to meeting him, and I hope we will be friends.”

Oliver did not specify which “we” he meant, but he certainly hoped his careless reference to the gossip about Shadowbrook had not ruined his chances to see Miss Ellicott’s smile again, and soon.

He also understood Pearl Ellicott was not a woman who would answer any of the idle questions that filled his mind.

That was unlucky, as she would be the best source for information about the house and especially about his uncle.

But her apparent insult regarding the whispered gossip proved to Oliver that she was not likely to sit at evening firesides and share details of life within the crumbling walls of the manor.

Miss Ellicott watched him, one eyebrow arched and her head turned slightly. She was searching for something, but Oliver couldn’t tell if it was a quality she hoped to discover or one she’d rather not find.

He knew himself well enough to know he’d prefer her to see only the best side of him. There was too much of his uncle within the darker parts of his mind, elements he attempted to keep hidden even from himself.

He forced a reflection of his previous smile. “Would this be a good moment for you to introduce me to my cousin?”

She continued to watch him from beneath that arched eyebrow for another uncomfortable moment, but then her smile returned. “I imagine you have time to put your bags away before he discovers me. And speaking of discovery, I must make his search worth the reveal.”

Without another word, she spun back to the hidden panel in the wall, pressed her fingers to the secret latch, and stepped inside, pulling the door tight with an almost inaudible snick.

Only a second before, she’d stood in front of him, and now she was gone.

The architectural alchemy of Shadowbrook House could make a person believe in ghosts.

When Oliver realized he was alone in the hallway staring at the wall, he picked up his cases and hurried to the room he’d once called his own. If Miss Ellicott was so interested in hiding, he probably ought to get out of the way of whatever game he’d walked into.

If the kitchen had seemed smaller upon his entry this evening, the bedroom seemed to loom.

Had the ceiling always risen so high? And the windows, although curtained with thick winter ivy—had they always been so vast?

Something was different. The room not only looked bigger, it felt more solitary. Even lonely.

He turned and faced the wall beside the door.

The painting. It was gone.

The only thing about this house he’d ever truly loved—a portrait of his mother prepared for her wedding day—used to hang there on the wall.

As a boy, he’d wake each morning to the sight of it.

He’d kneel beside his bed at night for the prayers his nanny demanded, but although his lips spoke words to God, he’d crack one eye to watch the painting and imagine his mother was there listening.

And now she was gone, both from his life and from the room.

Perhaps the painting had simply moved to a different wall. It was his painting, after all, and it couldn’t be gone. Portraits didn’t disappear.

But he thought of the life-sized white sculptures missing from the gallery downstairs. If a marble statue could be sold, how much easier to relocate a framed portrait?

Against the east wall was the alcove he used to hide in. He strode to the other side of the bed, but space there had been furnished as a dressing room, complete with wardrobe, mirror, and shaving table. No sign of the painting.

He pulled the curtains from the darkened windows, but he found nothing.

An unexpected wave of sadness crashed over him, and he felt his fists clench. Who would remove his mother’s portrait from his room? And why?

The sorrow passed as quickly as the answer came.

Shadowbrook wasn’t his home. Not until he inherited.

The painting didn’t belong to him until the house did.

If Uncle Arthur wanted to move it, he had every right to do so.

But even still, Oliver regretted the picture’s loss.

Would it be strange for him to ask for it back, if only for the days he stayed?

He knew he was here on very shaky agreement. Even with Oliver’s pleading correspondence, Uncle Arthur had not actually consented to this visit. He couldn’t ask more of the old man. At least not yet.

Once he accepted the painting was gone and he wouldn’t find it, he allowed himself a moment to grieve.

Had the portrait always been what connected him to this place?

Perhaps it had. And now that it was gone, he felt less attached than ever to Shadowbrook.

Surely Uncle Arthur would understand it was time to rid themselves of the house.

Oliver found himself justifying his hopes of selling the property.

He pictured sitting across from his uncle at a desk or a table, leaning forward and speaking clearly, compassionately.

He’d be gentle with Uncle Arthur; after all, this run-down place had been the old man’s shelter for decades.

But the days of the grand houses were passing.

Within twenty years, the world would cross the threshold of a new century.

Old things must pass away and make room for the new.

Oliver realized he was muttering his practiced arguments aloud to himself and shook his head. “I’ve got to get out of this room.”