Page 31 of Whispers of Shadowbrook House

Oliver continued to offer to meet with his uncle about details of the sale, to suggest he write a letter inviting a representative of the Campbell Company to come speak with them. Uncle Arthur refused to discuss anything to do with the inheritance.

Disappointed and frustrated, Oliver walked away from his latest attempted conversation with nothing more than the image of Jenkinson standing in front of a closed door. He felt his sigh, long and loud, as he made his way down the last few stairs.

He turned toward the bedroom wing and saw Pearl.

“Goodness, Mr. Waverley. You look done in.”

He gave a rueful chuckle and shook his head. “I appreciate your careful observation, and I believe you’re right. I can’t pretend to be delighted by my continued failures.”

“Walk with me, then. We can reminisce about the ways you’ve brightened up this house since your arrival.”

A small, framed painting slipped from the wall and fell to the floor with a thud.

“Can the house hear you? Even the walls disapprove of my presence.” As soon as he said the words, he wished he could take them back. He didn’t want to sound petulant, especially in conversation with Pearl.

“I am quite pleased with your presence, but perhaps we ought to walk outside. To protect the artwork.”

He saw her cheeky grin and felt an echo of it grow across his own mouth. Pearl may have felt frustrated with him and his plans, but she wouldn’t allow him to sulk.

She led him through the music room, stopping to attach a lead to Misty’s jangling collar.

“Is caring for this animal part of your work now?” he asked.

Pearl shook her head. “I’m happy to take her out now and then if it saves effort for the rest of the staff. Max drifted off to sleep after our lessons today, and I find myself at my leisure.”

“And you choose to spend your free time with the neglected pet of my uncle’s strange houseguest?”

She opened a door at the end of a hallway and led the dog out into a small courtyard. Instead of answering his question, Pearl asked her own. “You’ve met Madame Genevieve, then?”

Oliver shook his head. “I know the woman only by reputation, and that is enough for me. I’ve devised a contest for myself: I win if I never actually come across her face-to-face.”

Pearl chuckled. “I imagine she’s saving your meeting for a dramatic moment. Conjuring dramatic moments seems to be her specialty. I’m surprised you’ve avoided her so well.”

Oliver swallowed his response. He didn’t need to admit to Pearl how easy it had always been to disappear into the halls of Shadowbrook and not be seen for hours, days, and even weeks.

Not that he’d made such an attempt to avoid his uncle when he was a child.

It seemed Arthur avoided him as much then as he did now.

The little dog led them into a walled garden. Pearl let her off her lead to run, but before too many minutes, the dog contented herself with circling Oliver’s feet, forcing him to watch her every move so he didn’t accidentally step on her.

“This isn’t precisely what I had envisioned for our walk together,” Pearl said, an apology in her tone.

Oliver picked up the dog, and she immediately began to bathe him with her tongue.

Pearl laughed. “She adores you.”

“The feeling is entirely one-sided, I assure you.”

Pearl tucked her hand into Oliver’s arm. “She’ll have to share you with me, but I promise not to be so affectionate.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you were.” Oliver nearly blushed at the thought of Pearl kissing the space between his jaw and his ear. He hoped if such a thing happened, he’d be able to forget the dog.

As if she could see the thought in his face, Pearl shook her head and grinned. “Misty and I have different ways of displaying our regard.”

“Right. She licks my chin, and you tell me I’m a fool to give up all of this.” He kicked at a rock in the path, sending it skittering into a crumbling section of stone wall, causing a shower of pebbles to rain down.

He hoped she would laugh and their conversation could continue to be playful, but Pearl sighed.

“We’re not going to agree on this, not ever.

And if you can’t consider waiting a few years .

. .” Pearl’s voice trailed off, and Oliver knew she was thinking about how long she could expect Maxwell to survive.

He wanted to assure her the boy could grow strong.

He wished she believed in the London doctors’ abilities.

And she didn’t seem to realize what a boon the Campbell Company’s offer was, nor how critical their timeline.

As certain as he was she had committed to the wrong belief, he couldn’t argue his point any further without causing offense.

He’d much rather go back to teasing about how her affection was different from a dog’s.

He watched Pearl look up toward the cloudy sky. He hoped it wasn’t a trick for holding in tears. Had he made her cry? He put the dog back on the ground and turned to face her, both his hands resting lightly on her shoulders.

“We don’t have to talk about it. I’m sorry I’ve upset you.”

She returned her eyes to his. There was an obvious shine, but she lifted the corners of her mouth. He thought this particular expression, her smile pushing past impending tears, made her more beautiful than he’d ever seen her.

“If we never speak of the things you do that upset me, ours will be a nearly silent relationship.”

He followed her lead and grinned back at her. With an attempt at a careless shrug, he said, “I can think of interesting things to do without saying a word.”

She shook her head. “You see, you’re still talking.”

He took her hint and made much better use of his mouth. And she, hers. He felt his hand was made to fit the curve of her neck.

After too brief a moment, a gust of wind brought icy rain.

Pearl laughed and tried to cover her hair as Oliver scooped the dog into his arm and held the side of his coat out for Pearl.

She tucked herself tight against his side as they scrambled toward the house.

The sounds of their laughter and the dog’s increasingly insistent barks almost drowned out the patter of rain against branch and stone.

Their arrival through the kitchen door was met with a flurry of excitement from the serving staff.

“Hundreds, she wants. Hundreds! I don’t keep that many candles on hand for an entire year, much less for a single night.”

Mrs. Randle stood with her hands on the sides of her head, quick steps taking her in a tight circle around the middle of the kitchen.

Oliver set the dog down on the floor and watched her run from the room. She must have been chased out of this kitchen more than once.

Violet skidded into the room and stopped in the corner, about a dozen partially consumed tapers in her hands. “Here’s what I found in the maids’ rooms, Mrs. Randle. I didn’t dare go into the footmen’s rooms without permission.”

The housekeeper’s brow, already stormy, lowered even far ther. “Well, of course you shouldn’t go there. No one asked you to, you silly girl.”

Oliver saw Violet flinch. He imagined the harried housekeeper had said something Violet interpreted as exactly such a direction.

“How can I be of help, Mrs. Randle?” Pearl gave the housekeeper her full attention.

“That woman wants several hundred candles for heaven only knows what reason. And she wants them tomorrow night. As if I am capable of making wax appear, dipping it, and allowing it to harden in thirty-two hours.”

The timid housekeeper must be experiencing an unusual strain to speak so forcefully. He glanced at Pearl.

“Are you referring to Madame Genevieve?” Pearl spoke carefully.

The slightest hint of a scoff came from Mrs. Randle before she answered.

“Madame Genevieve.” She spoke the name as if it were made from bitter lemons.

“She’s putting together some sort of witchery.

A gathering , she calls it. And it requires hundreds of candles.

Not lamps or lanterns. Candles. And not dozens.

Not even scores. One hundred won’t do for Her Highness.

She requires several hundred. I’ve no idea where I’m to find such things. ”

Pearl glanced at Oliver. “We might be able to help you. Please excuse us for a moment.”

Without another word, Pearl grabbed Oliver’s hand and hurried from the kitchen.

He knew he’d follow her anywhere, and after their moment in the dormant garden, he knew staying silent had its benefits.

She led him into a passage opposite their bedroom wing and walked to the end of the hallway.

Standing in front of a blank stretch of wall, Pearl tapped a knot in the floorboard with her toe.

The entire panel of wall swung into the hallway, opening on a hinge.

Within, a narrower passageway led to a staircase.

They followed the steps until the stairs stopped at another wall.

The next door required a key, already in the lock. Clearly, she’d been here before.

The room was full of boxes, neatly organized by size and clearly labeled, unlike the random scattering of boxes in so many of the house’s unused rooms. Oliver was astonished by the orderliness of the storage system, which allowed Pearl to select exactly what she was searching for.

Running her hand down the boxes, she stopped when she reached one that read Candles .

Oliver expected to find damage to the tapers inside. Mice loved to nibble on wax, and if there were candles inside the box, they might not be usable. The layer of dust covering the entire room suggested Pearl was the only person who’d been inside in many years.

Opening the crate, she uncovered a large ceramic vessel with a tight-fitting cork lid. She levered the cork out, and Oliver saw dozens of candles inside, standing at attention as if they anticipated being needed on a day much like today.

Pearl pointed to two more boxes with similar labels, which held more candles than they could carry.

Even if the crocks were empty, they were large enough to be prohibitively heavy.

As Oliver hefted the first of the crates into his arms, an eerie sound stopped him cold.

All the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and the flesh on his arms puckered.

The unmistakable tones of violin music floated in the air. A keening, heartbreaking tune.

Oliver set the crate back on the floor. He pointed to the wall. “Do you hear that?”

A hesitant moment passed before Pearl nodded.

Oliver whispered, “Have you heard it before?”

She looked from one corner of the room to another before she answered, her voice thready with emotion. “Never so loudly. I’ve always been able to convince myself it was my imagination, or the wind. I often hear songs in my mind, probably the way you see pictures in yours.”

“Do you think it’s a . . .”

At Oliver’s hesitation, she placed her hand over his mouth. Her eyebrows drew down her forehead. “Do not say ghost.”

He moved her hand so he could whisper again, this time closer to her ear. “What else could it be? You think Jenkinson is an accomplished musician?”

“Whoever it is, it’s a masterful touch.” She continued to look around the room. Oliver watched her study the space as it filled with sound, as the music circled around the stacks of boxes and filled every inch of empty air with a sound Oliver could only describe as grief.

They stood together and bore witness to the agonized tune.

When the music stopped, they looked at each other for a moment, then lifted their boxes and carried them silently back to the kitchen.

Oliver didn’t know how to explain what that devastating music had made him feel, and Pearl remained quiet as well.

After they set the crates of candles in the kitchen, they wordlessly turned and walked back to the hidden door and the winding staircase passageway.

Silence met them at the door. Whoever, whatever played the song had stopped. There was nothing more to hear.

No. Not nothing.

A creak, then another. A slow, repetitive shushing sound connecting the creaks. Rustling silk? Unfurling wings? Whispers of hidden voices? Or was it something without form at all?

Oliver shuddered. He gestured with his head toward the passageway they’d followed.

Pearl nodded in silent agreement and followed him back out of the room.

The farther they went from the hidden room, the more foolish Oliver felt.

Surely all this talk of ghosts and spirits had addled his mind.

Oliver didn’t believe in things he couldn’t see. Not since he was a boy.

His imagination had overpowered his mind while in the gloomy, secret space awash with such a mysterious, painful tune. Anyone would have been affected. It didn’t follow that the explanation must be supernatural.

Though consider as he might, he couldn’t think of another answer.