Page 36 of Whispers of Shadowbrook House

Oliver found a relatively dry patch on the porch under the dripping eaves and watched the rain fall.

For all that he had been a skeptic when Madame Genevieve had begun the evening’s entertainment, he was not sure he could say the same now that it was over.

Watching the tear fall from Pearl’s cheek had touched him in a way he had not expected.

It had seemed to encourage him to follow Madame Genevieve’s instructions and think of someone close to him who had passed.

Unbidden, the memory of his mother’s portrait had risen up in his mind, and a stillness had settled over his heart.

A wealth of feelings and memories had flooded through him, and while he knew he wanted to share them with Pearl, he also knew he wanted to keep them close to himself for just a moment longer.

He looked around at the crumbling edges of Shadowbrook, at the uneven steps leading to the porch and the tilting, sagging walls. Somehow the effect made him think of his uncle—a man who once had such hard and straight edges, now sinking into himself under the weight of loss and loneliness.

When he owned Shadowbrook, would he hire someone to fix the steps, the porch, the walls? Would he need someone to look after this section of the grounds, or would he do it himself?

When he realized what he was thinking, the idea shocked him. He wouldn’t own Shadowbrook. The Campbell Company would.

But even as the thought entered his mind, he looked around the dark, rainy night and knew this place would always hold a piece of his heart.

Drawing in a deep breath of air cleansed by the rain, he turned back to the house and opened the door.

Instead of sleepy quiet, he found Shadowbrook in an uproar. The maids and footmen ran up and down the stairs, and everyone was shouting. The little dog streaked underfoot. Even Jenkinson, who rarely spoke, was hollering directions toward the back of the house.

Mrs. Randle flitted from kitchen wing to entry twice in the space of only a few seconds. She didn’t stop when Oliver called her name.

He turned around looking for an explanation for the chaos and nearly crashed into Violet. He caught the pile of blankets before they slipped from her arms.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Maxwell,” she said, her breath coming fast. “He’s taken ill, and we’re all trying to help.”

“Ill? Another coughing fit?” Oliver remembered the utter helplessness that had overtaken him when Max had struggled to breathe.

The girl nodded. “A bad one. He’s tucked up in his room, and everyone’s frightened.”

If Maxwell had fallen ill, Pearl would be with him.

“I’ll take these up to his room, shall I? And you can help Mrs. Randle down here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Waverley.” She spun on her heel and ran toward the kitchen wing.

Hugging one side of the staircase, he jogged up toward Maxwell’s room. A footman ran the other way, an empty jug in his hands.

Madame Genevieve stood half in her bedroom and half in the hallway. With her shoulders slumped and her face slack, her gauzy black gown and bright scarves looked garish and out of place.

Oliver didn’t stop to ask her any questions. He wouldn’t trust her answers.

He walked quickly to Maxwell’s open door and put his head inside.

The boy lay tiny in his bed, face pale and drawn, a sheet pulled up to his chin. Pearl stood on the other side of the bed, one hand on Maxwell’s head as he wheezed and struggled to pull a breath from the air around him.

Uncle Arthur wasn’t there. Oliver wasn’t sure if he wanted the old man in the room or not, but something about his absence felt sad and heavy. His presence may have given Oliver some discomfort, but surely it would have helped Maxwell.

Assuming the boy could pay attention to anything but his attempts to fill his lungs.

A footman pushed past Oliver, shoving him into the room.

He hurried out of the way as the others mobilized in formation.

Pearl set a board across Maxwell’s knees, and the footman set a large steaming cauldron on it.

One of the maids pulled a fabric sheet over Maxwell’s head, tenting him inside with the vessel of hot water.

The raspy cough was muffled from within the makeshift tent, but in a moment, Maxwell seemed to take in a breath with less effort.

Pearl looked toward the door and locked eyes with Oliver. He set the blankets down on a nearby chair, feeling useless and unhelpful. She walked across the room and took his hand, leading him into the hall.

“What happened?” He knew he sounded desperate, but the upheaval frightened him. “Is Max all right?”

“Not yet. It was terrible. The poor boy. He enjoyed the evening so completely, but the excitement must have been too much for him. We were almost to the stairs. He dropped to the floor, Oliver. His chest collapsed, and he hit the ground like a wet woolen blanket. The sound of his wheezing—it’s the worst it’s been. I’ll never forget the sound . . .”

Oliver knew nothing he said would be helpful, so he stood there quietly, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other hand sliding up and down the length of her neck. She continued to speak, allowing Oliver to form a picture of Maxwell’s attack and the frenzy of the house.

She didn’t ask any questions, and didn’t appear to require any verbal response from him.

If what Pearl needed was a support, he’d be that for her.

But he would do whatever it took to remove Maxwell from this house before Shadowbrook killed the boy.