He touched his forehead and turned back to his work.
The path continued into the woods, trees swallowing up the pasture and the memory of Gareth as if they’d been nothing more than fairy dreams. The further I ventured in, the more fluid time felt. I could have been in Sherwood Forest during the time of King Richard or about to stumble onto a Druid rite. Only the crenellated tower through the trees reminded me of where I was, of whom I was, of my circumstances and the strange man I owed my new livelihood too.
Mr. Markham. Last night had been so unaccountable, so different from anything I’d ever experienced. He had none of the stiffness and decorum I’d experienced in wealthy gentleman, but he was hardly friendly; there was something forbidding about him that held informality at bay. Even I, lacking social graces as I did, recognized that about him. His strength came not from his station in life or his wealth, but from something else. Hi
s physicality? His self-assurance?
Whatever it was, it was impossibly alluring. Captivating. When he had held my wrist, when he had deftly unbuttoned my sleeve…I touched the smooth underside of my wrist, imagining the firelight on his face as he had talked of prisons and pleasure.
A stream bubbled nearby, purling and gurgling its way down the slope, and I stepped through a blanket of bluebells to get to the water. The water looked cool and inviting, pure and happy, and on this uncommonly warm May day, I wouldn’t deny myself the pleasure of dabbling my toes in the brook. I sat and unlaced my boots, pulled off my stockings and then stood. Holding my skirts aloft, I stepped in the stream.
It was delicious.
I closed my eyes, letting the rushing water and playful breeze carry me away, far from missing Thomas, far from the dark tower of Markham Hall.
A stick snapped. My eyes flew open and I saw Mr. Markham watching me from the bank of the stream. He said nothing, eyes flicking from my bare feet under the clear water to my face, his posture anything but casual or accessible.
Should I say something? Was I doing something wrong? Maybe he felt possessive of his property and disapproved of the liberties I was taking with it?
He stepped forward to the bank. “Are you a naiad?”
I could not tell if he was sarcastic or playful. I should tread carefully here, be wary of the conversational missteps that Thomas had complained I was so prone to. But it was difficult to be wary in the perfection of the stream and the flapping greenery, with the bluebells swaying in the warm breeze. Instead of answering, I reached down and splashed him.
The water splattered the front of his waistcoat. He glanced down at the drops rolling off the silk of his vest, watching as they rolled off and hit the ground. He looked back up, his expression inscrutable—though there was a tightening around his mouth and along his jaw—and then without another word, he turned and walked away.
I watched him leave, feeling regret nip at me.
Why did I do that?
It was just that his face had been so serious, and I had wanted him to smile, I had wanted him to join me, and now I had driven him away with my ungovernable behavior.
Suddenly, the rushing water became unbearable. I went to the bank and shoved my wet feet back in my boots, my skirts dripping the whole way back to the tower.
When I came downstairs for dinner, I once again found myself alone for dinner.
“Mr. Markham preferred to dine alone tonight,” Mrs. Brightmore told me, with entirely too much pleasure. “He was quite in an ill humor when he returned from his business in town.”
Ill humor that was my fault.
I was served soup that was too cold and rolls that were too hard, and no beverage other than water was offered, and by the time the miserable and lonely repast had ended, even the bleakness of my room seemed like a welcome alternative. I decided to stop by the library on my way up, peruse the books for a selection or two to keep me company tonight. Surely, I would not be called on to spend the evening with Mr. Markham, and even more certainly, I wouldn’t feel welcome in any other part of the house if I was by myself.
This morning, I had felt the faintest glimmer of optimism. I’d felt it possible that I could belong here and call this dark and ancient manor my home. But as the sun went down and the house became once again dim and quiet, all those feelings vanished. Instead, I found myself looking over my shoulder as I walked to the library, feeling as if someone were watching me, although every time I turned, I found nothing more than shadowed paintings and faded tapestries in my company.
I hadn’t thought to fetch my lamp from upstairs or ask for a candle, and so the murk of the library was pierced only by the last glancing rays of the setting sun as they spilled in through the windows. I ran my fingers along the cracked leather and cloth spines, only able to make out the ghosts of the letters in the gloom. I paused when I got to the end of the shelf. There in a small glass case was a miniature, cunningly done, of a young woman with bright yellow hair and blue eyes. At first glance, I thought it might be Violet, but then I saw the name at the bottom: Arabella Markham. The first wife, the one who had died so young.
Every room in this house seemed to remind the living of the dead. Portraits of dead wives and ancestors, tapestries of battles and assassinations.
I shivered and straightened, realizing that the chill night air had slowly overtaken the room. I selected a book at random and hurried to my room, where I stoked the fire that had been lit—perhaps thanks to my new friend Gareth—and changed into my nightclothes. I tucked myself in bed with a candle and wondered if this would be every night at Markham Hall. If I would never again drink port with my benefactor or feel his fingers on my skin. All because of one playful infelicity.
Several hours later, I woke with a start. There must have been a noise, yet when I strained my hearing, the house seemed altogether still and silent. But not sleeping. Markham Hall didn’t seem the type of abode to give the impression of repose or sleep. There was something watchful and alert even in its stillness, as if the stones themselves were too charged with history and drama and death to be at rest.
I struggled to light my lamp in the dark and then slid my feet into my slippers. I wasn’t sure if I was planning on investigating or simply escaping my room—something about the sliver of moon and the twinkling stars called to my soul, promising safety and relief as soon as the walls of the house were no longer around me.
I encountered nothing conscious or moving as I went to the door, nothing save for a cat that padded past me without any indication of interest in my person or my movements. I pushed open the heavy door as quietly as I could and stepped outside, into the chilly air. Almost at once, I felt like I could breathe again, think again. The forest creaked and swayed in the wind, but the noise did not frighten me. It was quite comforting after the hush of the house.
I walked the perimeter of the courtyard, again and again, until I felt the telltale pull of exhaustion within me, and then I went back inside the house, temporarily blinded by the contrast of my lamp in the pitch-black foyer.
I stumbled into someone; strong arms steadied me, hands encircling my upper arms.
