Page 4 of Beyond the Grave
"Not even to report on what he found in Buchanan's rooms? But that's not fair! We need to know."
"We need to know only what he wants us to know."
Gus nudged my elbow. "Your turn, Charlie. Keep up."
I played a few more rounds then retired for the night. My rooms were along the hallway from Lincoln's, and I thought about knocking on his door.
But I didn't. It would only make me look lovelorn—which I was, but I didn't want him to know. I wanted to retain some of my dignity.
I remained awake most of the night, partly because it meant the nightmares couldn't get their claws into me, and partly because I was thinking up ways of confronting Lincoln. By the time daylight edged the curtains, I'd decided that I had to confront him over the kiss and his subsequent aloofness. If nothing else, it would be good to get it off my chest.
I must have fallen asleep, however, because a soft knock on my door startled me awake. The clock on my mantel chimed ten. I'd overslept by hours.
"Who is it?" I called out as I scrambled for my crutches beside the bed.
"Charlie?" It was Gus. "Are you all right?"
"Yes. I slept in." I reached for my cloak on the clothes stand to throw it around my shoulders and ward off the morning chill, but knocked it off instead in my haste.
"Right-o then. We was worried, that's all. Go back to bed if you're tired."
"I'm not tired." I stifled a yawn as I bent to pick up the cloak. "I slept poorly last night and…never mind. I'll be down shortly."
"There's a parcel for you. I'll leave it here."
Parcel? For me? "Who is it from?"
But Gus didn't answer. I flung the cloak around my shoulders and hobbled out of my bedroom, through my small sitting room, to the door. I opened it and peeked out. A rectangular black box, a little larger than my hand, sat on the floor. The buttercup yellow ribbon tied around it made a bold, tantalizing statement against the black.
It was too awkward to carry the box and use my crutches, so I dispensed with the latter and hopped to the nearest chair with the former in my clutches. With my heart in my throat, I carefully untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Nestled on a bed of rich black velvet was a silver chatelaine. The large clasp was intricately engraved with the figure of a classically robed woman, a bird perched on her raised hand. She stood on a balcony overlooking the sea, the tiny etched waves rippling around a partially visible dolphin. A vine twisted around the column at her back, its leaves spreading into the rest of the space surrounding the scene. Objects hung from three of the chatelaine's chains—a pair of miniature scissors in a scabbard, a thimble holder shaped like an acorn, and a timepiece—while another two hung empty for the wearer to fill with items of their choosing. The chatelaine was similar to one my adopted mother had worn, yet so unlike it too. Hers had been plain tin. This one was beautifully worked silver, the detail clear and exquisite. According to the inside lid of the box, it had been made by a jeweler in Bond Street.
Did Lincoln expect me to wear such a fine piece around the house? He must, or it wouldn't hold scissors and thimble. Either he had no idea what housekeepers' chatelaines ought to be made of, or he was making a statement of his wealth for everyone to see. The thing was, Lichfield received few callers, so who would see it?
I placed the chatelaine back in the box and hopped to my crutches. I hurried to get dressed in my maid's uniform then attached the chatelaine to my waistband with shaking fingers. The silver flashed against the stark black, improving the entire outfit.
But a quick glance in the dressing table mirror confirmed that it was much too fine. Why had he given me a gift that I couldn't wear? I removed it and returned it to the box.
With a sigh, I headed to his rooms. At least now I had an excuse to speak with him in private.
Chapter 2
Lincoln wasn'tin his rooms, and I found him in the library instead. He sat in one of the chairs at the central table, his back to me, his head bent over a book. Several tomes lay before him, some open. He didn't look up, so I snuck quietly behind him to see what he was working on. It appeared to be a journal, but the loose, flowing script was difficult to read.
"Good morning, Lincoln." I wasn't sure if my use of his first name would earn me a smile or admonishment, but I used it anyway. I refused to call him Mr. Fitzroy in private after that kiss.
"Good morning, Charlie. You're up late." He finally stood and faced me. He was dressed casually in trousers and shirt, and wore no waistcoat or tie. His gaze slipped to my waist, where he perhaps expected to see the chatelaine. I couldn't tell if he was disappointed that I didn't wear it.
I tried to peer past him at the books, but his impressive frame blocked my view. It would seem I wasn't welcome to peek. "What are you doing?"
"Reading a journal." He leaned back against the table in what would have been a relaxed stance, except his hands gripped the edge so hard that his knuckles turned white.
"May I sit with you? These crutches become painful after a while."
He hesitated and I imagined him warring with himself. Eventually the gentleman won out and he nodded. "You shouldn't be up and about."
"I wouldn't be, except that it seems if I wish to talk to you, I must make the effort. You've been avoiding me."
He pulled out a chair for me beside his and steered me toward it with a hand to my elbow. "If I were avoiding you, I wouldn't be speaking to you now."
