Page 13 of Darkest at Dusk
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She stared at the words, hope warring with cynicism. A gentleman of means who wished to hire a young woman without credentials. A salary that was not merely generous but extravagant, almost to the point of absurdity. She was reluctant to trust such unlikely good fortune.
The following morning, she pinned her hair into a modest chignon. She was too thin and too pale, with shadows beneath her eyes. She dressed in her mourning black and left it at that, deciding to add no adornment. Papa’s key lay against her breastbone under her collar.
Then she dusted the parlor and lit a fire there, the first in days, for since Papa’s death, she had placed frugality above comfort.
There came two crisp knocks, then a pause. She allowed herself a moment to gather her thoughts and calm her mind and nerves.
Another knock. Then silence.
She went to the door, opened it, and gasped.
Mr. Caradoc stood on the stoop. His too-pretty gray eyes met hers, his gaze sharp and assessing.
She had not expected him, though now she saw that she ought to have known given the careful wording of Mr. Christopher’s note.
“Mr. Caradoc,” she said, her voice tight.
He offered a spare bow. “Miss Barrett. Please accept my condolences.”
“You already offered them at the graveyard.” Her fingers twitched as she contemplated simply closing the door in his face. She recalled her father’s fury, his flushed face and shaking hands. You are a trickster, a would-be thief.
Papa had wanted her as far away from this man as possible.
And yet, beneath the dismay, beneath the sudden throb of wariness, something else stirred. A flicker of curiosity. A dangerous kind of interest. The morning that she had told Papa she would avoid this man, she had known her assurances were lies. She had wanted answers then. She wanted them now.
Mr. Caradoc took advantage of her hesitation and said, “After your father’s reaction to my visit, I thought it prudent to request Mr. Christopher’s endorsement before approaching you. You have every reason to reject out of hand an offer bearing my name, but I hope you will hear me out.”
She studied him for a long moment and made her decision. “Well, since you are here, you might as well come in.”
He stepped into the narrow, dim entryway, glancing around with cool detachment. The floorboards, warped and dull, were covered by a threadbare burgundy and gold runner. The walls were wainscoted in dark oak panels. His presence made the space feel even smaller.
She made no offer to take his coat. Let him keep it on. Better he be ready to leave rather than stay. He was neither friend nor guest and she had no obligation to make him welcome.
Turning, she led him to the parlor where the fire popped and hissed and the translucent woman stood in the corner, watching.
He looked around the room, his expression neutral. His gaze lingered in the corner for an instant then moved on. He stepped toward the hearth and, leaning his forearm against the mantel, stared into the flames.
“Do you know, I offered your father a position…lodging, salary, work cataloguing my collection,” he said.
She had not known. One more thing that Papa had kept from her. She recalled her father’s rage the morning Mr. Caradoc had come to call and his uncharacteristic behaviour every day that followed. “That cannot be the whole of it.”
“I wrote to him several times.” He glanced at her, then back to the fire. “Each time, he refused.”
“Did he? And yet, despite his refusals, you came to our door uninvited that morning. You incited his rage. Why?”
He turned to face her once more. “I am not easily dissuaded.”
The words settled between them. She almost dismissed them as arrogance, as the hallmark of a man who believed the world owed him its obedience. He was, by all appearances, a man of privilege and power. But there was no flippancy in his tone, no smirk curving his lips. She had the sense that if she barred the door, he would find another way in. Not through violence. Through…certainty.
“Your father said that your health was the reason he declined the position.” His tone was measured and neutral.
Confusion swelled. “My health?”
“He claimed that removing his daughter from her home would be detrimental to her health. He spoke of her…delicate nature. Your delicate nature. Unless there is another daughter hidden in the attic…”
Isabella glared at him. “Papa would have said no such thing.” But a whisper of uncertainty snaked through her. Purges. Tonics. The clang of the door slamming at St. Jude’s. Had Papa thought her weak? A flush of heat washed through her, then receded, leaving her chilled to the bone. “I have only your word that he did, with no way to verify your claim.”
