Page 29 of Darkest at Dusk
“I have no London ways,” Isabella said. “At this point, I’m merely grateful for the warm welcome, the warm fire”—she gestured at the hearth—“and the warm food.”
Mrs. Abernathy smiled a little, the corners of her mouth twitching upward, though the hint of sadness in her eyes did not fade.
“I hope you’ll find warmth here in other ways too, Miss Barrett.” Her voice was quiet, almost wistful, and Isabella couldn’t help but feel as though the housekeeper was speaking of things beyond hearth and home. She gave a decisive nod. “Then you’ll have meals with us rather than alone in the dining room.”
“Alone?” Isabella said. “Does Mr. Caradoc not eat in the dining room?”
The housekeeper shook her head. “He’s never taken a meal there that I’ve seen. Not in the years I’ve been here.”
A habit spawned by regimented days and nights behind locked doors?
After a moment, Mrs. Abernathy asked, “What were your other posts like?” She pressed her finger to her lips. “Oh, dear. Was that rude? I meant no offense, lamb. I’m just a curious sort.”
“I was my father’s secretary before he died.” Sadness tugged at Isabella’s heart as she said the words. It was still difficult to believe he was gone, to think that she would never see him again, never hear his wheezing laugh.
“My mother died when I was ten,” Mrs. Abernathy said, covering Isabella’s hand with her own. Isabella looked up to find sympathy and kindness in the woman’s expression and in that instant, she was glad she had come here, glad she had made this journey.
“Once she was gone, I grew up quick. I saw to my father’s small household for many years. When my father died, I married my husband, Mr. Abernathy. Then he died only a month later and I wasn’t at all certain what to do. I suspect my circumstance then was like your own now.”
Isabella had no need to inquire as to the nature of the circumstance. She was not the first woman to be left without enough funds and few options.
“Mr. Caradoc offered me a place here. As housekeeper. I was far too young and inexperienced for the role, but I learned quickly.” Mrs. Abernathy gave a soft laugh. “We’re all here with a similar tale. Mary and Emma are sisters. Orphaned. Sixteen and fourteen they were when they started here. Matty’s father had a heavy hand. The boy was always sporting a black eye or bruised cheek. One day, I passed him on the road, both his eyes blackened and him wearing nothing but trousers and shirt in the cold wind. Mentioned it to Mr. Caradoc, I did, and he went off with an angry face and came back with the boy.”
“Mr. Caradoc collects strays,” Isabella said. The words were neutral but the thoughts and questions behind them were not.
Was it merely happenstance that desperate people lived here, the generous impulse of a man with a conscience? Or did he gather around him only those with nowhere else to go, people whose gratitude could be relied upon, whose dependence on him could not easily be broken? Those who had no one and nothing else, people who would be grateful and beholden to him?
She had no proof of such a motive, but Papa’s dislike of the man was not something she could easily forget, and suspicion was a difficult seed to uproot once planted. Nor could she fully discount Pansy’s warning…
“Collect strays…I suppose he does,” Mrs. Abernathy said with a laugh. She rose and took up a candle before handing a second one to Isabella. “Come along. I’ll show you to your room. We’ll take one of the servants’ staircases tonight only because it’s closest. In the morning, I’ll show you the house and the main stairs.”
“How many servants’ staircases are there?”
“Two in the east wing, two in the west wing, and one in the old section to the north but we don’t use that one. That part of the house is closed.” The housekeeper sent her a speaking glance. “No one goes there. It isn’t safe.”
Because of the fire. Isabella almost asked about it, then decided again that excessive curiosity was a poor introduction to a new position. She held her tongue and followed the housekeeper along the passage to a staircase. It was narrow and steep, the handrail smooth, the wooden steps worn, creaking under their weight as they began their climb. The darkness was punctured only by the candles they carried, the flames wavering with each step, their glow too weak to banish the suffocating shadows that clung to the corners and ceiling.
They went up a flight and then another. As they climbed, Isabella had the strangest sensation that the wall to the right was moving toward her, that the space grew narrower the higher they went, as if the house was leaning in, listening.
“This way,” Mrs. Abernathy said, her voice more a breath than a whisper.
They walked along a wood-paneled hallway, the oak floor covered by a thick runner that made their footsteps muffled and soft. The combined light of their candles made only a small dent in the darkness. The shadows seemed thicker here, like ink stains spreading outward, swallowing all they encountered.
“Why does Mr. Caradoc prefer the quiet?” Isabella asked, her voice low.
Mrs. Abernathy glanced back, her expression unreadable. “He values order,” she said after a pause. “He dislikes disruptions.” Her gaze flicked forward. “It is a large house. Noise carries.”
Her answer felt incomplete, as though she had held back far more than she had revealed. Isabella wondered what sort of disruptions Mr. Caradoc sought to avoid, and what sounds would carry in a house like Harrowgate. She supposed she would find out in time.
Mrs. Abernathy turned down a second hallway, then a third. Isabella tried to memorize the way, thinking she would be hard pressed to find her way back to the kitchen in the morning. Left, then right, then left again…already the turns slipped like quicksilver through her grip.
The third hallway was cold. Isabella glanced about, looking for a window or an open door that might be letting in a chill. But all the doors were closed and there was no window in sight. Her breath hung in a pale cloud as she exhaled and then dissipated as she continued after the housekeeper.
A sound came from behind…footsteps, soft and measured. She glanced back, feeling wary, the fine hairs at her nape prickling, unease pinching her skin. But there was nothing but darkness, thick, oppressive, swallowing every corner and crevice. The absence of any wraith made it all the more unsettling.
“Miss Barrett?” The housekeeper’s voice drew Isabella’s attention, snapping the thread of her rising unease. She realized that the woman had asked her something and she had neither replied nor heard the question in the first place.
“I’m sorry. I must have been wool gathering,” she said.
