Page 52 of Darkest at Dusk
She pushed upright in the large four-poster bed, her nightgown clinging to her damp skin, her hair stuck to her forehead in tangled curls.
The dream slipped away, and in its place came something sweeter.
Closing her eyes, she lifted her fingers to her lips. Rhys had kissed her. She had wanted him to. The memory came in fragments: the velvet heat of his lips, the steadiness of his hands when the world had tilted and she had become unmoored, the clean bite of his scent, citrus with a note of mint, the sharp ache low in her belly.
Shame did not come, though perhaps it should have.
But reckless wanting did, bright and insistent, battling the sobering certainty that she ought to keep her distance. She traced her lower lip with her fingertip, remembering the feel of him, the taste of him. A treacherous part of her wished the moment back, ached for his arms around her, his body flush with her own.
“Enough,” she whispered and opened her eyes once more.
The fire had long since burned down in the hearth, leaving the air cold and sharp. Isabella swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the chill seeping up from the floor through the carpet to bite at her bare feet.
She washed and dressed in a black wool gown, her movements brisk. Once her boots were laced and her hair gathered into a loose knot, she hesitated at the door. A glance toward her window revealed thin fingers of dawn reaching through the heavy curtains. Papa’s key hung around her neck, warm against her skin. Her gaze skidded to the trunk in the corner. Then she thought of the brass box on the desk in the library, questions humming in her mind.
For a moment, the room was silent. Utterly silent. Until a sound carried from within the walls, faint and distant, a rhythmic tap…tap…tap. Slow. Deliberate. She held her breath, listening, but the sound had already melted away.
With a final breath, she opened her chamber door and stepped into the hallway.
There, she walked softly, her boots muted against the thick runner. The grand staircase loomed ahead, broad and imposing, spilling down into the cavernous entrance hall like the spine of some great sleeping beast. She hesitated at the top.
The thought of descending into that wide-open space, with its yawning darkness and towering portraits, sent an uncomfortable prickle down her neck. Besides, she was uncertain that she would find her way to the kitchen given that she had only ever used the servants’ stairs to reach it.
Instead, she retraced her steps then turned down the side corridor. It took only a moment to locate the small wooden door tucked between two tapestries, half-hidden in shadow.
The servants’ stairs were steep and uneven, but she welcomed the closeness of the narrow walls, the sense of familiarity, and oddly, even the feeling of being enclosed and hidden from the yawning emptiness of the grand hall.
When Isabella stepped into the kitchen, she was greeted by a wash of warmth and the luscious scent of baking bread. The fire crackled in the hearth, its warm glow chasing away the predawn chill that clung stubbornly to the stone floors. Copper pots gleamed from their hooks, and steam rose in faint curls from a kettle set near the fire. A long dresser held blue-and-white crockery; pewter plates shone dully in the half-light.
Cook stood at the great black range, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with flour. She spared Isabella a quick nod before sliding a peel beneath a waiting loaf and turning the bread with practiced hands.
Mrs. Abernathy sat at the long wooden table, her cup of tea cradled in both hands. She glanced up at Isabella's entrance, her sharp blue eyes softening. Wisps of fair hair escaped her cap and curled at her temples, her rosebud lips curving in a smile.
“Well, good morning, Miss Barrett,” she said, her voice carrying the rasp of early hours. “You’re an early riser today.”
Isabella lingered in the doorway for a moment before stepping forward, her skirts brushing against her boots. “Good morning, Mrs. Abernathy. I hope I am not intruding.”
“Not at all, lamb.” Mrs. Abernathy set her tea down and gestured toward the bench near the table. “Sit yourself down. There’s tea in the pot, and Cook’s just pulled bread from the oven. You’ll want something warm in your stomach before the day begins.”
Isabella hesitated before lowering herself onto the bench. As she poured herself a cup of tea from the stout pot, her gaze drifted across the kitchen. Matty, thin-shouldered and quick, slipped in through the scullery door, a bundle of kindling under one arm and a bootjack in the other. He bobbed his head to Mrs. Abernathy and set the kindling by the coal scuttle before continuing on his way.
“Did you sleep well?” Mrs. Abernathy asked Isabella.
“I… I think so. But I woke early. And I—” Isabella faltered. “I dreamed…”
“What did you dream about?”
“A man,” Isabella said softly, willing to admit only that and no more. “I was chasing him. Calling after him. But he did not stop, did not turn.”
Mrs. Abernathy’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Perhaps it was not a man you were chasing in your sleep but rather your old life. Settling in to a new place can tangle the mind.”
Isabella glanced down at her tea, her brow furrowed. “Do you think dreams are tricks, then?”
“My mother said dreams are wishes or warnings,” the housekeeper said.
Isabella’s cheeks warmed at the memory of Rhys’s mouth on hers. Wish, warning…perhaps her dream had been a little of each.
“Pish posh,” Cook said, her tone brusque. “Dreams are just dreams.”
