Page 18 of Ghost in the Garden
“Where was it going?” Constance asked, wide-eyed.
“Gawd knows.”
“Toward the house, or away from it?” Constance persisted, emphasizing her unease.
“Toward. That was the first time, anyway. I saw it again from my bedroom window up in the attic, about a week later, and it was gliding away from the house. I still pulled the curtains shut and shook all night.”
“You poor thing.” Constance peered out at the wall clock in the kitchen. “What time was that? Late at night?”
“When I saw it from my bedroom it was. Must have been after midnight—I just got up to use the pot and happened to look out to see how near morning it was, and there she was flitting through the fog. By the time I squealed for Denise to look, she’d gone. It wasn’t long dark when I saw her from the kitchen door—about six or seven, maybe.”
“What day of the week was it?”
“Thursday,” Goldie said after a pause. “Actually, both times were a Thursday. That’s odd, isn’t it?” She giggled. “Maybe that’s her day off from heaven.”
Constance gave an appreciative smile. “How come it’s always foggy when she comes out?”
“Be reasonable. Get a lot of fogs round here. Harder to find a day when there ain’t none!”
“True,” Constance said.
Goldie was already moving back toward the main kitchen. “Here’s Pat and Robin,” she said cheerfully. “His nibs must be home.”
Constance followed her to find two burly men had filled up the kitchen, declaring they’d murder for a cup of tea and the best of the leftovers from luncheon. Goldie introduced them, and they each favored Constance with long glances of mingled curiosity and derision.
“Lady’s maid, eh?” Pat mocked. He was brown haired and bearded, with thick lips and scars vanishing into his facial hair. His knuckles, when he took off his gloves, were scarred too. “Is that a maid what’s too fine to make tea for a working man?”
“Why not?” said Constance. “You can’t deny you’re too fine to make tea for me.”
Robin, clean-shaven and fair, but no less brutal about the face, laughed. “She got you there, Patty. How’d the mistress find you, then?”
“By good luck,” Constance said.
A bell rang above the door.
“That’s the missus,” Goldie said to Constance. “She’ll be wanting you to help her change for the evening. His nibs insists on it.”
“Here,” said Pat as Constance brushed past. “What’s your name?”
“Miss Silver to you,” Constance said with exaggerated grandeur. Goldie and Ida laughed. The men didn’t, but nor did they look angry. She suspected she’d got their notice and had no idea if it was a good thing or not.
She found Angela in her bedchamber, brushing out her hair, an evening gown of burgundy silk already laid out on the bed with a wide crinoline beside it.
“Ah, Silver. Finding your way around?” Angela asked, meeting her gaze in the glass with a frown.
Interpreting the scowl to mean they could not speak freely on account of her husband being in the next room, Constance said, “Yes, thank you, ma’am. Everyone’s been most helpful. Shall I unfasten your gown now?”
The day gown was duly removed, the crinoline tied in place, and the evening gown placed carefully over Angela’s head. The skirts fell elegantly over the petticoat. The style contrasted rather attractively with Angela’s severe look, so Constance didn’t try to change the style of her hair by much, merely softened it a little by raising her braid higher and looser.
“Very good, Silver,” Angela said, while Constance brushed the odd loose hair off her neck and shoulders.
“Do you require a shawl, ma’am?”
Angela looked uncertain. “Should I?”
It was not a question about warmth—it was a question about etiquette. She was trying to be the kind of wife her ambitious husband needed. Constance felt a pang of pity—and understanding, for she too had studied the ways of her betters and aped them so that nowadays she could pass for a lady in most situations.
“It’s a cold evening,” she said, going to the drawer that she had already discovered to be full of unworn shawls of all kinds. She pulled out three to suggest, and was actually heartened when Angela chose her own favorite of fine cream wool with burgundy embroidery. Draping it first over Angela’s shoulders, Constance then let it fall to her elbows to show how good it looked either way.
