Page 35 of Ghost in the Garden
“Bert and Pat were scaring each other. Gone soft. Robin and I never saw it, and we got up to look as soon as they shouted.”
“You and Robin…?”
Denise looked more defiant than ashamed. “Yes, me and Robin. So don’t you go getting ideas.” There was a brash warning in her voice.
In most houses, they’d be dismissed for such a relationship. This was not most houses. But the girl was pitiably young.
“I have no such ideas,” Constance assured her. “I’m just surprised. Thought you could do better—though I’m sure he’s very handsome.”
Denise’s mouth fell open. Constance meant to leave her with the thought. There was nothing else she could do for her at this stage. Or was there? Not every girl was brought up as wise to the world as Constance had been.
“Here,” she said abruptly. “You know how to prevent unwanted consequences?”
“Robin knows,” Denise said.
“Never,” Constance said, “rely on that. Come here.”
She felt a little better after their short chat, even though she’d warned Denise that nothing but abstinence was certain. At least Angela was unlikely to throw her out on the streets in the event of an “accident.”
Ringing drew Constance’s attention to the bell board, and she set off to Angela’s room, keeping a wary eye out for Lambert as she went.
She found Angela already in her evening gown, the back fastenings loose as she gazed out into the mist.
“Well?” she asked without turning.
“I don’t think it’s your staff playing tricks.”
“Never imagined it was.”
Constance began to fasten the hooks of the gown. “I’ll slip out into the garden and keep watch, since it seems to be ghost weather. The dress is lovely, but it needs jewelry.”
“It’s only Caleb and me,” Angela said impatiently.
Constance went to the closed box on her dressing table, opened it, and rummaged. Angela watched her, frowning, and looked surprised when she came up with a single strand of pearls.
“What’s the point?” Angela asked.
Constance fastened them about her throat and regarded her in the glass. “Habit. Knowledge. And it works.”
It did, subtly softening Angela’s severity.
“Dripping in jewels is a mistake for people like us, who’d only be called vulgar. This is tasteful and pretty.”
Angela sniffed derisively, though her gaze lingered on the glass. “You be careful in the garden. Keep out of the way of the boys—unless you catch anyone, then you shout blue murder for them.”
Constance nodded. Deliberately, she didn’t mention Solomon.
As soon as Angela left, Constance hastily tidied up. Then she snatched up her own warm cloak and Angela’s discarded morning dress, which was filthy enough around the hems to justify her lurking around the kitchen for most of the evening. Since Angela had spoken openly, she assumed Lambert was not in his dressing room. Certainly, she saw no sign of him.
In the kitchen, everyone was busy carrying things to the dining room and generally preparing for the evening meal. Duggin was absent. In the laundry room, Constance brushed what could be brushed off the disgusting hem and left it soaking. Then she walked through the kitchen with her cloak on. Ida, red-faced and alone for the moment, was dementedly stirring some potion and did not turn from the stove.
Constance went out into the choking mist, moving instinctively to the right, away from the kitchen doors and windows, but keeping her hand on the dank wall of the building to be sure of her bearings.
There was something very eerie about fog as thick as this. She could well understand people interpreting its drifting, sluggish movements as ghostly, soundless figures. Her skin prickled with irrational unease. Mist also muffled and distorted sound so that she would not necessarily hear the click of the latch in the garden door, or if she did, would she even know what the sound was or what direction it truly came from?
She shivered, grasping the cloak more closely around her, and peered into the murk. It was a night like this she had first met Solomon. He had frightened her more than the dead man who so nearly landed on top of her and killed her. She had not been used to that feeling around men. She still wasn’t. But she only felt it around Solomon, and she had grown so used to it, in all its varying intensities, that she rather liked it. She would miss that if he left. She would miss him.
If he left.What if he didn’t? Would they go on like this forever, as friends, partners, companions, until the physical awareness went away?
