Page 6 of Holly & Hemlock
“Nora Vale,” I say, offering a hand. “Reluctant heiress.”
He takes my hand, but only for show. His grip is dry, precise, and he lets go a fraction of a second before social norms dictate.
“Godson?” I hazard, with a raised brow. I didn’t know Aunt Maeve even had a godson. “You’re not a distant relative are you?” I think about the letter upstairs in the Blue Room. “I was under the impression there were no other family members.”
He barks a laugh. “Hardly. Maeve took me in a while back when I was . . . indisposed. I’m family only by contagion.”
The way he says it has my brow quirking up, curious to know more, but I don’t ask. Behind him, a gust of wind rattles the window. For a second, the library seems to lean toward us, eager for the next exchange.
We are saved—or interrupted—by Mrs. Whitby, who enters on a current of lavender and starch. “You’ve met, then,” she says, not a question.
Larkin says, “We were just discussing consanguinity. And other forms of inheritance.”
Mrs. Whitby ignores him with the efficiency of long practice. “Miss Vale, help yourself to a drink. If you’d like something mixed, I can make one for you.”
“Thank you,” I say, grateful for the exit ramp. “That won’t be necessary.”
Mrs. Whitby nods. “Dinner will be served at eight.”
Larkin steps closer, crowding me with both his height and his smile. “I suppose you’ll want to see the rest of the house,” he says, as if this is an inside joke that I am too thick to get.
“Mrs. Whitby here has already given me an extensive tour.”
“Oh, but it changes after dark,” he says, voice dropping. “Doesn’t it, Whitby?”
The housekeeper’s face flickers, an almost-smile buried under layers of restraint. “Miss Vale is not required to entertain anyone, Larkin. Nor to be entertained.”
I want to laugh, but the tension in the room is so brittle it feels like a sneeze could shatter it. Larkin’s eyes dart to me again, openly appraising. “I suppose. But perhaps she’ll let me borrow her for a game of chess later. It’s been ages since I had worthy opposition.”
I know a trap when I see it. “I don’t play.”
He gives a little bow. “A shame. The board’s always open, if you change your mind.”
Why is this man even here? Will I be forced to live with him if I stay here? Can I evict him? Even more questions swirl in my mind but I’m given a reprieve as Larkin pours himself a scotch—triple, from the looks of it—and disappears out door unceremoniously.
Somewhere, the radiator sighs. I turn my back on the chessboard, but find my reflection in the dark window, doubled and faint behind the glass. It’s not until I move awaythat I realize for all the vastness of the library, there are only two chairs arranged by the fire.
Anticipation or prescience, I can’t say. But it sure feels like the house has declared its terms.
At eight o’clock,Hemlock House signals dinner with the low, funereal toll of a bell that could call the dead to their graves. I move to the door and find Mrs. Whitby already waiting in the hall, hair pinned with surgical neatness, eyes bright and unreadable.
“If you’ll follow me, Miss Vale,” she says. Her voice implies that resistance is neither expected nor entertained.
The dining room is close by, but I assume Mrs. Whitby thinks I don’t remember, or perhaps she’s just used to incompetent people, so I go along with it.
The portraits seem to follow me. Every wall bristles with Vales in various poses of conquest and disapproval. There’s a parade of beards and mustaches and facial hair so elaborate that it must have been a hereditary trait. The women are even more imposing: high-necked, laced, their hands resting on dogs, rifles, or the occasional cowering child. There’s no warmth in these faces, only the distilled discontent of centuries.
I keep my head down and follow the tap of Mrs. Whitby’s shoes on the parquet. We arrive at a pair of double doors, which she throws open with a flourish.
The dining room is a cathedral to excess. The table, long enough to seat a small cult, is already set with silver, crystal, and bone china painted in patterns that I recognize from the Blue Room wallpaper. A phalanx of candlesticks burns at its center, their flames flickering in the currents that haunt theseold houses. The walls, dark with age and oil paint, close in with a hush so absolute that even the silver seems to whisper in anticipation.
Larkin is already there. He’s standing by the fireplace, hands in his pockets, the light cutting a sharp edge along his profile. He doesn’t look up when I enter, but I feel his attention anyway, like a chill moving up my arm.
Mrs. Whitby gestures for me to sit at the head of the table. Larkin waits until I approach, then darts ahead to pull my chair out. The gesture is so exaggeratedly chivalrous I nearly laugh, but catch myself at the last second.
“After you, Miss Vale,” he says, layering the words with snark and something more pointed.
I sit. Larkin settles at the first seat to my right, too far to kick but close enough to lock eyes without having to try.
