“There now, lamb. No harm done. You must be exhausted,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “Sleeping on your feet with your eyes open. Come along, then.”
She turned and continued on, her candle flickering, throwing dark shapes to twist and curl against the wood-paneled walls.
Finally, she stopped before one of the doors and pushed it open. “This one. It has a lovely view of the garden.”
Isabella stepped inside. A fire burned in the hearth, and she saw that her trunks were already there. One was set on the floor at the foot of the bed and the other—Papa’s trunk—was pushed into a corner. The walls were dark paneled like the hallway, the floor dark wood, covered in part by a large rug. A heavy armoire stood against the wall opposite, its surface polished to a dull gleam, its brass handles glinting in the firelight.
Mrs. Abernathy sidled past her and crossed to the window, pushing it shut with a firm click.
“That Peg,” she said with a sigh. “I told her to air the room, and she must have forgotten to come back and close the window.” She shook her head. “It’s a bit chilly but the fire should warm it up soon enough.”
Isabella set her candle down on a small table by the bed as Mrs. Abernathy pulled closed the heavy velvet curtains.
“Is there anything else you need tonight, Miss Barrett?” the housekeeper asked, turning to face her.
“No, thank you,” Isabella said, forcing a weary smile.
“I’ll leave you to yourself, then,” Mrs. Abernathy said, her expression softening. She hesitated in the doorway, her face half-illuminated by candlelight. The shadows deepened the lines and hollows around her eyes and mouth, making her look older, wearier, and somehow…haunted.
“The house is old,” she said, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. “There are drafts and cold places, and the wind finds its way inside. It can sound like whispers. Like sighs. But it is only the wind.”
Her gaze held Isabella’s and the silence stretched between them.
The wind, Isabella thought, could not explain the feeling in her chest, the deep and unshakeable sense of dread.
And Mrs. Abernathy didn’t sound as though she believed the wind was the source of the whispers and sighs. Not at all.
“Then this house is much like my home in London. It was full of whispers and sighs,” Isabella said, the irony lost on the other woman. “I am certain I will be most comfortable here.”
“Sleep well, Miss Barrett.”
With a smile, thin and too brief to be comforting, the housekeeper left, closing the door behind her.
Isabella was tempted to curl up on the bed in her dress and close her eyes until morning. Instead, she opened the armoire. The faint scent of lavender wafted from its dark interior. And underlying that, a different smell…something acrid and unpleasant. Memory clung to the edges of her thoughts, just beyond reach. She tried to think why the scent was familiar, and why it forced a chill down her spine. Limewash and closed rooms. Old pennies. Wet stone.
She exhaled sharply then drew a slow breath through her nose, only to discover that there was only lavender now. With a shake of her head, she returned to her trunk and began to unpack her belongings, smoothing out each dress before placing it in the armoire. She was just closing the lid of her now-empty trunk when there came a knock at her door.
She opened it to find one of the three maids standing in the hallway, carrying a fresh pitcher of water and a warming pan. The girl was small but sturdy, with bright green eyes, red hair tucked beneath a crooked cap, and freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. With an awkward bob, the maid said, “Sorry, miss. I forgot to bring these when I made up your room. May I?”
“Of course,” Isabella said and pulled the door wide.
The girl set the pitcher on the washstand, then slid the warming pan between the sheets before turning back.
“Are you Peg?” Isabella asked.
“I am. You remembered my name.”
She seemed so pleased that Isabella decided against clarifying that it was Mrs. Abernathy’s muttering about “that Peg” that had given it away.
Peg’s eyes darted around the room, and her teeth sank into her lower lip. Then she offered a stiff smile. “Is there anything else you need, miss?”
“Not that I can think of.” Isabella expected her to take her leave. Instead, Peg scuffed her toe against the carpet and chewed on her lower lip once more.
“Are you the sort to walk the halls at night?” she blurted, her voice barely above a whisper. The way she asked the question, accompanied by a wary glance toward the dim hallway, made Isabella wary.
“I do not make a habit of it,” Isabella said. “Why do you ask?”
Peg shook her head and crossed to the door. “I’m sorry, miss. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just…”
