Mrs. Abernathy reached for the pot to pour herself another cup of tea. For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the faint splash of liquid into the mug. Then, with a click of the scullery door, Peg edged inside, balancing the ash pail, cinders ticking as they cooled. A curl of soot rode the air like a black snowflake.
“Tell me about the fire in the north wing,” Isabella said to Mrs. Abernathy, deciding a direct approach was the best. She had questions. The housekeeper might have answers.
The woman’s eyes widened, and her gaze flicked to Peg.
Not wanting the maid to be scolded for carrying tales, Isabella hastened to add. “I heard about it from the Burns sisters. We shared a carriage from Maidenhead to Marlow.”
“I stay away, miss. I don’t go near that wing,” Peg blurted. “Not if I can help. You can hear?—”
“That will be enough, Peg,” the housekeeper warned.
The maid ducked her head and busied herself at the grate, but her words had already escaped, hanging in the air.
Isabella set down her cup. “Why was that part of the house never repaired after the fire?”
“Because the men who were hired to do the work would not finish it,” Mrs. Abernathy said, turning her cup, aligning the handle precisely to the right. “They said the stone would not keep. They said their tools were moved or went missing. They said they heard…things. Fools, the lot of them.” Her gaze held Isabella’s. “Mr. Caradoc had the doors barred after that. That wing is not safe.”
“What sorts of things did they hear?” Isabella asked.
“Whispers down the flue,” Peg said. “Knocking in the walls. The howl of the wind on a still day. I’ve heard all those things, too, and more.” She shuddered.
“Peg,” Mrs. Abernathy said, sounding exasperated but not unkind.
“Well, I have,” the girl said, mulish. “And the draft there is wrong. Comes hot when the weather’s cold and there’s no fire anywhere nearby.”
“Peg,” she said again, her tone sharper now. “I’ve buried one maid already, poor thing. Fevered she was and terrified, swearing she heard things in that wing. Snuck out in the night and was found dead the next day. I’ll not bury another for the sake of curiosity.” The housekeeper shook her head and said to Isabella, “There are places in Harrowgate, Miss Barrett, that are best left undisturbed. The north wing is one. There are shadows in this house that have been here far longer than either of us. Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed again. Do you understand?”
Isabella’s brows lifted. “I understand that oblique answers invite curiosity.”
Mrs. Abernathy hid the hint of a smile.
“I wondered if you might accompany me to the village on Wednesday,” she said, her tone lighter.
“The village?” Isabella blinked. “Why?”
“You spend every day in the library, breathing in mildew and dust and old paper,” Mrs. Abernathy said gently.
“Well…yes,” Isabella said. “I’ve been hired to set the library to rights…”
“Of course.” Mrs. Abernathy nodded. “But you’ve been here for weeks now and not taken so much as a half-day. A bit of fresh air will do you good, lamb. Besides, Wednesday is market day. So many people milling about. One never knows what one might see…or hear.”
Isabella studied Mrs. Abernathy carefully. The woman’s expression was calm and placid, but there was something in her eyes, something watchful.
“And one never knows what answers one’s questions might yield?” Isabella asked cautiously.
A flicker of approval crossed the housekeeper’s face.
“People talk at market, Miss Barrett. They speak freely when they think no one is listening. Stories spill like grain from a broken sack.” Mrs. Abernathy’s lips pressed into a thin line. “But not all stories are true. And not all truths are meant to be heard.” She rose, smoothing her apron with her palms. “Not everything you hear in the village will be true. But some things will be. And it’s knowing the difference that makes all the difference.”
Evening gathered in the library, the fire sunk to a velvet glow. Isabella capped her paste pot, set a blotter beneath two dampened boards, and smoothed her palm over the ledger to press a fresh line of ink flat. The room had learned her habits these past weeks…straightened piles, swept hearth, the consoling breath of beeswax and old paper.
She rolled her shoulders, her day’s work done. Again, she had lost herself in her tasks and worked without pause. Now, her neck and shoulders cried their protest, and the growl in her belly reminded her that she must eat. She tidied the desk and rose. In her fatigue, she knocked the brass box with the back of her hand, sending it tumbling to the floor.
She hurried around the desk and bent to retrieve it, the weight of it settling in her hands. Tiny scarab eyes looked back at her. The key at her throat felt warm against her skin. Would it fit? Would it turn? Would it unlock whatever secrets the box held?
The keyhole beckoned.
“Don’t,” she told herself. “They are not your secrets.”
