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She fetched the stool, positioned it under the shortened boards, which were by the wall, and reached up. She pushed upward with the flat of her hands. There was a creak, the low groan of wood that doesn’t want to move, then the boards lifted in unison. She had discovered a hatch, an opening to the forgotten upper storey.
She needed a ladder. The smallest one was in the barn. She dashed from one side of the yard to other, and brought back the small ladder used to access the mezzanine in the barn. She rested it against the wall and climbed up a couple of rungs. Now she had the leverage to push the hatch up and to the side. She grunted with effort and nearly slipped off the ladder. Finally, after one last nudge, the boards shifted and slid across.
A huge bloom of dust flooded the room below.
She sneezed violently and repeatedly. Eventually the grey cloud settled and she wiped away the grime from her face. Nobody had moved the hatch in years. She poked her head up nervously, as she was not keen on encountering vermin or bats. However, whoever had boarded up the window had ensured not a crack of light entered the space. There was very little to see.
She lit a candle, carefully carried it up the ladder and left it by the side of the square hole. Slowly, so not to catch the flame with her skirts, she climbed up through the hatchway and clambered to her feet. Dust billowed still, stirred up by her movements. She raised the candleholder high and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light.
There was a bed. A colossal four-poster bed with drapes, but no mattress. By its side was a closet built from oak and covered in cobwebs. There were spider webs everywhere, hanging from the ceiling and between the posts of the bed. She inched forward, shivering in the coolness, wondering if there were ghosts in the gloomy corner of the room. She touched the door to the wardrobe. It started to swing open of its own accord. Startled by the motion, she stepped back.
Inside, hanging from a pole, were gowns. Not the fine ones Dara might have in her wardrobe back at Willowby Hall, but ones similar to what she wore about the cottage. Plain, functional, and suitable for all seasons. She pushed the door shut with the tips of her fingers.
On the other side of the bed, she nearly stumbled over something solid and no higher than her knees—a tiny crib.
Like the bed, it was empty. Unused.
Dara covered her mouth. Poor Matthew. He had been married and there had been a child, too. And now, they were both gone. Given he had abandoned the room, boarded it up, and removed any means to reach it, he must hate the sight of it. All the extra space needed for comfort, and he chose not use it, or even mention it.
She climbed down the ladder, blew out the candle, and carefully replaced the wood hatch. After she had returned the ladder to his rightful place, she stared out the window for a while, wondering why Matthew had never told her about the bed and the crib. Was he ashamed of his past? What had happened that caused him to hide it away?
The light was fading fast. A storm was brewing, probably similar to the one that had heralded her arrival at the farm. Summer would end soon, and so would her time with Matthew, and she still knew so little about him, and why he had taken her under his wing.
When the wagon pulled up, she heard shouts. The men were fighting with the tarpaulin, trying to fold it away. The wind had picked up. The three lads retreated to the safety of the barn. Matthew came in, shaking the raindrops off his cap.
“Fickle thing, the weather,” he said. Moving into the light of the window, he stopped a few feet from her. “Good grief, lass, what have you done to your hair? There’s a bird’s nest sitting on it. Have you gone grey prematurely?” He laughed, then abruptly stopped.
Dara closed her eyes. What a fool. She had not shaken out the dust and cobwebs from her hair, nor had she... she opened her eyes and looked at the floor. Too late, Matthew had seen the swirl of dust beneath the hatch.
“What have you done?” he said softly, the anger barely concealed beneath the veneer of calm.
There was little reason to pretend. He had all the evidence he needed. “I went up there. I was curious. There’s a room up there, a boarded-up window and a bed. It seems odd that you choose not to make use of the space.” She chewed on her lip.
“That’s my business, and not yours,” he seethed with clenched fists.
“Why?” she said defiantly.
He took a step toward her. “Because I am master of this house. This farm. This land. And I choose not to speak of it. That is all the reason you need.” He spoke in a voice quite unlike his usual—devoid of rustic characteristics, it almost reminded her of her father’s severe style.
She wasn’t so easily defeated. “I have bared my soul to you, Matthew, told you my fears and desires, and you think I care not for you? That I would simply shrug of my discovery? There was a baby—”
He slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand. “Say no more!”
A spark of lightning lit up the room and his face, bringing it for a moment out of the shadows. The expression she glimpsed was confusing. Anger was there, for certain, but also sadness and something that reminded her of worry. It was that tiny glimmer that reassured her he was not lost to her. Ire might taint his thoughts now, but maybe later, he would calm down and tell her the truth. However, she needed him to understand he could not keep fobbing her off when she deserved to know.
“Perhaps I should leave, since I have upset you and you care not to tell me why.” She picked up her bonnet.
The thunder answered her first.
Matthew blurted, “Don’t go. Not in this storm. You’ll not get far, you know that.”
Her past experience would prove him right. Where should she go? The barn with young men? The cowshed? She wrinkled her nose.
Matthew provided her with a solution. He snatched up his cap and the long coat hanging by the door, and marched out, slamming the door shut behind him.
What now? She fretted, unable to sit or do anything about the house. The storm raged, lightning forked all around the farm, the thunder banged and crashed, while the rain hammered the roof. She cowered on the stool, shivering. She should not have implied she was leaving. It was a mistake. Now he would not want her at all. Overcome with confused emotions, she burst into tears. For a while, she could not think of anything but her lamentable situation.
The storm passed, pushing away the humid air and leaving behind a cool fresh one. Recovered from her spate of crying, she opened the windows. The setting sun retrieved the dregs of the day and brought a welcome burst of light back into the farmhouse. A couple more hours and it would be below the horizon. There was no sign of Matthew.
