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Some of the anger left his face, but he remained darkened, sadness in his eyes as he stepped away. He let out a breath of disbelief and stalked to the fireplace, where the rug had begun to smoke dangerously. He snuffed out the embers with the toe of his shoe, then stood and pressed both hands into the mantel, watching the book burn. I witnessed his regret, not for his behavior toward me but for his rash decision to destroy his wife’s journal, possibly one of his last pieces of her.
“You stand up for yourself,” he said, still turned from me. “I’m surprised.”
It was such an odd thing to say. I didn’t know what to make of it, and the sparks of my vexation were not extinguished as easily as the ones on the carpet.
“Were you hoping I’d be a simpering schoolgirl you could bully?”
He appeared so stunned by the accusation that I winced. I’d gotten carried away.
“I apologize. We’re both upset. I want to be an asset to you, Professor Hughes, and for us to have a respectful working relationship. I promise to be more careful in the future, knowing personal documents are incorporated. I hope we can agree to make this our last argument.”
I held the olive branch out despite my pride and with much sincerity while also appreciating the fact that this exchange could end my employment.
He turned to me, resembling again the man I’d met my first night at Willowfield. The heat in my chest dipped to my lower belly and intensified when he glanced at my mouth.
“I very much doubt that, Miss Foxboro.”
Freshly rankled by his rejection of my peace offering, I unmuzzled my temper.
“If you insist on being an absolute tyrant, then you’re correct.”
“We’re done for the day,” he said sharply. “Ms. Dillard will advise you.”
Still roiling with indignant fury, I ignored my sense and departed with one last volley.
“Of course, sir,” I said with utmost sweetness, far too much, like poisoned honey. “I am at your beck and call.”
I escaped the library in a tiff, floods of thoughts overwhelming me. With no interest in returning to my room, I stormed to the front door, unlocked it, and yanked it open with all my might. The door was so heavy that my rage didn’t move it much, only enough to slide into the fresh air, the cool early spring chilling my hot skin. I longed to stalk toward the gate, a significant part of me begging me to run and leave Willowfield and its grim master behind forever, but with every step I took, my thoughts leveled. If I were to leave, be turned out, I’d be worse off than I’d begun. My heated footsteps slowed, and I crossed my arms over my chest, finally feeling the cold without my coat.
I would see this through. After all, the professor’s reaction had been marginally justified. A woman he hardly knew had found a personal journal belonging to his late wife describing the most intimate details of their love. I was at the threshold of shame, but curse me and my curiosity; I’d wanted to keep reading. The pull of this place, that man, was powerful, and I struggled to recoil against it.
The way he’d looked at my mouth.
I stopped dead still and inhaled the chilly air, hoping to clear my head. When at last I looked up at the house, I found the professor standing at the library windows, watching after me. My heart beat several times, hard and uneasy before he disappeared from view.
He will be the death ofme,his wife had said.
Chapter 8
I slept fitfully, bothered by all the sounds I’d attributed to an old house. I yearned for my little room back in Mr. Helm’s bookshop, where the noises of the busy street below offered comforting assurance and drowned out the creaks and groans of the building until I was asleep.
I was awake before dawn sitting in my bed, parched, my stomach uneasy and my head hollow. I hadn’t drawn the curtains, finding the absolute dark too oppressive, and I watched the morning light brighten the room. Though I was sure I’d be perfectly fine after breakfast, I resolved to tell Felicity when she arrived to make the fire for the morning that I was unwell and would be taking a day to rest. I wasn’t ready to face the professor.
When the knock came at my door, I answered, prepared to look convincingly miserable, and came face-to-face with Ms. Dillard.
“Are you ill, Miss Foxboro?”
I might have been able to exaggerate my condition to Felicity, but Ms. Dillard would see through it, I was certain. With my plan foiled, I shook my head.
“I’m a little tired is all. The noises keep me up.”
“Noises?” Ms. Dillard asked, her eyes narrowing.
It was silly to have mentioned it.
“Just the settling of the house. I’m not used to it.”
Ms. Dillard clicked her tongue.
