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I was confused, muddled, and knotted with the myriad of sensations that had overrun me in the past hour. When I’d made it far enough that I expected he wouldn’t hear, I let my feet fly as fast as they wanted, the ground solid under me. I no longer felt I was floating above myself. The journey back was miles long, but I finally made it, slamming the door to create a barrier between myself and my awful humiliation.
I shook with feelings I wasn’t able to name, jumbled together in a knot that resembled anger, but I knew better than to diminish them. What I truly felt was alone. Perhaps the professor was lying, baiting me with lust to distract me from the truth. This possibility was troubling, but the thought that lingered worst of all, the one keeping me from my bed until the first light of day, was that I had chased a ghost through the halls of Willowfield.
Chapter 10
The morning arrived. There was no need to pretend to be ill; I simply refused to come down. The sunlight trying to break its way into the room was barely enough, but it did the job of relaxing my most terrifying imaginings, and I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
If anyone had come searching, they’d allowed me to remain in bed undisturbed. I awoke when the clock chimed noon, still discombobulated but much less tragic. I’d spent most of the early morning hours convincing myself I’d been sleepwalking, a habit I’d fallen out of after arriving at St. Mary’s as a girl. It wasn’t a comforting conclusion, as my sleepwalking escapades had once endangered my life, but it was much more palatable than the alternative.
I’d make sure my door was locked at night, not always a preventative, but any barrier was better than none, and at all costs, I should keep the affliction to myself. I’d considered fervently my option to return to Mr. Helm’s shop. He’d told me I’d be welcome there, but I wouldn’t be able to explain why I was back. I was reaching the end of my second week at the estate, tens more stretching ahead, but my best option remained to stay and work as diligently as possible, finish the assignment early, and leave Willowfield with a brand-new life’s worth of salary in my hand.
When I left my room at last, I ventured toward the kitchen, not hungry but with no interest in checking to see if the professor needed me in the library. Despite the sunlight, walking the hall raised the hairs on my neck. Every shadow shifted oddly, every corner holding a danger I couldn’t name or substantiate. I hurried.
The corridor stretched in response to my anxiety, and seconds lengthened, becoming an agony of time. At last, I emerged, the relief of exit making it easier to laugh at myself for being so easily spooked. Further distracting me from my anxiety were voices, masculine and angry, arguing from deeper in the house, the same direction as the library. They rose together then fell again, heatedly debating something I couldn’t make out. I strained to hear, but the aggressive back and forth ceased abruptly, like someone snapping off a radio. A door down the hall opened and shut, and with unabashed nosiness, I slowed my walk toward the dining room, interested to see who’d been part of the dispute.
Dr. Hannigan emerged from the adjacent corridor, medical bag in hand. I focused hard to keep the surprise from my face. I’d never heard the man say a harsh word. He didn’t seem like the type to get worked up. His face was graver than I’d ever seen, but when he caught sight of me, he smiled, eyes brightening.
“Millie! I was just on my way out, but how lovely to see you.”
“Good morning, Doctor,” I gave my best effort to return the joyful expression, as I was genuinely fond of him and glad not to be alone.
“What brings you to Willowfield today?” I asked, avoiding mention of the overheard dispute.
He took a breath, glancing back the way he’d come as though the answer was behind him. He adjusted his bag and smiled again, this time more stiffly.
“Callum and I are old friends; I often visit to catch up and check in, make sure he’s not running himself ragged with work. He has a bad habit of overdoing things to keep his mind off…ah…well…were you going to lunch?”
Everyone’s refusal to speak of the death of the professor’s wife was baffling, as though they were afraid to say the name of the dead, to talk about her within the walls of the house. I understood the professor’s reluctance, and perhaps he’d ordered his staff to avoid mentioning her, but the doctor? I was prepared to ask, but propriety prevented me. It wasn’t my business. It would never be. I was here briefly, and this house was not mine. The people were not mine. Someday soon, I’d leave this grave mausoleum and its sad inhabitants, and I didn’t need to know.
“Yes,” I answered at last, hoping my pause had not been too obvious. “Would you join me? I usually eat by myself, and I’m a bit lonely for company.”
Without hesitation, Dr. Hannigan said, “What a splendid idea. Ms. Dillard puts more charm into her cooking than anything else she does, and my bachelor meals are far inferior. I would be delighted.”
I was glad, and now I knew Ms. Dillard was the phantom cook, always one step ahead and never seen.
The meal was the most enjoyable I’d had at Willowfield, and the company buffeted me, returning my appetite. I ate well. The food was fortifying, and the doctor was lively, telling me stories of his time as a medical student and having me in fits of laughter so often that it took us a long time to eat.
As we eased, he stood and went to the side table, helping himself to a decanter I’d always noticed but never inspected. He poured himself a small glass of whiskey, then another, which he brought to the table for me.
“There you are, my dear. Late enough in the day.”
I took the small crystal glass, the amber liquid inside strong smelling. Memories of the same glass, the same spirits, affronted me. Besides, I had no tolerance. Prohibition had begun during my time at the women’s college and only the wealthy with fancy liquor and wine stores had access. I was about to decline when the memory of my mother bemoaning the “drunk masses” encouraged me to bring the glass to my lips, taking a hearty sip, much more than I should have all at once. I managed to swallow and cough only twice. The doctor tried not to smile.
“Steady, Millie,” he said with the unmistakable affection one might offer a beloved niece.
“It’s strong,” I said, chuckling then coughing again. “I don’t like it.”
Dr. Hannigan barked a laugh of his own, then raised his glass.
“Neither do I!” he exclaimed, knocking back the rest in one go. “Now, you’ve let me go on and on. I’m curious about you and how you’re doing here at Willowfield.”
The warmth of the alcohol was already spreading.
“Peculiar,” I replied, trying to be honest without revealing my troubles, especially not to a family doctor who, no matter how kind, might find it dangerous for his friend to be giving shelter to a woman who ran through the halls at night after her nightmares. “Of course, I understand. The professor is still grieving, and I’m a stranger in this house, so the staff are wary of me. At any rate, the work is interesting.”
As are the journals.
“Are you sleeping well?” he asked, gaze merely inquisitive, not knowing.
